I'm not a religious person but Strictly Come Dancing (BBC1) almost felt obscene for a Sunday.

With its manic glitter and girly shrieking and sequins flying it just felt like too much giddy fun. But it's Sunday! I sat on the sofa, laptop on my knee, and flinched at the explosions of glitter and the constant whooping and clapping. It's the day of rest, I wanted to moan! Across the country it's bath night and shoes are being polished for school tomorrow. People are shuffling out of pleasant Sunday laziness towards the blunt edge of Monday and this noisy riot seemed like just too much mania. Surely, it belongs back on Saturday night TV, for this is a country where some people still grumble at ferry sailings and alcohol sales on a Sunday and - for the first time in my agnostic life - I felt a stirring of sympathy for them. I wanted to make a Father Ted placard. Down with this sort of thing! This isn't right for Sunday TV. Restore to us the gentle costume dramas and the things set in Yorkshire.

But I was hopeful. All the screaming and celeb back-slapping must subside and the dancing will soon begin. Brucie will see to it. He won't take this nonsense - but Brucie has gone, replaced by a dark-haired sequined woman who is presenting the show alongside a blonde-haired sequined woman. So much eyeliner and glitter and lipgloss and shrieking. All they needed was pink stetsons and it would've been a horrific Sauchiehall Street hen night.

And still no dancing. We had to meet the celebrities first which could've been done in a few minutes but was dragged on forever. And they were hardly celebrities. They included Judy Murray, the baldy one from Masterchef, the ginge from Eastenders and some waving, smiling others I'd never heard of. They were a bland parade of grinning look-a-likes and there was no maverick contestant as we've had in past years, like John Sargeant or Ann Widdecombe, unless the obese woman, Alison Hammond, was serving that purpose. But no, surely TV wouldn't be cruel enough to have us gawping at a fat woman being hurled round the dance floor by an elfin young man in tights? Regardless of the quality of the line-up, I chose to view the lack of big celebs as a positive. Maybe they've been chosen for their twinkle toes, not their star power.

More time was frittered away as the celebs were paired up with professional dancers. Lots of madly done-up Eastern European women, wearing straps and sequins and tiny pants, stood frozen under the spotlight to be partnered up. It was like Blind Date with the fake surprise and the hugs then the celebs grasped the hand of their glitzy lady and dashed offstage together to get acquainted.

Some dancing finally happened in the last ten minutes and here the programme erupted into glorious life, but the hour beforehand had been a migraine-inducing waste of time. I understand this was the 'launch show' and so didn't follow the usual format but that's no need to be tiresome and repetitive. I thought Strictly was all about the sultry tango, the mad Charleston and the chirpy foxtrot set against the magnificence of the Blackpool Tower Ballroom. There was none of that! This launch show, rather than whetting the appetite, seemed more like an obstacle course: you need to get through this shrieky, end-of-the-pier tacky nonsense before the real dancing starts next week. For now, it's all back-slapping, whooping, random boybands, cheering and, of course, the obligatory constant shrieking from the audience. It was like being trapped in an aviary for bi-polar birds.

Oh how I longed for the slow peace of Sunday TV: rubbish like Heartbeat, Songs of Praise, The Antiques Roadshow - all that drivel I never watched but which used to patter away in the background, reassuring me that Sunday was still quiet and serene. But Sunday is no more! I almost wanted to find God so I could tub-thump and campaign to restore the sanctity of Sunday. Blasphemy abounds and it wears sequined pants!