The programme upsets me and makes me contemplate joining those refusing to pay their licence fee in protest at the decline of the BBC. Only my belief that the state should control all television, and indeed every other aspect of life, persuades me to keep stumping up, in the hope that most of the "entertainment" will one day be removed, to be replaced by documentaries about ancient civilisations and endless re-runs of the ethically inspiring Smallville.

However, the John Sergeant business has moved me deeply, containing as it does all the elements of tragedy, farce, comedy and philosophy that make it the story of our times, the tale that tops the zeitgeist and lets us see more clearly what we are. To wit, nincompoops.

Sergeant let down both himself and his gender when he took part in this jessiefest, but has redeemed himself by cocking a snook at the ghastly freaks on the judging panel. If this were a real democracy, these people would be breaking stones in a frost-covered quarry far from the nearest Blockbuster or Spar.

From the snippets I've seen – broadcast bizarrely on the main evening news – his dancing was magnificently inept, reaching an admirable nadir when he imitated a haughty Spaniard dragging his burd along the groond.

In truth, he looked like a pompous English judge putting oot the rubbish. The judges were asked: "What did you think of that?" And, like shadows of the great Paul Daniels, they replied: "Not a haught."

Subsequently, Sergeant withdrew from the competition, fearing he was giving dancing a bad name, which is like declining to commit any more murders for fear it would cast homicidal maniacs in an unfavourable light. However, Sergeant's oafish blundering endeared him to the masses, and experts fear that viewing figures may plummet, now that the "dancing pig" has removed his trotters from the trough. This is excellent news. If I'd devised it as a strategy myself, it couldn't have worked better.

Strictly has divided the nation. In one corner are people who love it and never miss an episode. These people are called women. In the other corner are bewildered men, loudly opening tins of beer and ostentatiously reading the paper to show their displeasure at the commandeering of their televisual entertainment spheres for this buttock-waggling buffoonery.

Not all men, of course. One fellow in my ken has been converted, but he is a Siegfried Farnon figure, loudly holding one opinion at dawn and vehemently adhering to the opposite view by dusk.

He should have vacated the sofa when the programme began but, being idle and lacking a shed to which he might repair, he remained rooted to the spot and now declares himself "hooked". May the Lord have mercy on his soul.

News that pantomime baddie Peter Mandelson wants to take part is proof positive of the programme's evil nature. The thought of watching that sinister Jasper poncing about with his nose in the air must put all sensitive citizens in a rage.

I hold out little hope of the show being scrapped and replaced by the 24-part epic, Secrets of Etruscan Pottery. Only when the BBC's directorate is replaced by a Board of Guardians – made up of stern, beer-loving beardies from the world of Scottish journalism – will the licence fee finally be merited and the citizenry treated to educational and informative programmes, whether they like them or not.

Bring back belt as revenge on neds

I'M not surprised to see bovine oaf Alex Johnstone calling for the return of the belt. The tumshie-style Tory MSP is a beacon of common sense in a dark world, though I expect oppressive liberals will snuff out his wick. When I was at school, I detested the belt. Indeed, I was saying only the other day that, in retrospect, it seemed bizarrely barbaric. However, it's easy to concoct wisdom from mere experience. I'm no longer at school, but many neds are, and they should have the skin flayed from their palms. The belt may not make them see the error of their ways, but it lets society get its retaliation in first, before the neds are released to wreak mayhem and look aesthetically putrid in their horrid hoods.

Power cuts! Can a box of matches heat a ready meal?

BLACKOUT news, and the brilliantly grim threat of all our lights going off has been resurrected, to stop citizens relaxing in the belief that they live in a centrally-heated paradise.

Deep down in the dark recesses of their brains, people fear power cuts, believing they herald the demise of our switch-based civilisation.

However, in truth, power cuts could return us to a golden age, where candles throw shadows as folk huddle for warmth, and respected old men tell stories from an ancient oral tradition based on remembered episodes of The Bill and Casualty.

The latest panic has been caused by predictions of an "energy gap", in which the dopes at the top shut down power plants while failing to replace them with adequate substitutes, such as windfarms the size of Wales.

At the weekend, one top expert stood on a chair and announced: "We are looking at the possibility of blackouts and brownouts within three to four years, ken?" Broonoots, eh? Sounds serious. This seems to refer to areas of town being cut off on a rota basis. It's distinct from the beige-out, where only the homes of people with dodgy decor are cut off.

You say: "I like the picture you paint of us all huddled round a story-teller in a candle-lit cave or council house. But what will we eat? Few of us remember how to start a fire from twigs, never mind how to cook in a pot." It is a good point well made, giving rise to visions of citizens getting through a family-sized box of Swan Vestas as, one match at a time, they try to heat ready-meals. But there are other things we could eat, such as corned beef, breakfast cereals, and insects. As a last resort, fruit may also be taken. My advice to those fearing power cuts is: look on the bright side. For, lo, the experience will strengthen us for the coming floods and volcanic eruptions.