CELEBRITY BIG BROTHER
LUV - Right, pay attention. Celebrity Big Brother is back! BACK, I tell you. Barely had its tired, weakened bones been laid to rest in the Channel 4 mausoleum last year, before Channel 5 were feverishly digging it up, flicking off the maggots and drawing a massive knob on it. I’m EXCITED.
Clearly I hate myself for this, for I am a learned woman who reads The Guardian and knows how to use a semi-colon and listens to Radio 4 (Only the funny stuff, mind – none of that politics shit or the radio plays that sound like they’re being read by asylum escapees). Of COURSE I appreciate that CBB is a vacuous, puke-ridden swamp of washed up has-beens who your local panto wouldn’t touch, even wearing a full biological warfare suit and Kevlar oven mitts. And now it’s on CHANNEL 5, which means that any day that passes without a double figures nipple count will be considered a waste of valuable airtime; Richard Desmond will be conducting from the gallery, yelling “I want MORE TITS, goddammit! Hide their clothes! Send in Cheggers! LOOK, there’s an ARSE poking out from under that duvet! ZOOM IN! ZOOM IN!”
But I don’t care. I love it. Where else can you see George Galloway tossing aside the last few dregs of his credibility by stuffing his knackers into a lycra body suit and purring “I’ll be the cat” to Rula Lenska, (other than a website dedicated to geriatric feline porn)? Where else can you see Verne Troyer getting hammered, perving at women with boobs bigger than his head and then crashing his motability scooter into a door? Or Stephen Baldwin helping Alex Reid to find Jesus, or Pete Burns calling Jodie Marsh an imbecile? WHERE ELSE will you find Dane Bowers, Stephanie Beacham and Ivana Trump in the same room as DJ Basshunter dressed as a pig? Seriously, people. This is CUTTING EDGE TELEVISION.
And if this weren’t ENOUGH, rumour has it that the new series will feature NOT ONLY Kerry Katona, but also KERRY KATONA’S MUM. Who apparently gains celebrity status by proxy, having scraped the putrid foam off the surface of the gene pool, strained it through a velour tracksuit, implanted it in her womb with a turkey baster, then pushed it out through an Iceland prawn ring and called it Kerry. They will be accompanied by TOWIE’s Amy Childs (who I had to look up, having never watched) – the best description I can come up with is an inflatable doll with a voice akin to setting fire to the end of a knitting needle and slamming it into one of your ears with a meat hammer.
Sorry? You’ve made it this far and STILL haven’t worked out the single most brilliant thing about Celebrity Big Brother? OK, here it is. You ready? At the end of every episode I do a little Tim Henman fist punch in celebration of being comparatively normal. I am not famous, I’ve never had two tuppences to rub together (another staple of Big Brother, as it happens – vajazzles ahoy), I don’t even own a DECENT HANDBAG. Yet I am sane, and these celebrities are more batshit crazy than a trio of rollerskating unicorns.
Need a life coach? Fuck that. Every ounce of therapy you will EVER NEED is right here. Watch it and bathe in the cheap, warm lager of your ordinariness. Marvel at your unremarkable, banal existence. Your future may be an uneven path full of unexpected twists and turns, but go about your business safe in the knowledge that you will NEVER, EVER be trapped in the Bungalow of The Unhinged with Kerry Katona.
No really, you’re welcome.
- Heidi Stephens
HAT - Right, let’s all make a deal. Next time someone decides to kill Celebrity Big Brother, can we do it properly? Can we cut off its head with a spade and then encase it in a lead-lined concrete block and sail it out to sea and drop it down the conduit of a subaquatic volcano forever? Can we do that?
We must. Because every time we don’t kill Celebrity Big Brother properly, it’ll just keep reanimating with a smaller budget on a smaller channel. Which is fine when it means going from Channel 4 to Channel 5, but look to the future. What do you see? That’s right, the Price-Drop.tv Celebrity Big Brother, slung together for 50p, filmed on a Nokia that belongs to someone’s dad and featuring the corpse of one of the Chuckle brothers and a confused old man who was either on The Bill or just happens to be called Bill. This will happen. It WILL. I have SEEN IT.
But let’s deal with that nightmare when we get to it. For now, looming over us like a dribbling paedophile with an erection, is Celebrity Big Brother 2011.
We’ve been through this nightmare before, of course, so we know what to expect. The catastrophically dull glamour model. The hasbeen who’ll throw a tantrum and storm out. The angry American. The politician. The reality TV star who’ll say “It’s time that people saw the real me” and then act surprised when the real them turns out to be a massive cunt. The level-headed one, who will win. The racist one, who will not win.
And, for fuck’s sake, Jedward.
Jedward. Funny for ten minutes in 2009 Jedward. Jedward. Jedward who make your teeth itch. Jedward who make your balls retract. Jedward who make you cry animal vomit. Who are compelled to use the word ‘guys’ at least six times in every sentence. Who consist of one twin who loves being in Jedward and another twin who looks like being in Jedward causes him tremendous pain. Jedward. Jedward. Fucking Jedward.
So Celebrity Big Brother will be awful. Everything about it will be awful. The show itself will be awful. The newspaper coverage of it will be awful. The inevitable race war and ensuing parliamentary debate will be awful. But, most awful of all, it means that we’re in for another summer spent listening to all sorts of uppity arseholes droning on about how much they hate Celebrity Big Brother. People who do this are, without question, the worst people in the world.
Yeah, I know. Shut up.
- Stuart Heritage