Saturday, August 19, 2006

Enormous cock...

Well, it was hardly a surprise, was it? Those of us that have invested several hours over the last 13 weeks knew from the very moment he fell down the stairs on his entrance into Big Brother 7 that Pete, little Petey Pete, little Tourrette's P, Peter B, the Bennett boy, Tickey P, the man with the enormous cock and a mother what used to play with The Communards, was going to win. How did we know? Well, we saw it in the tabloids, that's how, on day two. And every subsequent day. And, although our alliegances were with ghetto princess Aisleyne (who has been hideously bullied by the show's producers throughout but nevermind all that, she's only a person), it was inevitable that other viewers, who believe everything they read (well, why wouldn't they?), would back the man someone somewhere decided was a winner. Well, naturally, they're all winners, having gone on a journey that's taken them from a front door and back out of it again, but you know what I mean.
I shouldn't think Pete will have much of a pre-watershed career in broadcasting ahead of him, instead no doubt going on to front "Wankers! Heserman! Wankers!" on late-night E4, but good luck to the funny little boy, whose faith in heaven has now been restored due to a premonition involving a dead mate and a spiral he had to climb up (fuck off!), and here's hoping that irritant Nikki, who does, quite unfathomably, have a career in broadcasting ahead of her, doesn't spend all the 100k within the next 24 hours. So, Nikki, then. Quite an unwatchable little beast. Like Davina McCall before her, not suitable for hosting any live television event. Totally and utterly mentally unstable. And, last night, her hair had so obviously been coiffured by a team of blind meerkats. Who will watch another programme with her in it? Television producers snort far too much coke.
Once upon a time we complained that we lived in an era where people were famous for being famous. Now they are famous for being utterly disfunctional freaks. The entire crop of housemates this year need help. Fast. I suggest that help is in the shape of a big hole in the ground, where we should bury them alive with the use of fast-setting concrete.
As for BB8, let's do away with the live audience, let's relocate the action to somewhere with an extreme climate and an absence of food and drink, let's ban Heat magazine from covering the event, let's not attempt to rig the outcome, let's not keep changing the rules, let's hand over control of the show's editing to someone with integrity, let's not award a cash prize, let's not reward the 'winner' with a lucrative career in the media. Here's a wild and crazy idea - let's just conduct a sociological experiment. Or scrap the fucking thing.
Besides, I only watched it so I knew what Russell Brand and his ball bags was going on about. Exciting to have ball bags. Nice.

Listening: Basement Jaxx - Crazy Itch Radio

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