Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series 5 THE FINALE

Gah! My retinas! I don’t know if the tears in my eyes are there because we’ve reached the end of this series, or if they’re the result of thousands and thousands of pieces of reflective scintilla (that’s ‘sparkly shine-bits’ to you, modules) on the stage and set burning permanent weeping sores onto my cornea. Actually, I do know. It’s just that having scarred eye parts sounds a lot cooler. Kind of. Welcome, for the last time this year, to the ‘Shiny, Shiny, Scrag Times Behind Me’ episode of Australia’s Next Top Model. Bring tissues. If there are any non blood-soaked ones left.

· It was a balmy night (read: pissing down and blowy as a bastard) when Jo Blogs and Petstarr made their way towards the doors of the Luna Park Big Top, running too late to partake of a pre-show glass of sumpin’ sumpin’. They made their way to their seats, which were thankfully far from being in the nosebleed section (but let’s face it, an hour later everybody was kind of in the nosebleed section) and settled in. Petstarr pulled out her portable space station and began Twittering, taking digital notes, directing air traffic and predicting tsunamis, whilst Jo Blogs reached into her own bag for a mangy notebook and gnawed biro. Technology frightens me. Shut up. Jo Blogs also stopped referring to herself in the third person, sensing that that kind of thing was really only adorable on Tahnee and more than a little irritating on anyone else. So, like, are we cool? Now that we all know that I was scribbling notes in the dark and was distracted by shiny things and annihilated miniature colonies of brain cells er… ‘researching’ the after party, and might not remember every single detail and haven’t been even remotely funny since around midnight Tuesday? Yeah. Yeah, we’re cool. Solid.

· The set looks like the bridge of the Starship Enterprise from that episode of Star Trek entitled The Day We Ran Out Of Money, But Still Had Heaps Of Blank CDs And Fishing Line Left. You know the one. It had like, guys in it.

· Saint Sarah emerges onto the stage, only just having made it in time after a full afternoon of gathering signatures for the Ban Corsets No Seriously I Can’t Breathe In This Thing campaign, and it seems she’s accidentally walked through the web of a spider that traps and kills spangle. That is the sparkliest effing nurse’s uniform I have Ever. Seen. And I’ve seen some preeeetty sparkly effing nurse’s uniforms. Saint Sarah introduces the judges – Shiny Alex Perry (who is upset that he’s not the shiniest thing on stage, and frankly so am I), Charlotte Dawson (who has left one arm un-troubled by sleeve, perhaps to better afford opportunities for touching), George Pease (who isn’t wearing anything plastic, collar-popped, bright green or windshield-y, more’s the pity), Priscilla Leighton-Clark (who I’ve just realised looks exactly the same every single time I see her, similar to the way Katy Perry’s songs are shit every single time you listen to them), Russell James (who used to be Jody Freaky Friday Foster but is now Fabio in Flip-Flops), and one of the main reasons I’m glad I’m alive and own ears: Claudia Navone. I need to find out if it’s possible to have surgery so that everybody sounds like her. Imagine. “In der event of laow cabeen prrresurrre, awxygen mask weel drop from der ceileeng, and der elassteek strap weel mess up your air”. Make it happen, fictional impossible surgical doctor dudes . Make it happen.

· During Saint Sarah’s chat with the judges, Charlotte Dawson calls the girls a bunch of scrags. That’s the meanest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.

· Ruby Rose interviews Cassi and Tahnee backstage while they have their hair and make-up done. At least we think it’s Cassi and Tahnee, as we only see them from the back. It could be a couple of pot plants with wigs on. I hear they do a lot of that sort of thing in the magical world of television. The mod… waaaaiiit. Ruby Rose has a red microphone. Saint Sarah has a white microphone. THE PRODUCERS ARE STILL MESSING WITH MY MIND. I freakin’ love it when they do that. Joh-tox Bailey and Nigel Stanislaus offer their two cents, the former making me think of two golf balls sticky-taped onto a dark brown handbag, and the latter making me think of sprinkling my unicorn with glitter and dehydrated pixies and taking it out for a canter.

· As Saint Sarah introduces them, each of the eliminated modules appears, dressed in the outfit they originally failed in. This, in case you’re wondering, is only borderline diabolical. To really humiliate the poor darlings, they should have walked out in their transgendered-feet and ugly bird outfits, walking squealing baby pigs on flannelette leashes. Obviously. They wander aimlessly for a minute. And then another minute. And for several minutes after that. It gets a little bit awkward, and people start looking around for a distraction, ANY distraction. What’s that? Jessica Mauboy in a crotch-duster skirt and two offensively energetic guys doing back-flips? Great suggestion. Thanks. Kid’s got a killer voice, but Jessica. Honey. When you’re performing on a raised platform, don’t dance like that in that outfit. We can almost see your… er… Northern Territory.

· CLAUDIA BREAK! When asked if she’d picked a winner, Claudia says “Ak-shoo-wally, I deed. I deed, yais”. When asked if she’s going to tell, she says “Abba-solutely… nowt”. Aaaaaah. I may not need beer anymore now that I have Claudia.

· Multiple choice question time! Thank god.

Doing vox-pops with the audience is only okay if you’re:
a) A stand-up comedian;
b) A professional hypnotist;
c) An evangelical preacher; or
d) Nobody ever EVER under any circumstances, don’t make me tell you twice.

Der. It’s d).
Unfortunately, Ruby Rose isn’t that into multiple choice questions. For her first audience venture, she picked a girl who had a massive, bright yellow poster that had lots of pictures of Tahnee on it, and the word TAHNEE printed in large letters across it, and asked her who she was going for. On her second try, her chosen Cassi fan went completely silent, and possibly even started to cry. Do. Not. Ask. The Audience. Stuff.

· All of a sudden, everyone’s walking again, including Tahnee and Cassie Van Den Da-Doo-Ron-Ron Dungen, who both finish in the most chin-dribblingly gorgeous Shiny Alex Perry gowns imaginable. Seriously. Bitches are hot. Because Tahnee’s walk is – oh, what’s the phrase – completely perfect, Dawson and Perry don’t have many zingers in the tank. Not so for chalky-boned, corkscrew-spined Cassi. Shiny Alex admits that he’s wondered how she ever even got from bedroom to bathroom, which is almost the winning burn until Charlotte offers “Cassi started like a foal that was drunk when it was born”. And the foal will have a cigarette with its next drink, thanks.

· CLAUDIA BREAK! “Cah-see, your wawk is quite fah-nee. Relax a beet more you shoulder”. Ees Claudia. Ees good.

· Charlotte and Shiny Alex interview all the modules, and their questions are interspersed with quick trots down clip-package lane. Now, I know that talking about footage we’ve all seen before, watching the footage and then talking about it a bit more should be interesting, but I’m momentarily distracted by dust. Charlotte touches Laura. It’s touching.

· Saint Sarah ups the sparkle factor by ten in a floor-length cascade of glimmer. I want to go to the supermarket in this frock, push a trolley around, look up at other shoppers and go “What?!”. It’s just… it’s just a thing I want to do.

· Unsurprisingly, Clare wins $5,000 from Impulse for being Australia’s Favourite Viewer-Picky Model thing. Clearly my votes got through. Loved her from the start. Cough.

· Next up, we trot through each of Cassi and Tahnee’s photo portfolios, and everybody agrees that Russell James’ ‘Lingerie In The Outback’ shoot and Jez Smith’s ‘Lesbian Wedding By The Sea’ shots are the best. In a pre-shot package, each girl is asked to comment, and Tahnee says “You can vote for whoever you want”, which is edited just before she adds “Except for that snaggle-toothed mole”. Cassi remarks that “In the show I think I was the most matured”, which is edited just before she adds “Eckspecially the tops way I talk England”. George Pease reminds everyone of the fly-blown conditions in the desert by saying ‘You remember, Russell – it was retarded out there’. The audience avoids eye-contact with each other and rustle their lolly wrappers. A tumbleweed shifts nervously in its seat.

· We’re back to Saint Sarah, and she introduces my-new-best-friend Tahnee’s Mum, whilst Cassi looks crestfallen at the fact that her own mother is in LA. HA! PSYCH! The good people at Granada have flown Cassi’s mum back for the night, and mother and daughter race towards each other for an admittedly emotional familial embrace. No mean feat with a floor-length gown, heels, and one leg shorter than the other. Cassi’s mother trips over her own feet, showing that the drunk foal never falls far from the intoxicated tree.

· Oh. Look. It’s little Jess Mauboy again. I won’t talk about the massive, angry scene-stealing pimple on her cheek, because that would be unkind.

· All the judges cast their votes, including Saint Sarah asking herself what she thinks and then thinking for a minute before answering, and there are a couple of surprises as Cassi comes out ahead. Mind you, even though she got more votes than Tahnee, she also got ROYALLY SERVED. Apparently, her attitude sucks and her walk is mank. Who knew?

· Due to heat, stress, and most likely being the prettiest girl in the world, Tahnee’s nose starts bleeding and doesn’t stop. She mops it up with tissue after blotchy red tissue, and spends the next twenty minutes with her hands over her face. Honestly. That girl will do anything for attention.

· While viewer votes are being tallied, we have yet another packaged squiz at each girl’s ‘journey’, and I pack up and mail a thesaurus to every production company I can find in the phonebook so I don’t have to hear the word ‘journey’ used in reality television ever again. Saint Sarah drones through the prizes, which I think this year include a packet of textas and a t-shirt that says ‘I WENT TO THE TOP MODEL FINALE AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS BLOOD-SOAKED T-SHIRT’. Eighteen thousand geological ages pass, and Sarah announces the winner. I forget what happened after that.*

Next week, the… oh. Damn.

Now, before you head on over to the Impulse facebook page like you always do, I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for reading, commenting, agreeing, disagreeing, and accessorising so well this year. Make sure you still come visit, y’all. I need the attention.


*Tahnee, your congratulatory cupcakes are ready.

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