Strictly 2026: The Judging Storm, the Backstage Whispers and Our Gloriously Unserious Final Three

We're into November, which means Strictly season has reached its most dangerous phase: the point where the leaderboard stops being a scoreboard and starts being a personality test. Blackpool is on the horizon, the group chat is feral, and at least one couple is being described as 'on a journey' by a person who has clearly never been on a bus.

Let's take stock, because this series has already given us enough material for a three-part documentary.

Where We Are: A Chaos Report

Every year the same thing happens. The early weeks are a gentle waltz of goodwill — everyone's lovely, the judges are kind, and the nation collectively decides that this is the nicest cast in years. Then November arrives, the running order gets spicy, and suddenly we're all experts on Cuban motion and the correct amount of gapping.

This series has followed the pattern beautifully. We've had a shock dance-off that made absolutely no sense, a leaderboard that someone clearly shuffled while half asleep, and a themed week where the costume department appeared to be working through some personal issues. Crucially, we've also had a handful of genuinely brilliant dances — the sort that make you put your phone down and go 'oh, right, that's why we watch this'.

The Judging Row That Won't Die

The panel has had a rough few weeks. There's been a scoring decision so baffling that the studio audience audibly groaned, a critique that got booed before the sentence had even finished, and the traditional moment where one judge says 'it's week eight' in a tone that suggests the other judge has personally offended their family.

To be fair to everyone involved, the scoring does get harder as the standard rises. When six couples are all technically excellent, a paddles-based numbering system starts to look like a blunt instrument. But there's a difference between a generous score and a score that seems to have been drawn from a hat, and the audience can smell it.

The internet, obviously, has taken this well. There have been petitions. There have been paragraphs. Somebody has made a chart. What there hasn't been, mercifully, is any suggestion that the judges are doing anything other than disagreeing loudly in public, which is basically the format.

Backstage Whispers (Handle With Tongs)

The tabloids have been in excellent form this month. We've had the classic 'training room tensions' story, the annual revival of the so-called curse, and a claim that two couples are locked in a 'feud' because one of them looked at the other one slightly oddly during a group number.

Treat all of it like a prawn cocktail left out on a radiator. Some of it is probably a grain of truth inflated into a hot-air balloon. Most of it is filler. And the genuinely juicy stuff — who's struggling with a knee, who's switched choreographers, who's been quietly brilliant in rehearsals and is about to surprise everyone — never makes it into print at all.

What we can say with confidence is that the Clauditorium remains the best room on British television: half pep talk, half hostage situation, all sequins.

The Dances That Broke the Group Chat

Three moments stand out from this run so far.

First, the Couple's Choice that came out of nowhere in week five, complete with a heartfelt VT and choreography that was actually saying something. We were not emotionally prepared and neither, frankly, were the judges.

Second, the Latin number that went slightly wrong in the middle and got saved by sheer personality — the kind of chaos that reminds you these people are doing something genuinely difficult live on a Saturday night with a live band and a studio audience eight feet away.

Third, the ballroom routine that quietened the room. You know the one. No gimmicks, no props, no dry ice, just two people doing the thing properly. That's the dance that tends to win this show, and the bookies have clearly noticed.

The Clashes, the Costumes and the Tower

Blackpool remains the one week where the show stops pretending to be a dance competition and becomes a full-blown variety spectacular, complete with a live orchestra and at least one celebrity weeping at the sheer size of the room. It's also the week most likely to produce a shock result, because the vote goes slightly mad when there's a tower involved.

Beyond that, expect the usual November ingredients: a shock dance-off between two couples who absolutely should not be there, a themed week with at least one costume that borders on a war crime, and a results show where the musical guest gets more screentime than half the cast.

Our Completely Unserious Final Three

Right, predictions. For entertainment purposes only. No money, no wagering, no angry DMs.

• The Ringer. Every series has one — the contestant who arrives with suspiciously excellent posture and picks up choreography like it's a bus timetable. They'll top the leaderboard at least twice, land in the final on merit, and spend the whole run insisting they've never danced before while their family quietly looks at the floor.
• The Journey. Started somewhere around a four, cried in the Clauditorium, got a standing ovation by Blackpool, and is now genuinely one of the best dancers in the competition. This is the person the nation adopts.
• The People's Champion. Not the best dancer. Possibly not even the fifth-best dancer. But they have something — a grin, a partnership, an ability to make a cha-cha-cha feel like a national event — and they are absolutely sailing into that final on a tidal wave of public affection.

And the Glitterball Goes To...

Here's our bold, slightly chaotic call: The Journey wins it. Not because The Ringer doesn't deserve it — technically, they're the strongest — but because Strictly has spent twenty-odd series teaching us that the trophy doesn't always go to the best dancer in the room. It goes to the one the audience feels they've watched grow.

So: The Ringer finishes second, The People's Champion finishes third to a standing ovation and a chorus of 'robbed' from the sofa, and The Journey lifts the glitterball in a final that runs eight minutes over and makes everyone's mum cry.

We reserve the right to be completely wrong by mid-December, and we'll be recapping every wobble between now and then.