Big Brother 2011 – Almost-live Blog

It’s launch night. Thankfully, the Channel 5 relaunch all feels the same. I think all us hardcore BB nerds worried it would be different and downmarket, but they’ve got the Geordie voice-over guy, the same production values, and a door from which they all emerge which seems ripped straight from Alien. That’ll do me. Brian Dowling is so nervous he’s visibly shaking like a dog at a firework display. “I hate him,” I think, “he’ll ruin this for me,” but then I remember how much I hated Davina.

First entrant Kerry Katona now affects a permanent slur, and staggers down the aisle like a punch-drunk Gozer the Gozerian, wearing a fluttery black number a fancy corpse would rock on their wedding day, showered with dead flies instead of rice. If she can pass C5’s psyche test, then there’s still hope for Lauren Harries. Hope springs eternal. In Tara Reid, we have another slurry blond with messy surgery, waving to the crowd with bingo-wings that flap like the sails of an old Chinese junk. Tara is so drunk/nervous/crazy, she doesn’t even understand the word ‘Kerry’. “I know nothing about this,” she says, which bodes well, like when equally freakish and weeble-brained American Brackie Stallone entered the house, genuinely thinking she’d be living in a fabulous medieval castle with the most brilliant minds in Britain, being lavished by servants, but instead getting John McCririck sitting in his pants, chewing on bogies with his little yellow teeth.

Two housemates in, and I feel like Dr. Drew is about to call all the housemates (read: patients) into the lounge and start digging up long-buried traumas while reading out the results of their pee tests. But from the feel of rehab clinic, when they wheel out the bare-knuckle gypsy fighter, things switch to being completely incomprehensible. Tara took three goes to decipher the word “Kerry,” so how she’ll deal with Irish Rowley Birkin QC is anyone’s guess.

Next up is a girl from a show I don’t watch, who appears to be there solely to fill the yearly “OMG, no wai! Yeah I’ll kiss a girl if she’s sexy. What’s London, is that a country inside Paris?!” vacuous spot. Her ‘thing’ is that she’s the self-proclaimed vajazzle queen. “I stuck some Panini’s on me twat. Look, Ronnie Rosenthal is keepin’ me labs together! And have a closer look at me clit. See that? It’s a lickle jelly baby. Don’t touch it, you pervert!”

"I'm a tramp, a bum, a hobo. I'm a boxcar and a jug of wine, and a straight razor if you get too close to me."

Then comes Mr. Paparazzi; one of those pricks with a self-dubbed nickname. As the guy who proudly claims to have invented the culture of long-lense, privacy-invading, body-image destroying ‘journalism,’ if there’s any Karma, he’s only in there so they can keep the cameras on when he’s having a shit, and spend the next three weeks filling the tabloids with pictures of “Lyons’ disgusting arse! Eurgh, it has poo coming out of it!” The wife of the speaker of the house of commons enters. I have literally no opinion about this.

“People will know me from Coronation Street,” says a man I have never seen before. Perhaps he’s the Chantelle-style real person put in to fool everyone. The footage of him in Corrie appears to have been put together by computers, like that bit in Forrest Gump where Forrest shakes hands with JFK’s widow as she scrambles into the back seat with skull fragments in her hand, then tells her he “made a yellow milkshake” in his pants. And what’s this clearly-not-actually-famous guy’s name? Lucien Lovelace? Something like that. I stopped listening when he said David “Pauline Kael” Beckham recommended he become an actor. The next entrant is blonde, she’s called Pamela, and she was in Baywatch. No, not that one. Yeah, I have no idea who she is either, sorry.

Each time they cut to the living room for a new housemate, Tara’s impenetrable babbling brings to mind the crazy gibberish seen in Youtube jail cell interviews with Charles Manson. Again though, I’m ashamed to say that, celebrity obsessed as I am, they could just be having a laugh with the next housemate, and I’d have no idea. He says he’s a model. He says he likes birds. Fuck him, the pretty bastard. He says he’s “a car crash around women,” which brings the first smile for fifteen minutes when I picture him flying through a windscreen and emerging so unpretty, that he has to develop some sort of personality, but can’t, so he kills himself. Then come the main event. Jedward. Jedward have a real “There’s a dog in the school!” feel about them, all hyperactive sugar-prattle and darting about, this way and that, but they make teenage girls squirt like a broken radiator, so they’re going to win.

Well, there’s your winner(s) for Celebrity Big Brother 2011 – a pair of giant retarded candles. G’night, everybody!

~ by Stuart on August 18, 2011.

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