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Wednesday, May 02, 2007

Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series Three #6

I'm rubber, you're glue. Ink pink, you stink. Ner ner ner ner ner ner ner.
It doesn't matter how much make-up you trowel onto the faces of these girls, or how many pairs of back-breaking Jimmy Choy Shoys you crow-bar them into – the fact remains that these foetal fashionistas have pretty much gone straight from cot to Calvin and from dummy to Dior, and may even still insist that the crusts are cut off their sandwiches. Never have the trappings of extreme youth been more apparent than in this episode.

There's name-calling. There's the silent treatment. There's late night pranks involving bedding and aerated foodstuffs. It's the You Just Like Me 'Cause I'm Food In Bed episode of Australia's Next Top Model. And you're so dropped.

· Give you one guess how Sad Alice reacts to being in the bottom two last week. Starts with 's'. Ends with 'd'. And it's not 'stuffed' , 'solid', or 'six pieces of fried chicken with mustard'. In black and white footage (which is the international language for 'flashback'), we see Ian Thorpe taking Alice aside for a chat about her diet, with the emphasis on more protein and fewer sweets. Whilst a discussion between a swimmer and a vegetarian about the relative scientific values of different foods should be interesting, I'm momentarily distracted by a hair on my arm which looks marginally longer than the rest.

· Joydhi and JP visit Casa De Scrag to give the modules a pop fashion quiz, which they fail miserably, getting only four questions right out of seventeen. As Steph (who seems to be an aspiring Joydhi in the vowel-murder stakes) says, "We had noyyyy idea". They knew what haute couture was, and were able to name a couple of labels Gemma Ward models for, but questions like "what is houndstooth?" and "what are culottes?" were met with blanker stares than usual. It's not rocket surgery, people. It's quite simple. Culottes are shorts that look like a skirt. Houndstooth is a monochromatic tessellated fabric design primarily associated with department stores and mid-to-late twentieth century fashion. Like, Der.

· Shocked with the girls' low FQ, Joydhi marches them off to Ultimo TAFE to meet Nicholas Huxley, head of the fashion design school. Steph remarks "You could tell he was a fashion teacher because of the way he dressed and the amount of jewellery he wore". I think the word you're looking for is "gay", sweetie. Whilst Danika takes frenzied notes in her Strawberry Shortcake jotter, Nicholas teaches the modules some basic fashion design concepts. Steph, the commentator du jour, says "He wasn't shocked that we didn't know stuff". You're models, honey. Nobody's shocked that you don't know stuff.

· Lesson over, Nicholas introduces one of his ex-students, designer Wayne Cooper, who still grasps desperately onto his East London accent despite living in Australia for 22 years, innit. He drags out a rack of Very Nice Clothes Indeed, and asks the girls to participate in an exercise in which they each put on an outfit and walk it up and down the room whilst 'interpreting' it. As Wayne says, every outfit has its own "Ah-i-tew". Innit. Whilst handing out outfits, he also (endearingly) asks "Who's the one with the E-cups?" to which Anika shyly raises her hand. At least, I think she does – it's hard to tell under the dark shadow cast by her colossal boobies.

· The girls dress and walk whilst Wayne gives them a quick critique – Sophie is told she looks like she's "walking to Coles", and Jordan is told she's "obvious". Danika admittedly rocks her gorgeous frock, and for some reason Anika, despite the fact that she's carrying around three people's norks, is told she's "too androgynous". That's like telling Jackson Pollock he's not quite splatty enough, or for the lowbrow amongst you, that Bratz dolls need to look more like ten-dollar highway prostitutes. Steph is told she looks "too innocent", and Alice underwhelms the way only translucent pale blue sad people can. Paloma doesn't like her outfit, a striped frock with a black patent-leather swing-coat, because she thinks it looks like something out of The Matrix. Wayne is disappointed with her grim-faced, cranky interpretation of the outfit, thinking she should have made more of the fun, sixties-inspired nature of it. "Bullshit this is sixties," sneers Paloma. Now, whilst I would normally prefer to take fashion cues from a 17-year-old wanna-be from Newcastle over an internationally successful fashion designer of thirty years' standing, I have to side with Wayne here. I also have to call Paloma an ignorant upstart who talks out of her arsehole. Innit.

· A Joydhi-Mail transports the modules to the offices of Australian Vogue, where they meet the editor-in-chief, Kirstie Clements, or KC as I'm calling her. Jordan calls her the "chick of chicks of fashion", and I have to admit that I'm quite frightened of KC. It's not the fact that she's this country's ultimate authority on style and the fashion business, or the impressive office, or the racks and racks of outlandishly expensive clothes that fill it. It's the haughty sneer. And the eyes, which are like the windows to Hell's most intimidating waiting room. Now, I consider myself to be quite the tough nut, but if KC said something mean to me, I'd cry. It's like KC And The Where-Did-The-Sunshine-Go Band. The modules all seem terrified too, and look like they're hoping brown undies are in this season. They're not.

· KC shows the girls what is in this season, including short skirts, metallic fabrics, and stupid, stupid shoes. She asks the modules some questions about particular designers, which are met with the sound of distant crickets chirping. Jordan excuses her ignorance with the fact that she's only been reading Vogue for the last couple of weeks. "What did you read before?" sneers KC. Jordan implodes into a powerpoint of shame and answers "New Weekly". KC growls like a Rottweiler whose Kibbles have just been taken away.

· Now, I'm having trouble figuring out the best way to describe this next bit, known unofficially as either "T-Unit" or "Mean Scrags With Grocery Items". All I can really do is imagine I'm a semi-illiterate pre-teen myself, and that I'm relating the tale to one of my peers on some sort of telephonic device:
Like, as IF you didn't know what T-Unit was. Like, it's everyone except Paloma and Steph – god, ur SOOOY backward. And like, T-Unit have secret meetings and everything, and Jordan chairs them – OMG she's SOOOY pretty, even if her teeth ARE bigger than her brain, LOL! Anyway, the whole point of T-Unit is to like, bitch about mostly Paloma but partly Steph – OMG, Steph says "soooy" SOOOY much. WTF? So Alice says about Paloma "She says really fucked up stuff", which is SOOOY true, w00t! And then Jordan totally has the best solution to the whole like, da-rama, and they decide to play pranks on the bee-yotches. K, 'bye.

· Ugh. I feel all dirty, and a little bit abbreviated. I need some foie gras and Coleridge, STAT. Anyway, like, T-Unit commence pranking with available pantry items by sprinkling Steph's bed with salt, and smearing Paloma's bedding with honey, eggs, and whipped cream, dubbing it the 'Paloma Pavlova'. I dunno – I reckon any dessert named after Paloma would have marzipan in it. When the desperately adult shenanigans are discovered, Paloma is "extremely angry", and considers going downstairs to punch people in the face. Steph seems angry that she only got salt in her bed, instead of a proper three-ingredient cocktail like Paloma did. The girls decide not to react, and T-Unit, whilst initially beside themselves with mirth, are disappointed that their efforts failed to produce the desired Palomelodramatic Maelstrom. There. Done. Can we all pretend we have pubic hair and grow the fuck up now, please?

· This week's challenge involves the girls having ten minutes to race around David Jones Elizabeth Street and find a cutting-edge outfit based on Scary KC's advice. Like a handful of rice noodles flung into the wind, the girls scatter and panic through the designer racks, grasping handfuls of souped-up garments and accessories. Then it's back to Vogue to change and present themselves to KC and her lingering scent of sulphur. Despite Sophie announcing that she's "stressin' out hardcore", KC quite enjoys her Sass & Bide-y beach-top-and-shorts combo, and the other girls relax, thinking that perhaps KC isn't the bride of Lucifer after all. Then Paloma steps forward, hell opens, and Satan farts right in her face.

· Paloma is wearing what Jordan describes as a "tragedy of an outfit". It's a metallic knitted mini-dress which clings to everything it shouldn't, and which is made infinitely worse by the presence of Paloma's fists jammed snugly into the crotch-level pockets. KC, in an impersonation of some pubic-area tweezers, tells her she's missed the boat, that she looks cheap, and she shouldn't be showing off her legs. If you watch this bit in slow-motion, you can see the exact moment when Paloma's will to live is extinguished. It's fucking gold. JP calls her a "sack o' walnuts", and the cameraman zooms in on her arse. I love this show. Most of the other girls have thrown on shorts, shirts, and jackets in various unremarkable combinations, with the exception of Alice, who has teamed a stunning panelled frock with a puffy, crinkled parka. KC moistens her daks with enthusiasm, and announces Alice as the challenge winner.

· Winners (Alice picks Danika and Jordan to share her prize) have lunch with Shiny Alex Perry and model Ayesha Makim. Losers sort clothes at Mr Stinky, an op shop. I stifle a yawn and think about shaving my legs.

· Just when I think it's safe to use big words and admit there's no Santa Claus, Jordan calls another T-Unit meeting. She says that perhaps they should "stop ostracising Paloma, because it's her birthday tomorrow, and she'd feel heaps fucked", or for the lowbrow amongst you… wait – I'm not sure there is anything more lowbrow than the phrase "heaps fucked". Jordan apologises to Paloma, and Paloma tells Jordan that they "won't be straight away friends like we were before". I cut their meat into bite-sized pieces and ready the nappy-changing table.

· FINALLY we get to the photo-shoot, and today the girls will be shot by judge Jez Smith, who is really quite endearing, but who really shouldn't wear a deep v-necked t-shirt. The modules are each given an extremely avant-garde designer outfit, and told to pick a 'character' to portray whilst dramatically presenting the outfit to the camera underneath black, slicked back and glued-on hairpieces. Anika is cruelly given a gigantic puffy inter-stellar space-meringue with a gigantic boob-hole to wear, and she and Jez have a race to see who can flash the first bit of tit. She tries to channel "French kitten", but only manages "highway deer". Sophie looks fantastic in a simple sack-dress, and Steph is reasonable as a yellow-topped daddy long-legs. For the first time ever I don't wonder why in hell Danika is still here, as she doesn't look anything like Danika. She looks pretty. Paloma, in a huge dress seemingly made from an elephant's haemorrhoids, is much less interesting than haemorrhoids. Alice, who decides her character is a silkworm, has trouble "invoking the silkworm", giving rise to a stream of post-modern hilarity. Jez says "you talked to me about being a worm, but I'm just not seeing it". JP says "Alice sucked. Her performance was shit. She's no silkworm". She definitely looked like she had worms, though. Maybe they just misunderstood. Jordan is a very good tarantula in a fabulous black coat. Scene.

· Our modules rock up to the Elimination Velodrome, and Anika's boobs, hoiked up as they are by a corset, arrive twenty minutes before everyone. Joydhi yaps through the prizes, which I think include a Jeans West gift voucher and an Iced Vo-Vo, and both Joydhi and Charlotte give the girls a right stern talking-to about T-Unit and its associated juvenile meanness. Joydhi utters the mildly clever "there's no T-Unit, only J-Unit" (there is no Dana, only Zuul! Sorry. Had to be done), but Charlotte completely supercedes her with "KC is here to see top models, but she's only seeing top moles". Word, Charlotte.

· The elimination mini-challenge is to busy oneself with a table full of paint, ribbons and safety pins, and make oneself an outfit, presumably in keeping with the general pre-schooly undertones of this entire episode. Fair enough, though. I'm sure all models at some point in their career have to dip into the busy-box for a quick finger-paint. And I don't even mean that as a euphemism.

· Photos are looked through, and to be honest, all the girls look fabulous. I really hate that. Joydhi grabs the pile of phoytoys and calls out names one by one, until only Norky Anika and New Best Friend Sophie are left. Anika, who is already bawling, is told that she had a disappointing week, and Sophie is told she has a great body, but no scope for improvement. And then… then… wait – there's just something in my eye, that's all… Sophie is sent packing. Bye, Sophie. Don't be all perfect and shit on your way out. Oh, and honey? Try not hanging your mouth open in just one photo. 'Kay, bye.

Next week, Jordan ups the glamour-ante with a pressed ham on the car window, awful candid paparazzi-style photos are taken of the modules, and there's some bitch-fighting amongst the judges. Cheeks. Freaks. Critiques.


missy vas said...

I cant watch the show, but I still love the updates. I need to go and find some pics of the scrags so that I know who you are bitching about tho...

redcap said...

Mahahaha! Snaps to you for the Ghostbusters reference.

Any clues as to what T-Unit actually stands for, though? Tramp? Trailertrash?

And I'm confused. How can a module channel a silk-worm? Does she have to chew bloody mulberry leaves or some shit?

PetStarr said...

"Like a handful of rice noodles flung into the wind..." Ha!!! Brilliant.


PetStarr said...

PS: Seeing as Anika is an instrumental member, I think the "T" in "T Unit" possibly stands for "tits".

shellity said...

I can't believe I waited six days before reading this, thereby delaying my good mood by nearly a week. Another triumph.

Me bits:

- I see you found a way to sneakily incorporate your freaky arm hair into an otherwise brilliant piece of writing. You know my feelings on that subject.

- "Not quite splatty enough" is not only gut-bustingly funny, it's also a bloody good name for a band. Maybe not as good as "KC and the Where Did the Sunshine Go Band", but.

- I know what kibbles are

- I know what you mean by marzipan