Sunday 24 June 2007

#13 Seany, who has already "had offers". Here's another: you can kiss my arse.


I made a promise to myself this year. I’m not watching “normal” (ie. non-celebrity) Big Brother anymore. Each series has been an increasingly depressed animal, upping its dose of fluoxetine as it leaps about with more desperate abandon.

But I did hear a grumble or two about last night’s eviction. Shouldn’t arrogant arse Jonathan have walked – or even saggy-titted earth mama Carole – before the “loveable house jester”?

Nah. The right man got the heave-ho. Seany (or Seány, as BB – and only BB – keeps insisting ; you lose the right to such authenticities when you insist on one adding a childishly twee “y”) is a man with such eminent knobend credentials, he should win a lifetime achievement Nobel Prize for services to bellendishness.

The curly weirdo has really bent my nose out of joint. And I’ll tell y’all for why: HE MADE ME SIDE WITH CHARLEY! How dare he do that to me. Ugh, I feel dirty and used. Sympathising with that gobby, attention-seeking, self-obsessed harpy – and it’s all his fault. Him, and his side-splitting “pranks”.

I don’t want to come over all Nicky...ahem...(And by the way, what is with that little ray of sunshine? She’s got Asian trophy-bird looks ; she’s a bright communicator. But she can’t break a smile because of those in the house who won’t wait until after lunch to eat a yoghurt...)

But Seany’s mischief cranked the unfunnyometer up to eleven. “I’m not being funny” shouldn’t be Charley’s catchphrase: it should be Seany’s. Filling someone’s boots with water is not funny. At all. Not even in the slightest.

Tracy, who is displaying clarity now the pills she took on her entry are finally wearing off, called it well: Seany was jealous about not being the centre of attention anymore, what with the new male additions. So he started courting the negative spotlight. Then, when the inevitable reprisals came-a-screaming at him, he did a butter-wouldn’t-melt face to make Old Saggy Tits and his other cronies come up and defend him, declaring him the most lovely, harmless human alive.

“I just wanna have a laugh,” he would protest. Okay. Me too. So I’ll soak something of yours that costs a hundred quid – like the entire contents of your tragic Manchester bedsit – and we’ll both collapse with merriment on to your flooded threadbare carpet as we attempt to control our guffawing.

Did you see him cry during the exit interview, as he tried to describe his bond with Laura? He was stalling. Because there was no bond. Other than the fact she was the only other contestant backward and Celtic enough to find a condom on a toy monkey’s head hysterical.

Seany lists one of his likes as “dancing in supermarkets”. I’m not shitting you. He dislikes “withdrawn people”. No “Seany-love” (blurggggghhhhhhh) for them. What he means is, he doesn’t like quiet, pleasant folk who show him up even more as a needy, irksome pudding-faced Mick Hucknall hobbit.

Anyway, like I say. I am not watching Big Brother anymore.

Saturday 16 June 2007

#12 The Apprentice: The toff with the tartan paint


Eh, that was some series. Just utterly triumphant, riveting viewing.

But enough of Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps. Did you check The Apprentice?

And what do you make of new protegé Simon Ambrose, the Hampstead Hoodie? If you ask me this has to be the luckiest plum gob in the history of posh boys. Repeatedly he escaped the boot in spite of world-beating incompetence and a tenacious insistence on looking like a cock.

Once Tre bailed out Simon, his lap dog, by not boardrooming him. Simon has spent the series so far up Tre’s arse, he could have told you at any point what the Ali-G-alike had eaten in the past five minutes.

Unforgettable was Simon’s performance for a shopping channel. Ignoring early indications that he was utterly useless, he chose himself to go solo. Selling trampolines, he showed how easy they were to assemble. Televisual aurum.

The nation collectively folded over with asphyxiated laughter as Simon put something out there to rival the elephant taking a dump on Blue Peter. He twisted in each ten-inch cylindrical leg, one by one, at the exact position his dick would be were it erect. We all begged for mercy as he turned it the wrong way, turned back again, and peppered the glee-inducing shambles with comments like, “Children will like playing with it” and “Adults will love it too”.

But this highlighted something fans have long suspected. The tasks have bollocks all to do with the firings. Though Simon’s main contribution had been breakdancing, and spitting “on da mike” what the “streets” were not about (not about low-cost airlines, apparently), it was clear “Sir Alan” (as he’s sickeningly referred to) had a soft spot for Mr Dippy.

Here’s where the Sugar spin comes in. The players had chosen gear for their team mates to sell on TV. Simon sold none of Naomi’s trampolines. Who was blamed? Naomi, for choosing a duff product for Simon. This sidesteps the possibility that hundreds may have sold, had potential customers not been debilitated by mirth and consequently unable to reach the phone.

Simes chose a pricey wheelchair for Tre and Naomi to flog, spawning one of the best sarcastic Tre-isms of the run: “So Simon, are you going for the disabled market?” Sugar thought the choice stank. Naomi and Tre overcame the impossible and shifted two. Sugar’s verdict? Great product selection by Simon.

Long have the tales of quitting superjobs smelt of bull excrement. But think on: it’s the bearded dwarf that manipulates us big time. Word has it that Simon and Kristina have been working for Al for six months. That’s how he makes his choice. The real-estate task was just TV. Kristina pissed all over Simon. Sugar claims they edited out Simon holding the floor. Whatever.

Kristina probably didn’t nail it because another working-class bootstrapper would make Sugar look like the inverted snob he is.

Earlier I backed Katie. Not to win the Apprentice; when she ran at Chepstow.

Neeeiiiiiiggggghhhhhhh.