My TV Licence Is Basically a Strictly Subscription

Every year around September, I have the same thought:

“Do I actually need a TV licence?”

Because let’s be honest.

Most of the year, my television is used for streaming services, YouTube rabbit holes, nostalgia documentaries, and occasionally staring blankly at Netflix while spending forty-five minutes trying to decide what to watch.

Then autumn arrives.

And suddenly I remember.

Oh.

Strictly.

That’s what I’m paying for.

The TV licence isn’t really a licence.

It’s an annual subscription that allows me to spend three months emotionally invested in ballroom dancing.

The rest of the year?

Basically a bonus.

The funniest part is trying to explain this to Americans.

Them:
“Wait, you need a licence to watch TV?”

Me:
“Yes.”

Them:
“Like… an actual licence?”

Me:
“Yes.”

Them:
“Why?”

Me:
“…So I can watch celebrities dressed as glittery pirates do the Charleston.”

At which point they usually stop asking questions.

Every Strictly season follows exactly the same pattern.

Week One:
“I don’t know any of these people.”

Week Three:
“I would die for half of these people.”

Week Six:
“That score was outrageous and frankly I demand justice.”

Final Week:
Crying over a dance performed by somebody I didn’t know existed three months earlier.

It’s tradition.

And let’s not forget the annual ritual of deciding who should do Strictly.

Every year I convince myself that this is finally the year somebody from one of my favourite pop groups signs up.

Every year I am wrong.

Yet somehow hope survives.

Because maybe next year.

Maybe.

Until then, my TV licence remains what it truly is:

A yearly payment that allows me to shout “SEVEN?!” at the television while somebody covered in sequins performs a routine that took six weeks to learn and would probably put me in hospital if I attempted it.

Worth every penny, honestly.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go spend the next four months pretending I’m qualified to judge ballroom dancing.

✨💃🕺✨