Look at where we’ve been! (Oh. New Zealand. Exotic. I guess).
Look at what we’ve worn! (But maybe sort of overlook the dead pheasant head-dress, the inflated laundry bag, the Michael Hill watches, the purple bra, the jean-printed leggings, the recycled sequined dre... okay, forget everything except maybe the mascara and the socks).
Look at what we’ve learned!
a) How to pronounce every word in the New Zealand language;
b) How to dress like Jackie Onassis and my grandmother;
c) That Colin Hyphenated-Surname can be both the best thing on the planet and the main killer of my eyes and life all at once. That’s multi-tasking television royalty, that is.
Oh, Sara. At various times in this episode, you were wearing some kind of purple manchester item, a doily, and a prim, almost cartoon-esque number. I can’t pinpoint exactly who the cartoon frock reminds me of, but I’ve got a great suggestion for a guy you might want to start hanging out with...
Chris, I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for maintaining an unprecedented level of moist over the last three months. In fact, I have a prize for you. It will be ready as soon as I have it mounted. By you, preferably.
Oh, Colin Hyphenated-Surname. I hope you know how much you’ve meant to me during this series. I could never get rid of my weekly build-up of phlegm if it were not for the opportunity to shout “NO! WHAT ARE YOU... HOW DID YOU... IM BLIND! BLIND, I SAY!” at my television screen.
And this week is no different. Not only do you front up at The Wharf dressed first as Mary-Ann then as Thurston Howell from Glligan’s Island, at the first elimination you reek magnificence and mothballs as Ali Gaga And The Forty Divas.
Wait, I think I have a picture of it here somewhere...
Are you guys going to be okay? Like, without me letting you know how to translate New Zealandish? Or has my persistence in banging out basically the same vowel-based jokes every week become predictable and lame? Wait. Don’t answer that.
Feshion Spictekular – A cetwalk parade in a two-level waterfront silo.
Cettiness – see: “Buchiness”.
Buchiness – see: “Cetiness”
Near-vuss – What modules feel before their final cetwalk show.
Banana Splut – A dish that is planned for dessert right before the best thing in the world happens.
Lemungton - Bakery item that is thrown with considerable force in order to become an integral part of the best thing in the world.
Peer-spix - a real bugger to walk on without slupping.
• All the monetary stops are pulled out for the deciding catwalk show, and high-end models are sourced from all over the world to help Christobelle and Laura strut their final stuff. Well, middle-level models from the Antipodes. Well, girls with a couple of years' experience from Wellington. Oh, okay, all the eliminated models from previous episodes before their contract options run out. Paying people is for losers.
• That’s it. We’re completely out of money. There is nothing left in the budget to pay for back-combing, hairspray or new clothing for the final Eliminarium, therefore Sara will look borderline human, and Colin will be dressed in his pyjamas. Wait – Sara, we just found a lace doily under a vase in the foyer of the hotel – go nuts.
• The photographs from the Cleo shoot are universally amazing, however the actual outfits are a bit hut end muss. All the major soap operas are represented – Dallas, Dynasty, and Debbie Does Dallas. It’s thorough, is what it is. As is Laura’s “I’m in a fringed dress and these veins on my legs are the road map to my undies” pose. It’s heaps editorial, ay. Alternatively, on the commercial side of life, we have Ho(sanna), who waves the top of her body around like a flag on the back of the town bike.
• Ho(sanna), can you guess what happens to people who borrow their blouse and cardigan from a librarian for an elimination? That’s right. Bye.
• When the two finalists sit down to eat their last supper, Colin arrives unexpectedly with a tray full of lamingtons, which he then proceeds to peg at the girls in a frenzied flurry of coconut and my-life-is-now-complete. He chases them. CHASES THEM. Christobelle complains that “They hurt. They were like, hard lamingtons”. Anyone whose soul isn’t buoyed by the sight of a man throwing cake at models can go stand in the corner.
Then, almost entirely without fanfare or minimum-level production values, we find out who the winner is. It’s the most predictable thing since the discovery of any other piece of information that’s been freely available on Wikipedia since early June.
It’s Christobelle. Der.
So, well, I guess it’s E haere ra everybody. It’s been one hell of a ride, and I can’t say that my life isn’t better for it. Like, I know that compared to say, the number of starving people in the world, this show isn’t that important, but if you figure that about two percent of those people are actually models, it makes sense.
Life. Changing. Television.
And a mad bitch in a turban.
Thanks for reading!