brohoe
24-07-2008, 05:42 PM
God i love charlie brookers sense of humour:
Dismay! This week I was hoping to cover 100 Men Own My Breasts (Wed, 10pm, Virgin 1), if only to find out precisely what the hell lay behind its bewildering EPG-friendly shock-title. But alas! At the last minute it transpires no preview discs are available, for undisclosed "legal reasons". And so, like a dog returning to its vomit, I find myself staggering toward the Big Brother (Daily, C4, E4) house in desperation. I'd been trying to avoid it this year, but failing - partly because of a thing I've been working on, and partly because even if you don't actively tune in, you can't help picking up the odd housemate name by osmosis.
This being the ninth series, there's surely not much more society can learn from gawping at a bunch of yelping, incarcerated berks for the duration of the summer, which is why this year, to liven things up, they've covered the walls with photographs of splintered, violated eyeballs, then lobbed in a blind bloke to stagger around sightlessly in front of them. Maybe if they'd had a paraplegic contestant, they'd have plastered the walls with images of limbs being shattered with mallets. We'll probably never know.
Blind Bloke isn't actually called Blind Bloke. His name's Mikey, and I don't mind telling you he's bloody annoying. I don't mind because he'll never read this. And even if someone else reads it aloud to him, he won't be able to trust that they're telling the truth, especially if I suddenly lob in phrases like would you like me to stop reading now Mikey and push a cork up your bum? No really, would you? That's not what it says in the article; I'm genuinely asking you right now if you'd like me to do that.
That should throw him. Anyway, Mikey's mainly annoying because he SHOUTS ALL THE TIME in a MONOTONE VOICE, like he's trying to talk someone down from a ledge on the 19th floor and not doing a very good job of convincing them that life's worth living. Presumably he bellows because he can't tell how far away the others are at any given moment, which isn't his fault, being blind and all - except he also shouts in the diary room, right into our faces. I'm all for diversity and respecting others' differences but, swear to God, if I'd been in there, I'd have snapped on day four and chased him round the house, desperately flailing at his back with a belt.
One advantage to Mikey's disability is that he never has to watch Mario and Lisa chewing each other's face off. All housemates are exhibitionists of course, but they've taken it one step further, treating the house itself like the ultimate dogging location, and the viewer like a huffing Steve McFadden lookalike masturbating against their car window in the dark.
Lisa is a Robert Crumb fantasy made flesh, all sturdy calves and shot-putter stance, while Mario looks like a Spitting Image puppet of Sly Stallone crudely whittled from a gigantic boiled ham by a madman in a hurry. His neck is 10 times wider than his skull and resembles a weightlifter's sunburned thigh; atop it sits the head of a cartoon Roman locked in a permanent "O-Face". Thanks to his expression, Mario looks faintly smug and self-righteous, but this is an illusion: in reality, he's VERY smug and self-righteous. And obsessed with health and safety issues.
By rights he should stay in until the end - he's a magnificent bell-end - although chances are the audience will hoof him out, leaving us with a boxful of dregs.
The remaining housemates consist of 56 simpering brown-haired girls, a shrieking Thai version of Bingo from the Banana Splits, Alan Bennett, Albino Bennett, a tedious hunk, a tedious hunk in eyeliner, him with the Afro, Naomi Campbell Jr, a posh chef, a "bubbly" one, and Perez Hilton. And that's the lot. Unless they've all been removed by Ofcom for not passing the port or failing to doff their caps when a lady enters the room, and the house is now filled with motionless replacement dummies with faces drawn on. Dull, maybe. But at least no one's going to get shot.
Dismay! This week I was hoping to cover 100 Men Own My Breasts (Wed, 10pm, Virgin 1), if only to find out precisely what the hell lay behind its bewildering EPG-friendly shock-title. But alas! At the last minute it transpires no preview discs are available, for undisclosed "legal reasons". And so, like a dog returning to its vomit, I find myself staggering toward the Big Brother (Daily, C4, E4) house in desperation. I'd been trying to avoid it this year, but failing - partly because of a thing I've been working on, and partly because even if you don't actively tune in, you can't help picking up the odd housemate name by osmosis.
This being the ninth series, there's surely not much more society can learn from gawping at a bunch of yelping, incarcerated berks for the duration of the summer, which is why this year, to liven things up, they've covered the walls with photographs of splintered, violated eyeballs, then lobbed in a blind bloke to stagger around sightlessly in front of them. Maybe if they'd had a paraplegic contestant, they'd have plastered the walls with images of limbs being shattered with mallets. We'll probably never know.
Blind Bloke isn't actually called Blind Bloke. His name's Mikey, and I don't mind telling you he's bloody annoying. I don't mind because he'll never read this. And even if someone else reads it aloud to him, he won't be able to trust that they're telling the truth, especially if I suddenly lob in phrases like would you like me to stop reading now Mikey and push a cork up your bum? No really, would you? That's not what it says in the article; I'm genuinely asking you right now if you'd like me to do that.
That should throw him. Anyway, Mikey's mainly annoying because he SHOUTS ALL THE TIME in a MONOTONE VOICE, like he's trying to talk someone down from a ledge on the 19th floor and not doing a very good job of convincing them that life's worth living. Presumably he bellows because he can't tell how far away the others are at any given moment, which isn't his fault, being blind and all - except he also shouts in the diary room, right into our faces. I'm all for diversity and respecting others' differences but, swear to God, if I'd been in there, I'd have snapped on day four and chased him round the house, desperately flailing at his back with a belt.
One advantage to Mikey's disability is that he never has to watch Mario and Lisa chewing each other's face off. All housemates are exhibitionists of course, but they've taken it one step further, treating the house itself like the ultimate dogging location, and the viewer like a huffing Steve McFadden lookalike masturbating against their car window in the dark.
Lisa is a Robert Crumb fantasy made flesh, all sturdy calves and shot-putter stance, while Mario looks like a Spitting Image puppet of Sly Stallone crudely whittled from a gigantic boiled ham by a madman in a hurry. His neck is 10 times wider than his skull and resembles a weightlifter's sunburned thigh; atop it sits the head of a cartoon Roman locked in a permanent "O-Face". Thanks to his expression, Mario looks faintly smug and self-righteous, but this is an illusion: in reality, he's VERY smug and self-righteous. And obsessed with health and safety issues.
By rights he should stay in until the end - he's a magnificent bell-end - although chances are the audience will hoof him out, leaving us with a boxful of dregs.
The remaining housemates consist of 56 simpering brown-haired girls, a shrieking Thai version of Bingo from the Banana Splits, Alan Bennett, Albino Bennett, a tedious hunk, a tedious hunk in eyeliner, him with the Afro, Naomi Campbell Jr, a posh chef, a "bubbly" one, and Perez Hilton. And that's the lot. Unless they've all been removed by Ofcom for not passing the port or failing to doff their caps when a lady enters the room, and the house is now filled with motionless replacement dummies with faces drawn on. Dull, maybe. But at least no one's going to get shot.