Guy Smiley aka Jack Chambers won So You Think You Can Dance Australia on Sunday night, which didn't really surprise anyone, considering the odds were in his favour, though those who were rooting for runner-up Rhys Bobridge were disappointed there was no shock upset.

We were mildly shocked that hoofer Kate Wormald managed to come third ahead of irrepressible B-girl Demi Sorrono, which indicated that perhaps the voting public had decided to vote for talent before personality.

Suffice to say Jack was probably shocked when Hugh Jackman - who, remember, used to be way into musical theatre; your Associate Editor and her mum saw him in Beauty & The Beast in the '90s and knew he'd be a star - admitted he was a fan of the 19-year-old jazz dancer and vowed to meet him on Broadway.

"The fact that he knew my name just gave me shivers," Chambers said.

"I was just standing there and he looked at me and he goes: 'Jack, congratulations man, you're wonderful', and I'm like, 'oh my God, Thank you'."

Chambers said he was blown away by the comments from Jackman, who won a Tony Award for playing Peter Allen in the Boy From Oz.

"He said: 'I'll guess I'll see you at Broadway some time' and I said: 'Yeah, I love it' and he said: 'I'll see you there'."

And what did we all think of the Dance finale? It started brilliantly; the Matt Lee-choreographed opening number was great, and having all the judges dance was inspired (hello, high-kicking Bonnie!). Tap Dogs for once didn't make us psychotic with rage, and Khaly's robot-costumed "futuristic hip hop" routine was stupid/fun, too.

But then, WTF, the "greatest hits" performances (i.e. "your favourite" couples' routines from the season) were, no jokes, the worst of the series. We knew the selections were a little off when they chose that Marko and Stephanie jive (the Veronicas/1976 punk one) and were just about projectile vomiting when they got the worst performance of all - Rhiannon and JD's botched tango - back for a second chance draw. Fortunately our television set was just saved from getting a brick through it by an encore of Jason Gilkison's brilliant African samba for Henry and Vanessa.

Jack and Rhys' vaguely West Side Story-esque routine pulled it all together at the end (and made us feel a bit funny in the pants), and then The Bass confirmed the franchise would be back for round two next year, so here's hoping all the stuff-ups, dodgy "corrie" and lacklustre atmosphere will have been gotten out of the way and 2009 will go straight to 11.

And next year? No more advertorial from Nacho Pop, please. Just stick to dancing like a robot and stop showing us your wicked fresh Sony Handycam.

Despite the pundits backing Matt Corby with the short odds, the battler from Melbourne ended up the victor (there'll be a nice warm spot in the Young Divas waiting for her within six months).

To say the whole night had been something of a shambles would've been the understatement of the decade, so here are some of our thoughts on the evening:

* The amazing "technical difficulties" filling the return of Divinyls to live TV, beginning with the camera going spaz two-thirds of the way through Boys In Town, a green screen, then an ad break, then a minute of meaningless crowd footage while an off-camera tech said "How long have we got?" and was answered "About three minutes", then another ad break, then Andrew G saying something about "live television", then the band doing the song again with the same over-choreographed moves, then the "I'm Lovin' It" signs flashing at the end of it all over the Golden Arches-decorated runway. Then, the divine Ms Amphlett saying, "And who are you?" to an approaching/drooling Andrew G, then fucking off the whole "you've got a new single out but how about you play your old hit - twice - and we'll tell you how to do it" debacle by saying, when asked what the contestants should do, "We've developed - couldn't you tell?"

* James Mathison announcing, with disbelief, that Nat and Matt would arrive, accompanied by "rollerbladers holding soccer flares" - and that's precisely what the event management delivered.

* Mathison's barrage of single entendres and jabs at the Christian voting bloc.

* Epilepsy-inducing jump-cut montages of the Seymour Centre (etc).

* Funereal music playing over the top of any "remember when" montages of past winners and notables, despite said montages actually featuring sound and singing.

* Natalie's plethora of dud wardrobe choices (good one, Sheridan and the Maybelline Style Team) including an ill-fitting, doily-skirted cocktail dress, jeans and a top last seen at the Seven Angels warehouse sale, and finally the clanger, her finale/winner's dress, which was pinned at the back with the radio mic transmitter plonked on top, half a size too small, and with leather opera-length gloves that were half undone around the wrists.

* Matt Corby's variety of leggings-tight pants, and nightie-esque shirts.

* Lionel Richie saving the night by blowing the entire Final 12 offstage following their lacklustre walkthrough of All Night Long (and then reserving all his enthusiasm for Carl Risely).

* Lionel Richie's response, following two-and-a-half hours of Maccas branding, to the hosts' inquiring as to how he was finding the Idol experience: "I'm lovin' it."

* The entire Opera House crowd seeming to have voted for Matt Corby and remaining bums-glued-to-seats throughout Natalie's winner's performance of Here I Am.

* The "artwork" for Here I Am.

...And so forth.

If anything, the finale show - dogged by technical difficulties and ho-hum production numbers - was really symbolic of the whole season, and you couldn't shake the feeling that it might have been a death knell for the franchise, which last night rated just less than half of what it did in its first incarnations.

Just how many more times can they attempt to freshen the thing up? Guess we'll have to wait until next year to find out.