Strictly Come Dancing judge Len Goodman’s death earlier this week triggered an outpouring of tributes to one of the nicest men in showbiz.
But things could have turned out very differently for Len, who died three days before his 79th birthday.
Here in exclusive extracts from his autobiography, Better Late Than Never: From Barrow Boy to Ballroom, he recalls the moment in his late teens that set the apprentice welder on the road to dancing stardom.
I was on my way home from work when I met a mate I used to knock around with. After chatting for a while, I asked, “Do you fancy going down the pub tomorrow night?”
“No, I can’t, Len. I go out on a Tuesday.”
“That’s bloody queer, you’re always out on a Tuesday night. Where do you go?” I asked.
“Well, to be honest with you, Len, and I’ll bloody kill you if you let the others know, I go ballroom dancing.”
“You what?”
“No, Len, it’s bloody great. Hardly any blokes go at all.”
“I’m not bloody surprised! I’d feel a right bloody pillock,” I said.
“Yeah, but loads of girls go. You can dance with whoever you want. Because so few blokes go they all think you’re a hero. It’s brilliant.”
Despite the attraction of meeting girls, ballroom dancing didn’t really appeal.
It was shortly after this that disaster struck. I broke a metatarsal bone in my foot – the same one that Wayne Rooney broke a few years back. I was playing for Slade Green United on Hackney Marshes when it happened.
I kicked the ball north while at the same time the biggest centre half in the world – well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it – tried to kick the ball south. The outcome was my foot went west and I was in agony for weeks. It was black and blue and nasty-looking.
All the doctor said was, “Try to keep off of it as much as possible.”
This was ludicrous, as I still had to go to work at the docks. The foot was incredibly slow to heal and I went back to my doctor to see what else I could do; I was anxious to get back to playing football. My usual doctor wasn’t there and the locum was an old Scottish doctor. He told me in no uncertain terms that I could put football right out of my mind.
“You’ll need to build your foot up a lot more before you can play again. Why not go swimming?” he suggested. Well, that wasn’t really an option as the nearest pool was outdoors, added to which it was February.
“Well, laddie, you could try dancing.”
“Dancing?” I couldn’t believe it.
“Aye lad, you need to keep that foot working, you need to exercise it and so dancing is my recommendation.”
On the first day, I made my way up the stairs to the dance studio where everyone was sitting around waiting for it to start. I sat there trying to melt into the wallpaper. We looked like we were waiting to see a doctor, not waiting to have fun.
I had a face like a slapped arse and it didn’t help either my image or my confidence that on my left foot I had a winkle-picker and on my right foot I had one of my dad’s carpet slippers.
Me and my girlfriend Linda were the youngest couple and not by just a little bit. The expectant dancers all seemed ancient; the men in suits, the ladies in dresses and me in a pair of jeans, a Fred Perry shirt and my odd footwear. Talk was in whispers, with just the odd cough to break the silence. I felt a bead of perspiration on my forehead: I was gripped with a sudden fear and an overpowering urge to use the toilet.
Suddenly all hell broke loose as a smartly dressed lady and a girl burst into the room. “Now then, everyone, up on your feet and gather round. We’re going to learn to dance!”
With that, the 30 or so of us got to our feet and stood there waiting for what was to happen next; my slippered foot was throbbing. “I’m Miss Tolhurst and this is my assistant Pauline and we’re here to teach you.” As we all stood around them in a circle all I could think was “fat chance”.
As I was determined not to enjoy the evening I did everything in my power to appear to be the most uncoordinated person in the world in the hope that Linda would give up after just one week. The class was two hours with a break in the middle for a cup of tea. The girl behind the bar serving tea asked what I wanted.
“Two teas, please love,” I said, little knowing that the pimplyfaced 15-year-old would one day be my dance partner and later still my wife. At the end I left thinking it was less awful than I’d imagined but mostly that if this will fix my foot then I must keep at it.
* Better Late Than Never: From Barrow Boy to Ballroom by Len Goodman is published by Ebury Press at £12.99
