Posts Tagged ‘Lesley’

Big Brother 8 – 3.6.07

June 4, 2007

Ziggy Turd 

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.

Big Brother 8

May 31, 2007

Big Brother 8

10 Week Wankathon

And that’s just Carol, the bearded Aunt Flo who hates cock.

Davina was looking nice until she started doing that crouching, gurning Davina thing, and there we were, it’s BB as we all know and pretend to despise.

With regard to my blog on yesterday’s piqued (clang) the house made more than a passing reference to surrealism, or rather Dali. Yellow Mae West lips sofa and fish rather than lobster telephone. Ironically and tellingly such forced ‘weirdness’ is negated by an otherworldly collision of style, impracticality and cruelty. I’ll even accept the chickens in resin a la Damien Hirst’s Away from the Flock was a nice touch. This is the nastiest house yet, bath in the living room, fridge in the garden, cooker in the bedroom and Catholic in the kitchen or something.

In they came, a pair of vacuous blonde twins in minis chewing on lollies, Lolita x 2, Nabokov would pissed out his testis. They’re both as sweet as pie, cute, vacuous and wholly evil.

“Let’s put the next one in!” bellows Davina as if hysterically announcing the second solid shit she’s passed in 6 months.

Lesley, bloke-faced member of the Women’s Institute, I reckon she spends a lot of time in meetings showing the ladies of Charwood how to take out the vas deferens just by hearing. She’ll get on well with the hairy whale, if she doesn’t roundhouse her face off first.

Charley, instant bonk on, fucking fabulous body but with a face that isn’t quite as pretty or lascivious as it thinks it is. Imagine the body of a younger Tyra Banks with the head of Snoop Doggy Dogg winking at you. Quids in, gold digger. She seems like trouble but will probably keep her horns in until dick walks in…

Next Tracey, fucking awful multicoloured anachronism from the awful, hideous days of early rave. Looks like Johnny Rotten – she’s definitely been abused. Thick as Mr. T with a boner. Awful.

I’m looking forward to seeing Chanelle cry. She’s the visual equivalent of downward convergence. Really fucking thick this one, dead posh, but weirdly thinks she’s a certain footballer’s wife. I’m not even lowering myself to say which one as the cunt would appreciate the recognition and she doesn’t deserve any. Fucking fantastic arse though. Freshly dead, I would.

Shalamanom, didn’t catch her name, oddly I quite liked this one, first possible contender. She’s going to be annoying, yes, but so long as she doesn’t turn into a berk, then she’s fine by me. Full of beans, I’d like to see just one of them.

By now the women are grouping. In the red corner, screeching totty, in the blue Tragic Tracey and Livid Lesley. She’s well unhappy, yeah?

In comes Emily, David Cameron with a fresh young vagina. If that chilled you as much as me, I will say no more. Apart from the fact that if she saw so much as a fibre of a quark of tissue on your lad, she’d disinfect the tyres on her range rover.

Laura I really liked, big fat Welsh girl. Sweet, likeable, funny, eating disorder, one of those fat trendy Beth Ditto types, sort of the perfect media ‘anti zero’ size. In my opinion she’s the clear winner so far, she’s marketable out the house and I can predict the rumblings of a media drive to keep her profile sweet. Despite being the size of a chest freezer she’s pretty. After 10 pints and a microdot I’d think about it.

Nicky, straight, boring, sad, has ‘issues’. She’s adopted by the way, little too much information from the producers there, are we meant to be sympathising because she has the personality of public toilet? It’s okay though because, according to Davina as she walked into the house, ‘If Nicky was an animal she’s be a cat so she can lie in the sun all day’. So that’s cleared that up then.

Lastly, Carole, the old one. She’s been on Greenham Common apparently, I think that may well have been as recently as an hour before she appeared on camera. She’s hairier than Oliver Reed and Alan Bates fighting in front of an open fire. Not sure what to make of her, she maternal but aggressive. Outside chance.

So, there you have it, all women so far, 11 of them, that’s 22 tits! One moan, the bloke that makes the ‘crowd’ signs, especially the one for the tool holding the pointy finger sign bearing the slogan ‘you ain’t seen me, right?’. Pass on your address and I’ll send someone round without a conscience.