Chucklevision (Big Brother, days 55-57) by Grace Dent
To me, Chanelle and Ziggy seemed more “on” this week than “off”. After all, as Ziggy reminds us constantly, he is “very fond” of Chanelle. Very fond indeed. If I was Chanelle, I wouldn’t be too overjoyed at that description of their affair. “Very fond” is the sort of blasé way I might reminisce about an old cardigan I’d left in a pub. “Oh, it’s a shame I lost that,” I might sigh absent-mindedly, “I was very fond of it.”
Emotionally, Ziggy is by no means a robot. He has the capability to love passionately and insanely. We saw that this week when Molly the dog arrived and Ziggy’s knees literally buckled under him, his speech temporarily robbed, his eyes swimming in two teary pools. Ziggy is definitely more than very fond of Molly. That’s real love.
It’s the type of love that makes you do a half-hour detour to reach the shop with the special biscuits the bloody thing prefers. The sort of love that has you crying like a fool in vets’ waiting rooms, then presented with a bill that could have bought you 14 nights in Mustique. The sort of love that has you using a secret language of grunts, yelps and wibbles that only you and they understand.
Ziggy loves Molly. And Molly loves Ziggy too, although when they were first reunited and Ziggy was dressed like Seth Armstrong from Emmerdale, she didn’t quite recognise him. But then Ziggy did the silly “Mooooollyyyymollyyymoo” noise and Molly went wild and wanted to lick Ziggy half to death. Meanwhile, people all over Britain with muddy hallway carpets and gnawed sofas covered in pet hair wiped tears from their stupid sentimental eyes. Not me, obviously. Ahem, other people.
Molly is a Shar Pei, which means she has wrinkles and furrows in her fur. She has one deep wrinkle between her eyes not dissimilar to the one I’ve developed over the last 50 days through the stress of watching Charley. I’m not sure what to do with it. Botox? Grow my fringe longer? Put a thong over it and try to pass it off as a bum crack? Obviously, Charley fans say I talk out of my ass all day anyhow.
When I get angry emails from people defending Charley, it makes me quite jealous because I just don’t feel like that about any of the housemates this year. I don’t feel that insane loyalty and ability to make excuses for anyone. It’s not like last year when I felt like it was myself versus the world over St Aisleyne Horgan-Wallace.
You could have shown me footage of Aisleyne clubbing baby seals with a cricket bat and I’d have laughed and said, “Pah! I think a more pressing question is ‘who tricked Aisleyne into holding the bat?’! Endemol, that’s who!”
I’m hoping Charley gets booted out on Friday. She’s exhausted any interest I had in her. Apparently six new people are arriving on Friday, meaning she’ll be forgotten quickly – one hopes.
I’m sure some people will write in angrily shouting about how Charley has a bright celebrity future ahead of her, but I can’t quite see it myself. Being even a D-list celebrity requires one to be able to negotiate normal everyday situations without causing a messy argument and p***ing people off. Charley can’t do that.
I can’t quite imagine her agreeing to endless 4am call times for breakfast TV appearances, or difficult questions from journos, or being forced to wear clothes she doesn’t like for photo shoots, or being jostled about in crappy nightclubs during a personal appearance. Being famous requires a lot of hard work, false smiling, biting your lip and looking at the bigger money-making picture.
But maybe it isn’t Charley’s fault she scares me. Maybe it’s Endemol and Gerry’s fault for tormenting her, and south London’s fault for giving her a harsh background, and Chanelle’s fault for being annoying, and my fault for being such a BIGG RACIIALIST that I want her to lose.
I’m not entirely sure whose fault it is that Charley has turned into someone who can get wound up to the point of near-violence by imagining someone ten feet away has “looked funny” at her. I’m not sure whose fault that is at all.
In completely unrelated news, Charley received a message from her family this week. Apparently they are very, very proud of her.
Saying that, imagine if all the female housemates had been like the twins. Ah, the twins. Remember them? The poor little twinkies hardly get a look-in these days, do they? Their nominations and involvement in the tasks are usually clipped out of the highlights show, as if to say, “We’ve spared you the twins, it was exactly as you’d imagine it”.
There was a point about two weeks ago when the twins made me laugh. It was a grey, drizzly day and the twins came scampering out in the garden, dressed as usual in their flouncy, toddler day-wear outfits: white vest, tiny flarey skirt, bare feet, bare legs. “Oooh, it’s raining again,” said Amanda. “Yeah,” said Sam. Then they both stopped dead still and sighed. “It’s crap in this house,” sighed Amanda, “There’s nothing to do.”
The twins both stood there miserably. Temporarily zapped of pinkness. Looking more like the characters from Ghostworld. “No, don’t say that,” said Sam anxiously, “There IS stuff to do.” It was as if for a moment, the fluffy clouds had parted and a chink of reality had invaded twinland. “We can…we can make up dances,” sighed Sam. “Pgghhghgh,” tutted Amanda, staring at the rain. “It’s crap here. Really crap.”
Obviously, ten minutes later the twins had recharged their batteries and were racing about the house shouting “Boooooogies!”, but that moment of misery really made me giggle.
If only they’d been like that on their first night. If they’d come in dressed in black then shuffled about the house mumbling, “Pghh, look at the bath? It’s crap” and “Look, a pink pepper grinder. Boring”.
This week’s television task has provided many moments of tears and joy. Tears unsurprisingly from Chanelle, who is just a huge, moaning, highly strung sap of a woman. I hold no true malice for Chanelle, but come the revolution, she will receive a letter from my guards asking her to vacate the People’s Republic of Gracedentonia forthwith.
Sadly, there will be no place for women like Chunnel when I rule the land. “I caaaaannn’t play the violin, I can’t plaaaaaaay the violiiiiin! I won’t do it! I don’t want to do it! I caaaaaaaan’t!” she screamed for 24 hours, before eventually bashing out Vivaldi capably, although sounding slightly p***ed.
“I won’t wear that dress! It makes me look stupid! I won’t look stupid!” Chanelle spent hours sobbing. It was actually a very nice dress. It simply covered most of her skin, which is a travesty when you’re that age. When you’re that age you don’t feel dressed up unless you’re wearing something that shows your cleavage and at least a portion of your lower labia and could leave you dead from hypothermia in a front garden on your way home from a Christmas party.
“I won’t wear the dress! It makes me loooook pregnnnannnt!” shouted Chanelle. She didn’t care about poor Carole who was standing in a lumpy leotard, top hat, tights and tails looking like a crusty version of Mr Peanut. Or poor Ziggy in his leather trousers warming up to sing Love on the Northern Line. Coincidentally, I have had love on the northern line. Not that I knew it at the time. I realised when I got to the escalators at Chalk Farm and saw the back of my raincoat. I love London rush hour.
Anyway, Chanelle has spent the last few days demanding to go home. “Let me out! Let me out! Let me out! I’ll walk to the bus stop barefoot, with me hair like this! Let me out! You can’t keep me here! I want to leave!” she’s been shouting. It’s been SUCH fun. Not at all grating.
I wish Big Brother would call someone’s bluff just once and kick them right out. How brilliant would it be to see footage of that?
It would be hilarious to see someone like Chanelle go into the diary room, cause holy havoc and screech that she wants to leave, then Big Brother just say, “OK, Chanelle. You have now been evicted from the Big Brother house. Please leave via the door on your right. You are not permitted to say goodbye or gather your belongings. You will not be taking part in the spin-off shows or invited to the wrap party. You will not have our help to secure any magazine deals. Thank you for being a housemate. Goodbye.”
Then the door could be flung open and she could be made to sit in the green room for half an hour while producers pretend to gather her stuff and ring a taxi.
I’d love to see how long it was before the panic and incredulity set in and screams filled the air: “Let me back in! I wannnnnnnnt back in! Let me baaaaack in! Oh, my god, please let me back in! I didn’t mean it. Let me back innnnnnn!”
Please, Big Brother, just once. It would be cruel yet priceless.
