Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series 4 #9

Remember in Dirty Dancing, when all you could freakin’ look at was Jennifer Grey’s nose? Except for, like, when you were looking at Patrick Swayze’s buttocks, but then again, beats looking at Patrick Swayze’s face, right? Hi, Patrick Swayze. I hope you’re feeling better.

Anyway, there’s Jennifer Grey’s nose on holiday at Kellerman’s, cha-cha-ing, foxtrotting, bumping, grinding, and not being put in a corner right there in front of her face, and you can’t look away, so mesmerising are those deep, hypnotic nostrils. All you can do is stare and wonder what she’d look like without it. And then, all of a sudden, girl gets a nose job and it’s gone. And she looks like nobody. And you miss that goddamn nose. You miss that big, cavernous, shadow-casting gonk that Jennifer Grey left in a kidney-bowl in her doctor’s office.

I miss Caris’s braces. I kept saying I hated them,. And now they’re gone. I just didn’t think she’d be attached to them at the time.
Get your floss. It’s The Last Time, Ever I Saw Your Braces episode of Australia’s Next Top Model.

· First up, I’m imposing a ban on polka-dot scarves, Hypercolour, and high-wasted anything. We’ve had enough. ENOUGH, I say.

· Caris, recounting her recent experience in the bottom two, says “I didn’t expect to cry”. This is like Bill Henson being surprised that DOCS isn’t sponsoring his next exhibition, or, for the lowbrow amongst you, like being disappointed that having breakfast at Oporto sucks.* Single-celled organisms in the lowest life-supporting level of the Mariana Trench knew you were going to cry.

· A Joydhi-Mail threatens yet another overseas trip, to one of the “world’s top fashion destinations”, and also lets the modules know that this week will be all about The Media. This means that this week will be all about interviews, which is all about stupid girls trying to make sentences under pressure, which is all about excruciating humiliation, which is all about me getting this brilliant show tattooed on my face. All of a sudden, Charlotte Dawson and Ian Thorpe are walking through the door, because everyone knows that ex-swimming stars know all about this crap. They announce that they’re going to be giving the girls lessons in how to deal with the media, or as Thorpie puts it, “the methods you can use to make sure your image is always pristine”. This is, for the most part, bullshit. We don’t learn things here at Casa De Scrag. We humiliate, ridicule, and trick each other. We’re teenage models. That's how we roll.

· The first “lesson” consists of Charlotte and Ian posing as journalists on the red carpet of an imaginary event in the backyard, firing questions at each module in turn whilst cameramen snap away behind them. Surprisingly, nobody asks Alexandra why her frock and sunglasses are so fucking hideous. Questions instead were about sustainability, carbon footprints, Tibet, the Chinese and US economies, and of course Dancing Demelza’s Delicious Donuts. The girls are asked to eat Dancing Demelza’s Delicious Donut on camera. This is a test. If they realise it’s a marketing trap, they pass. If they eat the donut, they fail. If they think that eating Dancing Demelza’s Delicious Donut sounds like the world’s bitchiest porn film, then HA! Snap. Highlights:
o Demelza: “If I can care about my emissions, I can hopefully make other people care”. Sweetie, you’ve been blowing it out your arse for nine weeks now, and we still don’t care.
o Caris says “um” a lot. She then says she’d never sleep with someone to get a job (although we’ve all given people jobs just to get some sleep – right, ladies?), and Charlotte askes “What – not even Ian?”. Thorpie finds this hilarious, because even those single-celled organisms know he’s... um... not into braces.
o Samantha bypasses bluffing and heads straight towards shrugging, showing ignorance and bra straps in equal measure. She didn’t eat donut on film, but did wait until she was back in the privacy of the house. It’s really the mental image that just keeps on giving.
o Alexander admits she’d buy a fake handbag, as long as it came with matching lips and testicles. She bites into Demelza’s donut, and Thorpie lets her know there’s some residue on her mouth. That’s some good spotting, Thorpie. Done this before?

· Next up is a fake interview for a fictional magazine called Models Monthly, which everybody knows is fake. If it was real, it would be called Models Every Four Months Or So, And Even Then Only A Couple Of Spots. The girls are asked proper, topical, hard-hitting questions like you’d find in Who magazine, and we learn that, according to her co-models, Demelza is a fat bitch. Surprise! The resulting amusing faux articles are read out, and the girls feel saux laux, realising they’ve been portrayed as back-stabbing, vacuous, overweight bimbos. It’s a bit cruel. I mean, who would take the lives of these poor girls, write about them in anecdotal fashion, and point out their flaws just for laughs? You’d have to have buttocks of stone.

· I’m about to unshroud the mystery that is the non-physical cat-fight. A non-physical cat-fight takes place in 6 easy steps:
1. Girl One finds out that Girl Two said something bad about her.
2. Girl One confronts Girl Two about it.
3. Girls One and Two take turns saying “that’s your opinion”, and “I don’t care what you think”.
4. Girl who runs out of things to say first turns on heel and storms out of room.
5. Girls One and Three say private, derogatory things about Girls Two and Four, and vice versa. Somebody cries and swallows a disturbing amount of snot.
6. Girl Two writes an apologetic note to Girl One, dotting the ‘i’s in the note with any number of hearts, kittens and shit.
See, guys just beat the crap out of each other. It almost makes me want to be a guy - just like Alexandra. Suffice to say, whilst I know that watching Alexandra and Demelza drag us through the above Tower Of Rowr should be interesting, I’m momentarily distracted by wheatgerm.

· Those wacky Joydhi-Mails. This one implies that the girls are going to be subject to interviews, to see how well they handle the media, which is different to the previous one, because it was rolled up in a newspaper. The scrags arrive at the Sheraton On The Park, which Demelza says is “really familiar to me, because it’s where I stay with my parents when we come to Sydney”. Umm... Demelza? Pete Doherty wants your weekly pocket money to buy crack and baby mice.

· Speaking of crack and baby mice – Samantha, your shorts are BANNED.

· Jonathan Pease, dressed as Ringo Starr (with Yellow Submarines on his feet), meets the girls and tells them they’ll be interviewed by four key journalists and, presumably, a locksmith. Caris’s interviews are compared to dental procedures, none of which include, unfortunately, prising braces off with pliers. In a surprise comparable to opening some ninety-seven percent fat-free yoghurt and discovering it’s three percent fat, Alexandra is an unmitigated arsehole. She’s an arsehole with a twist, though – now she lies about stuff, increasing the number of personality facets she possesses to two. Samantha does well, dismissing her brief past dalliance with Leiden’s face as “not pashing on or anything”. Demelza re-lives some of her schoolday bullying experiences, such as “being asked to leave a group”. Oh, yeah, I know what that’s like. Sometimes the bitches don’t even say please. Samantha wins the challenge, and the prize is the chance to woohoo at a Puma do in the Blue Room, followed by an interview with Merrick, Rosso and Kate Ritchie (Milko is also rumoured to make an appearance). Sam picks Demelza to share her prize, and the losers have to waitress the Puma event in baggy pink frocks, and sit in another room when the winners are being asked interview questions on radio. I don’t want to sound repetitive, but this repetitive stuff is getting really repetitive. I hope there’s a photo shoot soon, and I hope it’s interesting, or I’m going to fall into a coma. Maybe with fairies. Or flies. Or creepy uncles. But that would never happen.

· Suddenly, and completely coincidentally, it’s time for a phoy-toy shoot! JP introduces the modules to photographer Paul Westlake, who looks like a kind, softly spoken, gentle sort of kiddy-fiddler, and seldom strays from that image from that moment forth. Like, I’m sure he’s very talented and highly respected and stuff. But bitch creeps me out. Paul could recite The Lords Prayer and make it sound like a disturbing come-on. Oh, yes. Thy will be done. The girls will be posing today in student-designed haute couture – they would’ve given them frocks designed by actual professionals to wear, but there’s a chance Joydhi may want a yellow clipboard this week, so strings are tight. Paul lets the girls know that he’ll be guiding them through today’s relatively avant-garde shoot, or as he puts it, “I’m gonna help you. I’m gonna coach you into a position”. Seriously, if he’d added the word “Ladies” to the end of that, I’d have to go and douse myself in bleach.

· Don’t think I dislike Paul. Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to be his niece on the receiving end of a Christmas greeting, but hot damn the man can make a simple photo shoot into comical farce. If I ever wanted to know what being on acid was like, I’d crawl into his frontal lobe and inhale deeply. I’m thinking of buying a GPS for my car that only has his directions in it. Sure, I’d be lost all the time, but what a freakin' ride, Nancy! A summary? Bet your arse, ladies. Paul “I Am The Walrus” Westlake’s directional themes are in bold:
o Demelza looks gorgeous in plaits and bracelets, and all she needs is Samantha’s eyebrows and she’s Frida Kahlo, although without the debilitating physical deformities (selfish). You are catching tiny little butterflies with your hands. Catch them and release them. Catch a fairy. Catch it and talk to it. Listen to it. Conduct a little orchestra.
o Samantha is swathed in gorgeous peek-a-boob feathers and looks stunning. Blow more. Like a leaf. You’re escaping. Draw a picture. Does anyone else get the impression that Paul has seen girls escaping before? Just a thought. Play air-guitar. Wilder. Open your mouth and scream.
o Caris is gold-sprayed with teased hair, and is jaw-droppingly beautiful. You’re a puppet. Go right down. Squat right down. There’s a little insect in your hair. I want you to find it.
o Alexandra is all severe hair, jutting jaw and jangling nerves. I think she might have sneezed while her mascara was still wet, though. Shame. You’re a lion tamer. Hold a chair and crack a whip. Meaner. You’re shooing away flies. Also, hop onto one foot. This is the funniest thing I’ve seen in my life. Have you ever seen someone who’s busting to go to the toilet whilst losing their balance on a busy tightrope? No. Me neither. Can you blow and do that? Seductive. Put your arms down your body. Way down low. Paul grunts his approval.

· There’s no time to waste as the girls walk into the Elimination Roller-Rink. Samantha’s high-waisted, crotch-torturing shorts: BANNED. Alexandra’s high-waisted Hypercolour pants: DOUBLE BANNED, ARSEHOLE. Joydhi reads out the prizes, which I think this year include some hair-removal cream and a harmonica, and then introduces the judges: Charlotte Dawson, who seems to have rolled in a field of fabric flowers lovingly crocheted by depressed old ladies, Shiny Alex Perry, who looks like a well-rubbed single buttock with an aversion to glare, Ian Thorpe, whose appearance in a televised modelling competition is still a complete fucking mystery, and Paul Westlake, who almost certainly sent away for X-ray specs as a kid.

· Before viewing phoy-toys, Joydhi gets the girls into bikinis and asks them to do a walk for the judges, no doubt causing an A-frame down Paul’s end of the table. The girls strip and strut, looking for all the world like someone’s dropped a packet of drinking straws in a windy cafe. Photos are picked through, and the usual Charlotte & Shiny Alex Zinger-Palooza is a bit sedate this week, what with it being the THIRD LAST EPISODE and all. Aside from the refreshingly zingy “Other girls would look like they had their head coming out of a chicken’s arse”, the judges just seem to think that Caris is short, Alexandra is a rocket ship, Samantha is a goddess, and Demelza might be dead. Joydhi has trouble making a decision, so she puts it to a voyte to see who will goy noy further.

· Names are called (pink folder) until only Caris ‘Brace Face’ and Alexandra ‘Mace Face’ are left. Caris is told that she lacks confidence, and Alexandra learns that she doesn’t listen or learn. Then, without rhyme, reason or warning, Joydhi takes an ice-pick and rams it right through my heart, as Caris is let go. She’s devastated, and sobs buckets, and a little part of me dies inside. Then a brief shot of the poodle dress from last week flashes onto the screen, and I finally understand the concept of tragi-comedy. The concept of pink eyelid dog-boobs is still, frankly, a bit of a mystery. Bye, Caris! Mind you don’t walk too near any strong magnets on your way out!


Next week, the modules go to New York, stay in a penthouse, and bump into a Yellow Taxi. Views. Bruise. Start spreading the Nooooys.

*Are they actually serious? A chicken and egg burger. That’s two generations in a bun.


Boy, has Petstarr got a wrap-up for you over at Bland Canyon. And a boiled lolly, if you’re lucky.