Let it all out (Big Brother, days 72-75) by Grace Dent
Unsurprisingly, Amy was voted out of the house on Friday. Amy wasn’t a malicious housemate. She wasn’t especially bitchy. Or starry, or vain or stupid. Amy, however, was one of those women whom other women seem to decide they don’t like on sight. Myself included.
There was something slightly insipid about the way Amy operated. The coy expression, batting eyelashes, itsy-bitsy bikini, the way she was always trying to encourage the men to “open up and show their emotions”. The way she’d forever pepper conversations with the fact that she was “a glamour model” but was also “so insecure about herself”.
I can’t put my finger on what made Amy seem unsisterly, but only an idiot would leave their boyfriend alone in a room with her. You’d come back ten minutes later and find him face down in her schnockers sobbing while she patted his head and cajoled him to “let all his emotions out”.
Amy’s finest hour was possibly last Thursday when she cornered Ziggy and simpered about how he shouldn’t be so strong and silent about missing Chanelle but should “talk about things”. This was inspired logic, what with Ziggy having rambled on about his bloody emotions for 75 days without pausing, like Sir Cliff reading the audio book of James Joyce’s Ulysses, while cobwebs grew in the nostrils of everyone in Britain as we waited for him to GET TO THE POINT.
Later, Amy told Brian he should be honest about his emotions for Amanda. “You can never look stupid when you’re being honest,” Amy told him. From which cut-price fortune cookie she got that piece of wisdom, I’m not sure. Maybe it gives us a clue as to why Amy ended up earning a living standing around the Birmingham NEC retrieving her bikini thong out of her bum and dispensing leaflets about the new Ford Focus, rather than as, say, chairman of ICI.
Of course you can be honest and still look stupid. Just look at Jonty. Look at him “honestly” admitting how his best friend is a stained puppet and he likes to spend his weekends being smacked on the bare bum cheeks with a variety of spatulas and light sports racquets. Do we all respect his honesty? No, he makes us want to fill a bath with bleach and hot water and exfoliate ourselves with wire wool to remove the grubbiness.
Alarm bells went off for me about Amy when she modelled herself on Jodie Marsh during the fashion show. Belts over her breasts. Skirt vaguely covering her bits.
If Amy thinks Jodie Marsh is someone to aspire to, I don’t have much hope for her future. Jodie Marsh, who is currently making a colossal arse of herself on MTV roaming the UK begging strangers to marry her, doesn’t seem very happy at all. If I was behaving like Jodie Marsh right now, I honestly hope someone who loved me would step in and have me sectioned.
Carole isn’t sad to see the back of Amy. Carole couldn’t stand her. The more I look at Carole the more I vow to use a good moisturiser and to keep a close eye on my facial hair as the years pass by and I shuffle towards resembling Dickie Davies with his head stuck onto a large King Edward potato.
I imagine Carole looks how Anita Roddick from the Body Shop would look if she hadn’t spent decades slathering mashed guava onto her cellulite, splodging vitamin-E cream on her eye circles and doing yoga in her Adriatic villa, and had instead lived in a one-man tent beside a lay-by in Greenham Common, washing her face in puddles, moisturising with Stork SB margarine and living on broccoli boiled on a Calor gas stove for three months solid.
Carole is aggravating me greatly. Why does she stay there? What is she achieving? Everyone has to live on bread, milk and butter now for a week with the occasional sprinkling of salt and pepper, which should be used SPARINGLY, mind, as it’s limited. I wish someone would shove a crust sideways down her huge quacking gob hole.
I’ve not seen anyone as manipulative on Big Brother before. It’s awesome. Everyone is compliant to her wishes as it’s simply easier than to try and disagree with her and face her crying and depression. They don’t even form splinter groups and plot to secretly overthrow her. They’re not even aware how much she’s controlling them.
“I spent half an hour yesterday picking pasta off the chairs,” moans Carole. Well, it’s half an hour more than you’ve ever spent cleaning your house in Leytonstone, Carole. I saw it on BBLB. I keep waking up in the night sweating, wanting to take some Toilet Duck and Ajax over there and give it a good mop.
Elsewhere, Liam let us all into the secret of exactly what sort of woman he likes. Basically, he likes tall women, or short women, or medium-sized women, with skin of any colour and boobs of any level of perkiness or pendulousness. He’s not too fussy, but the important thing is, now listen carefully, they’ve got “to be one of ‘em lasses that can like get their point across without saying anything an’ ‘at but yer kna’ what they mean”.
I’m not sure what Liam is going on about. Does he want a woman who can operate via telekinesis? Or does he want a very, very quiet woman who communicates by being quiet and perhaps fetching him the odd cold beer? Well, obviously, that’s what all men want.
Whatever, Liam’s accent is definitely getting stronger the longer he’s away from Tyneside. I’ve mastered a few phrases from watching him, like: “Nah, yer-not-rightbigshotten-it-aboot-here-an-at!” (Translation: please stop being over-confident) and “Ayealiketogetinallabootitandthat!” (I am a sensitive and sensual lover who is prepared to even take his socks off.)
I worry about Brian and Amanda’s “relationship”. Brian isn’t really that brilliant with women, is he? For a start, he thinks he can call them “Vaginapersons” or “Wombpeople”. Worse still, now he’s in love with Amanda, he sits staring at her much like I would stare at Mogwai from the Gremlins or a basket of sheepdog puppies if you left it on my desk. Sort of misty-eyed and dribbling.
Amanda thinks Brian is “so cute”, “so sweet” and “really adorable”, which are all words women use to describe a boy they’ve put in the “just a friend zone”. Now she’s saying that they should definitely wait at least three weeks before getting off with each other again. The thing is, true love or lust doesn’t wait three weeks when you’ve got nothing else to do but sit about pawing each other. Amanda is too inoffensive to make it clear that he’s got no chance post-Big Brother, either.
And so the poor boy plods on, consumed with lust and hormones, spending all his waking moments watching Amanda jumping about with no bra on…then lie in bed frustrated all night long between her and her slinky identical twin sister. Oh, well, at least Carole will have somewhere rigid to hang those wet tea towels she’s been mangling. She’s spent half an hour rinsing them for the good of everyone. Half an hour, mind?! Half an hour. She just doesn’t like to go on about it.
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