I mean fashion.
I mean Amanda.
First of all - like, before we get to the tap dancing and scandal - some housekeeping:
Three ReasonsThis Recap Will Be Five Different Kinds Of Crap.
1. I haven't seen the finale episode on television, so I was just scribbling notes in the audience. I was also sitting next to the judges' table (I know, right?), so the reflected glare from Charlotte Dawson's frock, Shiny Alex Perry's head and Chest Smith's astounding man-mounds was very distracting.
2. It's all a bit of a blur - I got caught up in the excitement of the night, and had to spend a fair amount of time avoiding Kathryn, who wanted to throw a drink in my face.
3. They make gin now. This isn't a hangover. This is a herd of rhino.
There you go. I'm not making excuses, it's just that I... I'm totally making excuses.
Let's start at the beginning.
I was very, very excited to be in the Swarovski-crystal-infested room, but I tried to not let it show on my face.
|Tahnee seemed pretty excited to be sitting behind me, too. |
Any show which makes the following sentence possible deserves to be tattooed onto my temporal lobe: Shirtless men came out of the floor.
Out of the floor.
And although there were many moments during the finale that made me clutch at my imaginary pearls and risk severe delight-related coronary arrest, seeing Josh Flinn tap-dance again was truly the moment that made the unicons of my soul vomit rainbows. I'm throwing out my alarm clock - from now on I wish to be woken each morning by the sounds of Josh tapping next to my bed. I'll pay. He needs a job now, right?
Tampon References As A Matter Of Contractual Obligation.
When a sponsor helps fund a show, they want to be all over it like a fat kid on pancakes. Hence, not only were there tampons in my goodie-bag, one of the aforementioned dance routines featured an acrobat dressed in white hanging from a white string from the ceiling. Oh, U.
The Word "Journey".
Saint Sarah, I'm cutting you off. When we're born, we're given a set quota of words, and we can say each one a finite number of times. With the word "journey", you have now exceeded your quota by eight thousand, six hundred and two.
Claudia Navone's Accent.
Claudia speaks = I cry. I had actual tears. She uses the same syllables as everyone else, but packages each one in a clipped little box tied up with awesome. When the host of a show imitates your own accent whilst actually speaking to you, I'm pretty sure that qualifies you as a god.
Oh, Sssophie. Face it - you were never going to win. You have boobs. Boobs have no place in high fashion (or, regrettably, in my bra). I'll always remember you for your constantly-open mouth, your pale, corpse-like lips and the soft toys stapled to your head in Japan. And I'll always imagine that you went backstage after being eliminated, rang your boyfriend and said "It's because of my fucking hair, isn't it?!?".
Sunglasses As A Dietary Option
Shiny Alex Perry, when he wasn't bickering with Dawson or being virtually indistinguishable from the spherical lightbulbs adorning the set, commented that if Kelsey becomes a top international module, he'll eat his sunglasses. Kelsey. Babe. You know what to do.
The Oh My God Montage
One final, tearful note to the editors of this fine, ridiculous, fine, life-changing, fine show: I love you with all of my heart and a considerable chunk of my colon. Your montages make my heart sing, and not just Nikki Webster songs. Close contenders were the Amanda-saying-wet-fish and Amanda-talking-about-faeces packages, but stringing together every instance of anyone saying "oh my god" over the last eight years was televisual platinum. Thank you. Please form an orderly queue at my soul.
Now, I suppose we have to talk about... you know... IT. The fact that Saint Sarah announced the wrong winner. The cock-up to end all cock-ups. I'm sure that whatever can be said about it has been said about it, so I'll keep this brief:
I have a handful of theories about how and why it happened:
1. Producers decided that they wanted Top Model stories to be bumped forward three pages in today's newspapers;
2. Foxtel were going for the world record for Most People With High Ponytails Saying 'Fuck' All At The Same Time;
3. Jodhi Meares controls the media and wanted Saint Sarah to truly understand why live television is generally to be avoided; or
4. God loves me and this is his way of kissing me right on the lips.
And a final word on the Hotter-Than-Tabasco Fiasco: Anyone who thinks that it was on purpose and rigged is a goddamn fool.
Second-lastly, I'd like to do a minor expose about what happened behind the scenes. I take my status as an unrelenting attention slut very, very seriously, so I squeezed my way into both after-parties in order to bring you some highly underwhelming morsels from the bits you didn't get to see on telly:
- Everyone at Luna Park got a goodie bag chock full of pressies, including a Ford Fiesta keyring shaped like a fortune cookie. A little tip for merchandising managers everywhere: When you shape a silver keyring like a fortune cookie, you end up with fifteen hundred bits of metal that really look quite a lot like vaginas.
- I got to rub Chest Smith's pectorals more than once. At one point, he flexed his magnificent lumps just as my hand was between them, and one of my fingers got trapped. MY FINGER WAS TRAPPED BETWEEN JEZ SMITH'S BOOBS. I am dead.
- Early-eliminatee Sally asked me to blog about the fact that she can "totally shake it". And she totally can.
- Slightly-later-eliminatee Ashton challenged me to a dance-off. At first the numbers were on her side, as her full entourage joined in the booty-shakin' shakedown, but I had some secret weapons up my sleeve. Charlotte Dawson, Chest Smith and Saint Sarah Murdoch. Thank you, my bump-and-grind compadres. I believe I won that round, Ms Flutey.
- Martinis are awesome. You heard it here fifth.
It's been a hoot, and I've loved every second of it.
But now - and I mean this quite sincerely - if I don't get some Panadol and bacon, I will cut a bitch.