Big Brother was awesome this year: Part II

Just one more day to go until it’s all over and there’s nothing to block out the crushing lonliness of my wretched life. Let us take a plough through some of the housemates.


I actually got a hit on here a while ago for the search string of “siavash looks like cowardly lion wizard of oz.” Although I’ve also had hits for “naked + raincoat” and “massive + clitorises,” the latter being from Thailand, just to reinforce all national stereotypes about ladyboys. I’m presuming here that at a certain point a large enough clitoris by its very nature becomes defined as a penis. Any doctors reading who’d like to weigh in on the issue? I don’t know what any of that says about my readerbase.

Anyway, Siavash. Yes, he does look like a hipster hobo, a sort of Ziggy Stardust and The Metrosexual Lions From Mars, and even though he acts like the coolest man in the world, it’s obvious it is exactly that – an act – and inside he’s just as self-conscious and riddled with doubt as the rest of us mortals. That’s cool, we all love a flawed hero, that’s why Frank Sinatra only really took off after he was caught fucking that window.

Siavash’s ultra-casual diary room catchphrase of “‘Sup, biggy?” is of course, the exact thing you’ll hear me say should you listen at the door when I go for a wee.


The one eviction I was unhappy with this season, Angel was genuinely a unique character, as opposed to the typical BB “character” – “I’m mad, me! I drink beer and that!” and I’d loved to have seen whatever wacky antics she’d have got up to next. Although it wasn’t fun watching the producers stand back and let her indulge what was clearly a pretty serious eating disorder, the always-dull early weeks were livened up by Angel’s Marilyn Manson meets Liza Minelli in Cabaret sense of style and propensity for making art out of discarded lager cans.

Plus, there were times, mostly after she’d stripped off and given us a peek at her Russian hat, where I quite fancied her. Then she did that thing where she she mimed a trumpet noise with her mouth and just let all the spit dribble down her chin for ages, and I deflated like I would if Michael Winner had a heart attack and collapsed onto my crotch, where he then died.


Well, he’s just this guy, isn’t he? I did warm to Marcus eventually, but just as a housemate, I wouldn’t want to hang out with him in real life. Remember, this is the man that prepares for the private issue of relieving his balls by first announcing it to a dozen people, then proudly showing them his little wanking-kit. His early plan of bullying Sree hard enough to make Noirin love him didn’t pan out like he’d hoped, so he divided his time between wistfully gazing at her across a crowded room and metaphorically dousing her with hose-like blasts of territory-marking urine.

It’s a shame that the recurring theme of Marcus’s bad breath never really went anywhere. I was hoping for some big blow-out argument that never came where the housemates who’d all been holding back because of politeness just let it all hang out, and rounded on him with accusations of stinkmouth, but that sadly didn’t happen. I still couldn’t watch a single conversation between Marcus and another housemate without imagining the Peep Show style voiceovers in their heads saying “Right whiffy, it is! Is he brushing his teeth with an elephant’s cock? Pee-yew!”


What are these people like when they’re older? Presumably acting like this is just something people grow out of, or is Freddie the younger version of those weed-stinking 40-somethings you see down the front at Levellers concerts with awful white-people dreadlocks, eyes closed and moving their arms about like the opening titles to Tales of The Unexpected?

“It’s sex outside weather, shooby-dooby-doo…”


“Eee, I’m reet excited Big Brother! Canne you tell?! *claps hands* I’m reet proper excited and that! I’ve never been so excited, pet!! THE WHOLE TIME!” People don’t find that endearing, you know, you just look like a massive twat.

An absolutely excretable bell-end with a constant look of confusion on his face, like a dog who doesn’t realise they’ve just farted.


The gay son Brian Glover probably would have disowned, or the BFG if he’d been deprived of oxygen at birth. Other than deliberately cackling far too hard at EVERY SINGLE THING, David’s greatest contribution to BB was eliciting the tired, withering plea from Lisa for “no more nanoo-nanoos.


Ah, Roddy, lovely firey Roddy. I think I speak for us all when I say you can add him to the list of such fine men as Joseph Gordon-Levitt and the young Peter Cook that you not only would, if you were gay, but who actually make you a little bit sad that you’re not. Maybe I should just try harder. Who wants to try and convert me? Any takers?

So..uh, in conclusion: Siavash to win. BYE.

~ by Stuart on September 3, 2009.

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