It seems that the producers of New Zealand’s Next Top Model have picked exactly the same materials from the activity box, but perhaps without the sticky tape, and with far fewer Space Food Stick breaks. Someone had better remember Space Food Sticks, or that’s the lamest introduction ever. Or both. Oh, whatever. Move on.
Everybody breathe a sigh of relief – apparently no Kennedys have died this week. Sara may have to rush off to Tatooine in the Millennium Falcon with Luke Skywalker, though. She’s so busy.
Chris, during the photo-shoot, a tiny swatch of your chest-hair emerged from your singlet and waved at me in the breeze. I’ve painted a completely non-creepy watercolour portrait of that exact moment as it exists in my memory. All I really need is your home address, so I can post it to you.
Colin Hyphenated-Surname, you HURT MY FACE. If you’re wearing that cardigan and tie, then what’s Great Uncle Barry supposed to wear to bowls? It’s selfish is what it is. It’s also yellow. Selfish and yellow CLASH, just like orange and pink, or Lindsay Lohan and life.
And don’t EVEN get me started on the Eliminarium ensemble. Working my way down (and I promise that concept makes me gag as much as it does you, sweetie), we have a quiff. With a mullet in back. And a sparkly beauty spot. And a buttonhole flower. And a white suit.
But most importantly, Colin, WE HAVE A QUIFF. Is there a rule that one member of the judging panel has to poke the sky with their hair?
Wait – I think I have a picture of it somewhere...
This week, another guide to help you out with particularly idiosyncratic words and phrases, such as ‘particularly idiosyncratic’:
Dung Dong: There’s someone at the door.
Horruffuck: The experience of being in the bottom two.
Blunkung: Something Ajoh never, ever does.
Femully Dunner: Something you sit down to at night in order to discuss how big a bitch you think everyone is.
The Medness! The Unsenutty!: A cosmetics challenge according to Colin Hyphenated-Surname.
Dremetuck/Hustoruck: What couture is and stuff.
Karen Inderbitzen-Waller: I’m not even fucking joking. This is the name of the photographer this week, and her full name is spoken out loud about fourteen times. I am kissing the producers on the mouth for this. ON THE MOUTH.
• There are two basic principles when trying to stretch a production budget:
1. Squeeze as much drama as humanly possible out of footage of your show’s contestants just sitting around talking. You can make it look like they’re having an argument by simply looping the same footage continuously for a good ten to fifteen minutes, gradually increasing the volume, for example:
“I can’t believe five of you said you thought I was going home this week”.
“We don’t really think that”.
“I CAN’T BELIEVE FIVE OF YOU SAID YOU THOUGHT I WAS GOING HOME THIS WEEK”. “WE DON’T REALLY THINK THAT!”
And so on.
2. Let your sponsor dribble on about their product for as long as they like, and then let them offer that product as a prize. In our example, Cover Girl offers the winner of the make-up challenge some products that aren’t even available in New Zealand yet! And as long as the courier keeps the leeches and bear-fat pomade in a refrigerated container, you can expect delivery of your prize next Tuesday.
• Budget a bit tight for your seaside photo-shoot? Never mind! We have a carpet, a tablecloth, a mirror-ball and some pop-rivets left over from the Punakaiki episode of Changing Rooms New Zealand.* Can’t afford accessories either? Scrounge around the waterfront until you find a couple of dead birds, then just staple them to your models wherever you see a blank bit that needs filling in. Theeere you go.
• I think I may have mentioned before that I’m pretty sure Rebecca Rose is an alien (and if I haven’t: Rebecca Rose is totally an alien). I also have a new theory, the general crux of which revolves around the fact that Teryl Leigh is a robot. Think about it – the height, the monotonous voice, the inability to look happy or sexy, the soulless repetition and lack of emotion. She thinks it’s because she’s Catholic. Tomato, tomato. Or 110111, 110011 if you’re Teryl Leigh.
• Couture photo-shoot! I. Can’t. Breathe. Which is fine, because neither can half the girls. Somebody thinks it’s a great joke to stick Laura in one of those bags homeless people carry their other bags in, and also give her very straight, very black eyebrows. That somebody is me. She describes it as ‘thus messuv seercle wuth a hid-hole’ that has a ‘messuv bum-seck’ in it. Aaand my work here is done.
• Lucy has a pheasant on her shoulder, and Ho(sanna) has one on her head. As a direct result, have tears in my eyes and a burst pancreas. Pucker up, producers.
• Wait – in her spangly photo-shoot outfit, Rebecca-Rose isn’t just an alien, she’s an entire space ship. Possibly a bit of a lizard overlord as well. I hate it when that happens.
Rhiannon is given the boot because she’s only suxteen. E haere ra, Rhiannon! Thanks for stopping by. Oh, and Rhiannon? When you pass Ajoh on your way out of the Eliminarium, could you please ask her to blink? I’d really, really appreciate it.
*Oh, you don’t knoooow. I do actual research for this shi... stuff. I’ve looked up more places on maps of New Zealand than you’ve had hot dunners.