POOR Carol Vorderman tore a cartilage in her back while doing the rumba.

Apparently it happened when her dance partner flung her backwards during a particularly lively sequence on Strictly Come Dancing.

The only consolation I can offer Carol is that at least she was dancing with a professional. If it had been me, she'd have been nursing a barked shin and bruised toes as well.

You see, I've never been much good at dancing. That's why you'll only see me attempting it just before midnight on New Year's Eve, when everybody around is too mellowed by the festive spirits to notice what an idiot I'm making of myself.

Everybody except my daughter, that is, who points out that I'm the only person who would make David Brent look cool by comparison... and goes pale when I threaten to tag along to the cheesy 1970s disco she occasionally visits with her pals.

But if I've got two left feet when it comes to cutting a rug, it's not for want of trying. Once, impressed by my brother-in-law's sizzling jive routine, I invested in some dancing lessons.

They petered out when it became all too clear that the only way my toes were ever going to twinkle would be if they were dabbed with Gloy and dusted with tinsel.

So nowadays I've resigned myself to accept my limitations and echo the immortal words of the late, great Tony Hancock, whose first Half Hour was aired 50 years ago this very week.

"I don't dance," he says coldly in one priceless radio show. "Dancing is evil."

"No it isn't," comes the reply.

"It is the way I do it."

First published: November 6