Big Brother

21:03:41 o'clock BST
Feeling a bit unpopular? Think the whole world is giving you the evil eye? Can't walk down the street without being heckled by people you've never encountered yet somehow irreversibly upset? Yes? Well, cheer up, you big no-mates, as even you couldn't be more out-of-favour with the general public as Nicole “Rex's Girlfriend” Cammack, who was booted out of the Big Brother house with 94% of the vote on Friday night. Yep, 94%. That's the kind of loathing usually reserved for serial killers, self-serving politicians and drivers of bendy buses. I don't know, maybe I missed the episode where Nicole bit the head off a live kitten then smiled and gave us all a big thumbs-up, but even I thought that the amount of booing she received was a touch on the harsh side.

Having said that, it was definitely time for Nicole to make her exit. Not only were her constant rows with Rex making the show almost unwatchable, but the only thing she put any genuine effort into during her entire stay in the house was the Thriller video task. “I know how I'll make the public like me!” she thought, the 25 watt bulb flickering behind her eyes. “I'll show them what a great dancer I am! After all, everybody loves a good dancer! Look at Boris Yeltsin, or Scooch! I can't fail!”

Poor, misguided Nicole. Such a tragedy that nobody cared for her lock-and-pop.

Oh, and if you were wondering who came up with the idea for that task, then perhaps I could introduce you to a certain Mr You Tube. After all, what with Thriller, the treadmill dancing task and the ninja ping pong, it appears that the only skill you need to list on your CV when applying for a job in the Big Brother production office is the ability to tit about on the internet all day, wondering which viral video clips you could recreate in the name of entertainment. Hey, I can't say I blame them, though. It sure beats doing any actual work, such as maintaining the “zero tolerance” theme they hastily cooked up five minutes before the series went to air, or making sure that somebody is watching the monitors when Rex is busy doing star jumps during a 'staying still' task.

I can only hope that this trend continues, though, and that this week's tasks will involve Kat howling along to Dragostea din Tei on a webcam (causing flowers to wilt in the garden and the pool beginning to boil); Mo putting on a blond frightwig, hiding under a sheet and imploring the world to leave Britney alone through streams of tears; and Mikey's tribute to the dramatic gopher. (If you've absolutely no idea what I'm talking about, then get thee to a video sharing website and find the clips. You'll enjoy them more than tonight's Big Brother. I promise.)

Anyway, I might have not thought much of the Thriller task, but Lisa certainly enjoyed it. “That were great, that”, she told Big Brother, after dropping into the diary room looking like Divine will when she eventually returns from beyond the grave. “Me and Mario, we've got dressed like this before and gone to a wine bar!” she exclaimed. I held my head in my hands at this, bracing myself for her inevitable justification. “Because we are mad!” she brayed, delighted with herself and her wonderful, zany, fun-packed personality. Oh, Lisa. I wish you wouldn't keep doing this to me! Every single time I find myself able to overlook your woo-related piffle – which is no mean feat, believe me – you embarrass us all once again with another declaration of how kerrayzee you are.

For the record, lady, you and Mario are not “mad”. Saying that does the genuinely mad a great disservice. Instead, you are a pair of vain, witless attention-seekers who think that making ridiculous spectacles of yourselves in public will win you some friends, or, better still, get you noticed in the background of a Tonight special on binge-drinking Britain. Now stop it.

Further proof (if it were needed) that M&L aren't a shy and retiring kind of couple came when Mario and his hair gel re-entered the house in order to ask Lisa to be their wife. Well, I think that's what happened, seeing as though Mario decided to pop the question via a series of placards (or “play cards”, as dumbo Rex likes to call them) instead of asking her out loud.

Mario held up the following message, as Ant and Dec rushed to clear their diaries: “Lisa I am very sorry to say you're single no more as I have spoken to your Daddy therefore I would like to Marry you?”

Not exactly Shakespeare, is it? Hell, it's barely even Shakin' Stevens. But maybe I missed one of the placards. Perhaps Mario had a bit too much Dutch courage before writing it down. Or maybe he accidentally jumbled them up into the wrong order, and really wanted to tell his Amazonian girlfriend that she was now single once again as he was off to marry her father. Stranger things have happened.

To her credit, Lisa laughed. Then accepted, ofcourse.

“I said to you when we get engaged we'll do summat different”, Mario explained, safe in the knowledge that any woman would hate receiving a proposal of marriage in the middle of an expensive restaurant, or on a moonlit beach in the Maldives. Having said that, I wish the two of them well, and look forward to the pictures of their wedding day in Flex Magazine. Flick through its hallowed pages and you won't be able to miss them, because the bride and groom will be sitting at the top table dressed like Fred and Wilma Flintstone in order to demonstrate how "mad" they are. It'll be enough to put any discerning wedding guest off their prawn cocktail.  

Speaking of food, I haven't witnessed such an appalling lack of mealtime manners since Linda Blair started gipping up her pea soup in The Exorcist. Nicole was rightly criticised for chewing with her mouth open, but Mikey licking the peanut butter from his toast was even more horrifying. Kathreya, meanwhile, eats like somebody whose milk teeth have yet to come through. And there was absolutely no need for Darnell to make a Freddie Kreuger mask out of tinned spaghetti, or for Mo to start eating bogies in exchange for cans of cider. This is how mealtimes will be conducted when toddlers rule the earth.

In fact, the only person I haven't seen applying his face with Napoli sauce in the same fashion that Lisa does her make-up is Rex. But then again this is because he spends his days running a restaurant called Whore of Babylon, or something like that, and is well versed in which piece of cutlery to use when tackling beluga caviar or fricassee of peacock. The man may be a complete shit, but at least his table manners pass muster. That's got to count for something.

In other news, Darnell is still being the very definition of A Good Time. “I hope I'm not one of these guys who's never going to be happy ever”, he laughed, while parping his clown nose and leading a conga around the luxury bedroom. Sorry Darnell, but I don't care any more. I know you've suffered in your life, but think how we all feel! We've spent the last two and half months having our good moods stamped into the ground by your relentless moping. Buck your ideas up.

Finally, I was tickled pink to read some Channel 4 big cheese's declaration that Big Brother has grown beyond its “social experiment” status and is now the station's equivalent of a daily soap opera, now that Brookside has gone to that great Brisbane in the sky. However, for it to truly fill the void left by Brookie, things need to improve. For example, the BB10 housemates could include a brother and sister who are having an incestuous relationship. Another could be buried under the patio. And they'd have to make room for at least one siege, religious cult or exploding helicopter-related catastrophe. Come on Endemol! Surely you can make next year's Big Brother go with a bang!

Written by joejbbrett Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 58 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

20:04:22 o'clock BST
I have beef with Channel 4. In fact, I think quite a lot of us do, seeing as though we've donated about 80 hours of our personal lives to their station so far this summer, dry eyeballs unflinching from the various personality disorders cluttering up one small corner of Elstree, even staying tuned while Gloria bloody Hunniford smarms at us about her cholesterol levels in the ad breaks. Eighty hours. That's more than three solid days, folks, and that's without including our time spent listening to aircraft noises on the live feed or wishing laryngitis upon Zezi'n'George.

Most of that time has been time well-spent and well-enjoyed. But if the final two and a half weeks are going to be anything like the past seven days, I'm going to end up begging Satan for an extra 48 hours of my life in order to make up for it. Case in point – during a week that was high on histrionics and low on anything else, what did the show's producers do to encourage interaction, conversation and fun in the house? That's right! They made all the housemates stand utterly still and perfectly silent! Brilliant!

I think we all deserve better than that.

Still, at least the statues task meant that we had a few minutes respite from the Rex and Nicole Show. Their televisual jalopy of neediness and resentment has been rumbling on for weeks now, despite the fact that the wheels fell off their affair some time ago. Rex, I feel, could very easily get their relationship back on the road. However, he's being prevented from doing so by a combination of difficult-to-ignore elements such as his pride, his ambition, his conceit, and six fat zeros on the end of a cheque. I've studied his emotionless face for hours, looking for a flicker of an eyelid or a wobble of a lip that could possibly be translated as genuine concern. “Hmmm”, I'd like him to think. “My girlfriend – my only friend, in fact – and I are going to end up going to each other's funerals just to make sure the other's one dead if this carries on any longer. So, because she can't tell me her fears and worries on camera, I'll suggest that we quit the show and go away for a week while we sort it out. Then, even if we do split up, we won't be doing it in front of a baying nation - and I'll probably make that hundred grand back in what I'll be saving on cocktails at Mahiki, Prada heels and industrial-strength earplugs.”

But I've seen nothing of the sort. Nothing. And that's probably because he wants to spend all his time demonstrating how much control he has over his girlfriend instead. “Leave me alone, Rex!”, Nicole will cry, in her Charley Says-style "ree-rowr" voice – which is a sure-fire guarantee that Rex will clamp his tentacles around her and not let go until she's apologised for her tone. And later, as soon as his thoughts are elsewhere, Nicole will mope that he's not paying her any attention – which will lead to him ignoring her even more, or possibly telling her to eff off. Argh! I can't take it anymore! And I'm speaking as somebody who has a huge capacity for sitting in front of the telly and gawping at tedious, badly-thought-out couplings that aren't going anywhere. I used to watch Family Affairs, for god's sake. But the drawn-out death throes of a genuine relationship do not make fabulous television.

Other gloomy viewing has been down to Darnell, who by the end of the week will probably have started finding rejection in his morning cornflakes. He's now so deep in the mire of his own paranoia and self-loathing that he's even started rocking backwards and forwards as he whittles, like one of those dancing bears you see in the charity adverts. It's tragic. Just tragic. God knows what he'll be like once Sara really begins to miss Stuart and starts tickling her nipples with Jen's painting.

I thought I'd at least be able to rely on Lisa for a smirk, but even she's disappointed me this week. Remember when Sara was in the garden, telling others about how she was attacked by a kangaroo at the age of nine? Well, I was waiting with bated breath for la-la Lisa to start quacking on about some marsupial-inflicted trauma of her own, possibly involving the zombie of Skippy chasing her around the garden at Kylie Minogue's 40th birthday party. But she didn't say a word. Even she must be fed up.

The only person who made me smile this week was Kat, when she was busy doing wind-turbine-arms during Rachel's party. (The host, contrarily, looked like she was being forced to have fun at gunpoint.) However, more and more people are cottoning on to the idea that this woman isn't the walking pyjama case of innocence with cookie-crumbs for brain cells that she's desperately trying to project. And I'm finally starting to agree, seeing as though she's proved that she's extraordinarily articulate when she wants to be; she influences other people's nominations without detection; makes dogs howl from 30 miles away with her singing, which she strikes up as soon as it looks as though anybody is being more fun than her; and switches on a face like one of those pots in the shape of crying onions the very moment that anybody starts to regard her with anything less than total and unconditional adoration.

But having said all that, I simply can't work myself up into same the kind of vein-snapping, teeth-marks-in-the-table rage about Kat that I can with Rex. After all, if you're going to go on a gameshow, there's nothing inherently wrong with trying to win. It doesn't make you evil. Having said that, I'm going to look really stupid later in the week, when Kat finally flips, breaks off the swan-shaped tap that she's been talking to all week and starts bludgeoning Mo and Mikey with it in the garden. Oh well.

I hope that the rest of this week brings many a snicker and a guffaw. And, in my own sad little attempt to make it happen, I'd like to give Big Brother a little pointer. Did you all notice the red capes that the housemates were wearing in the garden during the chewing gum mosaics task? The wasps didn't seem to like them very much, and I'm sure other species of wildlife wouldn't be so keen on them either. Don't tell me you wouldn't watch the show if a grunting, one-ton, ring-nosed beast with big horns suddenly got prodded into the garden. That would be the Channel 4 beef I'd approve of.


Written by joejbbrett Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 130 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

19:31:46 o'clock BST
Is anybody out there clued up on the latest advances in human genetic engineering? Apart from Farmer Lisa's mate, that is? I only ask because I'm starting to suspect that somewhere, possibly just north of Chester, lies a secret underground laboratory in which mad scientists churn out strong-in-t'arm, thick-in-t-'head hunks in test tubes (Dale, Ziggy, Ant'nee et al) for the sole purpose of Channel 4 summer entertainment.

Now I'd be barking up the wrong fish if I were to expect anybody's time in the Big Brother house to be an intellectual journey. However, if you've spent two months under constant surveillance, your “best bits” really should feature a little more than pea-brained aggressiveness, close-ups of your six-pack, and hours of you gawping away vacantly beneath a stripy hat (which makes you look like a Super Mario 1-UP mushroom that's fallen on hard times). Otherwise, well, it's a bit of a rum do - isn't it?

Happily, Dale doesn't need an Einstein IQ for his future career of getting his bum out for Attitude magazine. And crueller bloggers than yours truly might suggest that his reunion with Chester-le-Street's answer to Vermeer is purely focused upon securing that megabucks (i.e. two-figure) deal with the likes of Pick Me Up or Bella. Even if it were true (which at this point I doubt), I'm sure it would leave both him and Jen with far more self-worth than any of the relationships in the current Big Brother House ever could.

First of all, Rex and Nicole are looking more Human Remains than Harpers and Queen at the moment. Is anybody else astonished that they've been going out for a year? Does anybody else think that they only managed to achieve this amazing feat by making sure all their dates were held in noisy nightclubs or libraries? Or anywhere else that they couldn't or weren't allowed to hold a conversation.

That's right – the only time that this pair of monstrous nitwits put their vocal chords to use is when they're having a massive ding-dong. And yes, I understand that Rex is an arrogant control freak and a bully boy, but at the beginning I could understand why he was being huffy about Nicole's arrival. Surely anyone not going through divorce would be thrilled by the prospect of some fun and games with their other half, after not having seen them for more than two months. However, the only game that turkey-voiced Nicole seemed to want to play was that old classic called “Something's wrong and you've got to guess what it is”, which is much favoured by any doomed couple that regularly haunts the aisles of the IKEA self-service section.

However, instead of trying to untangle their wretched relationship rationally and calmly, Rex - perhaps in a bid to assert his strange power over everybody in the house - decided to fan the flames of his girlfriend's anger.  Thus, all his attempts to get to the bottom of her frustrated meeping has followed the same half-hourly cycle, which runs as follows: giving up asking what the problem is within 15 seconds, dishing out a few minutes of abuse, being surprised when Nicole gets offended, bitching about her to other housemates, manipulating her into apologising for chucking a barney, and then kicking it all off again over a matter of trivial importance - such as Nicole not being aware that his navel is an outie rather than an innie. Perverts everywhere, I suspect, will have reacted with sweaty-palmed surprise to her admission that she's never been at eye-level with Rex's lower stomach.

Anyway, Big Brother has screwed the show up completely with this new “dynamic”. I appreciate that they wanted two people in there to recreate the tormented passions of Heathcliff and Cathy, but this endless cycle of breaking up and then making up (because they have no other friends - something they admit) is more like an Ingmar Bergman take on those two perennially bickering little old ladies from Pigeon Street. Bleak, in other words; exhausting to watch; painful to listen to; and probably all too familiar if you live in the flat that looks out over the bins behind Yates's Wine Lodge.

My patience is also wearing waffeur-thin with Darnell's self-pity and paranoia. “I'm sick of my girl friends telling me I'm the greatest guy while fancying the other guy”, he'll mope, while Sara makes boggle-eyes at Stu and dreams of using him like a rude bouncy castle. Look here Darnell – I know you're a damaged man, but Sara could probably use a quick sesh with Dr Freud too. It's depressing, in the 21st century, to happen across a woman who seems to think that incurring men's “morning woods” is the only way to win their friendship. Even worse is that, seeing though Rex only had any time for her when he was persuading her to snog Nicole, she's probably right in some cases. Grim.

In other grief-related news, Rachel spent her time as Head of House trying to whip up as much controversy as possible. Not only did she indulge in the wicked, wicked sin that was channelling Nanette Newman and helping out with the washing up, but she also made more enemies than friends by, er, judging a monument-shaped cake-baking contest. Poor Rachel. She'll never survive in the cut-throat world that is the Women's Institute. “I hope you're happy with yourself”, growled professional chef Rex, after she snubbed his cake for looking like St Paul's Cathedral after the Great Fire of London and tasting like it too. Ha ha Rex - stick it where the buns don't shine. At least the other team's effort actually looked like the Millennium Dome, or as it will once Lisa's little green friends finally invade and blast it to bits with anti-matter.

Although she successfully managed to polarise opinion in the house, the only camps that Rachel has managed to split the public into are those who are cheerfully indifferent towards her, and those who can't remember which one she is. But I can't really blame her for trying to keep the Big Brother slum clean - especially when it contains the likes of Mikey, who, during the cake task, spent a merry afternoon sending icing and cake batter splattering through the air like ectoplasm in a B-movie.

Thankfully, this week of emotional carnage has been lifted somewhat thanks to you-know-who lurching even further into the realms of the occult. Case in point was Lisa's keenly scientific study of the “crystal ball” that Big Brother had provided. “You've got to relax your mind, and the first picture that comes into your head is what it's communicating”, she revealed, as the housemates chattered among themselves. “The first thing I saw was a galloping horse”, she continued, failing to offer any explanation as to why a £2 perspex sphere from the Toys-R-Us at Brent Cross would want to send her such a vivid mental image. If she'd seen Stu or Rachel riding it sidesaddle into Davina then I could possibly have understood. But dear Lisa, take another look for this hard-hearted cynic and see if you see a flash of anything useful. For example, will this week's Big Brother be less skin-crawling to watch? And, more importantly, does that beefcake laboratory actually exist? I think we should be told.



Written by joejbbrett Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 186 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

17:03:31 o'clock BST

How delicious it is that the freaky baby bird-boy who squawked more than anybody about Big Brother's "hundred grand cheque" is not going to see a penny of it. How marvellous it is that the likes of Rachel and Kathreya can now go about their daily business, which primarily consists of generally being nice to other people, without being slated for trying to appease the viewing public or secure themselves some "airtime". But, dear reader, my favourite thing about Luke being evicted was that postage stamp-sized window of him in the corner of the screen during his interview, in which he shrieked and gestured furiously at the people who nominated him, for all the world looking like a bonkers town centre preacher trying to be heard over that Mariachi band parping away outside WHSmith.

Also, after the one-woman laugh riot Maysoon buggered off back to Clown College or wherever the hell she appeared from, the Powers That Be had to hold crisis talks long into the night. After all, without her and Luke, all remaining episodes would run the risk of featuring nothing but the following: an increasingly paranoid Darnell thumping his fist into his hand so hard that he nearly falls over; smouldering, high-camp rage about jack shit from Stuart; heat-seeking missile Sara's Cylon-eyed flirting with every living creature from woodlice up; and Kat's ear-splitting, two-note butchering of 'Way Over Yonder'. That's not entertainment in anybody's book.

So, what's a bunch of overpaid producers to do, eh? It's simple – up the Rex Factor. After all, he played a good old prank on them with last week's shopping list, and revenge is a dish best served clingy, needy, sloaney and deeply passive-aggressive. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Rex's girlfriend Nicole to the show.

Rex has often talked about his partner, but has provided his housemates with little information about her beyond a) her looks and b) which ghastly trinkets they like to fritter their combined wealth upon. He hadn't even revealed her name, preferring to call her "princess". And now we know why, although I'm assuming the preceding words in her pet name, "spoilt" and "little", are pronounced silently. Highly strung? You bet - Nicole can't even open her gob without running the risk of duelling banjos striking up.

"I just want my suitcase!" she whined, tears streaming down her delicate cheeks, as a nation prayed that they'll never end up queuing behind her at Terminal 5. But hey, life's tough for Nicole right now. She's been given instant fame due to an appearance in a reality show that was brought about by one of her connections, which probably mirrors every other opportunity she's been given so far in her mollycoddled little life, and now Big Brother won't give her access to all her Gucci, Pucci and Fiorucci. How awful. How unfair! Why can't life be a rose garden?

Another rage-inducing moment of recent days was the task in which the housemates had to say the alphabet backwards as quickly as possible in order to win a place in Heaven. Yes, in our sick, sad world, being able to recite your Z to A is an achievement to be rewarded and praised. Granted, I'd be surprised if Dale could even spell his own name backwards. Or forwards. But what Early Learning Centre activity are they going to be tasked with next? Will Big Brother ask each housemate to count down from 10? Or force them to identify some brightly-coloured shapes and the slots they can insert them into? Here's a top tip for if they bring it up this week – a very large sphere will fit into Kat's mouth quite nicely.

The only moment that warmed the cockles of my cold, shrivelled heart this week was when Head of House Rachel forwent her letter from home, so that the housemates from hell could attempt to decipher some badly-scrawled Hallmark gushings from their nearest and dearest. But how I wished that a bitter runner would have swapped a letter of parental pride for a missive informing a housemate that they'd brought shame upon their family and could collect their bin-bagged belongings from the end of the drive, whenever they get booted out. Just imagine it. Are you reading, mums and dads? Make every week double eviction week!

While I'm at it, can I make a plea for Stuart and Dale to actually put some bloody clothes on? Guys, I understand that you are proud of your hard-earned Action Man bodies and the smooth, synthetic pant-bumps that doubtless come as part and parcel of them. But you are holed up in a Hertfordshire prefab, peering through the window at relentless English drizzle. Standing around in Billabong beachwear shouting "Show us your boobs!" at drunken 18-year-old girls does not automatically mean you're in Cancun during Spring Break. Especially as every time I see Dale on the live feed, I have to do a double take in case the Freeview box is on the blink and it's accidentally flicked over to one of Diego's scenes in Dora the Explorer.

Out of the other men in the house, Mo has come under fire for being a human dustbin with the activity levels of an ammonoid fossil. But a little understanding is needed here, I think. After all, feeding your face and sleeping lots weren't crimes the last time I checked, and, when locked in Camp Crackalack, you've got to take comfort in anything you can find. Otherwise you'd spend all your time trying to figure out how to fashion a garrotte out of a pair of Lisa's tights. Then again - if you can't beat 'em, Mo!

Speaking of Lisa, she's done herself proud this week, what with her pop at the conehead (the way she finished her rollocking with "Alright, Rrrrrrrrrrrrrex?" made me love her a little bit). Also, after several weeks of dullards banging on about wanting to "ger herm" and either steadfastly refusing to do so or slipping out with a wet fart instead of a fanfare, it was refreshing to see somebody thinking, "You know what? Sod this for a game of soldiers" and leaving a Wonder Woman-shaped hole in a six-inch-thick steel security door.

Thankfully, Lisa didn't get further than the security portakabin, which must have been a relief for all the shoppers in the Tesco round the back of the complex. After all, nobody wants to be waylayed in their quest for Bran Flakes by one of the sluttier-looking Tekken characters - especially if all she wants to do is regale you with some Derek Acorah-ish claptrap about her dog being run over by a fire engine and coming back to haunt her.

Please, Big Brother, put a bigger, stronger bolt on that door. Lisa is the show for me right now. And I'm not sure I could bear it if she really went.

Written by joejbbrett Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 311 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

16:36:14 o'clock BST
The bastard son of Patrick Kielty and Annie Lennox has a problem. OK, so he's not really the offspring of the aforementioned - but that's not the problem. No. The problem that Rex has is that he's surrounded by women who won't get their breasts out and jiggle them up and down in his direction every time he claps his oleaginous, freckly hands. Or so it seems...

Let me explain. As one of this week's Heavenly Housemates, Rex, Mo, Stu and Mikey were awarded an evening of flicking through everybody's audition tapes. Unsurprisingly, the boys didn't really take much offence at Dale's claim that he'd “nail” any “fanny” in the house. Instead, Rex in particular was far more cross about Maysoon's response to being asked if she's a sexual being (“maybe”) and Rachel's unspeakable crime of putting her hands on her bum and talking about her curves. After all, they haven't made any attempt to flaunt their womanliness since their arrival! How dare they?

Granted, Maysoon also told Big Brother that she likes to live life on the edge, when in reality she lives life on the edge of a coma. But Rachel took the brunt of his rage.

“That is just not real”, Rex snorted. “That was nothing like Rachel. Can we not swap that Rachel with the Rachel in the video?”

No, Rex, you can not. And frankly it's no surprise that the two of them would rather loll around the house, looking slightly perturbed by the various neuroses being expressed around them, than pass the time by offering to give everyone a lapdance.

“You're the most boring housemate ever!” Rex honked, jabbing a claw in Rachel's direction and squinting at her with his little gerbil eyes. “I'd swap you for Scrabble.” Top tip for Rex - if you want Rachel to be a fun girl to hang around with, it might be best if you didn't turn into a sour-faced fun vortex every time she comes within spitting distance. Just a thought.

I've got to come clean here - I was quietly beginning to like Rex until now. Yes, I know that he has traffic cone Hoxton nobber hair, he calls himself an “executive chef” when really it's only a step up from flipping burgers, and that he brays non-stop about how many litres of Cristal he quaffs of a Tuesday night. Any ridiculously moneyed, cossetted 24-year-old would be the same. But at least Rex is articulate, has a dry sense of humour, has a healthy level of contempt for the whole experience and thinks nothing of having a go at Luke (more of whom later) every time he starts squealing about whichever mild injustice or perceived slight upon his character has got his dander up.

I'm also aware that Rex has had pops at Rachel before, but as she used to answer back and, eventually, shrug it all off, I filed it in the box marked 'straightforward verbal sparring' and thought little more of it. However, his latest antics sailed across the fine line between playful ribbing and downright meanness, and resulted in Rachel sniffing back the tears in the diary room.

What a charmer. It's at times like these when I wish that they'd replace Davina with former Celeb BB contestant Germaine Greer. I think we'd all like to sit back on a Friday night and hear something along the lines of, “Big Brother House, this is Germaine. Please do not make chauvinist remarks, you bunch of priapic scumbags”.

Speaking of bitter and twisted twits, Luke has been walking round the house with exactly the same expression as Frank Sidebottom ever since Bex shared a kiss with Mo then headed down the steps towards a cloying, fawning eviction interview.

“I can't believe the public chose a guy who sleeps 18 hours a day, and a guy who sings his heart out in a bid to get a record deal, over Rebecca as the most entertaining person in the house”, he snivelled. “I'm bored and sick and tired of the same mundane gimmicks like singing and cookies all the time”, he continued to mope, before reeling off a list of reasons why some of his housemates don't like him (“I'm negative! I don't like cooking! I look like Gail Platt chewing a hornet!”).

If that's the tizz he's in now, imagine what he'll be like when he gets out of the house to find pictures of Bex draping herself over the front cover of Nuts magazine, or hanging off the arm of one of Coventry City's more spud-faced defenders. I must say I'm relieved that Mo is the one who works in Hamley's and not Luke – he'd have have thrown all the toys out onto the street the moment he stepped onto the shop floor.

And wasn't that latest turn as Head of House completely wasted on Dale? “I want people to nominate me”, he claimed, taking an especially deep breath before tackling the word “nominate”. But despite his efforts to be as disliked as possible, nobody in the house was able to summon up an emotion beyond wild indifference. If he ends up having his name against a premium rate number this week, it'll only be because ofthe introduction of the nominations booth, in which Heavenly Housemates were allowed to talk about whom they want to leave. Personally, I thought the booth was a hilarious twist, seeing as though Luke would have crawled through broken glass to spend five minutes in there, but instead had to spend the whole time looking on forlornly while pushing his lips into the shape of a cat's arse.

And the tasks of the past few days have made sublime viewing too. The clocks task could only have been made more entertaining if they'd put Dale in front of a giant Swatch and asked him to tell the time. But even better was the the chilli challenge, in which housemates had to crunch as many capsicums as they could in order to win entry to Heaven. Seeing Mo jumping up and down and screaming, with yogurt smeared all over his face, made him look like he'd been enduring a task centred around catching rabies instead. But better still will be the look on his greedyguts mush when that severe case of “ring of fire” arrives. Pooh!

Although Darnell has done his best to make amends for his rubbish leadership skills, I think my favourite housemate of the week has been Sara. Yeah, she may have a voice like the smell of burning plastic but, after two weeks of hell and a third to come, she still hasn't whinged, slagged anyone off or whipped herself into a heady whirl of fake hysteria in the belief that she'll be good entertainment. I'm also continuing to enjoy Lisa's presence, but only because a nary a day passes without me being mesmerised by what the hell she's decided to wear. Note to Lisa - the "Roid Rage Pocahontas" look is not 'in'.

And my favourite development of the week was the fact that Kat didn't make it into Heaven, despite stuffing her craw with chillies as though they were no spicier than her beloved cookies. It's not that I wish a week of basic rations and sorting Hundreds and Thousands into different colours upon her, but it does mean that she'll be spending the entire week in close proximity to Luke, while singing in the manner of a primary school assembly during an earthquake. Come on, Kat! Put your arm around him and shriek your way through your version of 'You've Got A Friend' mere inches from his face. That'll cheer him up loads. Happy house! Happy house!

OK, so it won't. It'll result in Luke dashing to the diary room to shriek that Kat is “playing a game”, for the quadrillionth time. Well, maybe she is, maybe she isn't. But one thing's for sure– game or no game, she's winning. And as long as that gets up Luke's snout, it's OK with me.


Written by joejbbrett Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 231 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

12:43:33 o'clock BST

So much for “divide and conquer”, then. Because, one week after Big Brother split the house into two camps, the contestants are more at odds than ever - and everybody is going crackers. No, Kat, I said crackers. Not cookies. Calm yourself.

You see, after being elected Head of House on a touchy-feely man-of-the-people ticket, Darnell undid six weeks of national goodwill by going about his duties in the deranged manner of a Mongolian warlord with toothache. Or so you may have surmised if you'd only listened to the gripes of the housemates on the other side of the (sadly unelectrified) fence. Yep - unchosen housemates in resenting-their-ruler shocker. Fancy that!

OK, Darnell acted a bit selfishly by choosing his best mates to live with him in Heaven; cracked a couple of horribly misplaced jokes (Note to Sarah: the correct response to "Get me some food woman" would have been to imprint his face, Tom and Jerry style, in one of the frying pans); and denied the various bickering numpties from B-Block their fair share of Battenburg slices and rank lager. So no, he didn't break his back in making the house a beacon of utopian living, but then again he wasn't exactly Alan B'Stard.

However, where he really let himself down was that he didn't apologise for being a crap leader. He could have just shrugged his shoulders, said "Sorry about that, oh well, at least I've learned something" and then got on with the rest of his time in the house. No. Instead, he launched into days upon days of whiny, self-pitying mumbling, only becoming vaguely coherent when he was telling people who were trying to be nice to him to f*** off. Even the Stepfordly-placid Rachel (played by a worried Anna Friel) is fed up with him. I think the only way he won't go this week is if Endemol puts him up for eviction alongside Zezi Ifore.

Sorry Darnell - there are no second chances in Big Brother. Unless, of course, you are Dale - a man you couldsit next to in the living room and peer through the ear of if you wanted to keep tabs on what was happening in the garden. Some people seem to think that, in the weeks following his loutish behaviour that preceded Jen's eviction, the guy has improved tenfold. But he'd only been the new head of house five minutes before working himself into one of the ranty, vein-bulging mouth-froths of old.

True, this was because Mo had a cob on with Bex and didn't like that fact that Dale took it upon himself to stick his oar in. But I'm not sure this justified the aggressive cries of "What are you gonna do about it then eh?", and a trip to see Big Brother in which Dale called Mo every slang term for "penis" under the sun. "Why do you think he's being like that with you Dale?" asked Big Brother, unable to stifle a snigger. "Because he's a f***ing c*ck, that's why!" he snorted. To be honest, I'm not sure Dale really even knew why he was angry.

So no, I can't say I'm looking forward to his week in charge - and not only because his first act was to command Bex to get her norks out and do some star jumps. After all, picking on women with such low self-esteem that they'll even lick somebody's armpit if they think it will make them more popular ain't going to win him much love from me. I just wish he'd been stupid enough to ask Lisa to do it instead. I'm sure beneath the mother hen exterior is a woman with the put-downs and kick-ass moves of Leela from Futurama.

However, the housemate who boils my piss even more than Dale is the noxious, sanctimonious and tedious Luke, who strides around the house with his big wooden spoon, providing us with the kind of snippy and judgmental social commentary you might otherwise hear on an episode of Desperate Housewives if it were being narrated by a partially lobotomised Ena Sharples.

Can I really be the only one who has lost 5mm on each tooth due to the grinding that ensues every time he starts treating Bex like something he stepped in? You'd think he'd be grateful for the attention she's lavishing upon him, especially seeing as though the people who normally take a shine to him are called things like Ethel and Doris. 

And I also think it's a bit pathetic that he spends the rest of his time bitching about some of the gentlest people ever to set foot in the compound. Granted, Kat can grate at the best of times, what with her selective understanding of English and insistence on infantilising herself. But at least she's not a mean-spirited, petty arsehole. I swear - any more shrill condemnations of Kat's "game plan" and I am going to put on a cape made out of old kitchen curtains and start singing songs about how much I love biscuits myself. I wonder how long it would take the men in white coats to tip up at my desk. With a bit of luck, they'd be the men in white coats who work at the McVitie's factory. Mmm.

Meanwhile, in the chamber of horrors more commonly known as the Big Brother 9 diary room, Stuart has been feeling sorry for himself. “I know it's ridiculous”, he moaned, “but I did convince myself that I'd meet the girl of my dreams in here, or somebody who would fall in love with me. And it just hasn't happened.”

Well, boo-fricking-hoo. My heart bleeds at Stuart's disappointment in not meeting his future wife, or at least some poor girl whom he could smash the heart of in order to give his monolithic ego a wholly unnecessary boost. But I'd like to point out that there is somebody in the house who loves nothing more than watching Stuart fannying around self-consciously, and taking sneaky glances of his rippling torso in the mirror while making blow-up doll faces in admiration. Aye, I'm talking about himself. And another couple of weeks beckon of him sitting around, tweaking his own nipples forlornly while Sarah and Maysoon measure his long face with a trundle wheel. I'll be fast-forwarding through those bits, I think.

However, I'm pleased to see that Belinda's departure hasn't stopped old Looneytunes Lisa from stumbling further down Weirdybonk Walk. And following a wealth of ghost stories and anecdotes about little green men and things that go bump in the night – the latter proving to be the result of objects falling from high shelves due to the vibrations caused by Belinda's sonic boom snoring – this week Lisa decided to up the ante by comparing herself to the Son of God.

“I said I was making a sacrifice and staying in hell another week”, she pronounced, after giving Bex the chance to become one of the new 'Heavenly Housemates'. “Like Jesus would do”, she continued, while keeping a straight face. I must admit, out of all the things I expected from this series, the Second Coming wasn't one of them. I'd better lay off Lisa in future. Otherwise, if I'm struck by a bolt of lightning next time I open my laptop, it may not be a coincidence.

Written by joejbbrett Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 129 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

15:05:50 o'clock BST
And lo, the Big Brother house started to feel a touch less oleaginous. This is because Mario, a walking government warning against the perils of crashing your car into a Ronseal tanker during an electrical storm, was booted out on Friday night – mercifully sparing us from any more of his patronising lectures on not running with scissors, the best way to prevent a blind man from stubbing his toe on a breadcrumb, and why you should never approach Bex when she's got her hands behind her back. He must have thought that, without him, the house would promptly begin to resemble the field hospital during a particularly gory episode of M*A*S*H. At the time of writing, nobody is freshly missing an eye, or has lost a finger to an ill-thought-out game of rock, paper scissors. But we've got about seven weeks left, so here's hoping!

The other contributing factor to Mario's eviction was his spitting, Hulk-necked rage at his girlfriend, Lisa, for committing the unthinkable crime of being more popular than him. According to Shaun, the only reason Lisa wasn't up for eviction was because she'd been spending all her time sucking up to everybody by disinfecting the door handles and bleaching Mikey's urinary tumbler. Lisa's fury at his accusations swiftly put paid to his other terrifying vision of a house without him, which was that she'd be torn to pieces by the other housemates the moment he was back home and applying for The Apprentice. Because, let me tell you this, it's a foolish man who messes with a woman that models herself on Xena Warrior Princess: The Gatecrasher Years. I bet Ant and Dec put Lisa's name first on their Christmas cards.

However, despite Lisa's admirable response, which was to tell her repellant, pigman boyfriend to shove his jealousy and sexist remarks where the St Tropez don't shine, I'm struggling to like her at the moment.  Don't get me wrong – unlike some people, I love the fact that somebody in that godforsaken hellhole bothers to do the dusting. And, unlike some others, I don't care that she wears enough makeup to carve a career making guest appearances as archeological sites in Bonekickers. No. What infuriates me is her persistent preaching of sub-spiritualist, unicorns-and-fairy-dust codswallop that even your average Deal or No Deal contestant would baulk at.

“I'm a great believer”, she'll begin, as I struggle not to pick up the remote so I can impale myself on it, “in wishy-washy cosmic nonsense that makes me seem interesting and alluring, and conveniently absolve myself of all responsibility for what I do with my life.” Right. So where does this leave your other half, hmm? “The universe was calling for him to go!”, she declared, before regaling her fellow housemates with a story about the ooky-spooky time she saw a forgotten bedsheet flapping on her washing line and had to exorcise it all the way into the tumble drier. Listen, love - if you're going to start telling ghost stories, at least put on a creepy voice. Otherwise it's like listening to Melanie Sykes reading out the label on the Harpic bottle while perched on the loo. Not even Belinda - another card-carrying graduate from the Scooby Doo School of Physics - could stifle a yawn.

And speaking of Belinda Belinda Bel... ah, careful - she's been much quieter over the past few days. I know she'll begin honking away like a goose being run over by a freight train the minute she falls asleep, but it's made a nice change to switch on the live feed and not start thinking, “Why is Julie Burchill in the Big Brother house? Why is she channelling Nellie Forbush in South Pacific?” As a result, I'd quite like to keep her in a bit longer – but I fear that she did enough damage in her first five minutes to secure her half hour of discussing runes and Fleetwood Mac albums with Davina this Friday night.

The most depressing moment of the week was Luke and Bex's bedtime kiss. After having failed to make Dale, Stu or Rex take a second look (apart from ones of horror), Bex clearly decided to turn her attentions towards a weaker target, and promptly started bearing down on Luke like some kind of randy car wash. And ever since their snog, Luke has been doing his best to make Bex feel as unwanted as possible (while making damned sure everybody knows that he's a Red-Blooded Man With Pulling Power). Its enough to make the notorious “PJ's BJ” incident from Big Brother 3 look like a case study in how to behave with chivalry and respect for your partner the morning after. Tsk.

“Becca and I may have shared an intimate moment“, Luke declared, just in case the likes of Sarah or Maysoon fancied leaning back and pouring caustic soda into their own eyes (after all they haven't done anything else interesting yet). “We've done that, that's over. I felt quite sick this morning!”, Luke carried on, before making further references to how unpleasant it all was at every given opportunity. Look here, fella. We know full well that you're only pulling Bex's pigtails because you want her to pull Luke Junior. You're not fooling anyone - least of all Big Brother, which took mischevious delight in broadcasting that diary room footage of you describing your paramour as “Eccentric” and “Out there” while subconsciously accompanying your every adjective with the international sign language for “massive breasts”.

Further controversy has raged thanks to Rex's refusal to buy any Halal meat for Mo. But, quite frankly, this is his just deserts for spending his first five weeks in the house licking the freeze-dried pasta whirls before anybody else could get to them. And further nutrition-related griping has come from Bex, who is far from enamoured at being one of Darnell's chosen Housemates from Hell now that the house has been divided. It's not because she's cut off from people such as Stuart or Kathreya, or has to sleep on a hard bed, but because of her restricted access to the various assorted nibbles from Borehamwood Lidl, of which the 'Heavenly' housemates are in no short supply. Instead, the poor dear is having to make do with enormous bowls of Ricicles and Lisa's attempts at baking cakes, which have the exact same taste and texture as a stack of crash mats.

“I am SO mad! LOOK! This is our f***ing luxury! THIIIIIIS!” she screeched at the diary room camera. “It tastes like actual penis. Actual plasticine penis.” How lovely. And Bex, just like Mo, it is no less than you deserve. After all, not a day has passed this week without you picking up a fistful of tuna pasta bake and throwing it at a housemate. Be grateful for what you've got. If you can't eat it, at least you'll be able to use it as a mattress.



Written by joejbbrett Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 99 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

14:19:45 o'clock BST

Dear reader, be careful what you wish for. Because, at the end of last week's blog, I was crossing my fingers for a new female housemate. And my prayers have been responded to in the cruellest and most sickening of ways.

On Friday night, the manipulative, mewling harpy Jen was cattle-prodded down the steps, still reeking of seabed detritus courtesy of the zoo animals task earlier in the week. Davina, who sounds like she has a clothes peg on her nose at the best of times, would have been well advised to actually wear one. And as soon the celebrated potato-printer had been cast into the televisual bin marked 'Babecast', three new contestants were ushered into the house and greeted with the kind of ear-violating screaming that could drown out an Airbus 380 during take-off.

Oh, and how I despise this current trend for gratingly insincere over-familiarity. The days of shaking somebody's hand and saying "nice to meet you" are long gone, it would seem; now we're expected to slobber and slawm all over everyone the very moment we meet them, before proclaiming that we'll be best friends forever or, in extreme cases, candidly informing them that we'd marry them if they were a lesbian.

After all, this was the way that Mavis Cruet from Willo The Wisp greeted the unimpressed Lisa upon her arrival in the Big Brother house. Mavis, or Belinda as she now likes to be known, is one of those excruciating luvvie types who enjoy nothing more than cornering people at dinner parties to chew their ears off with their dull, self-righteous opinions or ill-thought-out spiritualist nonsense, all of which are deployed as conversational props in order to disguise their crushing lack of a proper personality.

Sadly for us, this particular drama bore has taken a break from of putting on productions of things like Anne Frank's Diary: The Musical at Truro Playhouse in order to teach the world the way of the jazz hand (and, in doing so, hopefully convince Dina Lohan not to put any more of her daughters on the stage).

“Peeeeople who caaaare my darling”, Belinda trilled, in her bid to sum up her first 10 seconds of Channel 4 airtime in song, “Are we listening to yooooou, Big Brother, open your eyes and seeeeeeee, err, I'm having sandwiches for teeeea... darling, I'm making this up you know, darling”, she continued, as the likes of Rachel and Kathreya subconsiously totted up the amount of pillows they had immediately to hand. 

And if her breakouts into song aren't irksome enough, she insists on telling people her name three times, “So people will remember it”. Well, as long as I don't have to follow her example. I've seen Beetlejuice, you know. And if I were to type out Belinda's name three times in quick succession, I'm certain that I'd suddenly see, in my monitor, a reflection of the woman preparing to assault me with a dreamcatcher and her twelve-minute be-bop interpretation of Everything's Coming Up Roses.

And do you know, even though she thinks she's Liza Minnelli, Belinda is only showbiz in the most tragically Su Pollard-esque of ways. But she's still far more involved in the heady world of glitter and tinsel than the likes of Mario and Lisa, who have been bitching her off ever since she announced (around three minutes in) that she used to know Joe Strummer. It sure beats Marisa's much-touted celebrity connections, which include once having met Ant and Dec's production assistant, or having slipped Jacqui Dixon from Brookside's coffee mug into Lisa's handbag in Starbucks, after spending a whole lunchtime making her feel uncomfortable by staring at her and pointing.  

Lisa, in particular, has had her caged rattled by the new arrival - and I'm a bit worried about her, to tell you the truth. A couple of weeks ago, she was a self-styled super-MILF with an element of cool level-headedness rarely captured on Big Brother camera. And now that's all gone to pot. All she's done for the past week is loll about the garden clad in day-glo tights and a neon hoodie, looking for all the world like Little Edie Beale from Grey Gardens after being made over by a hysterical transvestite with an H&M club card. Even more upsetting is that, in order to cling on to her self-imposed position as house mother hen, she's foundherself trying to out-do the new arrival in the league of fruitcakey new-age soundbites.

“I've had out-of-body experiences!” Lisa declared, as various housemates failed to gasp in wide-eyed wonder. “I felt meself flying”, she continued, conveniently neglecting to mention that these “psychic” episodes were probably preceded by half a bottle of Taboo, several Spar-brand ready-mixed margharitas and a couple of Diazepam. 

You could be forgiven for thinking that Belinda was the only new housemate, but two others skulk in her shadow. Sarah (a pre-surgery Minogue) and Maysoon (a typically Big Brotherish model) both seem too nice, too self-effacing and far too socially aware for an Endemol programme. They've also proved popular with Rex and Mo, meaning that they're already well overdue for one of jug-eared Luke's increasingly poisonous smear campaigns.

However, I'd much rather claw my hand down my face while watching an hour of that weasel-eyed shit-stirrer than spend any more time trying to digest footage of patronising, teak-faced Mario or tedious, crocodile-teared Stuart, who is surely the dullest contestant since Josh from Big Brother 2. Lest we forget, Josh promised to shake the second series to its core, but spent his time in captivity doing nothing more exciting than ploughing through an Anne Tyler potboiler at the rate of two words per minute, making fellow tedious contestant Dean look like Alison Hammond on a sugar rush.

Much better viewing is Darnell, who is rapidly becoming my favourite housemate of all time. I wish I had his skills at dealing with people such as the cretinous Dale, which is to not name names and dish out accusatory remarks, but gently explain the types of destructive, aggressive, pointless, irritating and downright unpleasant behaviour he's witnessed - all in words with fewer than two syllables. The man's a genius. I'd make a wish for him to win the show but, knowing my cursed luck at making Big Brother-related wishes, he'd probably be out of the show within a fortnight.

Finally, the quote of the week goes to Belinda, and her description of the housemates as "an interesting constellation of people... I say constellation because we're all like little stars". Bleurgh. And besides, I think "constipation" may have been the word she was looking for - because I for one can't wait for the wave of relief that will come when most of them have been flushed out of the house. 'Til next time...

Written by joejbbrett Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 151 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

10:40:43 o'clock BST

Struggling to win an argument? Irked by a housemate or colleague? Stupid enough to think that somebody who admits to laughing at idiot homophobes means they're probably going to end up burning a cross in your front garden? Don't just sit there calmly, waiting for it to all blow over! Snort back a full imperial measure of snot and spray it directly into your opponent's face. Well, if it's good enough for llamas, it's good enough for Dennis - the sh*t-thick, hog-eyed waste of a cadaver who was, quite rightly, booted out of the Big Brother house last Friday.

That's right - Dennis spat in Mohamed's boat as the denouément to a row that began when Rex smeared his grubby fingers over Jen's “masterpiece” of new housemate Stuart. (Everyone's a critic, eh?) And it took Jen little more than 30 seconds to switch from saying “It looks the same” and accepting Rex's apology, to shrieking “It's RUINED! How COULD YOU!”, and plummeting into the kind of screaming, streaming mess that would have made Jade Goody look like Rula Lenska.

“You wouldn't do that to a Monet!” she bawled, overlooking the fact that Monet created astonishing, world-acclaimed masterpieces that (let's face it) only look good from a distance, whereas Jen's daubing was a ghastly affront to canvas no matter from which angle it was viewed. God knows why Stuart said it was his pick of the bunch. After all, if somebody depicted me as a syphilitic Matthew Kelly, I doubt I'd have smiled beatifically and put it up on the fridge.

The resulting indecipherable rabble seemingly went on for days, with Jen spewing out general incoherence at the disrespect shown to her art, and Dale and Stuart cashing in on her wholly misplaced grief by peacocking around the house, hoping that the one who could defend her honour the most aggressively would be rewarded with a night of drearily nudging himself off against her leg.

Anyway, following the news that he was about to be removed from the house, Dennis was unbelievably contrite. Sadly, all his regrets were about the loss of the glorious career he had created for himself in his deluded excusefor an imagination. No signing people's arses in the Karisma nightclub, Doncaster, or lucrative contracts presenting Quizmania for him - he flushed all that down the bog as soon as he started working up the extra saliva. Did he have any remorse for the way he'd acted towards Mo? Not a shred. But we should be grateful for small mercies. After all, it's only a matter of time before his horrible little sneering features pop up in the likes of Closer, bemoaning the fact that he can't even nip out for a bag of sour grapes without arriving back at his bedsit drenched in the phlegm ejected towards him by former friends, random strangers and members of his own family.

Yet again, the arguments that followed Fight Night have revolved around people complaining that their fellow housemates aren't “keeping it real”. As far as I can tell, this is Jen and Rebecca's thinly-disguised way of saying that they're allowed to dish it out as much as they like, but nobody should have the right to give it back to them. 

“Be who you really are!”, they scream at Rex and Mo, before referring to them as “pricks” and bitching about the pair of them to Dale and Kathreya and other inanimate objects. This is an unfair argument, I think, as Rex and Mo are doing exactly that - being themselves. After all, even the most upbeat person would resort to forlornly kicking around the house and scowling if they'd just spent an evening in the accusing, finger-pointing company of Waynetta Slobb and Fenella the Kettle Witch. And yes, though Rex and Mo might be a pair of grumpy sods at the best of times, at least they're not a pair of whinnying, screeching banshees who make my gums bleed with incandescent rage with every moment of airtime they receive. Still, you've got to admit that it's a brave game that Jen and Bex are playing. Turning yourself into  loathed and isolated people during a televised popularity contest is always a move bordering on genius, isn't it?

At the time of writing, nominations have not yet been announced - but I can't wait for Friday night which, fingers crossed, will herald Jen's eviction. I'm planning to do my bit for the environment by muting the TV and listening to the screaming and booing out of the window - never mind the fact that I live 20 miles south of Elstree.

On a brighter note, I'm finding endless amusement in all the footage of Mario and Lisa topping up their Sellafield tans in the garden. It's not because I particularly need to see them groping each other while grinning inanely - thanks, Channel 4, but I'd have preferred to keep that memory of Rebecca Loos manhandling a large, squealing boar on The Farm oppressed a while longer - but because of their charmingly trivial chatter in dirty flat-vowelled accents. Next time you're watching them bask in the sunshine, try not to imagine them as a pair of grinning, claymation lions bickering about "cookability". Bet you can't.

Finally, I'd like to leave you with my hopes for Dennis's replacement. Although it would be grand if it were a gorgeous, intelligent, older woman, who'd spend her days cackling filthily in the garden with Lisa and forcing Jen's face into a permanent moue, I have a better suggestion.  

Do you remember Anne, the wild card candidate who was pipped to a place in Big Brother 2 by the oleaginous Josh? The one who described herself as "not your average grandmother", and "a doer not a thinker and a late-night talker"? She promised to bring an element of maturity to the dwelling of Helen, Amma, Paulclarke et al. And frankly, right now I'd pay good money to see her striding around the garden in BHS slippers and a fire hazard nightie, banging everybody's heads together while telling 'em to shove a piggin' pikelet in it. God knows, they could all use a touch of what I'd certainly describe as "positive reinforcement". Thick ears all round.

Written by joejbbrett Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 94 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

08:50:55 o'clock BST
Feeling Irritated
Gets earlier every year, doesn't it? Just two weeks into the ninth series of Big Brother, an eviction had to be cancelled. And this time it was due to batey dimbo Alex threatening to ask her gangster mates to give the likes of Mikey and Kathreya a good shoeing, once they're all out of the house and touring the chicken-in-a-basket circuit. Rex (the only man ever to have pruned his hair into the shape of a Devo hat) promptly filled his trunks. After all, there's nothing more arse-quaking than the idea of one of Ma Baker's pals (many thanks to my fellow bloggers for coming up with that nickname and making tea come out of my nose) nipping round to your kitchen in order to give you a good drubbing with your own potato masher.  

Big Brother promptly agreed to yank Alex out of the house with a shepherd's crook, denying us the enjoyment of watching her get booed to kingdom come upon her eviction. However, I think they did us a favour by sending her back to a life of picking fights with the smiling cardboard cut outs that guard the shopping baskets in Boots. Firstly, her impromptu departure meant that Mario wouldn't get to be unbearably, greasily smug about making it through another eviction night unDavinaed, courtesy of text-happy showbiz pals such as Agyness Deyn and David Furnish. Secondly, we now have some fresh meat in the house. And thirdly, I'm saving a fortune on the wax earplugs and Nurofen Plus.  

On the other hand, I've had to invest in a box of Swan Vestas so I can prop my eyelids open while fast-forwarding through some of the most tedious footage ever committed to V+ box. Yep, I'm talking of this year's unending rotation of shit-stirrers dragging their housemates to the dinner table, where they candidly inform them that they aren't shit-stirrers, and hate shit-stirrers, and never say anything bad about anybody behind their backszzz. But there have been plenty of sweetmeats too...

My two favourite moments from recent days have come courtesy of Dale. I'm as surprised as you are. But watching him indulging in some Dawson's Creek-style dry crying while snivelling about the public maybe not liking him because of his looks was mint. Poor Dale. I'd love to go in there and reassure him that his looks aren't at all at fault. I, for example, don't like him because he breathes through his mouth like a slow toddler and can't remember which item of clothing fits on where, leaving him unable to don anything more complicated than a vest, pants and flip flops. Damn those foxing sleeves and buttons!

In fact, the only time I've ever seen a flicker behind that boy's eyes was when replacement housemate Stuart arrived, as he's obviously been brought in to rattle Dale's position as House Hunk. However, from the neck up, Stuart resembles Kitten from Big Brother Five wearing a fake, stick-on beard she borrowed from Jake Shears out of the Scissor Sisters. And now I can't watch him without expecting him to start shouting “F*ck the aristocracy!” or jig up and down to a Bee Gees-style reworking of the theme tune from Fraggle Rock. OK, that's wishful thinking on my part, I guess. After all, I'm not looking forward to the next three weeks of him sitting around, ruffling his own hair and making big cow eyes at himself in the mirror before his inevitable eviction.

Stuart describes himself as “a property developer and personal trainer” -  two of the most cruel and satanic professions known to man. But this hasn't prevented Sylvia from requiring a bucket of cold water every time she claps eyes on him. Big Brother told us that they'd previously met each other at an audition, but the way she's carrying on (clinging to him like a limpet, straddling him in bed on his first night, fixing his gaze while provocatively eating a banana) you'd think that they'd bonded while surviving a particularly sexy natural disaster. And, despite her efforts, Stuart isn't keen. This is mainly because, during the portrait task, Sylvia shunned conventional methods and decided to paint him using her own blood. Dale, meanwhile, opted to depict him with a very small penis. Probably.

Grim? Of course. But there have been further horrors to behold - such as Mario and Lisa trying to land that “SEXIEST PICS YET” deal in the Star by soaping up each other's bumcracks while a nation choked back its own vomit; the drama that ensued when it was revealed that Mikey performs his ablutions with the aid of a drinking glass (the way some of his housemates reacted, you'd have thought he'd confessed to wiping his bum with the teapot spout); and the man in question's not-very-laughable brand of “stand-up comedy”.

“When I am too tired to make love”, he beamed, “I just scoosh some cream up ma girlfriend's fanny and get the guide dog to lick it off!" Oh god. I thought Jennifer looked uncomfortable when Dale was talking about porn the other night, but this led to everybody gasping in horror. Everybody apart from Dale, that is, who applauded and then looked around the room with a slack jaw, wondering why nobody else thought it was funny.

The other high drama of the week involved Sylvia squirrelling away cookies, Rustlers microwavable burgers and Zooms for her own secret consumption, while talking about it in a loud voice to all her friends. And bizarrely, now that some custard creams have gone missing, nobody can work out whodunnit. Not even Luke, who has been scouring every nook and cranny like the the Angela Lansbury of comestibles, seemingly oblivious to the soft munching sounds emanating from beneath Sylvia's duvet.

Finally, I'd like to thank Sylvia for giving me an idea for a spin-off show. “I came into Big Brother so I could do what I want, and feel free to put a pillow on my head!”, she snorted, after Mikey asked her to pipe down a bit. Oh, Sylvia, if you insist. Ladies and gentlemen – it's Big Smother! 16 housemates, 15 cushions. Last one unasphyxiated wins. Coming to E4 in January. Fingers crossed.


Written by joejbbrett Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 73 comments: Show Recent | Add your own