by Jo Wood
It was a scorching late-summer day when I made my way to Television Centre in Shepherd’s Bush for the first day of filming on Strictly. It was the show’s big press launch, at which we contestants would be introduced to the world’s media – and also to our professional partners. After a quick chat with the producers, I was led to a dressing room where I was told my partner would come to meet me. It would be the first moment either of us knew who we were paired with for the show. I sat there sweltering in the little windowless room (I was wearing a leather jacket but didn’t want to take it off and ruin my carefully put-together look) and all the time I was thinking, Please, please, don’t let it be that guy, Brendan Cole. I’d barely watched the show before, but I’d heard enough about his reputation – how he was an absolute slave driver with a terrible temper – to put me right off.
After a few anxious minutes a camera crew came in and positioned themselves to capture my reaction, and then the door opened and in walked . . . ‘Oh, hiiiii, Brendan!’
As we chatted, I began to think that perhaps he wasn’t so bad after all – little did I know what a good friend he would become.
The first dance I performed on the show was a group dance, the mambo, with the other celebrities. It was during our very first rehearsal that my fantasy of being revealed as a great undiscovered dancing talent vanished in a blur of forgotten steps and flailing arms. I was useless – although at that early stage, I couldn’t have imagined exactly how useless – but I had such a laugh that I didn’t really care. Besides, I felt sure I’d improve with some one-to-one tuition with Brendan.
I know the viewers like to think it’s all bitchiness and diva tantrums backstage, but I got on brilliantly with everyone. There’s such a warm and supportive atmosphere and all the other celebrities and professional dancers seemed to want me to do well – probably because they knew I wasn’t going to be much competition! Among the contestants I grew particularly friendly with were Zoe Lucker, Natalie Cassidy and Ricky Whittle . . . Well, in fact, most of them. As for the presenters, I’d known Tess Daly since she and her husband, Vernon Kay, used to come to the Harrington, so it was lovely to see her again, while Sir Bruce Forsyth was exactly the same off camera as he was on. I was thrilled one week when he told me I was his favourite, even though I think it was probably a sympathy vote.
Then there were the dresses. For a fashion junkie like myself, the show was absolute frock heaven! At the start of production I had a morning in the BBC costume department trying on racks of dresses so that the show’s producers could work out what style I felt comfortable in and how much skin I was happy to expose. It was like the most fabulous dressing-up box ever. I was so excited by all the frills and feathers and flounces that I just said yes to everything.
With the group dance out of the way (pretty shakily in my case) my first solo dance with Brendan was the Tango. They had wanted the two of us to perform to a Rolling Stones track, but I said absolutely no way – the whole point of me going on the show was to leave all that behind – so in the end we settled on David Bowie’s ‘Let’s Dance’. The music was the least of my worries, though: I couldn’t get the hang of the dance at all. It wasn’t just the steps and intensity of the rehearsals that I struggled with, I was totally unprepared for how close the tango requires you to be to your partner.
I’ve never been a very touchy-feely person, so to be pulled up hard against Brendan’s body while his leg slid between mine was something I initially found very uncomfortable. You don’t usually have that kind of physical intimacy with anyone but a lover, but this was Brendan whom I’d just met and was barely on air-kissing terms with. I would find myself pulling away, but Brendan would just pull me straight back in. It was very intense. I can totally understand why so many celebrities who appear on that show end up having an affair with their dance partner. If I’d been 20 years younger and Brendan had been single . . . Well, you can easily imagine it happening. On our series alone the boxer, Joe Calzaghe, got together with his partner, Kristina Rihanoff, and actress Ali Bastian with Brian Fortuna – and those were just the ones we found out about!
Despite my fears, I couldn’t have asked for a better partner than Brendan. He was so good to me, despite my total lack of confidence and ability. It took me ages to pick up the steps and at one point I ended up in tears of sheer frustration, which, of course, the ever-present camera crew loved. I stormed out of the rehearsal room and they followed me, so I ran out to the car park – and they followed me there, too! (If they wanted tears, they’d picked the right person for the show. I cry at Britain’s Got Talent.) Most of the time, though, Brendan and I had a brilliant laugh, and if it all got too much for me, he would just say, ‘Come on, Jo-jo, let’s go and get a coffee,’ and we’d start afresh a bit later.
It was Saturday, and in a few hours’ time Brendan and I would perform our tango for millions on live TV. Although the show didn’t start until the evening, we contestants had to be there by about 10 a.m. so the team had enough time to get everyone ready. You’d be in Hair and Makeup quite early, which meant you’d be walking around in sweatpants and false eyelashes for most of the day.
There was no official rehearsal time on the Saturday, but Brendan and I stood in the corridor outside the studio frantically going through the tango steps. It was not going at all well.
‘I can’t do it, I can’t do it, I can’t do it,’ I said, stamping my feet in frustration.
‘Jo, yes, you can,’ said Brendan, patiently. ‘We’ve gone through this enough times, so when you get out there your feet will know what to do.’
Feeling far from reassured, I went and got into my dress, a gorgeous red and black lacy number, and tried to think positive thoughts, but then the show’s theme music started and the nerves kicked in like you wouldn’t believe. The other contestants seemed so calm, but they were used to performing in front of people as part of their day jobs, whether they were sportspeople, actors or presenters. I’d never done anything like this before. They would very sweetly try to empathize with me, saying, ‘Gosh, I’m really nervous, too!’ but I’d just think, You have no idea . . .
As the show went on, I sat backstage, staring at the board that lists each couple’s name in the order we were scheduled to perform that night. Oh, God, only three more couples to go . . . Only two more couples to go . . . Only one more couple to go – and I still can’t remember the steps!
My mouth was dry and I had butterflies like you wouldn’t believe. I don’t think I will ever experience nerves like that again.
Brendan kept saying to me, ‘This is just excitement, Jo! You’re excited about doing this!’
‘No, Brendan,’ I said. ‘These really are nerves. Believe me.’
When it was our turn, I stepped out onto the dance-floor and got into the starting position with a terrified smile plastered across my face. I kept reminding myself of what Brendan had said, that I’d be able to do the steps without even thinking, but as the applause died down and the music started I found that my feet didn’t have any more of a clue about what to do than the rest of me did. I was screwed. Poor Brendan ended up throwing me round the dance-floor. Afterwards he told me that he had looked down at my face at the very start and had known in that instant that I had forgotten the whole thing.
He gave me a huge hug when we finished, but the ordeal wasn’t over yet. Now it was time for the judges’ comments – and if anything, I was dreading that more than the performance. The idea of having to stand in front of the panel while they picked holes in my performance (and, let’s be honest, there were a lot of holes to pick) was daunting to say the least.
Craig kicked things off and, as I feared, it wasn’t good. ‘You were a disaster, daaaahling,’ he said.
Alesha and Bruno were a bit more encouraging, saying they were sure I’d get better, and Len, especially, was lovely to me.
‘The one good thing about you is that you have a go,’ he said, cheerily. ‘Have-a-go Jo!’
But despite the mixed revie
ws, as Bruce gave me a consolatory kiss and sent Brendan and me up the sparkly stairs to chat to Tess and get our scores, I felt weirdly elated. Okay, so I might not have remembered much of the dance, but at least I hadn’t tripped over! I didn’t even mind that the judges only gave us 18 out of 40. Brendan told me that it was better to be at the bottom or the top of the scoreboard: if you were in the middle people forgot you. So, from that perspective, it was better to be terrible than quite good! Perhaps the tango wasn’t my dance anyway, and – as the public voted to keep me in – I vowed to do better next week.
After the show everyone went upstairs to the BBC bar for a drink, which was when Craig came over and said, ‘Just remember, darling, it’s all theatre.’ It was his way of telling me that I shouldn’t take his bitchy comments personally – and from then on I was never offended by his remarks, not even when he told me that the best part of my rhumba was when I was ‘standing still’. I knew it was all pantomime and he was the wicked witch (although he might well have had a point).
I was stunned when Brendan and I were voted through to the next round, as I was convinced I would be out first. It gave my flagging confidence such a boost and made me determined to do a better job next week. In the early stages of the competition I still had high hopes that I’d make a miraculous turnaround and suddenly become this fantastic dancer. I really did try my hardest at every dance, and perhaps that was obvious because week after week the public kept voting Have-a-go Jo back in.
For the next six weeks my diary looked something like this: Monday was the first day of rehearsals and a bit of a high point of the week, as I would be excited about learning the new dance. Tuesday would usually end in tears, as I’d get home and start panicking because I couldn’t remember any of the steps. On Wednesday I would finally start to get the hang of it and feel a surge of hope–Perhaps I can do this after all! Thursday was spent going over and over the steps, trying to perfect them (I never did). On Friday we had the dress rehearsal, and Saturday was the live show, when I would forget everything I’d learnt that week.
I never once got through a dance without making mistakes. Yet throughout the whole process, Brendan remained unwaveringly patient and upbeat. The two of us got on so well. He would occasionally get a bit frustrated with me: ‘We’ve just been through that for 10 whole minutes and now you’ve forgotten!’ but we never had any big rows. I didn’t suffer from any aches or pains, either. It must have helped that I was fit when I started, as I was one of the only contestants who didn’t have to see the show’s doctor – and I was one of the oldest, as well!
I was so touched by all the support from the public during my time on Strictly–and from my family and friends who came to sit in the audience and cheer me on. The only one who didn’t was Jamie: he said his nerves just couldn’t cope. Although Ronnie and I still weren’t really speaking at this stage, I know he was watching at home because he told the kids he was voting for me every week.
At the time I had become friends with Christopher Wicks, a fashion designer from Manchester who now lives in Los Angeles, and he was brilliant at giving me long-distance pep-talks when I got in from another disastrous rehearsal. ‘Come on, babe, you can do this,’ he’d say. ‘I believe in you!’ We used to talk all the time on the phone and now we see each other whenever he comes to town: he’s one of those people I have such a laugh with.
My highest-scoring dance of the series was the Viennese waltz, with 23 out of 40. It was the only time I came off the dance-floor feeling I’d made quite a good job of it, but then Craig burst my bubble by telling me I’d waltzed like ‘a jumping bush kangaroo’. I found I was not the natural dancer I’d hoped, and dancing in a club, when all you’ve got to worry about is moving in time to the music, is very different from Ballroom or Latin where you’ve got to remember the steps, what to do with your arms, whether to carry your weight in your toes or your heels, and a million other things.
On week six Brendan and I danced the samba, which I’d hoped would be a high point after my Rio carnival experience, but on the night my timing went out of the window, and once your timing goes wrong, your feet go wrong, and it’s all over. In Bruno’s words, I ‘dragged poor Brendan into samba hell’. I got just 14 out of 40, which was then the lowest score for that dance in the show’s history. In the bottom two for the first time after the public vote, I was facing a dance-off with Jade Johnson, the Olympic track athlete, and there was no way in the world I was ever going to style that one out. I was going home. And as I walked down the corridor at the BBC on that last night, sad to go but elated that I’d come so far, I promptly tripped and fell flat on my face. Phew, I thought, as I picked myself up. Thank God I didn’t do that on telly.
I was actually quite relieved to go. I knew it was going to get harder when the contestants had to learn two dances a week – I could still barely remember one. But I felt so proud to have been there for six weeks and – despite the nerves and the low scores – I had loved every sequin-sprinkled, fake-tanned moment of the whole Strictly experience.
32
When I was younger my life was completely focused on the world of fashion: the people I worked and partied with were models, photographers, designers and retailers. When I met Ronnie, fashion made way for rock ’n’ roll; I gave up my career and drifted out of touch with many of my friends. When my marriage ended and I started again where I’d left off all those years ago, I decided to focus on my passion for fashion.
I’d always loved going to fashion shows, and was really pleased when I was invited to attend the London College of Fashion graduate show and check out the designers of the future: even more so when I arrived to discover I had been seated in the front row. I was looking around, soaking up the pre-show atmosphere and remembering my own catwalk days, when a very dapper gentleman came and sat down next to me.
‘Jo?’
I turned to him. Could it be . . .? ‘Harold! How are you?’
I couldn’t believe it. Talk about a blast from the past! It was Harold Tillman, former friend of my former husband Peter Greene, fashion entrepreneur and now chairman of the British Fashion Council. I’d barely seen him and his girlfriend – now wife – Stephanie, since we’d had those holidays in the South of France while I was married to Peter.
Harold and I went for a drink after the show, and met up a few days later for lunch at Cipriani. Harold was fabulous company and a fashion oracle, but it was wonderful for me to spend time with someone who had known me from my past. When I was talking to him I felt respected for who I was, rather than who I had been married to. Harold and his friends Marshall and Chris have become my buddies (again!) and I often meet up with them at fashion and charity events.
In many ways, my life seemed to be coming full circle. I started to do bits of modelling again, on the catwalk for Vivienne Westwood at London Fashion Week and in a Fashion for Relief charity show alongside Kate Moss and Naomi Campbell. Then in 2011 I was asked to style a fashion show at a vintage festival. I dressed the twelve models, each in three changes of outfit, entirely in clothes from my own vintage collection. Ozzie Clark, Biba, Jean Muir, Yves St Laurent – it was such a buzz to see all the gorgeous items I’d collected over the years on the catwalk.
It was at another fashion show, this time for organic and sustainable clothing, that I met Safia Minney, the founder of the Fairtrade fashion label, People Tree. Safia is hugely passionate about her cause and, as we were chatting, she asked if I would like to visit Bangladesh to see Fairtrade fashion in action.
‘Yeah, that would be great!’ I said, caught up in her enthusiasm. ‘When are we going?’
It was only when I got home that I thought, Where the bloody hell is Bangladesh?
The slums of Dhaka are built high on bamboo stilts to keep them out of the floodwaters of the Ganges. A system of ladders and gangplanks links this sky-city of huts, some of which are built several storeys high. As I picked my way across a narrow plank between buildings, stretching to reach over a gap, all I could
think of was the baby I had just seen crawling happily along the precarious pathway. The water was a few metres below us, although you couldn’t see it beneath the gently bobbing blanket of rubbish, filth and sewage. What if the baby fell down there?
I had been in Dhaka for two days and was stunned by the conditions in the slums. The stink oozing up from the waters below was so overpowering that I got a headache within minutes of arriving. Seen through my Western eyes, there seemed to be disasters waiting to happen at every turn. Not just those terrifying gangways or the stacked-up corrugated-iron buildings, which looked poised to tumble like a dominoes at any moment, but I spotted numerous bits of makeshift hosepipe connected to the gas mains. In one house I was shown round there were something like 140 people living in a higgledy-piggledy network of rooms. They’d just kept building up and up, linking it all with a series of ladders. The biggest surprise, though, was just how immaculate the whole place was. Each room was swept spotlessly clean; the beds were made; everything was folded neatly. Despite the shocking poverty, the inhabitants were clearly house-proud.
