The new political dawn, when the BBC might have hoped for at least a brief period of tranquillity, came to an abrupt end with the double whammy of a scandal on one of its flagship programmes, Strictly Come Dancing, and an annual report which revealed that half a million households had cancelled their licence fee last year. Though there is no direct link between the two the coincidence demonstrates the delicate line the corporation is treading in terms of keeping itself match fit and beyond criticism in an era of proliferating competition and sniping social media.

For the last 20 years, Strictly Come Dancing has been one of the pillars on which the BBC has been able to lean in demonstrating its capacity to entertain multiple generations simultaneously, while reflecting their own diversity back to them as something to be celebrated, with stars excelling regardless of age, physical disability, ethnicity or sexual orientation.

The fiction it has spun is that anyone can shine on the dancefloor. The reality is different, as revealed by the withdrawal of two of last year’s 15 contestants. Both were actors. One, Nigel Harman, broke a rib in a rehearsal room accident. The other, Amanda Abbington, withdrew for reasons that were undeclared at the time. She has since blamed her departure on the behaviour of her professional partner, Giovanni Pernice. A succession of previous contestants stepped up with their own testimony about his coaching style, and he was dropped from this year’s lineup. Mr Pernice has denied wrongdoing and is cooperating with a BBC investigation. A second professional, Graziano Di Prima, was dropped after a video came to light of him kicking his dance partner in rehearsal.

Clearly, any unscripted violence in the pursuit of entertainment is unacceptable. Competitive dancing, like elite sport, is a punishing business in which the difference between winning and losing is everything, and the minute improvements that make all the difference are those that hurt the most. Though the art of dancing is designed to conceal the effort involved, this is the culture in which Strictly’s professionals have been trained. This may help to explain why the default of some might be to impose it on their non-professional partners. But there can be no excuse for abusive behaviour.

Add to this the pressure over two decades to make each year more sparkly than the last, and you have a recipe for exactly the sort of debacle that has unfolded. What was missing was the duty of care that the BBC is now scrambling to put in place, with assurances that it will henceforward place less emphasis on competition and will put chaperones in the rehearsal room.

The optics of the Strictly scandal are undeniably difficult for a corporation that, as its nickname Auntie suggests, risks being considered frumpy while being expected to uphold the highest ethical standards. It cannot afford to lose the show, but nor can it risk diminishing the transformational illusion of dance. When it works – as when Bill Bailey took the glitterball on behalf of dad-dancers the world over, or Abbey Clancy showed the mettle of models – it is joyous.

A boundary check is clearly necessary, for the professionals as well as the contestants. Coming at the end of an attritional period for the corporation, the stakes seem high. But the BBC has until 2027 to get its act together and make a case for the next decade of public broadcasting. It would be a loss indeed if Strictly Come Dancing were not part of it.