If there’s one thing guaranteed to rile up our largely unflappable tea-drinking nation, it is a flagrant breach of fair play. We might rail at, rebel against or surreptitiously mock those in authority, but, on the whole, we are comforted by the thought of an established system with comprehensible rules and a general sense that we’ll get what we deserve if we abide by them.
This week’s otherwise bland quarter-final (no one’s best dance, nor their worst; no really juicy dramas, just the background hum of a Jack Dee-esque furiously misanthropic Len) was salvaged by an event guaranteed to provoke widespread consternation and set the already terrifying Digital Spy forums alight: the oh-so-contentious swingathon.
Not since accusations of Eastern Bloc Eurovision Song Contest voting has there been such resolute belief in a vast, complex, deeply significant conspiracy. This is our JFK. With sequins.