Step, kick, step, ball-change. (No, Alexandra. It’s just an expression).
Step, kick, kick, kick.
Kick, kick, slap, stab.
This week is all about movement. Movement and bodies. Movement and bodies and choreography and grace and shapes and pyjamas.
But mostly it’s about cupcakes.
Get your lycra unitard camel-toes ready, ladies. It’s the So You Think You Can Scrag episode of Australia's Next Top Model.
· Those wacky promos. Lying to us through buttocks. Hands up if you thought someone was getting collagen injected into their bum-cheeks this week? God, and you thought the headlines after the Demelza/Alamela bully bitch-fest were bad – imagine!
· Alyce is distressed about being in the bottom two last week. I can tell, because she says “Oh my god, the bottom two. I’m never going back there again. I felt like vomiting”. Yeah. A model feels like vomiting. Call the police. In a surprise comparable to getting a wax and discovering it stings a bit, Demelza admits that she’s not sorry to see Alamela leave. She’d kiss her arse goodbye, but one kiss every sixteen years seems to be enough for Demelza.
· I think I may have fallen asleep at this point, because it felt like I started having my usual dream, where I’m suddenly at the senior prom in Footloose, and I’m just trying to pluck up the courage to go and ask Kevin Bacon why his hair’s so fucked up and his mouth’s so small. But no – I’m still awake, and there’s a dance troupe doing flips and tricks in the backyard of the Module Mansion in fluorescent clothing. Riiiiight. Of course there is. If this scene were a guy on a train, you’d sit on the other side of the carriage. Alexandra shouts “It’s Deeeeence people!”(forgetting that the correct term is ‘the collectively unemployed’), and one of them produces a Joydhi-Mail, because this is so obviously not a ridiculous and expensive farce. The Joydhi-Mail contains the Madonna quote “Let your body move to the music”, and the girls tentatively guess that they’ll be dancing this week. Three old ladies in the rec room in a nursing home in Latvia slap their hands to their foreheads and say “You think?”
· The Taragos tip the modules out at a dance studio, where they’re met by a pleasant-looking dance teacher called Juliette Vern, and a strange, beady-eyed, short nuggetty little man called Kane Bonke. In case there’s any doubt, I can confirm that this is the best name in the history of the whole world, and the only reason he just-about-certainly got teased at school would have been because his name is Kane Bonke. And because he was one of the dancing penguins in Happy Feet. And because it looks like he combs his hair with his own spit. And because his eyebrows have been lent to him by a much, much bigger man. And because the fact that he has muscles is sort of embarrassing, for some reason. Get him... get him away.
· In a glorious piece of television cruelty that I must remember to thank the producers for, the scrags are made to wear tutus. Putting Leiden in a tutu is comedy gold. Or like comedy unleaded petrol at these prices. Am I right? Hmmm. Topical. Anyway, you probably need some highlights:
o Leiden, clearly not enjoying herself, dances like every guy who went to my high school. And let me tell you something – my high school was best known for its pottery. At one point, whilst learning a routine, she just sits on her arse at the back of the room. Sits on her arse in a tutu. She’s like a big, sad bogan swan with a bad attitude.
o The twitchy, compact troll man asks the girls to get changed into their hip hop gear, and Rebecca gets excited, calls herself “Reblacka”, and at every opportunity breaks into the standard hip hop pelvic booty-spasm move, popularised by Rosie Perez, Fergie, and sundry other skanks.
o Demelza says “I’m so white”. Yes, sweetie. Admittedly, it’s hard to recognise what with the private school, the credit card, and the virginity, but it’s there.
o Next, the girls are asked (by KANE BONKE! KANE BONKE!) to get changed for some vogueing, which can apparently only be done when you’re dressed like an inexpensive French whore. Now, whilst I know watching a bunch of chicks in suspenders changing the position of their arms every three seconds should be interesting, I’m momentarily distracted by spearmint.
o Leiden goes to bits. I’ve never seen such a combination of toughness and vulnerability. Like, not even at the Roller Derby. She walks out of the dance class, holds her head in her hands, and cries, saying that she doesn’t want to be here anymore. KANE BONKE tries to comfort her. KANE BONKE is unsuccessful. KANE BONKE. The other scrags, sniffing either a quitter or an elimination, hover like seagulls around a big, gorgeous bogan chip.
KANE BONKE gives the girls a parting gift – a track on CD that they have to choreograph a routine to in pairs, for performance in front of the judges at elimination. This has nothing to do with modelling, and everything to do with making the modules look ridiculous for our entertainment, which is why I’m naming my children after this show. Alexandra, after being paired with Leiden, complains about “her lack of want to do it and her lack of skill”. Is that like your heaps good skill at talking England, Alexandra? Arsehole. Demelza and Samantha can’t dance, but boy, can they mime. This afternoon it’s “Girl With Groin Itch Pulling Herself Along Tightrope By Her Fanny”. Jamie and Alyce are both good dancers, which makes them very, very boring. Caris and Rebecca invent two new steps – one called ‘Tai Chi’, and the other called ‘Pigeon With Headache’. It’s sort of awesome.
Suddenly, without any advance warning that there’s about to be a thousand jokes about testicles all rushing to my head at once, about two hundred coloured balls bounce down the stairs at the Module Mansion. Honestly, it’s just so nutty in this wacky place. A Joydhi-Mail is sticky-taped to the biggest ball of all, and it whooshes the girls off to Cargo Bar (hey wow! Cargo Bar and underaged girls – together at last!), where Jonathan Pease meets them to explain this week’s challenge in his great-uncle’s driving hat. First, they’ll be learning some choreography, which mostly consists of being rogered consistently and often from behind. Then, they’ll be dressing in Levis and gyrating on the catwalk in front of Joydhi, Charlotte, and a roomful of freeloaders to the sound of The Potbelleez playing live. THEN, they’ll be wondering why Alyce has been dressed as Peter Fonda in Easy Rider. It’s much easier for them to figure out why Demelza is dressed as Minnie Mouse. You see – Minnie Mouse was also a virgin with an irritating voice. Leiden doesn’t do well, and Joydhi comments that representing a brand by looking like you don’t want to be there is “a bit royde”.
Challenge winners are Jamie and Alyce, who choose Rebecca and Samantha to share their prize of appearing in Seany B’s new music video. Second prize is appearing in a music video with a twatty illiterate arsehole in a stupid hat. No, wait – that’s first prize. God. I’m an idiot. ‘Losers’ get to have their faces painted green and appear in the video as flying lips that say “oh oh oh oh oh oh”. Seriously. I’m not even making this shit up. ‘Winners’ don skimpy swimming costumes, raincoats and great big black helmets and walk around and stuff. It’s the music industry. It doesn’t have to make sense, it just has to have tits in it.
I just... I have to talk about Seany B for a second. Yet I don’t know where to start. Let’s pretend I’m building a wanker from scratch, and I’ve written myself a checklist:
Wears sunglasses indoors – CHECK!
Says things like “Who’s the crew”, and “Heeeeeeyyyy” – CHECK!
Punches the air with his tongue out – CHECK!
Sings like he’s passing a house brick – CHECK!
Excellent. Seems like I’ve got everything. Funny – these are the exact same ingredients I used to make a fuckwit just last week. Go figure.
After the shoot, Alyce and Rebecca flirt with Seany B (without even gagging!), and he pulls them into his dressing room before his record company rep can stop him. In response to her frantic knocking, from behind the closed door Seany B does an impersonation of an answering machine, because he's an intellectual giant capable of sophisticated postmodern comedy. Or a borderline-retarded dick-wad. I can never tell those apart. Alyce is heard to exclaim “Oh, I haaate lipstick!”, to which I’m sure Seany B responds “That’s okay, baby. Nobody will be able to see it once I’ve pulled my pants up”. Once the door is finally jimmied open, Alyce tries to convince everyone that Seany just tried to kiss her, and that she said no. The Latvian rec-room is sceptical.
Now, make no mistake: Alexandra is an arsehole. But she’s a sneaky, conniving arsehole, which kind of makes it better. But she’s a sneaky conniving arsehole who often wears Hypercolour high-waisted pants, so we’re sort of back to square one again. Pretending to get recipes from the Womens’ Weekly Skinny Food cookbook, she basically mixes up sugar, flour, eggs, hog fat and rendered Blue Whale and bakes the whole shebang into cupcakes on an hourly basis, with the express intention of making the other girls fat. When serving the cakes and muffins and puddings, she even offers them around with custard and cream. Almost endearing herself to me, she turns to camera and whispers “Eat, my pretties. Eeeaaaat”. Tell me who’s worse – the arsehole who sabotages her competitors by constantly offering them cake, or the stupid fat morons who eat the cake? That’s right. It’s Bindi Irwin.
Reckon it’s time for a phoy-toy shoot. JP ushers the girls into a studio, where they’re introduced to photographer Juli Balla, who is like three different kinds of bitchy awesome all wrapped up in a strong Hungarian accent. Today’s shoot will involve the modules posing whilst lying draped over some male models (including Byron from last week’s beaver shoot), dressed in Peter Alexander jimmy-jams. Suddenly, Peter Alexander himself walks into the room! Can you imagine?!? It’s like the Beatles in Melbourne in 1964 all over again, as the girls swoon and squeal. Alyce is so excited by his appearance that she starts crying. Peter Alexander. Maker of pyjamas. Crying. It's a bit like getting excited about bumping into the security guard at the Louvre, or, for the lowbrow amongst you, like going to pieces because Bing Lee walks past just as you’re buying a washing machine. It’s a flummery. And here’s a summary:
-Leiden looks phenomenal. She’s just tops, isn’t she?
-Caris is unspeakably, gob-smackingly brilliant. Peter Alexander is blown away, and calls her a ‘world class supermodel’. She just brings it in front of the camera, and once she’s brought it, she flicks its arse with a twisted towel. And if I have to chip those braces off with a blunt chisel, I will, goddammit.
-Alexandra frustrates Juli with her immobile lips, and JP reveals that she’s had collagen injections. Juli is horrified, and says “It’s a tratchedy vat she hass done”.
-Alyce has a mean mouth and a stiff neck. Julie shouts “Come on, not like a cold hard bitch!”. I’m using Juli as my ringtone this week. JP, noticing Alyce’s cake-fuelled girth-expansion, summons his Inner Sensitive when he says that the male models “really earned their money – that’s a lot of weight to carry”. Oh, Jonathan. You’re such a bitch now that you get around in a driving cap.
-Peter Alexander gets miffed at Bec’s lacklustre, slightly overweight performance, and walks out of the shoot. Bec is upset, as she knows that once you’ve disappointed the King Of Mail-Order Pyjamas, you’ll never work in this town again.
-Samantha is asked to pose topless, and manages to do so without showing any boob. She makes up for it with a bit of a cake-induced tummy bulge. Jeez. Did you at least pick the icing off, girls?
-Jamie disappoints by being boring. This happens all the time, which is also boring. It’s just that this time, it’s boring in a pink nightie. Get the difference?
-Demelza sits on both boys at the same time. I’m just leaving that there.
A Joydhi-Mail plummets the modules into the Elimination Abyss, as the girls line up to hear their fate. Joydhi greets them and presents the judges – “Rockin” Charlotte Dawson (with barely concealed bemusement at being referred to as such), Shiny Alex Perry, (who looks like a highly polished doorknob that can only be unlocked by squinting), Peter Alexander (who makes pyjamas), and Juli, who I would want for an aunt if I was Hungarian with overly-high self-esteem. Joydhi then drones through the prizes, which I think this year include a half-sucked Redskin and a shoulder-bag, and gets the dance-floor ready.
It’s time to dance, and luckily for us, nobody puts Scraggy in a corner. Rebecca and Caris mime opening a fridge and eating something out of it. Yes. Yes, they do. Leiden and Alexander have come dressed as extras from The Blues Brothers V – We Don’t Eat So Much Any More. Jamie and Alyce are still good and still boring. Sam lies on the floor whilst Demelza sits on her hips, pretending that Sam’s legs are her own, and Charlotte’s forehead almost moves, she’s laughing so hard. Peter Alexander comments that “I’m not normally into girl on girl action, but...” and that’s where I stopped listening, as is my custom with that sentence.
Each module has her phoy-toy scrutinised, and in a moment that must be excruciating for any model, but absolute champagne comedy for me, Shiny Alex Perry pulls a tape measure out and wraps it ‘round Bec’s and Alyce’s hips, indicating where they were, where they are now, and where they should be. Some people would argue that this is cruel. Others would argue that it’s all part of the business. I’d argue that the subtle little flick of the tape measure Shiny Alex manages before putting it away is like malicious wrapped in evil wrapped in bring-your-big-shiny-head-over-hear-so-I-can-kiss-it-bitch.
The judges deliberate, and I sit back and watch the Charlotte, Shiny Alex and Juli zingers just roll in:
“That photo screams for the tape measure”
“Stop chowing down. Get on the treadmill”
“Aaargh! Eeeeech! Fatty boombah. No.”
“We don’t want her to eat her way to the top”
“I think she does have good.... bits”
“I don’t want a model walking in with a face like a smacked arse” (ironically, Alex Perry laughs at this).
Charlotte then praises Demelza and pretends to vomit immediately afterwards. I dunno. I wish that, maybe just once, Charlotte Dawson would have a fucking opinion.
· Are you ready for a SHOCK? Are you? No, Joydhi’s not holding a blue clipboard. The surviving girls are off to Fiji next week. But there’s only six tickets. And eight girls. We’ll just wait while Alyce does the maths...right. It’s a DOUBLE ELIMINATION! Joydhi reads out names until only Boombah Alyce, Boring Jamie and Bogan Leiden are left. Alyce is told she’s putting on weight. Jamie is told she’s not ‘bringing it to photographs’, because it’s too mean to call her ‘boring’ to her face. Leiden is told that her attitude bites. A couple of blinks, and Jamie and Leiden are given the double heave. Bye, Jamie and Leiden! Don’t be all boring and the best bogan in the whole world, respectively, on your ways out! Alexandra doesn’t cry. Arsehole.
Next week, the girls head off to the tropics with its associated frizzy hair, wear some bikinis and sit sort of still on a beach. Mozzies. Cozzies. Pozzies.
Now, her recap's gonna be late, but it's gonna be funny. You know it, I know it. Go see Petstarr at the Bland Canyon.