Now Ziggy played git.
“Daddy’s home” announced Ziggy (‘music producer’ and ‘ex model’) to an entirely empty lobby. Self-consciously brushing over this hilarious display of backfired nonchalance, he entered the house. I reckon as soon as he was chosen for BB he spent endless nights thinking of what he was going to say when he first went in, he didn’t say anything when he entered the living room because he’d simply run out of ideas.
Ziggy (‘Ziggy’ for fucks sake, I bet he’s really called Colin) is a self-assured humourless prick. He has one of those prat haircuts, all highlights and product. He’s a toned, tall twat. If he liked himself any more, he’d be a permanent geyser of white-hot spunk. Ziggy has a tattoo – an ‘I’ll have that one’ tattoo from a parlour in Surbiton. We know he has a tattoo because he wears sleeveless t-shirts and points it toward whoever he’s talking at, the big butch tool.
As soon as he walked in, most of the housemates’ clothes fell off. At one point, Chantelle, the self styled Posh Spice look-alike with a brain the size of a marble and tits to match, stood in front of Ziggy in his t-shirt, coquettishly acquired a few minutes earlier and as far as I could glean, nothing else. The other protagonist of operation flap was Emily, David Cameron’s lolly, whose knees have decided to take a break from each other. Charley got her charlies out in the pool but as they’re made of rock hard glue it doesn’t count.
Speaking of Charley she’s shaping up to be the BB berk, one minute she’s abusing the Queen’s English in a diatribe of misdirected invective at whoever is within earshot and the next she’s crying, or at least pretending to do so. Her conversation, when she’s not objecting to the colour of air, is clubbin’ and Premiership footballers. She’s an unashamed namedropper, this was pointed out by Emily who was displaying the padded crutch on her knickers, Charley didn’t understand a word she’d said, so she got cross anyway.
My other bone of contention rests solely at the paws of Lesley. Lesley – the lantern jawed warthog – is a conniving, shit-stirring old battleaxe. The only person that rivals her at all for out-and-out selfishness is cyber-tits. She thinks very highly of herself and looks down on everyone else. Horrid, right down to her vulgar earrings. As soon as she opens her miserable pie-hole, someone is being patronised. She’s trying to control the group and to some degree, due to a combination of stupidity and cowardice, she’s winning. Hitler was just like that.
Tracy is a fucking mental, more volatile than a retard holding an M16; I really can’t stand this one. She’s in a league of her own. Putting aside the sound of her voice, an angle-grinder trying to burp, I’m still trying to work out how she fundamentally communicates. I can hear bits of English among her anachronistic rave twaddlings but her facial gestures have a lexical choice all of their own. She seems to permanently resemble an orangutan shitting out sprockets. Despite what I’ve said about the others, I hope she goes first as I am genuinely, genuinely afraid of seeing her naked. I’d rather examine Carol’s growler with a Maglite through an inserted toilet roll tube.
As for the rest, they seem largely okay, the okayist of that lot being fat Laura who’s not put a foot wrong by my high standards. I must admit, despite being prone to weeping without reason, I’m warming to hairy old Aunt Flo too, the political porcine that she is.
The other housemates seem to be just getting on with it, I’ve not heard a peep out of the dear little twins, bless their cotton lobotomies and I think Shabnam has absconded.
Still, I’m enjoying it thoroughly but as already mentioned, I’ll enjoy it a heck of a lot more when Tracey has gone back to her haystack.