Mind your manners (Big Brother, days 83-85) by Grace Dent
It’s been a disappointing time for all involved with Big Brother. The menfolk of Britain are especially sad now Kara-Louise has ruled out a sexy post-house Nuts or Zoo shoot.
Obviously, this would have been valuable fodder for any man aroused by a limp, winsome women in a smock frock with a Stepford wives’ smile being jolly “nice” all the time. Let’s hope Connie Fisher needs some cheap publicity soon.
Kara-Louise is upset as she’s up for eviction. Jonty and Tracey are both up for the chop, too. Jonty is livid that people such as Liam and Brian have actually insinuated that he might be “insane”.
How unfair! He’d tried so hard to make a good impression when he arrived. He’d pressed his striped pyjamas, he’d given his talking knitted monkey a good bath, and he’d spent hours perfecting the exact angle in which his bum should be parallel with the floor to make a maximum “parp” sound whenever he let one rip.
Why would anyone insinuate Jonty is simply insane? Jonty’s behaviour insinuates a whole host of better, juicier accusations than mere insanity. The children’s toys? The imaginary friends? The obsession with bodily functions and sadomasochism while all the time acting like a lickle lost boy? The last time I saw all these traits together was in that bloke Buffalo Bill off Silence of the Lambs, with the poodle and the women’s skin dress.
Obviously, I hasten to add that Jonty is NOT a psychopathic serial killer who spends Saturday nights luring victims to their bleak fate. (Doctor Who is on Saturdays, he wouldn’t miss that.) OK, I’ll be serious. Jonty is totally harmless. He’s actually rather sweet. But why’s he so upset that people think he’s mad when he bends over backwards to prove it?
Tracey, on the other hand is FINE that she’s up for eviction. Fine. She’s fine, fine, fine! A lot of men aren’t good at reading women’s body language, but as a general rule I’d say that if a woman is telling you she is “fine” at a volume that blows your hair about while she’s rooting through the ashtray for dog-ends to make a rollie, she’s probably not “fine”.
The housemates have been learning “etiquette”. They’ve been learning to act like posh folk do, minding their p’s and q’s and walking about with books on their heads obsessing about fish forks. I can’t believe people still fall for this utter rot.
They actually believe that very posh people spend all day fussing about soup spoons and being weighed down by dos and don’ts. Obviously, the truth is that very posh people do whatever the bloody hell they want all of time and honestly don’t give a hoot.
It was exactly the same in Victorian times when Britain’s proles were merrily scrubbing their doorsteps and being harangued about their drinking by the Temperance Movement, as this wasn’t how “good folk” behaved, while all the lords and ladies were swilling back gin, smoking opium and getting knocked up by the local right honourable during boozy grouse shoots.
So to be quite honest, having spent time in Rock, Cornwall during the summer, I’d say that the antics of BB5′s fight night were more akin to how “good people” behave. But this hasn’t stopped supposed class warrior Carole walking about with War and Peace on her head, which is no mean feat considering she’s also been farting like a set of Scottish snare drums.
According to Carole, she is the only one trying in the etiquette task. Why, Carole’s even been correcting herself on her mistakes when she’s been on her own in the toilet.
I quite like the image of Carole sitting on the loo berating herself to wee properly, then eventually crying and sending herself to Coventry shouting “I don’t wanna talk about this no more, Carole! I don’t wanna have this conversation! I’m not speaking about this no more!”
Carole has been dressed as a “proper lady” this week. She even dressed up nicely for dinner with a silvery sparkly thing in her hair and a bit of glitzy jewellery. Of course, what would really set her outfit off would be a nice sparkly bauble for either side of her moustache. And a nice table-for-one in the garden so she couldn’t ruin the atmosphere with her infectious gloom.
Ziggy has finally seen the light with Carole. He’s told her that she’s not touching the shopping list. He’s told her to stop crying like a baby. He’s told her she’s rude and that people are scared of her.
Ziggy even tried to put his foot down about her obsession with ordering enough carrots to feed Dasher, Dancer, Prancer and Vixen twice over and still cater for a Hare Krishna buffet.
Everyone else just wants a fortnight of eating biscuits, crisps and fizzy crap that will give them spots, piles and heart palpitations and possibly need some Ritalin.
Oh, why can’t you just let them, Carole? Try it, you might like it. I can almost 100% guarantee that a packet of Penguins and a can of Lilt tastes better than old carrots fried in second-hand fat served with Dijon mustard.
Carole’s response is to snivvel and sob and sulk some more.
Two people are being chucked out of the Big Brother house this Friday night. Neither of them will be Carole. As I say, it’s all been very disappointing.
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