UK Edition
Farewell Len Goodman, Strictly judge, national treasure and last of the great TV showmen. As attested by the glowing epithets from professional dancers and presenters alike, Goodman, who has died aged 78, was the copper-bottomed definition of a one-off.
A former welder, who worked on his grandfather’s fruit-and-veg barrow as a lad, he was propelled to the top thanks to a tireless work ethic and tenacious self belief.
He was one of that generation of all-rounders who could dance, sing, make people laugh uproariously pre-watershed and front a primetime Saturday-night show watched by millions.
Think of the big names synonymous with appointment television – professional to their core despite modest backgrounds – and you have a veritable Who’s Who of high achievers who never lost sight of their roots.
Bruce Forsyth’s father ran a garage. Des O’Connor was the son of a cleaner and a dustman. Larry Grayson was born out of wedlock, as it was termed in 1923, and adopted by a coal-mining family. Eric Morecambe’s mother took on a waitressing job to pay for the young Eric’s dance lessons, and Ernie Wise’s father, although a semi-professional singer, was was a railway lampman by day.
They all instinctively understood the principle underpinning light entertainment; that if you talked the talk you walked the walk and you were always smartly suited and booted.
Goodman’s shoes were always buffed to a shine, his sober suits playfully sexed up with a hot pink shirt and matching pocket square or perhaps a yellow tie and candy stripes. In 2014 he shared his style secrets: “I used to have all my suits made, ever since I was 17, but in the last few years I’ve found them very heavy, and now I’m more comfortable in a 42 regular from Marks & Spencer,” he revealed.
“Once I’ve got the old whistle and flute sorted, it’s time to choose the old dickie dirt – the shirt. I don’t like shirts without ties. Why do they do that? I blame Jeremy Paxman. At least a tie helps conceal that wattle under your chin as you get older. I’ve got more ties than you can imagine. You have to bump into a good tie: be somewhere, spot a fabulous tie and buy it.”
Retired ballerina and former Strictly judge Darcey Bussell has spoken of her grief at the passing of “dear gentleman Len”. “I will never forget his use of fruit and veg and sticky toffee pudding as descriptive phrases of dance,” she told the Telegraph. “He was always professional: grounded, funny, loveable, supportive and respectful, but never shy to say how it was. For Len, Strictly and Dancing with the Stars was never about the fame, it was about keeping his world of dance true and relevant.”
Unlike today’s stars, old-school showmen didn’t switch off in their downtime, slob about in trackie bottoms or resent being approached in public. They were polite, self aware and acutely conscious that they owed their fame and fortune to the audiences who watched them and greeted them.
“Len was extremely humble,” says Erin Boag, who was part of the original line-up of professional dancers when Strictly Come Dancing debuted in 2004. “He had time for everyone. He’d always do selfies and was very nice to everybody that approached him. He didn’t change off camera. He was bubbly and charismatic all the time
Days before the pilot was to be filmed, three judges were in place: Craig Revel Horwood, Arlene Phillips and Bruno Tonioli. When the fourth dropped out, it was Boag who recommended Goodman, a TV newbie but already enormously well respected in the dance world, where he judged competitions across the globe.
“I said to the Strictly producers, ‘You have to see this man. His name is Len Goodman. You have to get him in for an interview. He is charismatic. Has a great personality. Looks good in a suit. Very professional.’ They brought him in and he more or less instantly was made head judge.”
Dapper and debonair with charm and quickfire responses, and a hugely winning pinch-me-I’m-dreaming air of delight at getting the gig (which lasted 12 years), Goodman embodied an age when working-class boys could make good if they grafted hard enough and seized every opportunity that came along.
I never met Len but I do vividly recall interviewing Brucie at his home in Virginia Water five years before he died. I was struck not just by his beautiful manners (he tap danced for me!) but the fact that he kept his awards on his grand piano and in glass cabinets in his actual sitting room. Not for him the faux-modesty of the downstairs loo, where the self-deprecating middle classes display their this-old-thing Oscars, Emmys and BAFTAs.
Forsyth was proud. Of his achievements. Of himself. Of the institutions that presented him with awards. To affect indifference would be not just discourteous but phoney. And to men of that generation, like Goodman, phoneyness was anathema.
“This old guard didn’t become famous overnight thanks to a TikTok, a reality show or a sex tape,” says branding and PR expert Mark Borkowski. “They rose through the ranks because they were bloody good at what they did and they were grateful and gracious when they found success because it didn’t come overnight. They were steeped in music-hall values – demonstrating real talent, being versatile and putting the hours in. They took nothing for granted, they loved what they did and that shone through to their audiences in theatres and homes.”
The new light entertainers are a very different breed. However likeable and confident they may be – Ant & Dec, Dermot O’Leary, Graham Norton – today’s presenters have none of the polish of, say, Bob Monkhouse. Michael McIntyre does a fine line in observational comedy but stylish and authoritative he is not; even on his big-budget Big Show, McIntyre can’t help but channel “baggy supply teacher” rather than bespoke Savile Row. They reflect an informal age. If theu lack the gravitas that comes with sharp tailoring, they also lack the the ability to ad lib without recourse to an autocue. Or swearing.
Where Len Goodman compared Anita Rani’s 2015 Cell Block Tango routine to “a cowpat on Countryfile: hot and steamy”, the place erupted. And when he once observed, “I’m a cup of tea in a world of skinny lattes,” a great many of us could empathise.
“Len had talent and style but bringing him, a virtual unknown aged 60, onto Strictly was was a high-risk strategy,” says Borkowski. “It paid off many times over, but it’s a different landscape now. He’d be deemed ‘too pale, male and stale’ and there’s a real disrespect for boomers.”
There’s also the rise of so-called nepo-babies, the offspring of the already rich and famous (look at Brooklyn Beckham’s giddily high-profile forays into photography and cooking). Despite the lip service being paid to socio-economic diversity, it’s a tough industry for the working classes to break into.
There is talk that James Corden could take up the baton. But would high-energy hoofer Lionel Blair (the gloriously gifted son of a barber) ever have allowed himself to be photographed in Gucci trainers? I think not. The most serious contender is Watford-born Bradley Walsh, who was an apprentice jet engineer at Rolls-Royce before a short-lived stint as a footballer ended due to injury and an acting career beckoned.
Quick-witted and well-presented, Walsh cut his entertainment teeth as a bluecoat at Pontins. But he has repeatedly turned down Strictly on the grounds he’s “not even a good dad dancer”, which rather puts paid to him becoming a poster boy for any renaissance in traditional variety values. And even more damning, he seldom wears a tie.
We really are witnessing the end of an era. So rest in peace, legendary Len, with your cheeky quips and sense of style. Gone but never to be forgotten. We’ll not see your like again – and that is a bona fide TV tragedy on top of a sad loss.