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Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series 4 #10

I don’t want to talk about it. Which is obviously a lie, because all I’ve done for the last – what, sixteen years? – is talk about this brilliant, stupid, glorious, psilocybin-enhanced show.
But I don’t want to talk about... you know, IT. What happens at the end.

I’m very upset.

So I won’t talk about it. I’ll just type paragraph after paragraph of sanctimonious garbage about it. And you’re going to read it, because that’s how this works. Thanks, by the way. I’m off to cry myself to sleep and question fate’s cruel shiatsu massage, and you can wade through the When You Get Caught Between The Scrag And New York City episode of Australia’s Next Top Model.


· We revisit last week’s elimination, in which James-Caan-To-My-Kathy-Bates Caris inexplicably loses to “blank canvas” Alexandra. Alexandra reminisces: “Caris said... (chokes back tears and adam’s apple)... you deserve it”. You misunderstood, my dear. Caris was talking about your pants. As soon as Caris is out the door the mood changes, however, as Joydhi announces (taking care to twist each vowel like a satin pretzel): “Soooyyy, yoir guys... you’re goying... toooiir... THE BEGAPPOOOOL!” Our modules aren’t quite sure what Joydhi means, but it sounds like it might be in Europe, so they celebrate with the now-obligatory hands-up-to-their-mouths. When Joydhi clarifies (twice) by saying “Nooiir York, Nooiir York!”, I become thankful that they’re not going to Kokoda, Kokomo, or a slow boat down the Orinoco. Girlfriend’d turn herself inside out.

· The sun rises over Casa De Scrag one last time as the girls pack their bags, don unattractive headwear, and jump on a plane. All of a sudden we’re flying over the Statue Of Liberty, the Empire State Building and Central Park, just in case anyone’s still confused about what “The Begappooool” is. The modules exit the airport, glamorously rugged up against the Northern Hemisphere chill, and I realise that Alexandra’s Hypercolour parachute pants might just be made of too flimsy a fabric for this climate. Thank you, God. Thank you, baby Jesus. Suitably, Demelza feels quite at home in any place that can be described as ‘frigid’, and starts announcing everything she sees, with the only criteria being that anything she notices can’t be interesting or noteworthy in any way. “Midtown Manhattan!” she heliums, reading from a roadsign. “YELLOW TAXI!”, she squeaks, which is like pointing out freckles on Julianne Moore. Samantha pitches in with “Ohmigod – they’re driving on the other side! I just realised that!”. New York, New York - It’s a hell of a town. The Bronx is up, and the IQ is down. Alexandra feels right at home, though:

· In a totally unscripted moment, the scrags link arms and spontaneously jump out of the YELLOW TAXI! to enjoy the view. Alexandra says she feels like she’s in a movie. My guess is ‘The Arsehole Who Ate New York’. Back in the YELLOW TAXI!, Demelza has her head out the window. You know who else rides in cars with their heads hanging out the window? That’s right. Arf. In a special effort to endear herself to the show’s format owners, she points to a billboard advertising America’s Next Top Model and shouts “you suck!”. Sit, Demelza. Eat your kibbles.

· The girls are staying at a hotel called ‘The Alex’. It’s shiny. You know who else is shiny and called ‘Alex’? That’s right. You’re really smart, huh. The modules are staying in the penthouse suite, and, just like the real Shiny Alex, there’s really not that much up top. I mean his hair, silly. Not his brain. I’m sure you have to be very smart to make people want to sell their ovaries for one of your box pleats. Whatever. The penthouse is a bit shit. Regardless, there’s a bit of a fight over beds, with scads of adult ‘bagsing’ and other grown-up stuff like croquet and disdain. Now, I know watching three cold tourists fight over sleeping space should be interesting, but I’m momentarily distracted by carbon.

· There’s something that happens in every truly glorious reality television show, and its occurrence marks how you separate reality wheat from reality chaff. I call it the ‘Talk N’ Dream’. In a Talk N’ Dream, the soundtrack is a voiceover spoken by one particular contestant (I want to say ‘character’, but that implies too much), usually voicing their hopes, dreams and fears, and the vision is a slow zoom into the face of that contestant, who is standing looking wistfully into the distance, completely unaware that we’re sharing this secret, private, intimately meaningful moment with them. Talk N’ Dreams usually happen by a window, by an ocean, in a dimly-lit room or in front of a view, and everyone pretends that the cameraman, soundman and lighting technician aren’t really there. Talk N’ Dreams are fucking hilarious. Demelza’s Talk N’ Dream is no exception – her voiceover babble uses all the traditional words and phrases like “win”, “reaffirming goals”, “made it this far”, “spurs me on”, “reach” and “woof”. She surveys the New York skyline thoughtfully, imagining all the pairs of shoes within it and how she can buy them with Daddy’s money.

· In the morning, Joydhi breaks into the penthouse and drags the freezing modules out onto the balcony for a gee-up. She brings them coffee because they’re jetlagged, and reminds them again where they are:
She then explains that they’ll be visiting three modelling agencies: Marilyn, MC Squared and Elite, and then doles out portfolios and a handful of extraneous vowels.

· In the car on the way to the goy-sees, Alexandra complains that she’s not feeling very well, and this is reflected in her husky voice. Also, her teeth seem to have gone yellow and her skin has broken out in thousands of little dot – what’s that? Really? Always? Huh... Anyway, of much greater concern is her ensemble of silver jodhpurs and a white skivvy. Silver. Jodhpurs. Like she misunderstood the phrase “modelling agency” and took it to mean “Rodeo in space”. Demelza says “I’d like to think that mine is the best portfolio”. Honey, I’d like to think that when I wake up in the morning, Clive Owen will be making me French Toast with a side order of wang, but in the real world, some things only happen on the weekend. The girls are nervous about introducing themselves all over New York, so I’ve made it a little easier for them:

· Let’s see how the agencies compare, shall we?
o Agency One: Marilyn
Met By: Kwok Chan, who I want to shrink in the oven, keep in my pocket and rub for luck and cuteness
Loved: Alexandra, because she’s “fashion”
Hated: Demelza’s youth and Samantha’s blah.
Best quote: “I thought Sam photo was beautipool - I love the way how people retouch her”.
Comments: Kwok Chan continues this series’ special study area: Accents Of Excellence. Refers to Demelza as “Demell”, because this is a very exclusive agency that doesn’t have time for concluding syllables.

o Agency Two: MC Squared
Met By: Pink (from the reality show The Agency, for those playing at home), and Jean Luc, who adds another adorable accent into the mix. It’s somewhere in there amongst the folds of spooky skin.
Loved: Samantha, because she’s awesome
Hated: Demelza, because she’s gone pear-shaped
Best quote: Can’t narrow it down to just one:
Jean Luc about Alexandra: “I don’t like der eyes... they’re nearly no eyelid”;
Jean Luc about Demelza’s measurements: “36?! Zat 36 ees going to ‘aunt you”;
And my new Pink ringtone:
“She’s very, very bottom-heavy, she has horrible, horrible legs”.
Comments: Demelza lies and says she’s from Sydney, because she’s either ashamed of Wollongong or can’t pronounce it.

o Agency Three: Elite
Met By: A robot in reception, then Roman Young (and he’s both!) and Neal Hamil (and he’s neither!)
Loved: Alexandra, because of... um... nope. It’s gone.
Hated: Demelza’s hips
Best quote: “She is what I call (roll eyes into back of head) achingly beautiful”.
Comments: Alexandra says “I got called out first, which I was really happy about because I got to set the standard for what they were expecting”. I call this the ‘Proctologist Index”.

The agency visits didn’t constitute a challenge per se, but I still feel like handing out a prize. Here you go, Demell:

· In a piece of inspired scripting and stellar acting, a room-service schmuck delivers a Joydhi-Mail, and the girls seem to think this is extraordinary. This is like Mrs Klimt dropping the tea-tray in shock upon seeing Gustav use some gold leaf, or, for the lowbrow amongst you, like being surprised that Jordan and Peter Andre’s kids aren’t doing too well in school. The Joydhi-Mail is an Oscar Wilde quote about wearing works of art, and Samantha wonders if their next adventure will involve “doing something arty”. You think?! Perhaps body art, Samantha? I’ve got a suggestion:
· Joydhi meets the scrags at the Eli Klein gallery in SoyHoy, where they’re introduced to Malan Breton (from Project Runway series one through eighteen, for those of you playing at home), who designs achingly beautiful clothes, but speaks like he’s sucking on a sour, farting mouse, and laughs like he’s just bitten the head off primary school. The modules learn that they’ll be modelling a retrospective selection of Malan’s designs in front of a great big bunch of wankers. Really. Really. Slowly. Let’s give them some bullets:
o Samantha gets to wear an achingly gorgeous hat, and Demelza gets to wear a dead black emu on her head. I think that’s fair.
o Alice Burdeu (last year’s winner, for those of you who are clinically dead) turns up for a sticky-beak, sporting the very latest in Homeless Hooded Chic.
o Sam kicks arse. Full stop. What a freakin’ champion.
o Demelza, in sequins, looks gorgeous and does pretty well. Selfish.
o Alexandra is absolutely brilliant, and leaves the other two girls in the shade. Kidding! Somebody please send me a four-page faxed diagram explaining what was going on with her walk. For serious. Have you ever seen anybody try to stub out a cigarette, give directions with their head and keep an egg-yolk balanced between their thighs all at the same time? No. Me neither. Alice and Joydhi do a great job hiding their amusement. Kidding!

· After the show, Joydhi tells the girls that tomorrow they’ll be shooting their “first proper international phoy-toy shoot”, whilst everybody in Fiji gives her the finger. The next morning, the modules meet Napoleon Perdis (wearing a leather jacket with “Free Tibet” on the back), and stylist Bryan Marryshow (wearing clothes that don’t make him look like a supercilious waxed fat man). The modules are thrown into designer duds and head out to a make-up van in the street, before posing for photographer Antoine Verglas in front of a YELLOW TAXI!, because this show is all about stretching a cliché until it begs for lubricant. I’ll apologise for that with a summary:
o Whilst in make-up, Napoleon asks each girl questions with the obvious intention of trying to summon the bitchy. Some may call this “putting the cat amongst the pigeons”. I call it “This is why I drink”.
o I adore Alexandra’s outfit. I hate it when that happens. She pays for my misguided-support-shame with stupid eyelashes. I love it when that happens. She also says, of Samantha: “Sam’s lack of fashion knowledge came through... she didn’t know how to hold herself”, and of herself : “They saw that the outfit fit me so well... that they didn’t need to change anything”. Despite posing really well, she pays for her smug, manly self-love by twisting her ankle and hitting herself in the chest with a taxi.

o Demelza’s first outfit didn’t work, so she changed into a different one which was much, much more like kitten-attacked toilet paper. What the stylist didn’t seem to realise, though, was that it wasn’t the frock that was the problem. IT. WAS. THE. SHOES. At the bottom of Demelza’s legs there lives a community of desperately oppressed pink pom-poms, and the only route of escape available to refugee pom-poms is via climbing up the scaffolding on her shins. They’ve seen the bountiful mountains of plenty at the top of her thighs, and they want it. The grass is always fatter, my dear little downtrodden pom-poms.
o Samantha has borrowed her hair from the cover of Whitney Houston’s I Stuck A Fork In The Powerpoint album, and her frock from someone who makes clothes I really, really hate and then puts sequins on the shoulders. She finds it hard to follow directions, which is fair enough, because she has to smile, lean, and pretend to talk on the phone like, all at the same time. Brutal. She cries afterwards, upset that she didn’t do better, and my heart breaks into thousands of tiny little low-fat pieces.

· The girls ponder their chances of being in the final two next week, and Alexandra says “I have more of a chance of making it through than not making it through, based on how many girls there are”. Oh my god! So what you’re saying, right, and let me tease this out gently, is that TWO apples, right – don’t lose me here – is more than ONE apple? Feckin’ genius.

· Suddenly, without fanfare, the girls are teleported back to the Elimination Station, where Joydhi meets them tethered in a fetching citrus bungee-cord. She natters through the prizes, which I think this year include a Granny Smith apple and an arline sick-bag, and then introduces the judges: Charlotte Dawson (who appears to be smuggling something in her hair) Shiny Alex Perry (who looks like a smug mushroom who dreams of being the mushroom equivalent of Frank Thring), Vogue publisher Grant Pearce (who seems obsessive about combing), and Jonathan Pease, who probably wanted to go to New York but didn’t. Each girl is asked to deliver a speech explaining why they think they should be Australia’s Next Top Model. More tedious than this: advanced calculus and slow days in parliament. Demelza cries. Like human tears.

· Phoy-toys are shifted through, and the Perry/Dawson zingers are a bit light-on again this week, because we’re at the pointy end, it’s no laughing matter, and the poor dears are spent. The final three scrags are dragged back in to hear their fate, and one name is called until it’s down to Samantha the Fair and Demelza the Pear. Demelza learns that she has desire, but not maturity, and Sam is told she’s a dark horse, but lacks edge. Three New York minutes pass, and Samantha is chucked. Bye, Samantha! Mind you don’t be all gorgeous and perfect and shit on your way out.

· This leaves Demelza and Alexandra. You know how I feel about Demelza and Alexandra. How to choose? Which road will you take?
Now, I have good news and bad news. Mind you, the good news only affects me, and the bad news only affects you, so it’s like I get a cake, eat it too, and watch you slip in dogshit in the rain. So win/win, really. The bad news is: the recap for the Grand Finale Cirque Du Scrag next week will be late – possibly by as much as two days. The good news is: the reason it will be late is that I’m going. To the finale. I knooooiiiirrr. A benevolent and glamorous Foxtel persona (who shall only be known as MM) has been reading this self-indulgent tripe, and thought it proper to invite myself and Petstarr along for the spectacle. So what’s the lesson here? Be as bitchy as you like – you’ll still get invited to parties. Mental note: wear dark colours and waterproof mascara in readiness for drinks being thrown in face. Thanks, MM. You’re the unexpected twenty dollars in my jeans pocket.
Flair. Hair. What the fuck am I going to wear?

Go jump in a YELLOW TAXI! over to the Bland Canyon. Tip your driver.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

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.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series 4 #8

I think I might have developed Tourette’s Syndrome.
I’ll be happily watching television on a Tuesday night, making sophisticated, grown up conversation with my housemates and delicately placing dainty pieces of sushi into my mouth, when all of a sudden there’s a bunch of scrags on the screen and I’m shouting “BITCH! ARSEHOLE! BALLS!” and rice is everywhere.

“BITCH!” is for when Demelza is on the screen.
“ARSEHOLE!” is for when Alexandra is on the screen.
And “BALLS!” is because “balls” is a funny word that means testicles.
Take a seat and set your phasers to “twitch”. It’s the You Spin Me ‘Round Like An ARSEHOLE! episode of Australia’s Next Top Model. BALLS!

· Alyce is “heaps” relieved that she ecscaped elimination for the third time, and Alexandra comments that “Alyce feels pretty happy about being scraped through again”. It’s good to know she’s keeping up the gynaecologist visits, even with her busy schedule of sneering and saying stupid shit.

· The sun rises over Casa De Scrag, and the girls hear something at the door. In a surprise comparable to opening a Pit Bull’s mouth and finding a small child inside, they discover a Joydhi Mail on the front step, attached to a box full of t-shirts. Each shirt has a different word on it, and the modules have to arrange the shirts in order to form an intelligible sentence. In no other scenario, save perhaps for an intensive Seany B lyric-writing session, is forming simple sentences known as A Difficult Thing To Do. After trotting down the path of “Know To Fashion Prepare Your” and hanging a right at “Fashion Your Know To Prepare”, the scrags arrive at “Prepare To Know Your Fashion”, and instinctively guess that this week’s challenge will be all about knowing stuff about fashion. A deaf polar bear on a lone iceberg in the Arctic slaps its paw to its head and growls “You think?”. Joydhi arrives with Fernando Frisoni, a Brazilian man mildly known for designing with Nicola Finetti, moderately known for taking happy-snaps of fashionable street-urchins for the Sunday papers, and forever embedded in my left ventricle for making an abortion of the English language.

· Fernando goes through the girls’ wardrobes with a verbal hatchet, telling them exactly why their taste is in their arses. A Brazilian Axe, if you will. He then asks them to dress in outfits for different imaginary situations, and explains exactly, in detail, and in the best accent ever, why they’re shit. Or, as Caris puts it, “plop”. If I was inventing a South American cocktail designed to make me drunk on love, I would mix the following ingredients:
“Who ees thees? Why is they yours?” (about Demelza’s shoes);
“Eet looks like someone ails buy your cloths” (about Demelza’s entire wardrobe);
and when describing Alexandra’s boots, the incomparable:
“I feenk the shoes is a leedle beet too lesbian”.
Shake well, serve in a waistcoat.
Caris, who may be receiving mental interference through her braces from nearby mobile phone towers, is stupid enough to ask one of her competitors for clothing advice for the mini-challenge. Alexandra, who may be receiving telepathic orders from fifteen of the twenty-five colours on her high-waisted Hypercolour pants, is enough of an arsehole to give her some. As a result, Caris looks like she’s popping down the Ulladulla Centrelink to sign on, whilst Alexandra looks like a New Kid On The Block. Please note: all members of New Kids On The Block are blokes. Just saying.

· The lesson’s not over yet, no sir. Forming sentences and dressing in your own clothes is just the tip of the iceberg. Next: saying ‘thank you’, ‘please’ and ‘would you like to super-size that’. Also next, as Joydhi announces, is a trip to Voygue to visit the scariest and best-groomed woman in the country, editor Kirstie Clements. Bitch is terrifying. Softly spoken, elegant, imperceptibly mobile and with eyes that could spot a hair out of place on your soul, picket fences chide themselves for bad posture when she walks past. Alexandra is excited about going to Vogue, trumpeting “Fashion is my thing, so I was ready to kind of stand up and show off”. Arsehole. On the other side of the spectrum, Caris offers “I never really thought you could just go to Vogue before”. Sweetie, it’s an office. It’s not Narnia. There is a wardrobe, though. She’s also surprised to see Jonathan Pease there, probably based on the fact that he’s been in every single episode so far and turns up more often than tinea.

· Kirstie tells the modules, who are equal parts awed and dak-crapping, that they’re here to learn about high fashion. Alexandra looks smug because she’s an arsehole, Caris looks like she might cry because there’s oxygen present, and Samantha looks constipated, because her eyebrows magnify every emotion by eight. Kirstie and JP ask the girls a series of questions like “What do you think high end fashion is?”, “Can you name some high-fashion designers?”, “What does Vogue mean to you?”, and “When I fry up your self-esteem in a wok, what sauce should I use?”. Mostly the girls just sit on the couch and stare vacantly like confused lemurs, but Alexandra does well, answers dribbling from her artificial lips. She starts one of her answers with “Oh, obvious..”, and after the visit crows “I feel a lot closer to becoming Australia’s Next Top Model. It’s just an affirmation”. Because she’s a .... what is she? That’s right. A big one.

· A Joydhi Mail brings us to our next scene...

...In which JP is dressed as a whistle-blowing, black-and-white striped shirt-wearing referee, and I kiss this stupid, stupid show full on the lips. “Who’s laughing about my attire?” asks JP. “We are”, answers everybody with eyes. It’s major challenge time, in which the scrags will be put through their paces with a number of tests, judged by JP, Kirstie Clements, Can-You Hear-The-Ums Fernando Frisoni and Sunday Telegraph columnist Kate Waterhouse, who has the best hair in the entire world. JP grabs his tin whistle, and tells the girls that as soon as he blows, they have to rush to the surrounding garment-laden racks and dress for different events. The results look like a school play in two parts, with costumes furnished benevolently by the International Society For The Blind.
Act One
Scene: The Opening Of A New Funky Bar
Main Characters:
Caris, a peasant serf who lives behind a hospital, forced to clothe herself in hazardous waste bags and old bandages;
Alyce, a broad-hipped slutty gladiator;
Alexandra, a strapping young lad with a thing for shirts belonging to much older men;
Demelza, a middle-aged dowager;
Samantha, an exotic dusk-skinned princess whose dream is to become a Bratz doll; and
Kirstie Clements, a wicked witch with an excellent necklace who says cool stuff like “You look like you’re going to go and milk a cow”.

Act Two
: A Day At The Races.
Main Characters:
Alyce, a billowy librarian who hides snacks in her blouse, shame in her slacks, and a love of funerals in her sad, bookish heart; and
Fernando, a swarthy Latin grammar zealot experimenting with sentences like “Demelza were the less bad one”.
There are no other characters in Act Two.

· The next part of the challenge requires the modules to match eight frocks with eight designer’s names, and six models’ names with six Vogue covers. Now, I know that watching five vacuous bimbos shuffle frocks, magazines and laminated words around a room should be interesting, but I’m momentarily distracted by chicken stock. Demelza wins the challenge and picks Alyce to share her prize, bringing the winning brain-cell total to twelve. The prize, admittedly, is a corker – a flight to the Gold Coast, a day on a squillion-dollar cruiser with Wayne Cooper, a Wayne Cooper frock, a kip in the penthouse of a Very Tall Hotel, and a frolic down the red carpet at some fashion awards. Alex nearly strains a testicle with jealousy, seething “I was quite pissed off, because I knew I’d done well”. See, honey, “doing well” equals “winning”. “Sour grapes” equals “arsehole”. She continues her rant at home with “Like, it’s a nice prize whatever, but I don’t look up to Wayne Cooper”. Mind you don’t singe your arse while you’re burning that bridge, love.

· Okay – new rule. Whenever Wayne Cooper is on the screen, everybody has to shout “Geeeeezah!”. Because I say so, that’s why. Shut up.

· Blah, blah, Virgin Blue, blah, blah, sportscar, blah-di-blah GEEEEEZah! Whilst on the bow of a big shiny boat, Alyce and Demelza decide to call the losing girls on a video-phone from 1957, because Demelza thinks it’s “fun to rub it in” (BITCH!). This is like Vermeer dangling a diamond earring in front of one of his models, or, for the lowbrow amongst you, like letting Anna Nicole Smith look through the window of a pharmacy without giving her the key. Y’know – if she was alive. Blah, blah, big hotel room, woop-di-doo, free frocks, yadda, yadda, juxtaposition of Cruskit-eating and make-up session. At the red carpet do, Demelza announces that she’s “seeing if we look better than everyone – I think we do”. Whatever. How will we know what the next scene is all about?
· Let’s start by deciphering an oyster-encrusted Joydhi-Mail. Alyce and Demelza have theirs delivered by room-service on a platter with a dozen fresh oysters, whilst the losers have theirs plonked on the kitchen bench alongside two open tins of smoked snot. Okay, so oysters, right? And the quoyte inside the Joydhi-Mail is a Shakespearean reference to oysters, with an extra bit about pearls. I’m sensing a theme. You’re sensing a theme. The deaf polar bear, between seal-murders, is sensing a theme. Alyce, however, surveys the scene, screwing up her face and trying to figure out what the theme is. Finally inspiration strikes, and she exclaims “There’s a table! With lots of chairs!”. Oh, Alyce. If I won the lottery, retired tomorrow and lived to be ninety, I still wouldn’t have the time to slap you enough.

· It’s phoy-toy shoyt time, and JP meets the modules at the beach with photographer Bec Parsons and Oyster magazine editor Rachael Squires in tow. Oh! OYSTER magazine! Riiiiiight. Alexandra’s sunglasses are like Accessory Ipecac, and I would stick them down my throat if I’d just eaten a bad plateful of Gary Numan. This week’s shoot will be edgy, innovative, and in some cases, micro-chipped and toilet-trained. Lights... Camera....

o Alexandra says “I couldn’t wait to get out there and set the standard, really – this is my magazine that I love”. Aaah.... Aaah... Aah... ARSEHOLE! She’s given a wafty frock, and she wafts down the beach waftily, and almost completely obscures her face with her hair and air of general waftiness. In case there’s any doubt, a photograph in which Alexandra is obscuring her face is a Good Thing.
o Demelza lies on the sand and complains that the wind is making her eyes water, fortuitous considering her dress is made primarily from crumpled-up tissues. She lies there. Looking pretty. Selfish.
o Okay, what I’m going to tell you about Caris is the truth. If you weren’t watching, you will think I’m lying. I am not lying. For the photo shoot, Caris is given the Stupidest. Dress. In. Australia. It is – and I’ve still got my hand on my heart here – a dress made to look like a pink poodle. The sleeves are the poodle’s ears. The lower bodice is the poodle’s nose. AND THE BOOBS ARE THE EYES, AND THE EYES HAVE LONG EYELASHES, AND THE WIND IS MAKING THE POODLE BLINK. This is the best moment of my life so far. There’s a poodle face on Caris’ boobs, and it’s blinking at me. And the shoes? GUMBOOTS. Poodle. Blinking. Gumboots. Blinking poodle boobs. I may need surgery.
o Samantha, in black catsuit and more crumpled-up tissues, is ridiculously, breathtakingly gorgeous. I fully admit it now – I’ve bought a weekly ticket on the Samantha bus, I’m sitting right up the front, and I’m chatting with the driver. JP says she ‘found her darkness’ today. Pah. She found her hotness.
o Alyce is dressed as the Statue of Boobity. Or the sTITue of Liberty. Or norks in a headband. Something. Good frock, good shot. Then she opens her mouth, and the illusion is shattered. “Yeah, my mission has been to stop modelling”. Um....?

· A Joydhi Mail instructs the girls to turn up at elimination this week dressed to illustrate examples of fringe or high fashion on a budget of $100 each. This is borderline animal cruelty. For them, I mean. For us, it’s gold. The scrags polyester into the Elimination Catacomb, and I’m rendered almost speechless. It’s a blur of colour. A melange of synthetic fabrics. A flurry of sweatshop labour. And a generous helping of OH MY GOD, ALYCE, WHAT THE FUCK. Puffy sleeves, long collar, wallpaper print. Get it off. Seriously, anything that makes Alexandra’s sheer pink socks-and-sandals ensemble look superior can only be a dress woven from Satan’s worst garlic breath. If this dress were a cake, it would have marzipan in it. Plus, it doesn’t have any poodle eyes on it. I think I’ve made my point.

· Joydhi faffs through the prizes, which I think this year include a red tulle fascinator and a goldfish, and then introduces the judges: Charlotte Dawson, who has either whitened her teeth or darkened the world, Shiny Alex Perry, who looks like a varnished onion that has onion-juice in its eyes, Vogue publisher Grant Pearce, who is dipped in something that hasn't dried yet, and Oyster’s Rachael Squires, who really should go out and buy herself some jewellery. Outfits are assessed, phoy-toys are picked to bits, and choice zingers are passed from Dawson to Perry and back again, including:
“It looks like Betty Crocker vomited”;
“I don’t get vintage – I don’t know why you’d go and buy an old dress when you can go and buy a new one”;
“I think it’s gone carnival wrong”;
“It looks a bit Children Of The Damned”;
“If you had to wear a friggin’ poodle, you’d be psycho too”; and of course
“If Naomi Campbell hadn’t embraced her whole background... yeah, okay there’d be a couple of people running around without concussion, but...”

· Joydhi calls out the modules’ monikers one by one (pink clipboard), until only Hips Ahoy Alyce and Get Those Fucking Braces Off Caris remain. Alyce is told that she has a great photo, but great photos are rare for her, and Caris is told that, uncharacteristically, this week’s photo is a dog. See what I did there? Poodle. Dog. I’m probably a comedy genius. An hour forty passes, and Alyce, despite her existing talents in the area, is given the arse. Bye, Alyce! Don’t read meaning into any more furniture on your way out! Alyce writes the remaining girls a farewell message on the house wall, calling them ‘sluts’. She spells it correctly.

Next week, the modules are interviewed for mock news stories, Alexandra lies through her oddly discoloured teeth, and everyone scrambles for a place in the top three. Squibs. Fibs. I’ve got dibs.

Remember: every time you click on a link to Bland Canyon, God kills another poodle dress. Do it! Do it now!

Tuesday, June 03, 2008

Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series 4 #7

The tropics are overrated, I reckon.
What’s so great about a place where your hair goes frizzy, you’re constantly plagued by mosquitoes, and your chances of seeing a sixty-year-old European guy in his togs is about one in four?

Watching cranky models rake seaweed off a beach is what.

Stick a stupid amount of fruit in your drink and tune up your ukulele: it’s the Push Pineapple, Shake A Scrag episode of Australia’s Next Top Model.

· The girls are shaken by last week’s double elimination, and Demelza shows that the only time she actually sits on the fence is when she’s being psychic: “I really, really didn’t want Leiden to go home, but at the same time I kinda knew she was going to”, and “I thought that Alyce should go home, but I knew that she wouldn’t”. Alyce is either as stupid as custard, or she’s rehearsing for her job interview at NASA: “That was two girls gawn now, it feels so small – there’s only six of us left, that’s almost like... five. Which is almost four. Which is almost three...”.

· The ANTM production budget isn’t just limited to a three-pack of coloured clipboards, no sir. The modules are off to Fiji. That’s almost a whole ‘nother country.

· JP meets the scrags at the airport and tells them that on the plane they’ll be doing runway down the gangway, strutting resort-wear to three hundred passengers who would really rather just put their headsets on and watch the second half of Spy Kids 4 instead of the live arena version of Scrags On A Plane. The girls have trouble putting their make-up on, because they’re… I dunno, sitting down, the poor darlings, and their complaints range from Rebecca’s “I can’t even see what I’m doing!” to Caris’ slightly more insistent “My make-up looks shit”, all the way to Samantha’s brilliant, I-want-it-on-a-t-shirt-by-tomorrow* “I look like arse on a stick”. If you’re not picturing an actual arse on an actual stick right now, we can’t be friends anymore. Suddenly all the passengers are waving around copies of their in-flight magazine with Shiny Alex Perry on the cover, and it looks like a cat has been set amongst a flock of varnished, plucked pigeons. In expensive sunglasses.

· The modules are sporting resort-wear for the mid-air show. In case you’re unfamiliar, resort-wear is what designers make out of the fabric they’ve spilled finger-paint and Cyndi Lauper on, topped with a hat. Samantha hams it up, smiling and posing, and JP calls her a “Muppet mouth”. I don’t really know exactly what he means, but I’m of course picturing a puppet. A puppet that looks like an arse. On a stick. Alyce appears to have sucked too hard on her oxygen mask, and bounces down the runway like an irritating box of crayons. Caris and Alexandra do a’ight, Demelza flounces along the aisle looking for all the world like she’s about to ask“The chicken or the bitch, sir?”, and Rebecca seems more likely to drawl “Youse want some nuts, or what?”.

· Back on the ground, Alexandra comments on how moist it is, and I’m sure, once again, that my chances of ever having sex again without twitching are zero. Suddenly Alyce shouts “Oh my god, a big cow!”, presumably because she’s looking at her reflection in the window. All the girls are given leis. It’s Demelza’s first time.

· Let’s play a guessing game. Let’s guess what the girls say when they see their five-star resort accommodation. Is it:
a) “Ohmoygod!”
b) “Gosh, furniture designers in and around the Tropic of Capricorn are certainly more minimalist now than in days of yore, aren’t they?”
c) “My crotch itches. I think I have a fungus,” or
d) “What? Sorry, I’m still thinking about how much of a dick Seany B is”
Winner gets a fucking medal.

· Alexandra. Honey. Those pants.

· Morning brings JP in yet another pair of Mack-truck-windscreen sunglasses that are completely overshadowed by his shorts, which have pictures of lots of pairs of sunglasses on them. Way to milk a theme, Corey Hart. He tells the scrags that they’re about to take part in a photo-shoot challenge for clothing brand ‘City’, because of its obvious remote-tropical-island-lifestyle connotations. Photographer Chris Ferguson looks like he just woke up on the floor of a pub and had a bath in an ashtray, hence I like him instantly. Making virtually no point in point form:
o JP tells Alexandra to “loosen the mouth up, babe – really stretch it out – it’s tightened up”, which is not the last time she’ll hear that phrase if she wants to make it in this business. I’ll admit that she almost looks pretty, though. And by ‘pretty’, I mean ‘like a very effeminate man’. And by ‘effeminate’, I mean ‘penis’.
o Alyce is wearing a blouse from my grandmother’s wardrobe, shorts from my grandfather’s chest of drawers, and shoes from a stripper’s private stash of especially slutty shoes. She looks awkward as she leans against a column, and JP asks if she’d ever actually stand against a pole like that, and that she’s grasping it like it’s a phallic object. And by ‘phallic’, he means ‘penis’. Photographer Chris, just to make a leap away from my perception of him as a scruffy outspoken yobbo, says “she’s always stickin’ her tits out”, and “I think she’s ugly, but I think she did a good job”. Chris. Oh, Chris. You can take a suck from my schooner anytime.
o It really pisses me off that Demelza’s so beautiful, because I sort of want her to contract a flesh-eating disease. Instead, she takes gorgeous photographs. It’s selfish, is what it is. Chris comments that “She’s only sixteen, and she’s not used to her body yet. She’s drivin’ a V8, but she’s only got her Ls”. Oh, Chris. You can reinforce my chassis anytime.
o Rebecca is a lump on the grass, and needs a lot of encouragement from JP. He says “I can’t keep pumping her up all the time. She’s gotta come inflated”. I’ll be holding a lecture tour over the coming weeks to explain in detail, with visual aids, how this shit just writes itself.
o I’m afraid I’ve bought a ticket on the Samantha bus. Like, I’m sitting near the door, and I’m only going a few stops, but I’m on. She pretty. She stares straight down the lens with her multicoloured irises and makes Chris say “The face is a bit vampy for me. I feel a bit raped”. Oh, Chris.
o Caris cries in the make-up chair, and I think it’s because of JP’s shorts. I’m getting a little misty about them myself. She then pulls Extreme Gorgeous out of her rapidly-disappearing arse, and I’m all proud of her again, and I might invite her around to my house where we can both make dinner together like best friends do. She can slice the onions, though, ‘cause like, what difference will it make? She wins the challenge. Her braces must die.

· Losers have to don shapeless cleaning outfits, do laundry, wash dishes, and my absolute favourite, rake the seaweed off the beach. This has absolutely nothing to do with modelling, and everything to do with cruelty, which is why I’m marrying this show and having its brat babies. Raking seaweed off the beach is like a punishment a troll would hand out in a fairy tale. A mean troll, who has his period. Watching it is like supporting the hell-spawn in a Hieronymus Bosch painting or, for the lowbrow amongst you, like putting your money on Ricky May in a hot-dog eating contest. Y'know - if he was alive.

· Okay, this is really important. Caris and Alexandra, right, trap a frog in a – get this – a colander, and release it into the – too funny – the pool. While some of the girls are totally swimming in the pool! Then – it’s not over – The frog swims. It SWIMS! It’s like what this show always lets us do – we’re WATCHING EVOLUTION HAPPEN. Only this time, it’s like, forwards. Now, I know that watching skinny moles sharing a pool with an amphibian in the middle of the night should be interesting, but I’m momentarily distracted by butane.

· A Joydhi-Mail gets the girls on a boyt for a phoy-toy shoyt, and they’re sped off to a tiny island where JP and photographer Russell James stand waiting. Nobody looks directly at Rebecca’s sunglasses for fear they should become either blind or instantly turned into a Bonnie Tyler album cover. Joydhi arrives by sea-plane, (because it’s much easier for her to pronounce than “boyt”, or “grachyoo-itus self-promoytion”), and lets the modules know they’ll be posing in Tigerlily cossies. Summary, you say? Certainly!
o Rebecca sits there. End of sentence.
o Samantha’s eyes and boobs battle for dominance, and all four of them look bloody stunning.
o Caris does her usual brace-face-geek-walks-up-to-camera-and-instantly-becomes-gorgeous-supermodel trick. Joydhi tucks her right tit back in for her, which sort of helps too.
o Demelza does pretty well (selfish), and really unlocks some of the mystery of swimwear modelling for me when she says “I ended up on some rocks and kind of in the water a little bit”.
o A girl that looks vaguely like Alex (except with a tan, a girl’s face and conceivably her own vagina) steps out and takes some pretty good shots. Arsehole.
o Alyce points her boobs to the north and her arse to the south, and still looks like she’s got a hair in her mouth. Norks to the west, bum to the east, she might be the model that the judges like least. Shut up. Rhyming is clever.

The modules get on a magic boat that apparently takes them all the way back to Sydney, letting them off at the Elimination Jetty. I’m pulling Alexandra aside, because this obsession with Hypercolour cannot continue. It’s like somebody squeezed out The Wiggles over her singlet. In a long black gown, Joydhi enunciates slowly through the prizes, which I think this year include a temporary tattoo and a coconut, and then introduces the judges: Charlotte Dawson, dressed today as a Disco Garden, Shiny Alex Perry, dressed today as a brand new roll-on deodorant, ex-model Gail Elliott, dressed today as a suntan, and photographer Russell James, dressed today as Jodie Foster in Freaky Friday.

Phoy-toys are viewed, and Charlotte and Shiny Alex commence their usual verbal game of cat and cat, including notables:
“Your tits look awesome, don’t they?”
“I can’t quite explain the level of ordinariness that this picture has”,
“Damn, who is that sexy bitch on the beach?”
“I think she’s a lump. I sometimes wonder if she’s living or not”.
Charlotte also slaps herself in the face and bangs her head on the desk. Shiny Alex just looks like he might have done both of those things recently.

· Joydhi calls the names out one by one (from a pink folder, for those of you playing at home), until only Rebecca the Lump and Alyce the Wingnut are left. Rebecca is told that she’s beautiful , but without energy, and Alyce is told that she needs to stop modelling. In a modelling competition. Where the prize is a modelling contract. With a modelling agency. I’m really quite conflicted right now. Four minutes pass, and Rebecca is pushed off this module coil. Bye, Rebecca! Don’t do any more than two basic poses on your way out!

Next week, the modules have a run-in with Wayne Cooper, weight ish-yous come to the fore once more, and Kirstie Clements assesses the girls’ high-fashion knowledge. Wayne. Gain. Disdain.

* I really mean it. Get me this on a t-shirt.

Go read Petstarr’s take on the Tropical Scrags over at Bland Canyon. She’s got a lovely bunch of coconuts.