Like so much else this Boxing Day and whenever we're festooned in snow – novelty underwear for a fiancee, or even thinking of drinking eggnog – it must have "seemed like a good idea at the time". Dr Vincent Cable had been on track for superfast upgrade to the lobby of the waiting hall of "national treasure": just a twitch behind the likes of Bruce Forsyth, who hosted Vince's vaunted appearance last night on the Strictly Come Dancing Christmas Special.

Vince was the man who made sense of the downturn: had warned, had made even more sense of it than Robert Peston. A Liberal Democrat with cojones and charisma, and a fine line in ballroom dancing. His appearance on the special should have been a coronation, a culmination: the most astounding year in living memory for his party and then a foxy foxtrot with Erin Boag. Or, at least, a handy let's-all-watch-Vince-in-winklepickers nudge of distraction from Messrs Clegg and Cameron to a broke, shivering nation.

Instead? Well, time will tell. After the Telegraph's sting – the type of journalistic enterprise that makes every other journalist go, simultaneously, "Hell, that's a good wheeze" and "Isn't that a bit cheap?", the two thoughts chasing around his or her head until one wins depending on what we'll shudder to call journalistic integrity – Vince is now a little bit… diminished.

But, my, how he danced, even though this was recorded before the diminishment. His graceful, happy, dominating perfect lead with Erin wasn't quite the shock of the show – the shock was how dancing with Kristina Rihanoff hadn't instantly turned John Barrowman straight – but it was delightful, and earned a standing ovation, and reminded me that any well-washed man looks great in white tie and tails, particularly when coupled with a) Erin and b) a top-pocket hankie folded to resemble the graph of Vince's hoped-for economic recovery, once he's allowed back into a job that doesn't entail the possibility of upsetting Rupert Murdoch.

A week is, indeed, a long time in politics. But we have many weeks – hundreds – before the next election, and there have been many more surprising resurrections, involving far less charming politicians. And the man can dance. The man can twirl. The man can balance, with poise, and tippitoe back with ease after leaning too far to either left or right. He will recover. It seemed like a good idea at the time: perhaps, actually, it was.