Married reality TV guru in talks for Strictly Come Dancing as bosses think he won't fall victim to show's ‘curse'
STRICTLY COME DATING Married reality TV guru in talks for Strictly Come Dancing as bosses think he won't fall victim to show's 'curse'
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BBC bosses think they have found someone who won't fall victim to the infamous Strictly Come Dancing curse – Paul C Brunson.
The married dating guru has become a big figure in the reality arena as part of Channel 4's two ratings giants, Married At First Sight and Celebs Go Dating.
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Paul C Brunson is in talks for Strictly Come Dancing, pictured as Amanda Holden's sidekick on Cheat: Unfinished Business
Credit: Netflix/Instagram
He spread his wings even further this year when he joined Netflix as Amanda Holden's sidekick on Cheat: Unfinished Business, where eight former couples decide whether to reconcile or stay apart.
But a spot on the BBC dancefloor would give Paul's career a huge boost.
And the clean-cut American, who has been based in London since 2018, could be just what Strictly needs after two scandal-packed troubled series.
A source said: 'Paul would be the ideal tonic to the dark clouds over Strictly as he's clean-cut, very intelligent and has no scandals to worry about.
'They are now in discussion but he's met with producers a number of times.
'Everyone is hoping he'll sign on the dotted line and is keen to make it happen.'
Last month Strictly pro Karen Hauer was a guest on his podcast, We Need To Talk, so is likely well-versed in the show.
He's welcomed everyone from Katie Price to singer Yungblud on the show, which is part of the reason bosses are so keen to get him on the dancefloor.
The source added: 'The crucial 16-34 audience, which execs are desperate to hook, are well aware of Paul because of his podcast and MAFS and Celebs Go Dating are hugely popular with that age group.'
So far names in talks for Strictly include Mo Farah, Georgia Toffolo and Gladiator Nitro.
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Daily Mail
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- Daily Mail
EXCLUSIVE FIONA PHILLIPS: I know my memories are there but they skip away from me like £5 notes on a gusty day... MARTIN FRIZELL: Being brutally honest, I wish she'd got cancer instead. Then there might be a cure...
Imagine having a nightmare where it's pitch black and you are desperately searching for someone you love in a house, wandering from room to room. When I finally think I've found the right room, I start scrabbling in my handbag for the door key. It takes me ages to lay my hand on it, but eventually I pull it out and try to fit it in the lock. I push it in one way and then another. Finally, it clicks into place and I turn it. I gently push the door open, but then, in that very moment, I sense the person I love has disappeared again. They're gone. The memory has gone. And I'm all alone. And that's how it is for me now, living with Alzheimer's. While writing this book, my husband Martin and I have gathered on our kitchen table a huge pile of old magazine and newspaper cuttings from the past 40 years of my life as a television presenter and newspaper columnist. There's a picture of me in a very Nineties red power suit with my GMTV breakfast show co-host Eamonn Holmes's arm draped around me (who thought that was a good pose?!). And there are some hilarious snaps of me, all hot and sweaty, when I appeared with Brendan Cole as my partner (for a few weeks, at least) on the BBC's Strictly Come Dancing. On the shelf along the kitchen wall are framed pictures of my family. There's me and Martin, smiling outside a film premiere. And another of us with our gorgeous boys, Nathaniel and Mackenzie, when they were little on the beach in Dorset, where we used to go on holiday. Everywhere I look there are memories. I know they are there. And yet so many of them feel out of my reach now. It's like I stretch out to touch them, but then just as I'm about to grasp it, the memory skips away from me. And I can't catch up with it. Like trying to chase a £5 note that's fallen out of your purse on a gusty day. Each time I think I've caught it, it whips away again. I couldn't be writing this at all without my husband Martin and my closest friends, who are helping me articulate more clearly the thoughts I once had that are now harder for me to reach. I used to be able to talk to anyone about anything (a skill inherited from my mum) and then I made a career out of chatting to people on television. Nowadays, I can find talking about my life agonisingly difficult. Sometimes I get halfway through a sentence and I can't remember where I was heading with it or the word I was looking for. It feels awful. Gradually, Martin and I thought maybe I should start telling more people. Martin felt that if more people knew what was happening to me then they wouldn't judge me if I did ever start behaving unusually – not that I thought I did. It was hardly like I was going down the street half-clothed, yelling at people. But he and the doctors, who I was constantly backwards and forwards to see, would say that I kept repeating myself and that sometimes I forgot what I was doing or where I was going. The strange thing was I had no awareness of that. As 2024 progressed, all the things we enjoyed doing together – eating good food, drinking nice wine, going to lovely places, travelling – started to become too difficult for Fiona. By the summer of 2024, we had adjusted to a new routine. I would wake at seven and go downstairs to make a coffee. If Fiona heard me, she might come down, too. I was in control of all her medication to ensure she took the correct amounts, so I would give her an antidepressant tablet and make her a cup of tea, then get myself ready for work. Fiona would often say to me: 'What shall I do now?' 'Why don't you go back to bed for a couple of hours?' I'd say. 'It's still early.' 'Where do I go to bed?' she would ask. 'In the bedroom,' I'd reply and point her back to the staircase in her own home. It was becoming harder and harder for her to remember people and places. She was also becoming confused by text messages, unable to remember who had sent them to her and why. We feared it would strike our sons We did tackle one fear and talked to Fiona's consultant about whether she had inherited the illness from her parents. She then had a genetic test, because if she carried the gene for Alzheimer's there was a danger the boys would have it, too, which in turn might mean them thinking about IVF if they wanted children, in order to break the genetic line. Thankfully, the test was negative. That meant she didn't carry the gene so the boys wouldn't either. But the doctor said she was clearly predisposed to Alzheimer's. I didn't entirely understand what he meant. How could someone be 'predisposed' to a particular disease if there wasn't something in their genetic make-up that determined it? But he assured me this was the case. While Fiona's chances of getting the disease had always been a lot higher, that didn't mean she would pass it on to her children. A few months later we told the boys what was happening. By then, she was even more withdrawn and forgetful and they knew she'd had a series of hospital appointments. Rather than the terrible news landing on them like a bomb, I'd gradually shared with them the sense that something was very wrong. When the moment came and I used the dreaded 'Alzheimer's' word, I think they were prepared for it – however awful that news was. They were just heartbroken for their mum, though she didn't want to make a big fuss about it all. She was able to dismiss it from her mind and so the conversation quickly moved on. It may sound strange, but that is how it was. She gave up reading or sending emails or looking at magazines, so she didn't really do very much. That was the pattern day after day – not much happened – and Fiona didn't want anything to happen. After we ate dinner, I might read or check my work emails and Fiona would sit next to me. When I got in from work, it seemed she would rarely leave my side. We might watch television for a bit, but Fiona wasn't able to engage with what was happening – I think often it was just bright colour on a screen to her. Every evening she would ask: 'How did your show go today?' I'd talk about what happened, but then literally 60 seconds later she would say again: 'How did the show go today?' And again I would explain how it went. By the fifth time she had asked exactly the same question, I'd just say 'fine'. I tried so hard to remain patient, but it was difficult. And I'm only human. Anyone who thinks they could endlessly explain the same thing over and over again without ever becoming frustrated or losing their patience just needs to try it. Not once, not now and again, but every single day. At weekends we might go for a drive together or I could sometimes persuade her to go for a walk. 'Which season is it?' she would ask as we were strolling across the Common. I was busy with work at that time. We'd had big changes at This Morning with Phillip Schofield leaving, Holly Willoughby stepping down after the pressures of a serious kidnap threat, and Cat Deeley and Ben Shephard becoming the new hosts in March 2024. But being that busy actually helped me. I loved going into work – not because it was an escape from what was going on at home, but because it gave me structure and normality. And it meant that I didn't have time to think about what was to come for Fiona. For both of us. It is January 2025 as I write this, and Fiona needs a lot of help. She needs help showering and brushing her teeth. She can do these things physically, but is unable now to think about how she should do them. 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Those are just some of the many things that are now outside the range of what she understands. There have been some episodes of extreme confusion. One night she became incredibly distressed: 'I just want my mum and dad,' she kept saying. 'Oh, Fiona, your mum and dad haven't been with us for many years,' I replied. But that just made her more agitated. 'You're lying,' she shouted. 'Get me my husband!' All I could do was to keep trying to calm her down – 'Fiona, I am your husband,' I said. 'No, you are not,' she insisted. The experts say you are not supposed to challenge someone with Alzheimer's when they're saying things that are completely wrong, but it's very difficult. What am I supposed to say when she says: 'You're not my husband!'? Some men might find that painful – and obviously it's not nice – but I don't feel hurt by it because I know that isn't Fiona talking: it's the illness that has taken her mind. 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However many times I try to reassure her, she has forgotten that reassurance moments later, so I have to do it over and over again. There's no escape. There's no doubt that some people we used to know don't get in touch as often. The dinner-party invitations have dried up and it can feel isolating. It's not that Fiona would even want to go out for dinner but sometimes it would be nice to be asked. I don't think people are deliberately trying to exclude us, they're just not sure what to say and so they say nothing at all. And it does feel lonely. It feels selfish to say that because this is not about me – it's about Fiona and she's the one who is really suffering in all this. She's the one who feels lonely and scared and is often in pain. Sometimes when I'm going out she will say, 'Please don't leave me,' because she wants me to be close by. And it breaks my heart that my strong, independent wife has become so vulnerable. This might sound very strange, or maybe not to other couples going through this, but since her diagnosis we have not once discussed Fiona's illness. Obviously, we've both been in the room when the doctors are talking to us about how she's getting on and we have discussed the logistics of administering her injections and tablets; we have also worked together shaping this book, but writing it down is easier than talking it through step by step. But the big issues around what is happening to her – and what will happen next – we have left untouched. And, really, where's the benefit in us talking about it? I mean we have planned together around the practical things such as getting our finances in order and family paperwork, but then it's really a case of 'let's just wait for it to come'. Talking about it isn't going to make Fiona feel better. She finds any mention of it upsetting and so we just get on with life around the edges of what is happening. At the time of writing, I have just finished my almost-ten-year stint as editor at This Morning. I'm proud of what I achieved – the longest tenure of any boss and seven consecutive National Television Awards during my run – but it was time to go. It became impossible to work the schedule I imposed on myself and also be the principal responsible adult for someone with Alzheimer's. I could manage three or four days perhaps, but not the full-on white heat of running what many see as a national institution. I want to continue working and am setting up a small podcast project that I hope might become big. What I really want is distraction from all that is going on – and interesting conversation, which I'm lacking more and more in our isolated lives. I'd like to tell you Fiona is content in the situation into which she has been forced. I'd like to give readers some sense that she is at peace. But that wouldn't be the truth. She isn't – she is frustrated every single day. And depressed. 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