Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series 4 #1

Brush. Twice a day. Floss. Gargle. Get to a dentist. Rinse. Repeat. Save yourselves.

If these thirteen girls have anything at all to teach us, it’s a lesson about the perils of neglecting oral hygiene. This is dental tragedy of Shakespearean proportions, people. Alas, poor Yorrick even had better teeth than this. And a bit more fat on him.In the immortal words of David Bowie (with about the same dodgy grill): Oh, baby. Just you shut your mouth. It’s the Dental As Anything episode of Australia’s Next Top Model.

· We start with a montage of images of all the successful models to come out of previous series of ANTM. So, Alice.

· We dispense with anything more than a cursory glance at auditions, presumably because a production assistant spilled coffee on the release forms, or because looking at all that Supre clothing would have jeopardised one of the show’s sponsorship deals. Then, suddenly, we’re into the theme song, and the titles, and faces, and names, and titles, and music, and excitement, and a title design that can only be called Eighties Shapes Come Alive! I need a beer already. Luckily, I’ll soon be looking at some teeth that could open the most stubborn bottle cap invented.

· Almost all of the old crew are here – Joydhi Meares (consistently cardboard), Charlotte Dawson (it’s not a new haircut – the last facelift just hoisted her pubes into view), Shiny Alex Perry (looking more and more like someone drew a couple of hyphens on a pearlescent lighbulb), and Jonathan Pease (or JP, who has unfortunately replaced his floppy fringe with an uninterrupted view of his self-satisfied face).

· Fresh faces abound as each new module is dropped off at the National Art School in Darlinghurst, which I’m now calling the National Tart School, because I’m a skilled satirist. They all gather in a big white room, and we all sit up straight in our loungerooms, ready to figure out who we love, who we hate, who’s a bitch, who’s a snitch, who’s rich, who to ditch, who has an unexplained itch, and who needs an open-handed slap. Each girl has to introduce themselves to the judges, walk up and down, get shouted at by JP whilst changing into Tiger Lily swimwear, pose for some photographs and say some bitchy stuff to camera. Spookily, this exactly what I did last Monday.

· Just for something different, I’d like to let you know my opinion about some of the girls, if you don’t mind:

o Alexandra (teeth like a fence) says that she feels like she has the traits of a model already. Unless she just means that she’s a primate, she’s sorely mistaken. She’d make a better male model than female model, but this is primarily because I suspect she has a penis. This may be why she walks at a slant. Even more obvious than her robust set of testicles is her belief that she is an authority on fashion. She takes every opportunity to let everyone know this. Nickname this week: ‘Annoying Fashion Guy’.

o Demelza (overbite) has big eyes, big lips, big hair, big opinions, and a tiny, weeny voice. Along with Carys, she’s accused by Charlotte of being a ‘jelly botty’ (instead of Boticelli – get it? I’ll pause while you write it down). Nickname this week: “Helium”.

o Leiden (that’s quite an overbite you have there, honey) rocks. Don’t get me wrong – she’ll totally lose this competition. But she burps, swears, slouches, and according to Charlotte, photographs like she’s giving birth to puppies. Awesome. Nickname this week: “Beer”.

o Alamela (teeth like spooky chattering robot) scares the bejeezus out of me. Speaks like there’s a semi-colon after each word. Skin like polished dentures. Black eyes like licorice bullets that can both see into your soul and burn whatever they find there. Body like menacing cotton buds. Calls other models “it”. Nickname this week: “Bleached Hell-Spawn”.

o Kamila (overbite and possible fangs), when viewed from the side, is one-dimensional. When spoken to, is one-dimensional. She studies law. That’s it, really. Nickname this week: “Glass”.

o Alyce (great big vampire fangs) is bloody gorgeous, but, I suspect, bloody annoying. Excellent walk, excellent look, excellent attitude, excellent for opening two tins of apricot nectar at once. Nickname this week: “Bram Stoker”.

o Samantha (normal teeth! Gads!) is the prettiest girl in the world, but for some reason, this doesn’t make her much chop as a model. Her eyes are unbelievable, and she seems sweet and inoffensive, but... that’s all. Probably a great girl to go out shopping for unicorns with. Nickname this week: “The Lemur”.

o Belinda (great big yellow teeth) is the psychotic Jekyll & Hyde of the series. Away from the camera, she’s a myopic, clumsy dork. In front of the camera, she’s a beautiful, clumsy dork who walks like she’s trying to keep a fish between her knees. She’s “kooky”, apparently, and very rarely makes sense – endearing, but disconcerting. Nickname this week: “Purple Monkey Dishwasher”.

o Emma (great big toothy overbite) is shy, very tall, uncomfortable and B-O-R-I-N-G. Nickname this week: Next!”.

o Jamie (more normal teeth!) has a body to die for, and a tan she probably will die for. She seems like a normal, well-adjusted, likeable girl. What the fuck is she doing here? Nickname this week: “Agent Orange”.

o Kristy (normal teeth) is the girl all the scrags think will win. She’s this series’ powerpoint-face, and leaves me a little cold. She’s the kind of gorgeous that would make the rest of the netball team jealous, but I don’t really want it selling me shoes. Nickname this week: “Stinky Bali Clothes”.

o Rebecca (didn’t notice the teeth, fixated on the scars) annoys me a lot. She’ll probably make it big as a model, she just doesn’t have anything like the brain, sense of humour, or charisma she thinks she has. Nickname this week: “Shut Up”.

o Caris (braces, for fuck’s sake) has train tracks and bad skin, but for some reason I dig her to bits. The judges think she has a fat arse. Her arse cheeks are the size of my face cheeks. Nickname this week: “Just Wait Till I Get My Braces Off, Bitches”.

· At one point, Alexandra is “caught” “accidentally” falling asleep under a Kafka book. Arsehole.

· The exhausted scrags cram themselves into a couple of Taragos and are vomited out at the new Module Mansion, which is very shiny, very modern, very big, and very incongruous with the cut-price double-bunks the girls have to sleep in. House rules are quickly established, including my favourite: “No shitting in the upstairs toilets”. Kitchen sink: fine.

· Quote break! Leiden about Alamela: “She doesn’t look like a model. She looks like someone who goes home and reads”. Oddly enough, later Alamela remarks that she’s not interested in the girls’ conversations, and that she’d rather just read New Scientist. This is a bit like Frida Kahlo sneaking peeks at the latest issue of Alopecia Monthly or, for the lowbrow amongst you, like Britney Spears reading... reading.

· A Joydhi-Mail, terrifyingly delivered via a suddenly-appearing television screen, warns the scrags of their impending challenge, and the following morning the Taragos take the girls to Fox Studios to meet JP and producer Travis to shoot the promo for the show that we've all now seen a thousand times. So often, in fact, that we're calling it The Smoke Comes Out Of Her Boobs Show. Each girl has to dress in a spy-related costume and be filmed for five seconds doing spy stuff. Highlights:

o Bec as Jungle Girl is wrapped in a giant constricting snake that seems to be magnetically attracted to her vagina.

o Belinda as Snowboarder, who with every new sentence assures us she's clinically insane, trips over her own feet and stacks face-first. In case you're new to this game: models falling over = funny.

o Kristy is Girl On Roller-Skates With Smoke Coming Out Of Her Boobs. I love this show.

o Alamela as Ninja Schoolgirl (I know, I know), has to shout, frown, and brandish an oversized mascara stick as a weapon. She's uptight and has trouble with the shouting, prompting Demelza to comment "A big stick – she needs one", and Alamela to plead "I've never had to go 'HA!' before". If only they'd asked her to shout "Twenty seconds to comply!" – she would've aced it.

· Back at Casa De Scrag, the bitching starts, and not before time. Variously, there are issues with the following matters of intense political importance:
a) evidence of someone crapping in an upstairs toilet;
b) Alexandra commenting that size 10 is fat, and all the size 10 girls getting understandably miffed;
c) Alexandra commenting that clothes made in Bali smell cheap, offending most of the other girls;
d) Alexandra commenting that she distances herself from people who shop at Westfield.

In a nutshell, Alexandra endears herself to nobody, accepts that she's not making any friends, juts out her masculine jaw and takes the criticism on the prominent, stubbly chin. Unfortunately, whilst a she-man mouthing off about shopping and fabric quality to a room full of offended willow branches should be interesting, I'm momentarily distracted by ear wax.

· Photo-shoot time, and JP, Vogue editor Kirstie Clements and photographer Jason Capobianco meet the girls at a studio for a group shot for the Vogue website. Don't get too excited – this is like drinking instant coffee from a mug emblazoned with the Moet & Chandon logo. For those of you unfamiliar with Kirstie Clements, she is a Woman With Large And Swiftly Delivered Opinions, and a little terrifying. Whilst Kirstie tuts about tan lines, bad skin, braces and Band-Aids, the girls don Collette Dinnigan frocks and drape themselves over ladders and crates for their photo. Some summary:

o Despite not being able to get one frock on due to her broad shoulders, Leiden looks surprisingly elegant for a champion belcher. As she says, "I think I showed all those long-haired bitches".
o Kamila looks as vacant as a vacant toilet cubicle that's recently been demolished to make way for a vortex.
o Belinda transforms completely into a gorgeous blonde. It's like she's able to Photoshop herself in real life. I don't want anybody else. When I think about you, I retouch myself.
o Emma, whilst pretty, is to modelling what partially-set concrete is to animal husbandry.
o Everybody else looks nice. Blah-di-blah-di-blah.

· After what seems like a fortnight, we're finally in the Elimination Barn, ready to boot someone out. Alamela sings like Snow White to break the tension. I just know I'm going to wake up one night with her standing next to my bed, offering to comb my hair or something. Creeps. Me. Out.

· Joydhi, reading constantly from a production-budget-breaking plastic orange clipboard, introduces Charlotte, Shiny Alex Perry and guest judge Kirsty Clements, and then lists the prizes, which actually do include a year's contract with Priscilla's model management, a trip to New York, a year as the Face Of Napoleon (because lord knows his own face is like a slapped arse), and a Ford Fiesta. So, really, a job they don't get paid for, and an over-sized roller skate. Stiffed.

· Each girl has to come forward and tell the judges who they think the three front-runners are in the competition, and Kristy seems to be the it girl. That's what happens when smoke comes out of your boobs. The group photo is analysed whilst I try to figure out the outfits the scrags have chosen to wear to meet their fate, like Demelza's too-frou skirt and Caris' high-collared neckerchief. Each girl's name is called until only Emma the Boring and Kamila the Vacant are left, and it's like they're playing tumbleweed tennis, such is their overwhelming charisma. They're both lied to (you both sparkle in person), then told the truth (you both suck in photographs), and then the Orange Clipboard Of Doom kicks Kamila out on her tiny, tiny arse. Bye Kamila! Don't do or say anything remotely interesting on your way out!

Next week, the girls walk the runway on a navy ship, cry on the 'phone, and indulge in a bit of lesbo pashing. Sailing. Wailing. Nailing.