Fake poo (Big Brother, days 37-40) by Grace Dent
It wasn’t hugely startling when Laura was evicted on Friday. Last week Chanelle had been shown parading around in a PVC thong-backed leotard, displaying two sumptuous bum cheeks the size and texture of ripened Texan peaches. Meanwhile, Laura, the wang-sloth, spent the week horizontal and scowling in a baggy, egg-stained dressing gown.
If only Chanelle could learn to walk backwards, draw a lipstick face on her ass and teach it to speak, she’d have a minute chance of winning. In my opinion, Chanelle being allowed to stay wasn’t about us liking her, it was more of a national vote to see Ziggy suffer.
Oh, Ziggy, Ziggy, what happened to my love for you? When we first met I thought you were an honourable man, but you’re not. You’re a dissembler and a cad. I’d rather get a joint mortgage with Darren Day or get impregnated by Eddie Murphy than get tangled up with you. They’d both be safer long-term options.
I often wonder if Ziggy’s tattoo is actually a small-print disclaimer in Sanskrit that says: “Warning: all events and promises are entirely fictitious. Their resemblance, if any, to real-life intentions is entirely coincidental and for the purpose of drama.”
Obviously, Ziggy’s backtracking, fibbing and playing with Chanelle’s mind might be more amusing if Chanelle didn’t have a brain akin to a coffee-centred Revel in the first place. “You need to think about what you want, Chanelle!” quacks Ziggy, “I’m not sure I can handle much more of feeling so unwanted.”
As I type this, the pair have apparently split up. Again. But it hasn’t gone dark yet. Ziggy’s not very good at sleeping alone.
So Laura was kicked out amid “controversy” about her affectionately calling Liam “a puff” for wanting his feet tickled. Some people were mortally offended. I can’t blame them; being mortally offended is very “du jour” right now. It’s great fun, actually, you should try it.
I mean, once, if someone said my bum was a bit on the large side, I’d just have had a quick sulk. Not now, oh, no. Now I enjoy being mortally offended. I behave like my tiny, delicate earsies have dissolved with the hurt.
And if someone says, “Oh, grow up, it was only a few words” I get even more offended. “Grow up?!” I squeal, throwing myself onto my Ofcom speed-dial, “Grow up?! Well, I wish I could say ‘grow up’ to the thousands of poor children worldwide who KILL THEMSELVES each year over such stigmatising language! They’ll never grow up! I hope you’re happy now, with blood on your hands, you totally prejudicial child bully!”
Hah! You’d think Channel 4 would tell me to get a life, but they can’t these days, can they? My ambition is to carry on complaining about everything mildly salacious on Big Brother 8 until the nightly highlights show becomes just a looped shot of a fluffy kitten playing with a ball of string accompanied by an Enya backing track. So far, so good.
Anyway, amid big excitement, Pauline “Poo” the fake Australian housemate (Thaila Zucchi) has arrived. I love this twist. Pauline’s fake diary room appearance, where she was actually next door, not in Australia, didn’t look even remotely real.
Pauline’s accent isn’t great, she doesn’t know anything about Australia or Australian Big Brother, and she’s been on so many Channel 4 youth shows she makes Alex Zane look under-exposed. How long can Pauline get away with her act?
The twins might be easy to fool. Because, let’s face it, the twins actually believe that if you take a colander, glue an egg whisk and a few wires and batteries to it, spray the whole thing silver and stick it on your head, you can actually communicate messages “psychopathically” with your twin about chicken pies.
“Ooh, Pauline looks like someone from a teen movie!” coos Amanda – or was it Sam? I love the way that for the twins, the world’s population divides into two races: people who’ve been in Bring It On/people who haven’t.
(FYI: please DO send me hundreds of offended emails telling me which twin actually said that quote and accusing me of being a “LaZZY JURNALIST who is prejeudice towards the twins!” I love those emails. I don’t delete them while mocking your existence, honestly.)
Carole thinks she’s sussed out Pauline already. But then Carole is such a bloody false authority on everything 24/7 that no-one listens to her anyway. During the fake Australian food-tasting task she was hilarious.
As everyone trotted back from the diary room puzzled at the murky, watery, salty, fish-eggy stuff they’d had to taste, Carole was unfazed. “That would be brains! Definitely!” Carole would announce. Clearly during the 80s, between bouts of defending Greenham Common, Carole traversed Australasia sampling a smorgasbord of animal semen and duck-billed platypus offal.
While we’re on the subject, I might send a letter to Collins Dictionary today seeing if we can rename the duck-billed platypus to Liam’s more fitting suggestion: “Yer, nah, oneofemthings wiv the scoopy Pringle noses?” I think all animals should be renamed to the snack food they resemble to keep kids interested.
Liam is very excited about Pauline arriving. “Awwww, man, she’s asfitasatick! She’s a nice-looking lass an’ that!” Liam said, after seeing Pauline on screen. This made Nicky very, very unhappy. Nicky took this out on Gerry by setting about his hair with a pair of blunt playgroup cut ‘n’ stick scissors, turning his head into a cross between Travis Bickle’s hairdo and what an unsliced granary loaf would look like if you allowed a nine-year-old child to cut it.
Thank God Gerry has had about 3,000 romances already. He won’t be getting any action until that grows back. Well, unless a specialist dating website has launched recently called “Gay-and-looks-like-the-
scary-banjo-player-from-deliverance.com”.
(And what’s with the array of medals that Gerry seems to be wearing attached to his little military jacket these days? The Royal Vauxhall Tavern Cross for Valour? Who knows.)
Meanwhile, either Charley has cracked into her secret stash of Vicodin or she’s having a quiet, subdued day. Dancing about with Brian singing Evelyn “Champagne” King classics and chatting amicably with her housemates, she’s being quite sweet really. (Saying that, I wouldn’t “grind” with Brian, if I was you, Charley – we’ve seen during the caravan task that anything can pop up.)
I do love Brian and Charley’s little growing relationship. One minute she’s his big sister, the next minute his mum, then he fancies her, then he’s standing beside her bellowing, “Don’t do that, Charley! Don’t say that!” in the exact same voice as Brian Conley doing “It’s a puppppppppet!” I sometimes wonder if they’ll get together in the end.
If anyone will suss out Pauline, it’ll be Tracey. Tracey, as a crusty-rave hippy person, is genetically programmed to love a conspiracy theory. She’s there right now with her little Halloween pumpkin expression sussing the whole thing out and reporting back to Nicky.
But even if Tracey does work it out, she’ll probably just think the whole thing is a “Proper phat twist, man! Bring it on!” then go back to smoking her rollies.
That’s the thing about Tracey; for a radical free-thinking crazy individual, she’s also the most predictable housemate in Big Brother history. Game on, Pauline! ‘Ave it!
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