There was choreography, in which I was expected to take part, at least initially. Visibly stunned by my demonstration of the moves I’d honed on the dance floors of Crisco Disco and Studio 54, the choreographer Arlene Phillips went pale and suddenly scaled down my involvement in that side of things, until all I really had to do was click my fingers and walk along the seafront in time to the music. Perhaps she was afraid I was going to upstage the professionals, and the thing she later said about me being the worst dancer she’d ever worked with was a brilliant double-bluff, designed to spare
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