Australia's Next Top Model Series Six #4

Try this as an experiment: get a four-centimetre swatch of brightly-coloured, stretchy fabric and hold it in front of you. Stare at it. Maybe even take it outside so it moves in the breeze.



Anything happen? No?


Now, take that same piece of fabric, add a gusset, drape it over a scrawny girl’s jutting collarbones and see what happens. Tears, tantrums, bitchiness, arched backs and sand in the last place you’d ever want sand. And, of course, thinly-veiled, nylon-flavoured hilarity.


Yes. It’s the ‘Itchy Bitchy Teeny Screamy Hello I’m A Scrag Bikini’ episode of Australia’s Next Top Model. Pffffft. ‘Gusset’.


Skin-Tight Budget

Unfortunately, the production budget this week could not stretch to include enough fabric to cover Cheyenne Tozzi’s nugs. Mind you, it’s hard to imagine that any fabric could. Jesus Parton Christ.


Me Talky Proper And That

• At one point during her umpteenth haircut, Sssophie claims that she has an “epiphany”. Later, during her elimination scolding, Kimbo says that she is “aware of the ramifications of her actions”. Ladies, I’m afraid you’ve exceeded the maximum number of allowable syllables allocated to words in a model’s vocabulary, and your Dumb Bitch membership cards have been revoked.


• When Sssophie opens her strange flesh-coloured mouth, we’re starting to hear tiny little bits of regional drawl fall out. When she and Kathryn have to sit out of a challenge, Sssophie says “Oh my god, we’re models and we’re taping shoes. What the how”. Sophie mauling the English language? It’ll be a cold day in How before that happens.


Learnment

This week’s lesson involves Michael Klim, a swimming pool, wetsuits, lunges, and some freezing cold, pert nipples. OMG, you guys – IT’S JUST LIKE AT MY HOUSE. Except I don’t have a pool.


• An unexpected splashing sound in the pool at 6am causes the modules to realistically exclaim “Hey, guys! I heard a splash outside in the pool! Whatever could it be? Let us investigate with the speed and grace of Pegasus and some surprised expressions!”. And the Oscar goes to..... no-one.


• Michael Klim, who can barely get over his own massive relevance to the fashion industry, turns up and tells the scrags that they’ll be exercising this morning to facilitate the “fit, tight bodies” necessary for swimwear modelling. Kimberly enthuses “I actually watch the Olympics, I know who this person is! He’s like a breaststroker or something!”. I’m pretty sure she just recognises the words “breast” and “stroker”.


• Klim takes the girls through some exercises in and out of the pool in glamorous couture wetsuits. Now, I know that watching a gaggle of girls in neoprene walk first one way and then the other may sound interesting, but I’m momentarily distracted by spinifex.


• Part two of the lesson has the modules taken through the rigors of swimwear posing, led by bikini model Cheyenne Tozzi, who is in turn led by her boobs. Now, I’m no expert, but from what I gather, successful bikini modelling depends on three main factors – arching your back, lying on the floor, and flicking your hair around like Liam Howlett mid-seizure. I have also learnt that camouflage-printed cozzies are vile, that Southern Cross tattoos always turn up in exactly the places I expect to see them, and that Chantal’s cozzie looks a bit like a face.

A face that says 'amazeballs'.

• The final part of today’s lesson is titled Meter Maids Get Upset About The Darnedest Things. You see, Kimbo gets upset because she doesn’t like being in a bikini. This is like Wassily Kandinsky getting upset because he doesn’t like squiggly lines, or, for the lowbrow amongst you, like Megan Fox getting the pouts about being an idiot. As Amanda puts it, “She’s a Meter Maid. She lives in a gold bikini”. Tears fall, a bag is packed, a grotesque footy jumper is worn, and Kimbo paraphrases Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With The Wind when she says with salty conviction “I was a meter maid for three and a half years, and I vowed to never. Wear bad togs. Ever. Again”. Way to rock a life goal, babe.


• Cheyenne becomes, surprisingly, my instant hero with her advice to Kimbo, miraculously delivered without an eye-roll or a face-slap. “This is not a crying problem” she says. World starvation? Crying problem. Human rights injustices? Crying problem. Justin Bieber being hit in the face with a water bottle? Laughing problem. Breaking your vow to never wear a bikini again? NOT A CRYING PROBLEM. Aaaand I have my t-shirt slogan for the week. Thanks, Che-Toz.


Challenged

The Fashion Fiestas drop the girls at the Ivy for this week’s challenge, where they’re met by Shiny Alex Perry, who appears to have just smelt a fart.

It smells expensive. And a little bit like hay.

 Shiny Alex in turn introduces Megan Gale, who will today be launching her own swimwear line called “Isola”, which translated from Italian means ‘Please don’t mention Wonder Woman’. There’ll be a catwalk thang, but only seven of the nine girls will be walking, which means a “mini-casting”, which translated from Italian means ‘Let’s shatter some dreams, yeah!’.


• All the scrags walk for Shiny Alex and Megan and pose for a polaroid, causing glorious barbs like “she’s got a slug walk”, and “a little bit suburban mall fashion show” to drip from Perry’s lips like sweat from Jez Smith’s pectorals. In my dreams. The ones where he sweats and likes girls.


• Sophie and Kathryn miss out on a spot in the show – Sophie despite her protestations that “I think I look good in a bikini, not sounding up myself, but I do”, and despite the rest of the entire world nodding in reluctant but enthusiastic agreement. Kathryn is desperately upset that she didn’t get a guernsey, as it’s the second time she’s had to sit out of a catwalk challenge. Dry your eyes, honey. It’s not because you lack confidence, and it’s not because of your body shape. It’s because you turned up to a casting in a tam o’ shanter.

I can't believe I forgot my kilt.

• Just before the girls go on, Megan Gale helps them out with some handy tips scrawled on a large piece of cardboard, including the advice ‘BE A WOMAN’, presumably because there’s no  room for scrotums in bikini parades. Still, she should probably make the instructions simpler.

• The music starts, the modules are flung down the catwalk in their frilly smalls, and the judges eye them critically, some squinting more than others. Brittney, Amanda, Kelsey and Joanna – you may take your insane bodies and go away, so I can stop sobbing. Phenomenal. Jessica looks surprisingly good in swimwear, probably because her tiny, tiny chin doesn’t cast any distracting shadows on her boobs. Kimberly does well despite her No Bad Togs rule, but Chantal’s posture makes her look like a question mark. Coincidentally, it also makes her future on the show look like a question mark. YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE? No, because it’s punctuation, see, and later she’s in the bottom two, see, and… oh, shut up. Never mind.


• Joanna wins the challenge because she’s fucking good at everything. Except knowing who famous people are, and having a short distance between her eyes and mouth.

Besties

• WE GET IT. Every time you get a Sarah-Mail, you have no idea what to expect. You don’t know who the quoted celebrity is. You’re not sure what’s going on. You don’t know what might happen next. But when you’re shocked that Shiny Alex Perry turns up at a challenge? Bitch, please. When you walk into any room on this show, there will be a minimum of two things inside it – a member of the show’s judging panel, and oxygen.


• We need to have a talk about pyjamas. When the girls get up for their early morning exercise session, looking at them from left to right, it starts pretty well with regulation sponsored fluffy bathrobes all in a row. Moving a little further along, though, we see that Amanda sleeps in a onesie. A ONESIE. Is a onesie really high fashion? Is a onesie the real reason that Linda Evangelista won’t get out of bed for less than ten grand? Still, Amanda’s get-up beats the rumpled mess at the end of the row.

I dreamt that I was dragged backwards through the Homeless Bogan Discount Barn, and when I woke up, it was true!

• There is one skill that only the best, most accomplished models have. It can’t be taught, and its use is sparsely distributed. Only select models, actors and reality show contestants are able to tap into its deep and elusive power, and even then, only occasionally. It is the SCT, friends. The Solitary Crystalline Tear.

Raw talent, people. Check it.

• Last week, Sssophie hated her hair so much she had a near breakdown and added her own extensions to it. This week, because I want to close myself in a hotel room with this show and put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, the powers that be decide to cut her hair even shorter. Housekeeping, please make up my room and kill my life.


Phoy-toys

• Josh meets the modules at Maroubra for their SHOCK bikini shoot on a cold, rainy day, rocking biker boots, a heavy coat, and a funny discoloured patch on the side of his head that, once seen, cannot be unseen. Photographer Pierre Toussant high-fives himself, ready to tell his mates at the pub tonight that he called the shoot ‘Bras in the ‘Bra’ and saw a girl’s bottom.


• Joanna remembers the ‘flick your hair around’ rule and waggles accordingly, commenting to camera that the photographer “wanted me to look like I’d just got out of the ocean”. A true struggle for the old acting skills, that one, considering you’d like, just got out of the ocean and all. She rocks it.


• Jessica again manages to look surprisingly sexy in a bikini, although Pierre calls her a “deer in the headlights”. Dude, her eyes are bigger than the moon. Cut her a break.


• Kimbo and Kelsey do predictably well, Brittney brings it like a basket of taut muffins to grandma’s house, and Amand-FUCKING HELL. Amanda makes me dissolve. Hot damn, woman. You need a licence for that.


• Chantal’s posture rears its ugly head again, and wishes that she would. Josh notes that “Chantal’s main weakness is the awareness of her own body”. Oh, no! Everybody knows that a model should look down and be shocked to find a torso there. Criminal! But not a crying problem. Josh tells her that it’s getting stiffer, which I’m pretty sure is the first time he’s ever said that in front of a girl.


• Sophie has the perfect body for swimwear, is given the perfect hair extensions for swimwear, and flails her biscuits around in a way that is perfect for swimwear. Kelsey imitates her on the beach by grabbing her own arse and waggling it in a critical frenzy, which is perfect for looking like a bit of a bitch. But… also a bit funny. I’m sorry, but as hard as I try, I can’t look at bitchiness without some kind of a sense of sisterhood. What, am I made of stone?


Eliminationosity

The modules, dressed for the first time this week in something other than pyjamas of wrong or bikinis, front up to the Eliminarium to be greeted by Saint Sarah, who is exhausted after a walkathon to raise awareness for the Truth In Sentencing For Celebrities Action Group. Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton are yet to offer their support.


Saint Sarah lists the prizes this year, which I think include a two-pack of washing up gloves and a bonsai tree, and then introduces the judges – guest judge Megan Gale, Charlotte Dawson, who has wrinkles and spots on her top but nowhere else, Shiny Alex Perry, who seems to be smelling a much less heinous fart now, and Chest Smith, who only has two shirt buttons undone, and is therefore dead to me. DEAD. TO. ME.


Kimberly has come as Rizzo from Grease, and Sssophie’s new haircut shows off her squiggly neck tattoo. It’s like going on a bogan discovery tour, except without any complimentary Chiko Rolls.


Photos are squizzed at, with tasty crumbs dropping on the tablecloth thusly, almost exclusively from Charlotte Dawson’s semi-mobile mouth:


• Charlotte admires Kathryn’s shot, telling her that there’s an “intense burning in her face”. I think that might just be pimple cream, but she has a point.


• I’m pretty damn sure Dawson says “fuck” to Brittney. But she’s usually so delicate and demure! My head’s in a spin.


• When Megan comments that Jessica looks great from the neck down, Charlotte says “There’s not really much of a market for headless models, though is there?”. I dunno – I didn’t think there was a market for new vampire movies to be released every fortnight for a year, and look how that turned out.


• Of Amanda, Charlotte says “She needs a fashion rocket up her arse, quicksticks”, which sounds almost glamorous. Guys, next time your girlfriend seems sheepish, just say “but baby – it’s my fashion rocket”.


• Dawson says of Brittney’s shot “She’s gone from a block of balsa wood to a bombshell”. So she sinks now, is what you’re saying.


The judges deliberate and Saint Sarah starts picking off girls one by one until only Kimbo (who needs to separate the personal from the professional) and Chantal (who has lost her warmth and bubble) remain.


An hour and a half passes, and Chantal is pushed of the cliff. Kersplash!


Bye, Chantal! Remember to be amazeballs on your way out, my little question mark!






Next week, the scrags do some go-sees in Melbourne in posh frocks, and are asked to crawl on the floor on their hands and knees. Getting down. Fancy gown. Brown Town.