Big Brother 8: Live Final

 

I’m going on holiday early on Friday morning, so fortunately I’ll not feel the shit-magnet force that is the Big Brother LIVE Final.

Yes – that’s right – LIVE. You get to catch every last tooth-grinding second AS IT HAPPENS. Gasp as Davina fluffs her lines and gurns at her own jokes. Nod in an amused fashion as Ziggy tells us how he’s actually a ‘preddy reasonable kinda guy’ and fall over as Brian pretends he’s thick.

If you’re foolish enough to waste your money on a vote for the winner, please bear the following in mind:

1.) Brian is a charlatan.

I presume Brian’s been to school for at least one English lesson per school year of his life. As a result, he must have heard of William Shakespeare. The entire syllabus of the English GCSE is distorted and warped so that Shakespeare is taken into account, term after endless term. Schools are always putting on productions of Shakespeare plays. A schoolboy can’t get through life without knowing who Shakespeare is. That means Brian’s a sneaky, lying sod.

2.) Imagine what the twins will spend £100k on.

It will be wasted in New Look on every single tiny item of tat that comes in pink. It’s a wasted vote to vote for the twins, so resist. Besides, what did they contribute besides falling over occasionally? They were basically just dumbells for that twat-lunk Liam to lift.

3.) Liam is an abominable twat.

Don’t give the money to Liam. He’s Sid the Sexist without the gut. He doesn’t deserve anything beyond complete ignorance.

4.) Ziggy is a self parody.

Cliff Richard mutated in a microwave face-off with Christian Bale and the lion-man off Beauty and the Beast, he looks like his face is made of play-doh. Lashing out every five days, he’ll spend the remaining time apologising and trying to prove how swell he is, which he isn’t. More annoyingly, if he sees something that he thinks the public will probably find amusing, he says ‘that’s very funny’ without any hint on his face that he is at least partially amused. Transparently trying to make out he’s in on every gag, popular with everyone and with a weak apology for any harsh words, he became dull very early on.

5.) Carole is irritating.

Imagine living with that monster. She may be a Commie in her politics, but she’s a Nazi in the kitchen. Only your actual Mum has any right to order you about the shop like that. She seemed to think that the minute she stepped foot in there she was halfway into a mortgage on the gaudy bungalow meaning she could tell everyone else what to do. Plus, her food looked shit.

This only leaves Jonty, the bizarre middle aged man with the Alain De Botton hairdo and the collection of national flag t-shirts. At first I thought his walking round with teddies would be tiresome, but he constantly farts which makes up for it. Let’s face it, farting is amusing.

Jonty should win on the strength of the fact that he always has a tommy squeak in the tank should there be a lull in the conversation. He also got his unimpressive member out for no reason, walking around bollock-naked whilst completely oblivious to the fact this might disturb other housemates. And whilst naked and in company, he farted. That alone deserves 100 big ones.

If you’re going to vote, I recommend you vote for the weird, pot-bellied, bespectacled, hairy, mentally-undeveloped, flatulent, naturist.

The Friday Night Project

 

You must have been there; having a quiet Friday night in, only to find that channel four have insulted the core of your very being by leaving you in the crippled hands of The Friday Night Project. Then let me guess what you did next – you put a hurting on your own loved ones with a series of swiftly applied karate chops out of the pure frustration of it all. But it’s ok, it’s not your fault. TV made you do it. Really – you were imagining that you were pounding the life out of Justin Lee ‘Mad as a Lorry’ Collins or shaking the last vapours of ill-deserved breath out of Alan Carr’s deviant little lungs by way of a good neck-wringing. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

Besides finding your front room occupied by thousands of wasps, very little is more likely to make you leave the house than finding this on your fucking telly. Sometimes changing the channel just isn’t enough. The fact that we’re expected to lap this kind of crap up is guaranteed to ruin the rest of your evening should you dwell on it for long enough. Mark my words, I would rather have my daily mealtimes restricted to licking the filthy sleep out of a tramps eyes than be the kind of person who laughs at this muck.

Seemingly, it’s not enough that we’re subjected to TFNP of a weekend, it’s then repeated on Wednesday nights. On the episode that drove me to write this, Big Brother animal Charley was playing up her agro image for laughs, or that’s what was supposed to be happening. Actually she was just being herself: A prize twat. That sums this shit up; bottom of the barrel twats, churning out bottom of the barrel sketches and ‘gags’, in a thoroughly bottom of the barrel manner. All broadcast in a prime slot on a Friday night. But why even allow the thoroughly ugly and pointless Charley any further opportunity to pursue her dream of becoming a celebrity? I thought it was a unanimous view that she is worse than cancer and should be cast into the bowels of Hades like a no-good pile of festering, badly soiled tampons.

A regular feature of the show seems to involve the dual cretins dressing up as women to reconstruct some of the TV highlights of the week. This is rendered in a way that is so void of intellect that it makes the Driller Killer’s preferred method of execution look subtle. Men dressed as women. How outrageously forward-thinking. The concept itself as a comedic tool was a genuinely amusing enough sight to behold not so many years ago. That was until those equally witless Little Britain knob-ends Walliams and Lucas got hold of it and ruined it for everyone for ever. So anyway, Toadstool head Collins dresses up as a woman and the idiot audience think it’s hysterical, presumably because he wears a beard. Carr puts on a dress and suddenly you’re witnessing the sickest thing this side of a paedophile’s wet dream. In fact even a necrophilia-dabbling paedophile would wake up blowing chunks had such a sight crept in and corrupted his sexual thoughts.

Really it’s as simple as this; Collins is no better than an old perv, constantly trying to cop a feel of any attractive lady-guests who happen to be invited onto the show, and who also, incidentally, spends more time changing the highlights in his hair in a day than real men spend churning out big fat creamy dumps in a fortnight. And as for that Carr thing, he should just grow the fuck up. He’s about 45 isn’t he? Anyway, where did these two wrong-cocks spring from and what are they doing inside my television? Get them out.

big bruvverz

 

I suppose I’d better do a fucking Big Brother review.

It should be clear to all and sundry that this year has been a total washout, boring housemeights, boring tasks, boring house and boring boring.

Two major characters have been evicted, Charley, her with the plastic norks, boys bum and a mouth that ran better than your momma on crystal meth. She pumped more sewage into my ears in the time she was there than Thames Water do in a year. I hope we hear of nothing of her until 2050 when The Star discover she’s now a toothless old hooker blowing off tramps for two fingers of KitKat.

The other housemeight to leave was Chanelle, her with the huge alien forehead and long-cheeked botty. All of her facial features were shoved so far down her gormless face, her mouth was under her chin and her eyebrows began where I have my nostrils. This one was more hysterical than a low achieving Russian peasant woman having her daily bread taken off her; she’d go fucking berserk if you so much as looked at your nails in a funny way. Still, she had the courtesy to leave of her own volition rather than the public vote, so she retains some sort of dignity. Perhaps, we’ll see.

The reason for her departure was of course Ziggy, the ex-boy band blowhole with whom she’d had the lack of foresight to become acquainted. The public schoolboy pseud has an ego larger than his capacity to process basic human behaviour, making him the world’s biggest liar in order to maintain his own warped reality of himself. Subsequently he blew hot and cold quicker than Eskimo twins taking it in turns, Chanelle not being the brightest sausage in the world (and being 19) ended up doubting her own sanity on account of his disgusting manipulative behaviour. I’ve never actually seen someone say ‘you’re a bitch’ and then when called to task for using such a word, vehemently deny it within seconds of its utterance.

Ziggy thinks he’s brilliant and because of this perpetually considers himself hard done by. In his world he’s a bloody good bloke; in mine he’s a fucking turd.

The other housemates are conglomerate of nothingness, there’s the Greek one, nervous, bright, whining. The Geordie one; randy, thick, bemused. Amy; tarty, damaged, vain. Carole; fat, sweet, moaning. The twins; thick, vacuous, daft. Brian; stupid, lovely, annoying. Tracy; grunting, blokey, moronic. Kara-Louise; vacant, drippy, dull and Jonty; giggling, weird, odd.

Last week I think I caught a glimpse of this thing; it resembled a fat teddy bear in pink grinding itself into a horrified face. It had a paint stripper laugh and I think it had a dog ears attached to the front. Must’ve been a nightmare. Either way, it’s no longer there.

So, Brian to win? Why not? Actually, who gives a fucking shit.

Young At Heart / Big Brother 8

 

Crying at something I’ve seen on the TV? Am I going soft? Probably. But I challenge anyone to watch Young at Heart, the documentary on More4 about a group of pensioners by the same name, and not be moved.

When I recorded this I was expecting a few laughs, if I’m honest, at the expense of some geriatrics attempting to remember the words to a Hendrix number. To an outsider, the premise looks amusing, first and foremost. A choir of OAPs singing contemporary numbers and a few classic rock tunes. What I wasn’t expecting was to be moved to tears by the poignancy of their performances and the dignity they bought to the music. When Dora Morrow and Stan Goldman sang James Brown’s ‘I Feel Good’, it’s impossible not to smile and also feel a tad ashamed of one’s own cynicism. Dora is in her 80s.

Fred Knittle can’t breathe unaccompanied, and despite the breathing apparatus that hangs around his neck and the audible sound of his sucking oxigen through a machine, his rendition of Coldplay’s (originally leaden) Fix You turns a workmanlike ballad into something of incredible emotional power. The lyrics are given added meaning when you consider it was due to be a duet, but his singing partner Joseph Benoit had died just days earlier. It’s a right royal tear-jerker, even for a bitter and cynical blogger like this one. Take a look at the youtube clip of the chorus singing Sonic Youth’s Schizophrenia at the bottom of this article. It’s better than the original.

The fact that these septua and octogenarians are fighting to perform and do something good with the remaining years of thier life lifts your spirit and makes you hope that maybe you will have that strength of spirit when you reach the twilight years.

Then you switch over to Channel 4 and Big Brother is on, and you realise that we’re all doomed, as the generation is made up of the most vacuous examples of humanity you could ever pray you wouldn’t run into. Young adults who can’t name more than one American President. An Englishman who doesn’t know who William Shakespeare is. A woman so self absorbed she completely loses track of what she’s saying every time she starts roaring orders at people, distracted by her own reflection. A graduate who, in matters of love, resembles an 8 year old only child. A vain ex-boyband failure who speaksin cliches. A ‘raver’ (in her 30s, no less) who has a limited capacity for conversation given that she only speaks in long-past-its-sell-by-date 80s Ravey Davey slang. And some other arseholes.

They can’t do anything. They have zero talent, and yet they assume they have something to offer the world, and the world continues to pay them attention.

It’s fascinating for all the wrong reasons.

When you hear the Young at Heart chorus singing ‘Forever Young’ to prisoners in an American penitentiary, your heart skips a beat. The advice in the song is perfectly apt for those with chequered pasts. It enables them a chance to take stock and start thinking about righting some wrongs. You can’t help but wish the inhabitants of the BB house were forced to have a similar moment of clarity and consider that the reason for their existence might be something other than self-promotion and meaningless celebrity.

Big Brother 17.6.07

John Noel rears his corrupted head once again. It’s to be expected that Big Brother is a mockery of a sham. The Sun reports that Charley is already signed up by Mr Noel’s PR agency, meaning one of three things:

a.) She was signed up before going in. That would mean producers have a vested interest in keeping Charley in as she’s represented from the outset by the same charlatan as Davina and Dermot. And Russell Brand and Jade Goody.

b.) She was signed up at some point during filming – possibly during her fake evicition.

It’s pretty bloody clear that she was coached before she went on the cameras for the phoney kick-out last Friday. She wasn’t in the slightest bit shocked when told she’d be returning to the house. She also (apparently – according to someone who’s more addicted than me) mentioned that she’d give other contestants hell when she got back in, despite the fact she shouldn’t have known she’d be going back in.

The nomination nonsense has been irritating too. In the week Billi left, BB twisted events so that Charley wouldn’t be up for evicition by taking away Billi and Charley’s nomination. The decision was made post nominations meaning the producers had enough time to figure out that this would leave Charley free for another week. Hindsight, as they say, is a wonderful thing. This week, miraculously she’s not up again and it stinks of fish.

The worst thing about this farrago is we’ve got another week of the Charley parade to stomach. At first it was amusing watching the car crash, but once the dust’s settled and the scene starts going rancid, it starts to make your guts turn. The only thing worth watching last night was Brian’s kamikaze haircut. He should win on the strength of that alone.

The naysayers are right, this series, even for those of us who doggedly pursue this dinosaur of a show, has jumped the proverbial shark and landed in a cloud of irrelevance.

I’ll keep watching though, it’s the television equivalent of biting your nails or chewing yourself a fresh mouth ulcer.

Big Brother 8, 10.7.07

 

It’s already getting boring. Too many people in the house for the stage we’re at, too much time invested in a fabricated relationship. And as for the ‘fake’ sub-plot for the week, it’s day one and we’ve already over-milked the bloody thing. The arrival of Pauline (or ‘Pooh’ as the housemates are expected to believe her nickname to be) was a vaguely interesting prospect at first until the BB producers, as ever, fucked the whole thing up.

On Friday the housemates were shown the video (as were viewers) of an Aussie housemate about to go in. She was fanciable too, which upped the ante. But only briefly, when it was revealed that she’s an actress working for Big Brother. But then we learned that she’s an actress from Swindon who can barely manage an Aussie accent, let alone fake a background spent in the antipodes.

By the time her entrance came halfway through last night’s show we laready knew that Carol was on to her, with chinny scarecrow Tracey following her lead. Even earlier than that, the supposed simpleton Charley (who is actually clearly a criminal mastermind) had twigged the possibility that this might all be a sham.

In the past, natural paranoia has ensured that contestants have accused other housemates of being moles. When Makosi was taking direction from Big Brother, the cry of MOLE went up so quickly that the house divided into two camps overnight. The point being, if this was to be successful, it might’ve been prudent to use and ACTUAL FUCKING AUSSIE in the lead role of Australian? Otherwise the game might be up on the first day when the actress was asked where in Australia she was from. Without any knowledge of the continent she replied ‘Wallah Wallah’. If you can call it a reply, it’s more just a moronic, four-syllable outburst thrown in the direction of Australasia. Throw in a real Aussie, I say, in the mole role and let her interfere properly with the housemate’s affairs without her having to muck about with alien intonations.

It reminds me of the time, a few series back, when a housemate in with the inspired idea of pretending to be Italian. Her accent was so shit she lasted 5 minutes in character and everyone else, bar none, thought she was a weirdo and voted her out at the next opportunity.

I feel for the girl, who in reality is one Thaila Zucchi. She’s had previous work on Balls of Steel, the living excretia on the sole of TV comedy and now she’s having to live through the agony of being the centrepiece of another cringeworthy Big Brother non-event. My prediction is that this will all be over by day three. Her accent keeps slipping at the end of a sentence like a kraft cheese slice flopping down a shop window.

I suppose we should thank heavens for small mercies, however, as the first half of yesterday’s show saw the phoney Chiggy and Zanelle romance grind to a halt. After watching their break up, any sympathy for either party has shrivelled to a brittle husk. You get together for pathetic reasons – he: thinking it’d bolster his chances of winning, she: wanting to be a sub level posh and becks on leaving – and then you’re suprised that you’re sick of each other within a fortnight?

From what I’ve heard, the Zacharia character is largely getting the blame for all this (apparently he put his willy in her – I didn’t see that episode so if anyone’s got a youtube link…). If he did bone her – more fool her (what did she expect from an ex-boyband wannabe surfer slimehat?). If he didn’t, then she’s a complete psycho, employing every tactic in the book to syphon sympathy from the ever-ready endless supply the other housemates keep tanked up. Either way, they’re both idiots.

Rather than taking sides, we’d probably be better off not encouraging this shit. But the addiction rolls on and on, and I’m at the point where I’m running out of veins, patience and sanity.

Big Brother 8, 21.6.07

 

Shameful though it is, I’m really enjoying BB this year. So many little, niggling interpersonal relationships have been born out of the staggered entrances, which was something of a masterstroke by the cynical producers. Thanks to the late entries we have Ziggy engulfed in total paranoia and Billi reverting to infantilism over Z’s relationship with Chanelle. We also have the charmless Jonathan lusting over control-freak Nicky, Tracey stuck entirely on the sidelines (similar to the way Pete was on the periphery at this stage last year), Liam, Brian and  the twins being amiably dull and Carol going slowly more insane. Charley is going from strength to strength in terms of her self-destruction. I’m thoroughly enjoying watching her. Car crashes have never been so glamorous.

If I’ve left anyone out, it’s because they’re either dull or likeable.

So last night we were given one of BB’s little twists. Usually a complete disappointment – think of Stuart’s surprise eviction or Eugene winning half the money – this time round BB, I think, may have got it right.

In the event, the plot twist was as follows. A hundred grand, the supposed prize money, was to be given away. The three nominated contestants would choose among themselves who to give the cash to, and then BB would not tell them what was actually happening at the end of the series. In actual fact, there’s still £100,000 to be handed to the victor, but the contestants won’t know that.

Ideally, and I’m really hoping this is the case, the housemates will believe the only remaining benefit of staying inside will be the ‘journey’. Some will fake their way to the end believing in this pseudo-spiritual voyage, ulitmately losing the plot and revealing themselves to be fame-hungry maniacs, while others will show their true colours very early on and just fuck off.

Others, ie the twins, won’t understand what’s going on and stand stock-still and dribble for a fortnight. As for Seany, he’ll hopefully implode in on himself in a cloud of dusty irrelevance.

They gave the cash to Liam, by the way – the tree surgeon with the personality of a tree. Presumably they felt sorry for him.

The Ziggy / Chanelle ‘love’ thing that’s going on is actually quite fascinating. Last night we had a classic moment of male / female interaction. Ziggy, hoping to reveal a little vulnerability and have his paranoia washed away with some kind words, was speaking to Chanelle as they lay in their bed.

‘What if things don’t work out for us? They might not’ he said. The response any man might require from this little insecure outburst would be as follows:

‘Of course they’ll work out. I really like you’.

Not too difficult to grit your teeth and say that, eh ladies?

Obviously, being female, Chanelle had to seize the upper hand, thus prolonging the argument whilst victoriously spinning her beau’s world into utter confusion.

‘I don’t know why the hell you’d even ask me that?’ she exclaimed, before exiting the bed in labia clutching panties to go and muck about with the other housemates, leaving Ziggy in horrible limbo as she flirted with professional empty-head, Billi.

Chicks eh?

*prepares for claims of sexism*

Big Brother 8 – 18.6.07

 

Thank fuck Shabs has gone. She was actually starting to cause me medical complications; so unremittingly illogical and affected was she that I was finding myself mentally rewinding back through pyschobabble comments in conversations just to assure myself that, yes, this is really a genuine psychopath I am watching. MIND (the charity for mental health) have openly criticised Channel 4 for allowing a Looney Tune onto their show. The psychologists on ‘On the Couch’ have clearly been briefed on damage limitation here, I mean Shabs could have genuinely lost it live on air, we’re not talking about the odd burst of random giggling here, we’re talking about a woman on all fours with someone’s bollock hanging out of her mouth.

If you care to go on Youtube and do a bit of research you’ll already know that a few weeks ago Shabs appeared on ‘Britain’s got Talent’ in a scene so mortifyingly toe-curling, my shoes nearly burst open. If this isn’t bad enough (it really is, watch with restraints) she also appeared on Channel 4’s embarrassing illnesses. Her ‘embarrassing illness’ was a bit of an itchy head, yet she pitched this medical irrelevance as if she had eyes for fucking nipples (or vice versa if you like).

This twat knows no bounds, you’ll see her again, probably on the news but I’m bracing myself for the gutter press to leak the story that she’s starring in an adult version of Happy Feet.

So, the new contestants. Frankly I don’t mind any of them, though how on earth how Billi has the balls to call himself a male model is beyond me. You could open a manhole with that nose. In addition he has the figure of Britney Speares, cameltoe included. Liam seems a nice straightforward sort, Jonathan could become a handful I think but at this stage, fine. Brian too seems okay, despite his Christopher Lee playing Dracula haircut and unashamed intention of doing something so disgusting to those twins I should imagine their father is muttering at a kitchen knife.

The rest of the housemates haven’t really done anything to cause a radical rethink of my recent blog on this topic. Laura, Nicky and Carole are odds on to win, I still don’t mind the Greek bloke despite his musical accent, Tracey is still barking like a rutting stag all the while gurning like Jim Bowen with cataplexy, Seany remains a prize blue-eyed berk and Chanelle is still a worrying combination of both the Barbies, the doll and Klaus Marie.

Fucking Charley is now the most awful housemate of all time. She seems unable to leave those melted plastic armpit implants alone, she fiddles with them perpetually. Sometimes one will poke out of her shirt like a dead otter’s head, always accompanied by an intense frown she’ll half heartedly try to drop it back into the position intended by nature. She always fails of course, hickory is more flexible. She’ll have someone’s eye out you mark my words.

Speaking of words, or to be more accurate, belt-fed mortar bursts of aggression being fired out of the mouth of the Gorgon, who is incandescent with rage because someone failed to respect her bogies, how does she manage to find time to inhale mid-oration? I’m convinced all that hair is some sort of crude third lung; it’s the only possible solution.

(She still has a cracking little botty though.)

The one housemate who has let themselves down most this week has to be Ziggy. He really doesn’t like any male competition at all, which is a fucking weird. He strutted about like Bernard Matthew’s pride cock for the first few days, his gander was goosed when the two new male housemates arrived but was visibly relieved when he found out that they (claimed) to be fairies.

He was just settling back into his alpha male role when four new male housemates arrive. This was too much, he looked physically sick as each one walked in and proverbially smacked the end of his engorged member sharply with the back of a cold spoon. The way he reacted to this threat was fascinating, and, dear reader, you must try and catch him at it, it’s so much fun in a despatching an injured fox way.

Ziggy gave me and I’m sure you, the impression that he was quite, well, poshish. Well spoken suburban type, clearly with an ego that spies on his self-consciousness with military precision but, nonetheless, more coherent than is necessary.

Now watch him talking to the new ‘lads’, he went from Lord and Lady Hamilton’s Lawn Tennis clubhouse in Royal Tunbridge Wells to selling pornographic postcards on the Ol’ Kent Road. This wasn’t a case of downward convergence; this was a 35 stone wide boy plummeting to his death from the top of Bow Church.

I’ve lost whatever respect I had for him; frankly, he may as well have just scrawled a schematised drawing of Che Guevara on his chest with one of his stools.