That’s it then. For those of us who don’t take these daft competitions seriously, it’s all over. No Ed Balls, no Honey G… no point.

Former Chancellor Balls was total – er – balls. A dad dancer of epic-fail proportions, the portly politician put his heart and soul into every hilarious rubbish-routine and swiftly emerged as Strictly’s undisputed star. For me, the only reason to tune in.

At first, to their enormous credit, the judges embraced Ed’s compelling uselessness. Uncle Len and his three sidekicks sensibly decided to go with the flow. If the viewers were enjoying the weekly Balls-up… why knock it?

And when our hopeless hero took the style out of Gangnam Style his ineptitude reached sublime levels. So bad he was brilliant. The punters lapped it up.

But then, with a dreary inevitability, Len and the po-faced gang turned on Ed and – as usual – started acting as if a bunch of celebrities trying to waltz was so incredibly important that the purity of the process shouldn’t be polluted by a carthorse with two left feet and a wry smile. What a load of cobblers. It really doesn’t matter.

Sure enough, the punters did as they were told and told Ed to Foxtrot Oscar. His impossible dream hit the rocks. December would have been a lot more fun if he was still around. Instead, the Beeb expects the nation to give a damn about Louise Redknapp, Danny Mac and few other also-rans I can’t remember. Whoever wins will be forgotten within a week. As always.

Meanwhile, over on The X Factor’s worst-ever series it was a similar story. Obviously, hopeless Honey G was a farce and her joke rap act got repetitive half way through her ludicrous audition. Three months later every time she disgraced the screen was like Groundhog Day. Terrible when those pranksters invaded the stage to wreck her performance. But you know what they say… everyone’s a critic.

Nevertheless, the longer Ms G outstayed her welcome the funnier it became. And – oh dear – the rest of the wannabes are like the bland leading the bland. The human equivalent of beige. Not a scintilla of star quality between them. Interest in the live finals has plummeted to an all-time low. As the ratings plunged below the six million mark, Simon Cowell’s karaoke capers were not only thrashed by Strictly and I’m A Celeb… but also beaten by BBC1’s Michael McIntyre’s Big Show for the second Saturday in a row.

Now who are we left with? A gaggle of wildly overpraised, charisma-free pub singers, some of whom can barely hold a tune. Five After Midnight? Really? The only thing to say about simpering Saara Aalto is she has one helluva lot of A’s in her name. In fairness, she’s certainly not tone deaf… but has even less of a personality than Bromley boy Matt Terry. And that’s saying something.

Following last year’s utter disaster, this year’s feeble unspectacular is pulling in an even smaller audience. So Cowell’s crazy idea to bring back his favourite geriatrics Louis Walsh and Sharon Osbourne simply hasn’t worked. Suggestion for 2017… find a couple of panellists who were born after World War 1.