Truly, madly, deeply (Big Brother, days 86-89) by Grace Dent
As Chanelle gazed longingly into Ziggy’s eyes, she finally said the words that had fluttered about her head for weeks.
“My agent wants to sign you,” she told Ziggy, coquettishly. “Really?” said Ziggy, dislodging lumps of smoky bacon crisps from his back teeth, wondering why Chanelle was dressed up like a 90s in-drag Julian Clary.
Chanelle was indeed quite a vision, stood there with her four simultaneous haircuts, kohl eyes, bustier stuck on with toupee tape and filled with chicken fillets.
Chanelle told Ziggy how “mad” things were outside, albeit in a rather stilted manner as there wasn’t much she could say that wouldn’t spoil their magazine exclusives.
“Can we talk on Wednesday or Friday?” panted Ziggy. “Mmmmmmnm-schloopoop,” mumbled Chanelle, non-committally. There was no way she was telling him that yet. Not with the meter running. Not when some magazine will probably pay for them to go on a “hideaway holiday” in Morocco to discuss it exclusively, with full colour pictures.
Admittedly, Ziggy did look quite desperate to get back together with Chanelle. Clearly he’s forgotten what she’s really like. He’s forgotten that lurking behind the Heat magazine makeover is a limp-limbed sap, who spent weeks following him about nagging like a bipolar sat nav commentary.
“Don’t smoke, Ziggy, don’t smoke, Ziggy, move the bed, Ziggy, move the bed back, Ziggy. Ziggy, have you seen my stuffed bear as I’m only 20 and can’t sleep without it? What are you thinking, Ziggy, NOW?!”
Sadly, now Ziggy remembers Chanelle as the girl of his dreams, glossing nicely over the time when he merrily watched her pack her bags and leave. Well, leave eventually. It took her about six attempts. She had more fake encores than Prince at the O2.
I can forgive Ziggy for being confused. He’s not got much else to think about. Neither have we, really. Let’s be honest here, it’s not been a brilliant Big Brother, has it?
I was so bored in week 8, I spent three days trying to patent a name for the area of cellulite-y skin around the back of the knee, as this is where Carole’s bikini line actually finishes.
Last week, I started flicking channels during the live feed and watching That Antony Cotton Show instead, even enjoying his dance routine at the beginning where he honks his way through Copacabana while community centre-style step and point tap-dancing.
The highlight of last Thursday for me was watching Jonty dry his testicles and willy (which is bizarrely of totally different ethnicity to the rest of his body) for ten minutes under the fixed hairdryers. I think that’s possibly the saddest sentence I’ve ever typed in my career.
It’s not helpful to begin blaming people for ruining Big Brother, but I’ll start and end with Carole. If we pretty much accept these days that Big Brother meddles with the rules to keep the drama fresh, then how is that crotchety old crone still there at the end?
Carole evokes strong memories in me of the old bats who used to hang about my Brownie pack when I was seven, and volunteered free of charge to come on Brownie camp as “helpers” so they could spend a week screaming at us to eat crusts and comb our hair into side partings.
It was always the highlight of the week when one of them got kicked by a bull or fell backwards into the camp latrine. Anyway, they probably don’t have Brownie camps any more as all the busybodies like Carole prefer to go on Big Brother instead and make people devour carrots fried in Marmite.
The only reason Carole is there, as far as I can see, is because the government are using her real house to develop hyperstrength penicillin on her washing-up drainer.
Incidentally, if food has really been so scarce for so long in there, why is Carole getting bigger? Thank God this is the last week, because that swimming costume is starting to look all taut like Borat’s.
The series has gone on for so bloody long and become so inconsequential that Emily, who was chucked out in week 2 for saying “n****r” has been showing up on BBC3 all weekend during the Reading Festival coverage as a “regular festivalgoer” talking about Nu Rave. But by now she’s so anonymous that no-one except me even recognises her.
And now even Celebrity Big Brother’s been axed (for a year apparently) too. And Dermot’s said to be quitting Big Brother’s Little Brother. And Davina is so tired of eviction night she’s taken to throwing herself down the stairs to liven up matters.
And there are so few presenters left in Britain who haven’t had a go at hosting Big Brother’s Big Mouth that even Richard Madeley’s children have been given the gig for a week. And Richard Madeley – who doesn’t really watch the show – is a guest expert.
Who wins? You decide! I’m not sure that anyone’s bothered. As it stands right now, it may as well be Brian. Not Amanda, who’s spent weeks straddling him in hot pants telling him to cool his passion. Or Ziggy, who’ll just spend the cash on 44D fake baps for Chanelle.
So yes, let’s all vote for Brian. He could do with the money. It might make him more attractive to Amanda. It might even stop him cutting his own fringe with the bread knife.
As ever, on behalf of everyone else in Britain, I’ll stay tuned till the bitter end.
0 Responses to “Big Brother 8: Truly, madly, deeply”