Shebangabang's Next Top Model #6

Huh.

I’ve never noticed how polite New Zealanders are before.

If I tried to count how many times anybody said “please” or “thank you” in this week’s episode of New Zealand’s Next Top Model, I’d barely have time to grimace through my fingers at Colin Mathura-Jeffree’s next outfit or fantasise about Chris Sisarich’s pelvis being close to mine. And seriously. I spend a lot of time doing that.

So I’m going to give it a try with some highly-evolved, socially-acceptable niceties of my own, like:
Please, Sara Tetro, dress your age.

And:
Thank you, Chris Sisarich, for being all alive and olivey and close-cropped and there at my front door with a Terry’s Chocolate Orange in your hand and a bottle of Blue Sapphire squeezed between your cheeks.

And of course:
Please, Ajoh. In the name of all that is good and pure. For the kiddies and the homeless and world peace and an end to hunger. Blink. I beg of you. Blink.


The Judges.

Sara Tetro
Okay, so I don’t think you’re off to a Kennedy funeral this week, but it does look like there’s at least a presidential inauguration in the offing. Please tell me when the next 50% off sale starts at the International House Of Frump and I’ll make sure I stock up.

Chris Sisarich
Chris, just like in the lesson you gave the modules, I have a bucket full of props for you. And by “bucket”, I mean “lady part”. And by “props”, I mean “love”. Yes, Chris. I have a lady part full of love for you. Now show me five poses.

Colin Mathura-Jeffree
Colin Hyphenated-Surname, I don’t know if I’m squinting from pain or reflected glare, but either way my retinas are considering legal action. Firstly, you know that eye-shadow compacts are intended for more than just a single use, right? You wanna leave some pigment there in the tray for next time, nobody’s gonna mind.

Secondly, I can’t believe that there’s anything that could possibly command my horrified attention more than a shiny metallic silver suit-jacket, but then... then you decide that a kiss-curl finger-wave was the right thing to do. IT SO RARELY IS, COLIN.

Wait – I think I have a picture of it here somewhere...

Yo, Colin. Imma let you finish, but effeminate flamenco waiters in Mexican resort cantinas in the 1930s have some of the best greasy ringlets of All. Time.

The Icksint.

Part Three of possibly the most useful translation tool in the entire linguistic history of the world and stuff.

Kitwalk: Walking up and down as if angry and constipated.

Tier-A-Bull: Not very good at posing with props.

Tirrul – Leigh: See: Tier-A-Bull.

Fire Ix-tongue-wesha: A big rid thung with a nozzle that you put fires out with.

Under-pin-dunt Peer-sun: Somebody who doesn’t like to live crammed in a house with a whole bunch of other buttches.

Kwutter: Somebody who doesn’t like participatung.

A Butt Of A Duck: What Victoria thinks Ho(sanna) is for crying after the photo shoot.

Poo-Fucked: Immaculate. Flawless. Describing Ho(sanna) as anything except poo-fucked makes her cry.

Budgetirry Lumutations.
• Winner of the Haven’t I Seen You Somewhere Before Recycling Excellence Cup in the Australasian Budget-Stretching Awards here in the Rangitoto Ballroom* is the black sequinned dress from Episodes two through four. Ajoh’s turn. Doesn’t blink from the reflected sparkle. Odd.

• Taking out the I Pronounce ‘Class’ With The First Two Letters Silent Trophy is a glamorous photo shoot in a glamorous car with glamorous outfits and glamorous hair and – oh. Michael Hill watches. No, no, that’s fine. It’s like wearing Solange, Jermaine, or Dannii around my wrist. The same wrist that sort of has a rash on it now.

• Finally, the much-anticipated Golden Bucket Full Of Crap Award goes to..... the actual bucket full of crap! Because as everybody knows, nothing teaches a bunch of girls mad modelling skillz better than an umbrella, a fire extinguisher and a roll of toilet paper. What, was the Tupperware container full of dead skin not available?

Bist Buts.

• When Rebecca Rose cuts her hand scrambling for cut-price pieces of shit in the prop-modelling lesson, NO BLOOD COMES OUT. Alien lizard queen from outer space. For reals.

• Ajoh doesn’t want to do the hanging-in-the-air sportswear challenge, because she says “In Africa, it’s not a good thing for girls to open their legs”. GOOD GOD, HOW DO THE BABIES COME OUT?! Or get in, for that matter.

• I’m convinced there’s a high-hair quota each week on this show that must be filled. Sara’s Eliminarium hair goes down, modules’ photo-shoot hair goes up. Colin’s hair goes... no. Sorry. I can’t go back there.

• Rebecca Rose trying to smile in the photo-shoot is terrifying. “Look, Mum! An alien lizard driving a car! Why is it snarling at me?”

• Victoria, honey? Since you’re clearly going to a Chicago speakeasy to dance the Charleston straight after Elimination, would you mind picking me up some gin? Ta.

Ajoh is eliminated because she’s bad at following instructions. Lord knows she’s been ignoring mine. E haere ra, Ajoh! Mind your eyeballs don’t dry out.

*Yep. Looked it up. Nothing but quality Googling here at Jo Blogs.

The Punchy Punchy Chronicles: Volume 3

I’m learning so much about boxing watching The Contender.

The most important rule I’ve learned this week is that, when you’re training to be a fighter, it’s absolutely essential to choose the right headgear.

The Philosophy Of Hitting Blokes And That.

I’ve also learned more about life from these fine, sweaty gentlemen. Like what? Like:

• Uttered in the boxing ring, the phrase ‘touch ‘em up’ means something completely different to what I’m used to in real life.

• Referring to yourself in the third person is awesome, as demonstrated by Daniel. “It was a very close fight for Daniel MacKinnon”, he says. I’m totally adopting that so that I, too, can sound tough, hard, and a bit like I’m updating my own facebook status. “Jo is walking to the corner shop”, I shall say. “Jo is trying to secretly pull her undies out of her arse-crack without anyone noticing”. Magic.

• As Sonni shows us, tense situations can be diffused by singing selected bars from The Lion Sleeps Tonight and strumming your abdominal muscles like a ukulele. A-wimba-way, my man. A-Wimba. Way.

• It’s totally possible for your god to come to you in a dream and tell you he wants you to fight, provided your god is AWESOMELY BUFF like Pradeep’s.

Challenged.

This week’s challenge requires the lads to run to the top tier of ANZ Stadium, search through the cheap seats for cylinders containing puzzle pieces, run back down to the grass and construct a puzzle which contains three ‘motivational words’.

• Josh finds the challenge difficult, because (as he so eloquently puts it): “I’m scared a heights. Keep that in the dark”. Gotcha. You want to keep it a secret. Maybe just tell the cameraman, the sound guy, and everybody watching the show, then. Shhhh. He continues with “I’m shittin’ meself. Gimme five punches in the head to some bloody walk across the bridge any day”. I’m guessing from his diction and silken command of the English language that he’s about eight or nine punches to the head in credit at this point.

• Sonni’s command of English doesn’t seem to be much better. Perhaps in the Congo, the phrase for ‘You’re sitting this one out’ sounds similar to the phrase meaning ‘If you wouldn’t mind, please sprint behind us hooting into a megaphone’. Who can say.

• Junior cracks the secret to the whole challenge when he lets us know that running downhill is easier than running uphill. The motivational word inside his hidden cylinder is “Der”.

The Ladies And Offspring Of The Ring.

• Nader’s wife Amira is well dressed, calm, dignified and articulate. THAT’S NOT HOW YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO WORK IT AS A BOXING WAG, LADY. Still, if it wasn’t for the fact that she’s married to my husband, we could totally hang out.

• Ladies. Take your Boxing Wag lessons from Les’s missus Shauna, whose facial moles I am way too frightened to mention. Let’s see:
Four kids and one on the way? Check.
Boosies-out frock for maximum applause-wiggling? Check.
Animal print enswathing one’s person? Check.
Multiple pieces of dangly gold jewellery? Check.
Screaming out the phrase “C’mon, smash ‘im!”? CHECK AND MATE.

KOs and OKs

• Sonni, listen - the guy who invented the phrase ‘my man’ wants his royalty cheque. You take note too, Garth – every time you impersonate Sonni, the cash register goes ching.

• Charlotte. Lady. You’re wearing a button-down shirt made of... what is that, cotton?! Unless your underwear is woven from the mane of unicorn, the fashion industry is going to be very upset with you.

• I hear Nader is writing a book entitled How To Be Both Awesomely Noble And A Red-Hot Spunk At The Same Time. It’s the sequel to Step Up, Ball Up, Man Up, but with more pictures.

• Pradeep doesn’t so much train as dance, or Shake His Lovely Prady Lumps, as it were. Trainer Mr Beardy (I’m terrible with names, but it’s the one who isn’t The Trainer Who Talks Like He’s Drunk) calls Pradeep a warrior. He’s not a warrior, Mr Beardy. He’s a BOOGIE FIEND. Apparently the guy trains for seventeen hours a day. I can only assume that he spends the other seven shopping for sunglasses.

• Victor performs a ‘Russian Moonwalk’, coincidentally several years after the first American did. Oh, the postmodern irony!

• Oh, you know I’mma talk about Sonni and his photo now. It is a comedy in three acts, and I have bought a season ticket.

- Act One, In Which Sonni Critically Scrutinises The Finer Points Of Contemporary Photography.
“Is it me? Is it me? Serious? Maaaan, I saw myself every day in de mirror. I never know I was pretty like that. You know sayin’? I really pretty, man. It’s perfect, look at that. Perfect body, perfect every-ting. Perfect eyes, you know, to see beautiful girl around. Perfect lips, you know, to kiss. Maaaaan. Let’s try to compare”.

- Act Two, In Which Sonni Holds Up His Muhammad Ali Printed Man-Bag To Compare Two Kinds Of Beauty.
AND DECLARES HIMSELF THE WINNER.

- Act Three, In Which I Totally And Utterly Lose My Goddamn Shit.
“My Man! Jungle! Aaaah, you the man, man! Can’t wait to see you in action”.
I need an ambulance. Seriously. This awesome show hurts me.

Punchy Punchy.

This week, Nader and Les put on their dressing gowns, daub on their Vaseline and go head to head. They spend a little bit of time punching, a bit more time dripping in slow motion, and the vast majority of minutes just having a bit of a cuddle. In the end though, it seems that whoever has the studliest chest hair wins. JUST LIKE LIFE.
Nader wins because the universe is as it should be. Except for that whole seeing-Les-naked-in-the-shower thing. Pull your socks up, Universe.

I would like to dedicate this episode of The Contender to whichever member of the crew has been hired to record the grunts. Awesome job, dude.

Sit On Myspace And Tell Me That You Love Me #3

(In case you need them, parts one and two of The Most Romantic Story Ever are here).

It’s happened. My appeal to internet suitors has now crossed the Sapphic line in the sand, and I’ve received my very first online lesbian come-on. I’m sure there’s a badge or a trophy or something like that available for this sort of thing. I might say no to the secret handshake, though – you never know where it’s been.

The moist manuscript below was digitally delivered to my inbox (*cough*) yesterday.

Greeting my dear,
my name is hellen iam a young beautiful girl with full of love and caring also romantic,
well i saw your profile today at(www.themusic.com.au)and i love it,i think we can click together please i will like you to use your email address (hellen_kbaby1@yahoo.com) to contact me directly to my email box at the same time i will show you my photo and you also know more about me. thanks for your understanding please contact me with this email address below
hellen.

Hellen, before we can ‘click together’, I’d like to just clarify a few points:

• It’s no surprise to me to hear that you’re a young beautiful girl. I’ve always assumed that if I was gay I’d have super-hot girlfriends. I did also assume that if I was gay I would have girlfriends who could write emails that don’t sound like they’ve just shaken up a bunch of words in a bag, but then maybe I’m just fussy.

• My ‘profile’ at the site you mention is a tiny paragraph that mentions a promotion I got at work a year and a half ago. I’m glad you love it, but I’m worried that you just like me because you’re assuming I got a pay rise as well, and you ain’t nuttin but a gold digger. We want pre-nup.

• If we get married, may I please take your name? I just think it would be cool to sign off emails with ‘Best regards, Jo KBaby’.

Part of me suspects that this email is the result of a random web-bot’s scouring of the net for email addresses for the purposes of marketing or fleecing, regardless of the recipient’s gender. But that part of me just doesn’t understand ROMANCE.

.

Shebangabang's Next Top Model #5

Playing dress-ups is ace. When I was a little girl, my brother and sister and I could make costumes out of pretty much anything – garbage bags, sticky tape, aluminium foil, things we found on the neighbours’ clothesline, bits of old wire, and voila! A Dalek, a fairy princess, and a working diorama of the dance-off scene from Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.

It seems that the producers of New Zealand’s Next Top Model have picked exactly the same materials from the activity box, but perhaps without the sticky tape, and with far fewer Space Food Stick breaks. Someone had better remember Space Food Sticks, or that’s the lamest introduction ever. Or both. Oh, whatever. Move on.

The Judges.

Sara Tetro
Everybody breathe a sigh of relief – apparently no Kennedys have died this week. Sara may have to rush off to Tatooine in the Millennium Falcon with Luke Skywalker, though. She’s so busy.

Chris Sisarich
Chris, during the photo-shoot, a tiny swatch of your chest-hair emerged from your singlet and waved at me in the breeze. I’ve painted a completely non-creepy watercolour portrait of that exact moment as it exists in my memory. All I really need is your home address, so I can post it to you.

Colin Mathura-Jeffree
Colin Hyphenated-Surname, you HURT MY FACE. If you’re wearing that cardigan and tie, then what’s Great Uncle Barry supposed to wear to bowls? It’s selfish is what it is. It’s also yellow. Selfish and yellow CLASH, just like orange and pink, or Lindsay Lohan and life.

And don’t EVEN get me started on the Eliminarium ensemble. Working my way down (and I promise that concept makes me gag as much as it does you, sweetie), we have a quiff. With a mullet in back. And a sparkly beauty spot. And a buttonhole flower. And a white suit.
But most importantly, Colin, WE HAVE A QUIFF. Is there a rule that one member of the judging panel has to poke the sky with their hair?

Wait – I think I have a picture of it somewhere...

The Icksint.

This week, another guide to help you out with particularly idiosyncratic words and phrases, such as ‘particularly idiosyncratic’:

Dung Dong: There’s someone at the door.

Horruffuck: The experience of being in the bottom two.

Blunkung: Something Ajoh never, ever does.

Femully Dunner: Something you sit down to at night in order to discuss how big a bitch you think everyone is.

The Medness! The Unsenutty!: A cosmetics challenge according to Colin Hyphenated-Surname.

Dremetuck/Hustoruck: What couture is and stuff.

Karen Inderbitzen-Waller: I’m not even fucking joking. This is the name of the photographer this week, and her full name is spoken out loud about fourteen times. I am kissing the producers on the mouth for this. ON THE MOUTH.

Budgetirry Lumutations.

• There are two basic principles when trying to stretch a production budget:

1. Squeeze as much drama as humanly possible out of footage of your show’s contestants just sitting around talking. You can make it look like they’re having an argument by simply looping the same footage continuously for a good ten to fifteen minutes, gradually increasing the volume, for example:
“I can’t believe five of you said you thought I was going home this week”.
“We don’t really think that”.
“I CAN’T BELIEVE FIVE OF YOU SAID YOU THOUGHT I WAS GOING HOME THIS WEEK”. “WE DON’T REALLY THINK THAT!”
And so on.

2. Let your sponsor dribble on about their product for as long as they like, and then let them offer that product as a prize. In our example, Cover Girl offers the winner of the make-up challenge some products that aren’t even available in New Zealand yet! And as long as the courier keeps the leeches and bear-fat pomade in a refrigerated container, you can expect delivery of your prize next Tuesday.

• Budget a bit tight for your seaside photo-shoot? Never mind! We have a carpet, a tablecloth, a mirror-ball and some pop-rivets left over from the Punakaiki episode of Changing Rooms New Zealand.* Can’t afford accessories either? Scrounge around the waterfront until you find a couple of dead birds, then just staple them to your models wherever you see a blank bit that needs filling in. Theeere you go.

Bist Buts.

• I think I may have mentioned before that I’m pretty sure Rebecca Rose is an alien (and if I haven’t: Rebecca Rose is totally an alien). I also have a new theory, the general crux of which revolves around the fact that Teryl Leigh is a robot. Think about it – the height, the monotonous voice, the inability to look happy or sexy, the soulless repetition and lack of emotion. She thinks it’s because she’s Catholic. Tomato, tomato. Or 110111, 110011 if you’re Teryl Leigh.

• Couture photo-shoot! I. Can’t. Breathe. Which is fine, because neither can half the girls. Somebody thinks it’s a great joke to stick Laura in one of those bags homeless people carry their other bags in, and also give her very straight, very black eyebrows. That somebody is me. She describes it as ‘thus messuv seercle wuth a hid-hole’ that has a ‘messuv bum-seck’ in it. Aaand my work here is done.

• Lucy has a pheasant on her shoulder, and Ho(sanna) has one on her head. As a direct result, have tears in my eyes and a burst pancreas. Pucker up, producers.

• Wait – in her spangly photo-shoot outfit, Rebecca-Rose isn’t just an alien, she’s an entire space ship. Possibly a bit of a lizard overlord as well. I hate it when that happens.

Rhiannon is given the boot because she’s only suxteen. E haere ra, Rhiannon! Thanks for stopping by. Oh, and Rhiannon? When you pass Ajoh on your way out of the Eliminarium, could you please ask her to blink? I’d really, really appreciate it.

*Oh, you don’t knoooow. I do actual research for this shi... stuff. I’ve looked up more places on maps of New Zealand than you’ve had hot dunners.

The Punchy Punchy Chronicles, Volumes 1 & 2

Okay, so if you’d asked me three weeks ago if I’d be interested in a show about boxing, I might have rolled my eyes, scoffed in a condescending manner, and turned back to my book about the origins of postmodernism and my lime-packed, gin-based cocktail.*

But if you’d asked me if I was interested in watching a show about inarticulate sweaty men without shirts, co-hosted by Uber-Scrag Charlotte Dawson and featuring a man in a leopard-skin suit who considers his own penis as the single love of his life, I would have signed on the dotted line with ink distilled from my own tears of joy.

Hence, here are my thoughts regarding the pugilistic juggernaut that is The Contender.

I know. I’m as astonished as you are.


Episode One.

I’ve been a bit slow off the mark with this show, so I’ll just get you up to speed with what you really need to know about the first episode, screened last week.
Point one: Make no mistake: this show is about Sonni “Jungle Boy” Michael Angelo. Anyone who turns his back on Anthony Mundine in a bright yellow, leopard-skin-lapelled suit jacket is welcome ‘round at my house for kangaroo-based metaphors anytime.

Point two: There are fourteen boxers, two hosts, two trainers, and a dude who looks like a dessicated geriatric Mr Sheen, except instead of cleaning, dusting and polishing, he does... um... well, nothing. Unless you count wearing unnecessary tracksuits. Which I don’t.

Point three: There are two teams, who compete weekly in the most complicated challenges in the entire world ever since the dawn of everything. If you win a challenge you pick the two blokes who fight that week, and if you win your fight you get a necklace and your name gets slotted into a big board and you’re exempt from the following week’s challenge and you get to pick the exact wardrobe that leads to Narnia and I need an aspirin and a lie-down.**

Point four: There is a boxer called Adrian. Oh, you know what I’m doing with that when the time comes, bitches.

Right. So on to...

Episode Two.

The Philosophy Of Hitting Blokes And That.

These guys aren’t just boxers. They can lead you through, like, life and stuff. Need proof?

• Daniel Amalm tells us that we have “boxers, fighters and warriors”. It’s his way of telling us that he really really loves his new Thesaurus.

• Upon winning the first fight, Josh says it was “Like I had two tennis balls under each arm”. Your guess is as good as mine, really. When he’s given his golden gloves necklace, he says “I’ll only wear it out if I’m going somewhere special”. Badge draw night at the Mount Druitt RSL won’t know what hit them.

• Garth informs us, as a reason he was a little off in the challenge, that ‘too much masturbation sends you blind’. He did, however, break the record for Earliest Mention Of Personal Fiddling In A Reality And/Or Children’s Program.

• Luke lets us know that he’s “not blessed with any natural athletic ability”. You should totally go on a show about boxing or something, then. And by that, I mean ‘pretty much anything except a show about boxing’.

• Garth is confused by Sonni’s under-performance in the weekly challenge, and wonders if his ploy is to ‘perform like a busted arsehole’. I dunno – with the amount of shit that Sonni spouts, I’d say he’s performing like an arsehole in perfect working order.

• Luke explains that he has ‘fought in and out of a suitcase, in places that you wouldn’t tie a dog”. Don’t make me come over there and explain why this is awesome. Don't. Make me.


Challenged.

This week’s challenge, as devised and calibrated by qualified actuaries and that dude who solves Rubik’s Cubes really fast:
• First, the boys have to punch a blue dot on a wall.
• Second, the boys have to punch lots of little lights on a wall.
• Third, the boys have to throw a ball.
• Fourth, the boys have to run around a pole.
• Fifth, the boys have to run on a treadmill.
• Finally, the boys have to swear at Sonni and do what they can to avoid shaking hands with him. They pretty much kick arse at this one.


The Ladies And Offspring Of The Ring.

Boxers are nothing without their families (and their various gods and whatnot), and serious style and parenting lessons can be learned by studying the women and children behind the man behind the gloves behind the other dude in front of him with the gloves on as well.

• Luke’s missus pretty much lets the side down by dressing in a tasteful, understated blouse and non-slaggy jeans. His mother, happily, saves the day in a loud print, hair recently gusted sideways by a wind straight from the Eastern Suburbs, , jangly jewellery and a lipstick thick with matronly pride and chardonnay. THAT’S how you dress for the boxing, ladies.

• Daniel’s missus is back in New Zealand in a hoodie, so his best mate Henry visits him in the locker room, which is seriously no fun at all. Let’s have the ho-nails and inappropriate puppies-out polyester back next week please, girls. It is your duty as ringside WAGs. Thank you.



KOs and OKs

• I’m a little bit in love with Nader. He utters the phrase that will feature on a t-shirt I hope to have made soon (and one that features in the introductory chapter of Joining The Mile-High Club – A Guide): “Step up. Ball up. Stand Up”.

• I’m not entirely sure that anyone on this show eats anything besides fried mushrooms.

• Charlotte. Honey. You’re wearing a sloppy joe, tracky dacks and yellow sneakers. If they’re not lined with Swarovski crystals and phoenix feathers, I JUST DON’T KNOW WHO YOU ARE ANYMORE.

• Junior completes the running portion of the challenge in his underwear, and adjusts them thoroughly enough to show us the... er... lawn around his Hills Hoist. I’m going to need a little quiet time. Back in six or seven minutes.

• I really don’t think that any blokey, biffy reality show is complete without its fair share of cuddles. The Trainer Who Speaks Like He’s Drunk (sorry – it’s only the second episode, so not everyone’s name has sunk in yet) calms Sonni down with a touching bathroom clinch. If it wasn’t for Sonni mentioning that he wanted to shoot someone, enter their stomach and start eating them from the inside, it would be almost beautiful.

• I LOVE TRASH-TALKING FACE-OFFS LIKE BINDI IRWIN LOVES HAIR CRIMPERS. It’s all chest-bumping and cussing and other blokes getting involved with their arms and shoulders and lifted chins and wide eyes and SIT DOWN, SONNI. Wow. At this rate, I may never need porn agai... um... y’know, ever. There are few things more romantic than two men standing an inch away from each other, staring each other down. If any of them ever kiss (and I live in eternal hope), I will give each and every one of you a dollar to put towards new underpants.

• Junior, Alex Perry wants his sunglasses back.

• Can someone Everlast give me a clue Everlast regarding who this show Everlast is sponsored Everlast by? I think I blinked and missed it. Everlast.


Punchy Punchy.

Daniel and Luke take off their pyjamas, put in their good teeth and smack shit out of each other. I don’t really understand the rules of boxing, but from what I can see, the guy with the smallest number of bogan tattoos wins. JUST LIKE LIFE.
Bye, Luke. Your skill with spelling and grammar will be missed and stuff heaps and that.


And we close tonight with some images of a naked man in a shower in dim blue light. I’m pretty much going to insist that every show on television finishes like this from now on, including the news, Mornings With Kerri-Anne and all Zoot Reviews. Back me up.

*Beer.

**Beer.

.

Shebangabang's Next Top Model #4

Okay, so it’s late at night, you’re feeling peckish, and you check the ‘fridge to see if there’s anything worth pillaging. You open the door, and there, right on the top shelf, is an unopened packet of Tim Tams. You put one in your mouth and chew slowly, savouring each divine, satiny, brown-drool-inducing tongue-roll. All of a sudden you hit something unusual and tough, so you pull it out of your mouth. It’s a piece of paper. You unfold it and realise it’s a voucher for eight thousand more unopened packets of Tim Tams.

New Zealand’s Next Top Model is finding the packet of Tim Tams.

The makeover episode is eating the Tim Tams.

The photo shoot involving plastering the modules’ faces with sequins, feathers, glitter and paint is, quite clearly, eight thousand more packets of Tim Tams.

And Colin Mathura Jeffree is the limp carrot in the crisper. You know I’m right.


The Judges.

Sara Tetro
DRESS YOUR AGE, WOMAN. Also P.S: I know you’ve been going to a lot of funerals lately, but nicking frocks from dead old ladies is really crossing the line. As is, granted, the use of the phrase ‘dead old ladies’. Sorry. FYI, ‘Lacy Shoulders’ is a drag name, not a dress code. I know you love me, though, because you totally said the following on purpose during the Eliminarium deliberation: “Ulivin girls, but we ken only keep tin of thum. I suspect we might get un a but of a screp over this, so shell we try and keep it suvul?”. Thank you, Sara. I love you too.

Chris Sisarich
Waaaiiiit. I see a deep v-necked t-shirt and a driving cap. I’ve... I’ve seen this before. Could – it’s not – Chris ‘Do Me Right Now’ Sisarich, have you been raiding Jonathan Pease’s wardrobe?! Tut, tut. That’s a spanking.

Colin Mathura-Jeffree
Colin Hyphenated-Surname seems to have spent a lot less time around powerpoints and humidity this week, but someone still needs to take his Big Book Of Fierce Gay Stylist Words away from him. Every time he refers to it, he appears to skim through the pages, looking, seeking, and then suddenly bursting forth with a “FEBULOUS!”, or a “STUNNUNG!”. Still, I have to give him points for embracing the briny theme of the underwater walking challenge by dressing as a pirate. He even went to the trouble of making his hair look exactly like kelp. Wait – I think I have a picture of it somewhere...

The Icksint.

This week I’ll be providing you with a glossary to help you out with some words and phrases that you may be having trouble with:

Jezzercise – exercise one performs to a contemporary pop soundtrack after getting dressed in a hurricane in the 80s.
A-queer-i-um – a place with heaps of fush, but sadly no chups.
Redicowl Dufferunce – what happens when you get a haircut.
Vij-ta-bulls – what Ho(sanna) eats instead of chocolate.
Ix-ercise Ekwup-munt – various apparatus delivered to the house to facilitate weight maintenance and futness.
Squunt – what you do with your eyes in a photo shoot in order to look sixy
You Kept-a-vated The Lins - you take choice photos, ay.

Budgetirry Lumutations.

Clearly the production budget blew out on face-sequins for the photo shoot, and there were only just enough spangles left to furnish the modules with one black sequinned frock. Last week Teryl-Leigh wore it to wreak racial havoc amidst the shower-hogging crowd. This week, Christobelle turns up to the walking challenge wearing it, and Lucy fronts up to the Eliminarium in it. That. Dress. Is. A. Slut.

Bist Buts.

• A lot of the girls are upset with the drestuck changes that are being made to their hair, and daub their faces with a mixture of tears, snot, and clumsy strings of damp tissue. Ladies. Take your elegant crying lesson from Ajoh, winner of this week’s Single Crystalline Tear award. Now, if we can just get the girl to blink, we’re on a winner. Seriously. Blink. I beg you.
• Sara tells Ho(sanna) that she’s getting an Eva Mendes haircut, but her hairdresser confuses her when he mentions that she’ll be getting ‘a Mediterranean kind of look’. Ho nervously asks “Is... is that near South America”? Yes, sweetie. Just next door. Near Belgium, but with heaps more sombreros.
• Everyone does quite well out of the makeovers except for Laura, who I will now be referring to as ‘Cotton Bud’. No reason.
• This week’s walking challenge involves confusing designer clothing, heels, walking on a conveyor belt, and being in an underwater aquarium tunnel. For reasons like this, I would eat this show’s snot if it asked me to.
• Despite my better (bitter?) judgement, I’m starting to pinpoint my favourites, and I mean that in an if-I-was-gay-I’d-totally-have-a-badge-made-featuring-your-face-and-if-you-leaned-in-to-see-it-I-would-jump-you-like-a-cheap-trampoline kind of way. Victoria and Ruby, I’m talking to you.
• Ajoh. Honey. Look into blinking. Come on.
• This week’s photo shoot tattoos daisies on my heart. The 2nd grade arts and crafts class from Taranaki Remedial Primary For The Blind has a fucking field day with sequins, glue, glitter, feathers and acrylic paint, making all kinds of miniature facial models of cartoon explosions and bacterial colonies. Apparently the theme is ‘underwater tropical fantasy’, but I see it more as ‘petri dish chic’. Except for Rebecca Rose, who has gone for more of a ‘bowel-looseningly terrifying bird/alien hybrid’ vibe. Bless.
• FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, AJOH, BLINK.

Anyway, Olivia is eliminated, presumably because she’s wearing a black velvet bow in her hair.
E haere ra, Olivia! You really and truly... well, showed up. Thanks, by the way. Bye.

Sweet, fierce baby jesus, this is my 100th Next Top Model-related post. That’s eight different kinds of get a life.

Shebangabang's Next Top Model #3

This episode of New Zealand’s Next Top Model is respectfully and sombrely dedicated to all those who were killed during the making of the program.
In random order, this includes:

- The English language
- The last vestige of credibility attributed to the hip hop genre
- My eyes and life
- Eight thousand brave, frizzy chinchillas
- The memory of Jackie Onassis.

Moment of quiet contemplation, please. Thank you.

The Judges.

Sara Tetro

Sara is no longer satisfied with just dressing as if she’s attending a Kennedy funeral. She’s dressing as Jackie Onassis. Come on now, hair and make-up people. You know that if you take your finger off the hair-spray nozzle, the hair-spray stops coming out, right?

Chris Sisarich

Even in a bad hat in a fake snowfield, Chris is hot. You know the kind of hat that rednecks generally wear when it gets cold – kind of a furry thing with flaps? Chris, you may wear mine.*

Colin Mathura-Jeffree

Colin Hyphenated-Surname, you kill my life. If I listed what you were wearing during the “hip hop” (*cough* Blossom-the-prostitute-years *cough*) challenge to someone who doesn’t watch the show, they would assume I was describing the contents of Jennifer Beale’s and Bernard King’s combined suitcases. And your hair during the dance lesson? Wait – I think I have a picture of it somewhere....

However, and I mean this with a heart full of dread and an oesophagus full of sick, the sour icing on the horrifying cake was the look you dragged into the Eliminarium. SHOW ME IN THE BOOK WHERE IT SAYS IT’S OKAY TO MAKE YOUR HAIR INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM YOUR COAT. That... that shit ain’t right. Wait – I think I have a picture of it somewhere...

The Icksint.

• The lesson this week? Densung! The style? Hup Hop! The level of ability? Shut! Even Colin can see that through his coiffure du canine, and describes the girls as looking like “whin you pull spaghitti out of the peckut end drop ut on a plate”. Aah. It’s funny because it’s pasta.

• Just before she gives up on life, Sarah starts small by saying she “hes a bed hidache”. She refuses any offers of Penadowl, though.

• Colin Hyphenated-Surname could not possibly have said the word “dindruff” more frequently in the Eliminarium. And he could not have looked more like he probably had some.

Budgetirry Lumutations.

• As the walking-challenge winner, Teryl-Leigh gets to go on a chartered flight around New Zealand. Lord knows what she’s going to do with the other twenty-three hours and forty-five minutes of the day. Pray, probably.

• For the snowy photo-shoot, the modules are wearing hats that have clearly been sourced from the Tatarariki Women’s Institute Knitting Circle.** It’s good to see the production team supporting local industry, and besides, what are they gonna do – run out of wool?

• No fancy snow-blowing machinery for this show, no sir! We’ll just get Dennis the runner to peg bits of ice at the girls for a sumular affict. DINDRUFF!

Bist Buts.

• I loved every single outfit worn by the modules in the hip-hop challenge, because when I burn things, I like them to burn fast, and I like them to burn bright. By far my favourite, though, was Teryl-Leigh’s shirt, which said ‘WHITE BY BIRTH. TRASH BY CHOICE’. It was. It was choice.

• Also losing at life today: Olivia, who a stylist decides will be wearing an eyepatch down the runway. A stylist I would like to kiss on the lips for making this very decision (unless the stylist is Colin, in which case there’s a brief thank you note in the post). Colin describes her runway performance as being a ‘bit flet’. THAT’S BECAUSE HER DEPTH PERCEPTION IS IMPAIRED, ARSEHOLE.

• Wow. We have racial tension in the house. Let’s spend about fifteen minutes dwelling on it, shall we? I’m not belittling racial tension, I’d just like someone to wake me up when there actually is some. As far as I was concerned, it was a fight between a shiny anorak and a sequinned t-shirt. SEQUINS WIN.

• Was there a reason that, for the photo-shoot, the girls couldn’t have just gone and done it in a nice warm studio, with nice warm fake snow? Or do you think that they did it in sub-zero temperatures because it’s so much more entertaining to see skinny girls’ internal organs crystallizing? I’m just going to leave that question open, really.

Sarah is kicked out because she’s homesuck, instead of Olivia being sent home because she sucks. No, because if you say it with an accent, it sort of sounds the sa – shut up.

E Haere ra, Sarah! You’re still the hottest epileptic ex-junkie single-mother dirty quitter I’ve ever seen, doll. Go buy yourself a rainbow.

* Just in case there’s any doubt, I’m talking about my vagina.

**That’s totally a thing! I looked it up! I may have made up the Knitting Circle bit, though. I was kind of asleep from looking at the website of the Tatarariki Women’s Institute. God, no wonder they take up knitting.