Strictly fever has gripped the nation again.

And of course it’s taken us all completely by storm, what’s not to love? It’s certainly compulsive viewing for most people I know.

Last week I spotted a middle-aged man totally absorbed in the Strictly Come Dancing 2014 annual for the entire bus journey home.

Admittedly, he occasionally tilted the book at such a strange angle that I can’t be sure just exactly what he was hoping to glimpse, but he was so openly enamoured that he almost missed his stop, let alone a few heartbeats. And why wouldn’t we all yearn for just a tiny slice of the romance and glamour that Strictly unfailing serves up? Who wouldn’t want to take to the dance floor looking a million dollars to deliver a fabulously stylish routine?

Unfortunately, the real and non choreographed world is very different.

Last time I went out dancing (which should probably have been about 25 years ago but was actually, in a moment of madness, about 25 months ago) it couldn’t have been further removed from the chivalry displayed on our screens every Saturday night.

True, I was grooving the night away in a nightclub and not twirling around in a ballroom, but does clubbing really have to be such a Tardis ride away from the elegance of the polished floors of Blackpool?

I was happily boogieing away with a friend when, suddenly and completely unannounced, a man wrapped himself around me from behind and clung like some kind of vulgar, spooning limpet.

It took me a while to prise him off and a few seconds longer to realise that he actually imagined he had been dancing with me.

Apparently, being grabbed from behind without so much as a nod of introduction is just the way it works these days.

When my daughter returned home from her first night out at an under-18s club night she coyly informed me that yes, she had indeed danced with someone thank you very much.

When I nudged her in the ribs and asked if he was nice-looking she looked at me like I was crazy, “How would I know?” she exclaimed, “No one took a photo for me.”

Blimey, who says romance is dead.

We thought men were bad in the ’80s. Very few of them danced, instead they clung to the perimeter of the dance floor as securely as we all stuck to the carpets, nursing pints and watching girls.

But we did have the slow section. We all groaned, but secretly hoped that the guy we’d been making eye contact with all night would ask us to dance.

We’d then, not actually dance, but move clumsily around in a circle for a few minutes – but at least we knew who we were shuffling with before exchanging numbers.

Maybe it’s time ballroom and Latin became part of the school curriculum for those who’d rather get fit learning a valuable social skill – rather than chase a ball around a muddy field or trying to hit one with a stick.

Then maybe we’d see some moonlight and love and romance, rather than murder, back on the dance floor.