Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series Three #1

It's back. And so am I.
Apart from the fact that, with the exception of two of the scrags, I have NO predictive skill whatsoever as far as the modules' personalities are concerned (See: Ready… Set… SCRAG!), I wasn't disappointed. This is a bunch of scrags, all right. And I'm deeply in love with almost all of them for strutting awkwardly into my life once again. Now, six nights a week, I'll live the life of a rock n' roll social dynamo, fashionably comfortable in crowds and the svelte, limber life of any party.
And then, on Tuesdays, I'm staying home to watch this glorious, glorious shit.
Welcome, one and all, to the Papa's Got Some Brand New Scrags episode of Australia's Next Top Model.

· This season, the time spent dragging cameras through the shopping-centre audition queues was mercifully short, with the highlight being one girl, who obviously took time out from her PHD studies to audition, claiming that "I class myself as pretty newyeek…. noo-ik… eunuch…".

· We're shown each of the final twelve potential modules arriving at their first muster-point, luggage bulging with synthetic fibres and contraband in tow. This is where I'll offer my, and at times the judges' first impressions:
o Paloma – I was bloody right about this girl. If the Mediterranean region had its own variety of mental disease, this would be it. Attractive in a screeching Spaniard, "You suck, and I spit in your inferior salad" way, she turns looking down her nose into a hoity art form. I'm going to hate her, and I'm going to love it.
o Sophie – I was right about Sophie, too. Sophie is going to win, and Sophie is going to be my new best friend.
o Steph F and Steph H – I refuse to separate these two girls until somebody gives me a reason to. Both non-descript-pretty. Both may surprise me. You are now The Stephs. Let's see if one of you becomes Golden Steph.
o Anika – has boring clothes, spectacles, a mildly interesting face and massive, heaving ba-zoingas. What a rack. She's an E-cup, and she shouldn't be turned upside-down for risk of suffocation.
o Jaimi – her name may have dropped an E, but she certainly hasn't. Highly strung, dime-a-dozen peroxide blonde beach girl.
o Jordan – Inexplicably, I quite like this chick. Face like a powerpoint, cries at the drop of a hat, and perpetually amazed at nothing, with a westie drawl that could peel varnish, but goddamn endearing nonetheless. Introduces the phrase "Oh More Gourd" into the ANTM vernacular. Constantly.
o Danika – Nice legs, shame about the mug. Puppy fat, big nose. Bye.
o Cassandra – uncontested bogan westie QUEEN. From Emu Plains. Hates Paloma, so welcome at my house for rum and chewie anytime. I may start a tally of how many times she says "fark", if my pen can move fast enough. Walks like she's pocketing a packet of Winnie Blues and a robust set of testicles.
o Alice – pale, almost translucently skinny, ginger, and full to the scrawny brim with image ish-yous, will probably kick arse in this competition. Could give Allegra Versace a run for her skinny money, as long as the run was really short, with a fat-free spoonful of air at the end. Less heroin chic, more laxative chic.
o Cobi – Olsen twin look-alike, but from the Full House era. Still looks a little bit foetal, but in a weawy, weawy cute way. Short with no boobs and frizzy hair. See ya.
o Jane – Token dollop of rock n' roll, has potential somewhere underneath the bad-i-tude and slouch. Looks cranky most of the time, and can barely talk through her bejewelled mouth-metal. Looks like a homeless crack-whore, so may grow on me.

· This episode was ninety minutes long, so I'm not going to go into the minutiae of each scene. Instead, I'm going to offer up picturesque tableaux of unparalleled depth and beauty. And like, describe some shit n' that. First of all, Jodhi Meares, from now on known as Joydhi. She seems to have complicated the Australian vowels to the point where she almost has a speech impediment, making sentences like "I've modelled in magazines like Clee-oy and Voygue" pure joy to behold.

· Jonathan Pease, the stylist of the series, is described aptly by Jane as a "pretty boy with wicked shoes". He says he doesn't pull any punches, but I suspect he may run screaming from some like a big nancy. We'll see.

· A complicated challenge involving four different rooms, photographers, hair, makeup, product placement, swimming costumes and frocks offers the following nuggets:
o Sad Alice didn't expect to be wearing a bikini on the first day, so she's shy about changing and hasn't had a wax. Honey – you've just entered a modelling competition. You don't have to eat, speak, or think, but hedge-trimming should really be a given. Her fanta-pants curlies in the barely-there Tigerlily cossie look like an ironed Scottish man with sideburns. You could cut diamonds on this girl's hipbones, but I wasn't sure if they were bruises on her legs or just dark objects in the background that could be seen through her emaciated frame. Jeez – add a pencil-case full of razor blades and iodine and you've got a midday movie.
o New Best Friend Sophie scrubs up tops, and looks fabulous.
o Jane is all about contrasts. She contrasts her pretty frock with spread legs and an awkward crotch-grab. Miss Dally-Watkins, where are you? We's got a 'mergency.
o I say this every single series. Modules' opinions are irrelevant. Modules are bits of obedient plasticine who are paid to look how they're told to look. Any module who thinks they can dictate their own style is dreaming. Paloma, I'm talking to you. Your fringe is not your trademark.

· This year's Scrag Headquarters is a bit sad, although I admit that I may have become too accustomed to the OTT décor and luxury of the Module Mansions from the US series. The Australian house is nicely kitted out, but the school-camp bunk beds are a bit twee.

· House rules, designed to keep the girls out of legal trouble and to ensure drama of the pettiest kind, include different restrictions for those under 18, including a bedtime and a homework requirement. Paloma, who is 17, chooses the rule-reading as her first opportunity to introduce us to what I'm calling Palomelodrama. She claims she doesn't "look, act, or think 17", and then proves the exact opposite by having a sooky tanty in the bathroom.

· I'm going to summarise the Jaimi boyfriend drama as if it were a children's book, which will give it the gravity it deserves:
Jaimi put her tongue in a boy who wasn't hers.
Jaimi's boyfriend was sad.
Jaimi talked to her boyfriend on the big black telephone. She talked a lot.
Jaimi wants to come home to her Mummy, Daddy, and boyfriend, so she can sort out her funny kerfuffle and not be scared by the skinny girls anymore.
Jaimi's boyfriend is indifferent and stoical, almost to the point of autism.

· Photo Shoot One, and the scrags are dragged off to various locations in costume to shoot a promo for the show, which takes upwards of 20 hours. Scene Two of the Palomelodrama involves the Spanish Psycho, who is supposed to be dressed as a magistrate (in line with the universal understanding that the judiciary are sexy and high fashion) refusing to wear a wig. After Anika is announced the winner of the photo-shoot challenge, and engages in some gloating in the car home, Paloma has a highly mature and sophisticated panic attack in three different household locations, sometimes in sunglasses. I think they edited out the bit where she smashed some plates and screamed "Ayayayayayay!!". We see the beginnings of a Cassandra/Paloma bitch war, which pleases me no end – I predict scenes reminiscent of a Pit Bull and a hungry feral cat tied together in a bag. Paloma utters the utterly stylish "Fuckin' whore. Saying stuff about my mental health". Please stay in the competition, my Iberian Imbecile. It's like watching a tall, gorgeous four-year-old have a screeching hissy in the supermarket.

· Anika's prize is a visit to Bondi Icebergs with Joydhi and two other scrags, whilst the remaining house-bound modules do laundry. I'm temporarily distracted by the list of ingredients on a bag of salt. Yawn.

· Photo Shoot Two, and the scrags frock up in gorgeous rags and fluffy hair for a glamorous group shot in which each module is encouraged to shine. New Best Friend Sophie and Transparent Alice look gorgeous, Anika does well but is overshadowed by her gargantuan norks, Cassandra looks a bit Year-10 Speech Night, and Jane scowls malevolently. The Stephs, Jaimi and Paloma are unremarkable, and Cobi looks like she's borrowed an outfit from Mummy's dress-up box. Jordan got the rough end of the hairdresser's pineapple and Danika keeps making me wonder who she either paid or laid to even be here.

· FINALLY a Joydhi-Mail arrives announcing an imminent elimination, and the scrags tramp off to the Judgement Warehouse to face the critical panel. Judges this year are Joydhi, whose boobs may be granted their own show, Shiny Alex Perry, whose forehead is smoother than chrome-plated chrome, Charlotte Dawson, an ex-module with bitchy eyebrows and comments, Jez Smith, photographer and blatant try-hard successor to the Spunky Nigel Barker throne, and guest judge Priscilla Leighton-Clark, of Priscilla's Model Management. Prizes are discussed, which I think include a set of acrylic nails and a bag of Twisties, and each scrag is asked to have a quick chat and a prance up and down the catwalk.

· The judges deliberate, and before anyone can be properly eliminated, Jaimi announces that she's leaving the competition due to boyfriend trouble and an obvious terror of failure. Joydhi then announces, with the appropriate number of photos in her hands, that "One of yoir will goy noy further". Names are called, and it comes down to Olsen Twin Cobi and one of the Stephs. Cobi is told that she's cute and sweet, but doesn't photograph well (translation: you're a SHORTARSE), and Steph is told that she has enthusiasm and big eyes, but not much else (translation: We've forgotten who you are). Suspense builds, and Cobi is given the boot. Bye, Cobi! Say hi to Sleepy, Sneezy and Doc on your way out!

· Suddenly we're introduced to Jaimi's replacement, Cara, and there's just enough time to notice her dreadful two-tone red hair before the credits roll. Wha?

Next week, the Paloma/Cassandra war heats up, the scrags pose in a pool in another shameless Tigerlily plug, and the modules' Tasmanian coastlines are reduced as they're taken for a wax. Catty snipping. Cossies dripping. Pubic ripping.