Celebrity chef down! After the judges' votes were counted in round three, Strictly Come Dancing was one broadly acclaimed olive oil-drizzler light, to the dismay of fans of simple ingredients, simply prepared, but to undisguised relief at this end of the paper, where we had trembled to see Mark Foster sucked into the ugly dance-off that accounted for Gary Rhodes.

It was hell's kitchen, then, for the cook at the end of the night. But there was much for the former world champion swimmer and key member of sport's three-pronged bid for ballroom glory in 2008 to reflect on, too, after this reckless flirtation with the taxi rank. An early eviction from Strictly would be the last thing the huge-chested freestyler needs so soon after proudly leading the parade of Great Britain athletes at the opening ceremony for the Olympics in Beijing, only to sink faster than a brick in the pool when the Games began. Another slip and it would have been too easy to have consigned Foster to that least appetising of sporting categories: always the flag-carrier, never the medal-winner.

Yet, despite the urgent incentives, his first stab at the tango was broadly perceived to have had less in common with the spirit of Latin America than with the popular canned beverage of the same name after it has been left to go flat in a warm car. Foster was therefore required to reprise the routine in the second show, when Arlene Phillips narrowly spared him for belatedly tapping into his “dark side”.

More disturbing even than this lapse of attention, Foster has elected to grow, or otherwise manufacture, a small but significant beard-style appendage. This makes him look as if he has landed chin-first in a plate of wire wool. What is he thinking of? Leaving aside the aesthetic issues, all manner of tactical worries press to the fore.

After all, swimmers generally prefer to shave themselves smooth, thereby minimising resistance to their passage through the water. And similar physics must surely apply in the even more rarefied atmosphere of pro-celebrity ballroom, where the clean-chinned dancer would hope to guarantee the best of all possible drag coefficients round the floor while at the same time reducing the chance, particularly during some of the more ambitious lifts, of becoming embarrassingly attached by the face to his partner's tights.

Simple question: are any of the male professional dancers in the series burdened with facial hair? Answer: no. One takes one's cue from them, surely. Sort it out, Foster.

If any of sport's representatives had seemed destined for the dumper in the latest exchanges it was, shockingly, Andrew Castle, this column's early tip for the top. Like Foster, the former British No1 tennis player struggled to impress in the tango. Punditry, they say, makes mugs of us all. Not that our faith is flagging. Far from it. But we wouldn't mind seeing the ultra-smooth morning television man pull something big out of the bag fairly soon, if only to help us to look as if we know what we're talking about.

The consolation is that Castle is in a position to capitalise on the fiercely loyal GMTV vote that kept Fiona Phillips and Kate Garraway aloft for so long in earlier series, even though neither could really dance any more than can a concrete bunker.

In addition, we know what tennis fans are like. Castle can rely on a kind of telephonic “Andy-mania” to kick in across the key constituencies of the shires - to kick in and stay kicked in, in a way that it didn't for big-grinning Greg Rusedski in Dancing on Ice. Rusedski knew patriotic support in the beginning, but one iffy skate and he was Canadian all over again.

Right now the in-form figure would have to be Austin Healey. We always knew that “The Leicester Lip” would talk a good dance. The question was, would the utility back deliver one where it counted - on the floor, with Bruce Forsyth looking lost? Sorry - looking on.

For the jive, Healey donned a black, sleeveless smock of the kind worn by executioners in the worst nightmares, but thereby cunningly ensured that, when the talk among voters turns to gym-built bodies, Foster isn't going to have it all his own way. Healey also danced with a poise and élan that evoked (dare one say it) the golden days of Matt Dawson.

At the moment, while we wait for Castle to gain traction and Foster to lose the beard, it's hard to see where a sustained challenge to the Lip's early supremacy is going to come from. Heather Small isn't exactly pulling up any trees. John Sergeant, the former political correspondent, is surely clinging on by his fingertips at this point, while looking no less like Jo Brand's older brother with every passing routine.

At the risk of committing punditry once more, this could well be sport's year yet again.