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Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Sit On Myspace And Tell Me That You Love Me #5

Okay, okay, so I received this particular moist and poetic come-on via email, not Myspace, but come on. That title is the best pun I’ve ever used, and I’m clinging onto it like the last midget at a… a midget… capturing… party. Shut up. They have those.

If you need to catch up, you can read about how I’ve been relentlessly pursued by amorous digital suitors of all genders here. I guess they single me out because they heard I have a nipple-shaped birthmark on the top of my head. Extra nipple = value for money. It's simple economics. And sexy.

Except they didn’t single me out. The following email was sent to six people, all with the same first name as me. My new stalker is such. A slut. Here’s what she said, with my comments.

From: Lina

Sent: Friday 25 November 2011 5:10:04 AM


Okay, so you’re after someone good. I’m good. You’re after someone old. I’m… depends on your definition of ‘old’. You want someone ‘counrty’. I guess you’ve misspelled one of two words there, so I might be able to help you. But if you want a boy without apostrophes, you have come to the wrong place, Lina. I am a girl with many, many nipples apostrophes.


Privet? That’s a hedge. It’s a hedge. Although in this case I’ll just assume it’s a euphemism for pubic hair dressed up as a greeting, in which case I’ll respond with: Labia to you, my friend!

The greatest tragedy of life is not that the men perish, but that they cease to love.

Yeah, well I’ve got a bit of a policy that after they perish, I kind of leave them alone. There’s a bunch of laws relating to loving on after they’ve died, Lina.

There is an ocean between us, my honey, and I wish that it were not true, for every day when I awake I yearn to be with you.

You should buy your honey from somewhere else. Problem solved.

There are many miles between us, my love, though you are always here in my heart.

I get it. We’re a long way away from each other. Get on Skype and I’ll do you a little dance to take the edge off. They’re all my own moves, too, unless you’ve seen the music video for Michael Jackson’s ‘Bad’.

I feel you and imagine our first meeting under the starts.

Feeling me makes you spell badly? Maybe I should wax or something.

Every night beneath the silver starlight I pray for the day we will never part

That day is totally here! I promise you, we will never part. We will stay exactly as close as we are now forever and ever.

Sweet goodbye

Li N

Bye, darling. Or should I say: Privet!

I just can't understand why I only attract borderline-illiterate lesbians. It's probably my deodorant.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series Seven - THE FINALE

What? You’re still here? It’s over, you weirdos. Demelza won. Go home.

Oh, for the love of camel nipples, ALRIGHT. FINE. Have your frikkin’ recap, then. Sorry it’s late – I had to wash the champagne out of my frock and the taste of victory out of my mouth. Also, if any of you can tell me whose house this is that I woke up in, that would be AMAZING. But I think I maimed their dog.

Rather than painstakingly going through the finale episode with a fine-toothed comb like yoo-shoo-wall, I sat in my seat at the Opera House scribbling in my notebook, which seemed like a good idea at the time. That time before I opened my notebook this morning and found the phrase ‘IT’S THE GODDAMN OPERA HOUSE, BITCHES!!’ scrawled in capital letters across the top of one page with five pages of complete bollocks after it.

So basically, you’re getting bullet-points. Aaaand I’m making most of them up. Aaaand they’re not even bullets, they’re little dots. Seriously, ‘bullet’ is a stupider name than ‘Bindi’. Unless you’re a cowboy, I suppose. WHAT. WHAT. I HAD A LOT TO DRINK.



  • Things there were lots of:
1. The word ‘journey’. It’s law that ‘journey’ has to be included in any reality television show final a minimum of six thousand times. I only counted eighty-seven. Pull your socks up, Australia’s Next Top Model.

2. The word ‘expensive’. Shiny Alex Perry is using it as punctuation now.
3. Montage packages. And also Liztage packages and Simtage packages.
4. Costume changes. I tried to write down descriptions of each frock, but they changed so quickly and often that I resigned myself to just writing ‘cloth’ in the margin. They were cloth. And there were many.
5. Short Stack songs. Sure, there was only one, but ask yourself how many is too many.

  • So Neo is wearing her wig again. That seems like a good decision. I made a decision that good once, and ended up with a papercut, a bag of dead mice, and a great story about cleaning fruit stains off the ceiling.

  • So Izzy has her pink hair back again. This actually is a good decision. Izzy with pink hair is like a monkey in a top hat and waistcoat – you don’t want to like it and it annoys the monkey and makes the waistcoat smell like a mixture of fleas, bananas and popcorn, but you just know it’s right.

  • Seriously. Short Stack are a lot of different kinds of shit.

  • Maddy wins the ‘Favourite Model’ prize! She also wins the ‘Concrete-Lacquered Hair-Helmet’ prize, but the trophy is too big to fit in the taxi afterwards. Shame.

  • Shiny Alex Perry and Charlotte Dawson, one dressed as Alex Perry and the other dressed by him, which thankfully worked out, were perched up in balcony seats for most of the show like Waldorf and Statler from the Muppets except that Waldorf and Statler from the Muppets don't wear sunglasses or say ‘knickers’.

  • I doubt she’d thank me for pointing it out, but Rachel still walks like a three-legged horse in cardboard shoes. Come to think of it, she probably would thank me.

  • The Harpers Bazaar shoot is like chocolate-coated cheese wrapped in sugared unicorns and orgasms.

  • I’m not even joking. Short Stack sucks dead hobo arse.

  • Doik Simone comes third. She’s used to coming third, though, as her boobs generally enter any room about seven minutes before she does.


  • Montana wins. This is as surprising as opening a book of teenage poetry and finding pages full of dreary emotional wank inside. But. Y’know. Congratulations and that.

There were two after parties, and I weasled my way (see: showed my wristband) into both. Highlights for me (and I’m sure there were different highlights for other people, but who am I, Gandhi? ) were:

  • My mate Shane made a bunch of Brigitte-Nielsen-heads on sticks. WITH EYEHOLES. Josh Flinn now owns one. I reckon I’m totally set for life now, because everyone loves eyeholes.

  • I accidentally called Teary Tayah ‘Teary Tayah’ to her face. I dunno, she looked a bit upset about it.

  • Caroline grabbed my arm and shouted across the room “MUM! MUM! This is the girl who called me an arsehole for six weeks!”. Her mum cupped her ear and shouted back “What? She designed your dress?”. I just nodded, because sure, I design dresses for arseholes now.

  • In return for calling her an arsehole for six weeks, Caroline threw a drink in my face. I HAVE WAITED FOR SOMEONE TO DO THAT FOR FIVE FRIGGING YEARS. Now all I need is a free Alex Perry frock and I can finally stop blogging forever.

  • Megan Gale swore.

  • I met some of you. That sounds like I’m getting soppy and stuff, including that as a highlight, all nawww she loves her readers and crap, but I’m specifically referring to the bit where you told me I was funny. Hugs are nice too, but come on – I would electrocute a hug in the bath for another compliment.

So now, with the last bit of alcohol-soaked brain that I scraped out of the bottom of my handbag, here’s the LAST VERSE of my country song summarising the series episode by episode. Things don’t have to have a point to be achievements. They just have to rhyme.

I’m huuuuuung
Over as fuck, so you’re out of luck, ‘cause I can’t be bothered rhyming;
So Montana won, and I already told you I’m not rhyming, so get stuffed.

But really. As Rachel would no doubt say over and over and over and over again, thank you. No, really, thanks for reading. Ta. Sorry. Thank you.

Monday, October 24, 2011

Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series Seven #12 - PENULTIMACY

Okay, first: a bit of housekeeping. At the beginning of this series, I hired an actuary to keep a tally of the number of times anyone on the screen:

a) Clapped and said ‘woo’;
b) Used the phrase ‘oh my god’; or
c) Said “we had no idea” in any context.

Yeah. He... well, let’s just say he quit.

Secondly, a warning: this episode takes place in another country. We should probably just get this out of the way right now as a kind of blanket statement:

Welcome back, little dude.
It’s sand, souks, niqabs, nipples, bouffants and brows in this, the ‘I’ve Been Through The Desert On A Scrag With No Name’ episode of Australia’s Next Top Model. Ugh. Sand in my gusset.


A live Sarah Mail arrives at the Module Mansion, as Saint Sarah breezes into the packed-up loungeroom to farwell the girls. “Think back to the top one hundred, remember back then? When you went off to Paris?”.

Ummm no, not ringing a bell.


Sorry. Sorry. I’m just really uptight about the end of this competition. After this is over I’ll have to go back to screen-capping and judging my own life, and nobody wants to read about not being able to find a shoe or having trouble getting my ideal mix of pillows right. What? Oh, right.


Wait – where’s that again? We’d better show the modules on a map, as they’ve come up a little short in the ol’ knowing-their-geography department more than once before.

Perfect. Ta.

Everyone is surprised and delighted. Let’s get all the surprised and delighted faces out of the way right from the get-go, ‘kay?

Surprised. Delighted. And available on an inflatable life partner in an up-a-narrow-staircase shop near you.

Suddenly the modules are styled to within an inch of their short lives, the cameramen change their lens filters to ‘poignant and whimsical’, someone drops a jewellery bomb on the Middle East, and everyone’s off to the airport.
Montana reminds us of the gravity of this last trip, saying that “It’s gonna sort the mice from the men”.


The scrags go to the Business Class lounge and oh my god it’s the best thing they’ve ever seen in their lives. They get on the plane and oh my god it has legroom. They go to the bar on the plane and find that oh my god there are trays of cupca – THIS ISN’T A FLIGHT, THIS IS A WONDROUS BROTHEL OF SENSATION.

Sorry. Sorry.

Suddenly!  A Dubai montage! If you missed it, don’t worry. There are eight hundred and twenty-three more.

Coming out of the air-conditioned airport into the heat of Dubai, Doik Simone remarks that it’s like “Running into like, a brick wall made of fire”, showing us two things:

1. That Doik doesn’t like the heat. If you missed that, don’t worry. She will mention it eight hundred and twenty-three more times.

2. That Doik should totally be writing lyrics for Cock Rock bands in the 80s.

A brick wall made of faaaaayaaaaaaah. SAXOPHONE SOLO.

The modules pack themselves into a terribly cramped stretch limo and point excitedly at things out the window as they zoom past. Montana comments that there are “so many freakin’ buildings”, basically nailing the definition of ‘city’ in one hit, and Simone shows some early town-planning skills by saying “I feel like we’re in the middle of the desert, and they decided to like, build things around”. Oh my god, Doik. That’s exactly what the Wikipedia page says!

The limo spits the scrags out at Atlantis The Palm hotel, which really impresses Montana. It’s the biggest thing she’s ever seen “and you can see it from like, five hundred metres away”. So, like FROM THE END OF THE STREET?! SHUT UP, NO WAY.

For the next five minutes, someone just shakes up opulence, shiny surfaces, rosewater, soft furnishings and the phrase “oh my god” in a bag, Liz gets excited because the hotel’s been on Getaway (somewhere behind Catriona Rowntree’s boobs), Montana gets excited because the hotel should be on Cribs, and Doik gets excited because the bath can fit a person in it.
Meanwhile, in the foyer aquarium, a scuba diver has a strange, cryptic message for the girls.

I can't help but think that this information will come in handy later.

Suddenly! A Dubai montage! I just can’t get enough of that shit.

A Sarah-Mail arrives via a what, a slave? What do they call them here? And the modules are back in the limo pointing and hooting out of the window again. “Oh my god look!” shouts Liz. “This is the history!”.
Simone responds with “I’m kind of glad that we haven’t been taken to history places, ‘cause I’m not a big historian”, which is a bit like Bridget Riley saying she’s never really been one for landscapes or, for the lowbrow amongst you, like Terri Irwin saying she might put her kids in the public eye a little bit.
This is how Simone feels about history and culture.

Well, until they’re surrounded by ogling men and a woman who probably doesn’t spell her name ‘Suad’ takes them shopping, anyway. Three significant things happen in this bit.

1. We learn that Doik wouldn’t mind having a husband who buys her gold jewellery. We keel over from shock and die.

2. We learn that women just wear black burqas because they’re slimming. It is, after all, every woman’s right to look slim.

3. We eat camel-milk chocolate.

WAIT, WHAT? But... where does.... how does... I KNEW we should’ve paid more attention to that scuba diver. It’s okay, though, because Montana does some science all over us:

“I’d heard of camel’s milk before, but we had no idea where camel’s milk would’ve come from. Like, when have you ever seen... do they just sort of inject it out, like what does this camel milk come from?”

WOW. Stay in school, kids.

The next morning at breakfast, the scrags face their biggest test yet.

They've never had to avoid this many carbs before.

A Sarah-Mail summons them to the ‘old quarter’, and it’s frigging hot. They’re met by photographer Georges Antoni, and he’s frigging hot. He takes them into the ‘Centre For Cultural Understanding’ because he’s into things like irony, and then tells the girls that they’ll be doing two photo-shoots, the first of which will be in winter clothes in 45-degree heat, first individually and then in a group shot, and I can see a little bit of sweat trickling down your neck and into your chest hair and I may need a moment to collect myself.


The girls go into hair and make-up, get styled with quiffy beehives, scarves, orgasmic Bally outfits and shoes I want to have stapled to my feet and OH GOD HE’S LYING DOWN. HE’S LYING DOWN. BRING MORE TISSUES.

Thats... that's quite a lens you have there, Georges.

Montana’s brain swells from thinking too hard about camel milk...

Science hurts, you guys.

Simone tries to suck a few extra IQ points out of the air...

Sure. That's what she's doing.

And Liz is a goddamn freakin’ giant.

My new best friend could totally stomp on your house.

But seriously. These girls are completely fracking amazing. YEAH THAT’S RIGHT. SINCERITY, BITCHES. But looook:

They piddy ladies.

Suddenly! Doik nearly faints, Georges ‘In My Pants Right Now Don’t Make Me Tell You Twice’ Antoni carries her to safety, and we all have to listen to fucking Enriques Iglesias.


Oh my god wait. Hold the freakin’ phone. I think I’ve just discovered where Doik Simone keeps her on/off switch, proving my theory that she’s a short-circuiting bitchy boob robot from the future. IT'S ON THE SIDE OF HER HEAD.


It’s morning, and I’d like to welcome you to Episode 1 of DOING SCIENCE WITH MONTY AND DOIK.

Here’s how it goes down.

Doik: “People do milk camels, because how do you get camel milk, like, you might not see their teats...”
Monty: “I’ve never seen a teat on a camel before”.
Doik: “Yeah but people still milk them, how...”
Monty: “Oh, I’m sure they do, but but like, have you ever looked at a camel and saw like ...”
Doik: “I don’t look for camel teats, but I just know that you can milk them, because people drink camel milk and you can get camel chocolate”.
Monty: “Do camels eat? I thought they only like, drink”/
Doik “No, you can feed camels at zoos, I’ve done it”.

I’ve been watching this show for twelve weeks, so I no longer have the IQ to respond to this. Let’s just leave it to the pictures.

Thankfully the phone rings and Saint Sarah sends the girls off to swim with dolphins, like she always does, but please. For the love of lactose. Nobody ask where dolphin milk comes from.

The scrags wave at, kiss and swim with the dolphins in a massive man-made pool. Now, I know that three girls swimming with mammals and talking about how they look like they’re smiling and they’re so cute and they feel like sea cucumbers should be interesting, but I’m momentarily distracted by thousands and thousands and thousands of grains of sand.

Speaking of which, we’re off to the desert for a dune-top shoot in wafty outfits, slicked back hair, killer heels and no eyebrows!

I am begging for your pardon.

That’s right. Those bad boys are bleached right off their faces. And you know what happens when I see shots of people without any eyebrows? Yes, you do.

I make your life better, whilst wasting my own. It's okay. I know.
The photo shoot is amaaaaaaaaa *takes breath* aaaaaaaaaayzing, see?

Just like the grey wig/pink paint photo shoot of episode whatever-it-was, at first the styling looks like it’s going to be Fugly McFuglerson, and then BAM! Gorgeousness bomb fired from a chic cannon aimed at Hot Diggetty Dang County. And as a bonus, I’ve totally solved the mystery of the Loch Ness Monster.

It's not a monster. It's Liz's leg as she falls arse over tit down a hill.

And speaking of tits, let’s do some more teat science!

Hypothesis: Camels have nipples.

Tip a motherfucking camel over.
Results: Totes nipples.


Doik Simone is concerned that her camel is ignoring her and ‘ostracising itself’.
 Oh, honey. I just... sweet galloping horses of... your mother must be so...
For fuck’s sake, pet.

ANYWAY. The scrags go to dinner in the middle of the desert to drink Coke, try to subtract three from ninety-nine and talk about feelings when the phone rings. It’s Saint Sarah, and it’s almost time to go home. It’s also almost time to wonder what kind of bullshit magical phone service provider these kids are on.

Suddenly! Sydney montage!

We’re back in the big smoke, at the Opry House, and WHERE’S BRIGITTE NIELSEN?!? I haven’t seen her all episode?  Maybe she’s busy baring her teeth, sticking her neck out and holding one boob? Naaaaah.

For some reason Saint Sarah (a bit late, having rushed from the AGM of the Camel Ostracisation Front), Charlotte Dawson (dressed today as nothing in particular, which isn’t funny at all), Shiny Alex Perry (dressed today as a luminous cowboy squinting his way through a sunglasses muster) and Georges Antoni (fresh from MY PANTS) are all gathered to talk about photos and tell us that they think Montana should win.

What do you think, Magic Psychic Desk?

Hel... hello?

Oh, great. No Brigitte, no Magic Psychic Desk. FINE. I’ll have to pick my own winner.
I vote for sewing my best friend Liz and Montana together, making a hybrid module called Lizmonta.


Of course, the real winner is the phrase ‘pigeon eyes’.


I’ll be there in person because people at Foxtel are aces and I’m a whining needy bitch and what am I going to wear and is this finally going to be the year I get a drink thrown in my face.

As a result of me planning on drinking away my pain/joy/facial tic, as per previous years please DO NOT expect too much in the way of a finale recap.
It will be late (like, after lunch on Wednesday late), it will be lame (like, legs-bitten-off-by-bears lame), it will be lacking in detail in the extreme (like, Simone’s brain lacking in detail) and it will be unsatisfactory. Live with it. MAMA NEEDS HER REST.


It will, however, have the final verse in the longest ever country song about modelling competitions in it, though. That is my promise to you. Second last verse goes like:

While theeeee
Budget lasts get to the airport fast tell the pilot he can park it
In the Middle East at the very least, ‘cause there’s souks (yeah, that means ‘markets’).
In a nosebleed shoe, with a beehive ‘do, you’ll be hot but dang, you’re highbrow;
But it matters not, because for your next shot, we’re gonna bleach off both your eyebrows.
People of your ilk know they like their milk in their chocolates, drinks and tipples;
But you’re still surprised when a camel, capsized, lets you know that it’s got nipples;
Now excitement’s high, ‘cause the last night’s nigh, and it’s going to be so gnarly;
There’s no time to rest, wear your frocking best to the Opera House finale.

Monday, October 17, 2011

Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series Seven #11

See, the producers, host and judges of this week’s episode seem to want to make us think that it’s all about being ‘epic’.

Instead, I think it’s all about being prepared. Like being aware that the paparazzi may be following you. Like packing correctly for an overnight stay on a chilly island. Like familiarising yourself with the streets of Sydney. Like shaving your goddamn armpits.

Welcome, his and hirsute, to the ‘If I Knew You Were Coming I’d Have Shaved A Scrag’ episode of Australia’s Next Top Model’. Lather up.


It’s the final four! Who’s excited about being in the final four?

Liz is.


A Sarah-Mail beeps into life and then says something about poison ivy, prickles, and celebrities, seemingly because the only thing producers could afford after Paris was hallucinogenic drugs. The girls try to guess who the celebrity might be, imagining that it’s an international mega-star. Except for Liz, who just hopes it’s her idol, Megan Gale. Because we just cannot see her face enough in the media.

One solitary Fashion Fiesta drives the modules into the middle of the city, and they arrive at the Ivy. They arrivey. I know. It’s all high-level wordplay and advanced linguistics here at Jo Blogs.

Charlotte Dawson gives everyone a hug, tells them she’s proud of them, and then warns them that the hand-holding is about to stop, leading them over to a computer that has the ANTM facebook page open on it. I don’t know how many of you frequent the ANTM facebook page, but generally speaking:

Way harsh, Ty.

Doik Simone says that she’s “interested to see what people are gonna say”, which is as surprising as finding nostrils in your nose, and we’re shown a couple of screen shots from the page.

Example one:

Soooo, just to break this down, it appears that not only is the fact that Liz is a sweetheart amusing, it is in fact so amusing that the writer laughs out loud both before and after making the statement, signified by the acronym ‘lol’. I believe the underlying message here is: STAY IN SCHOOL, KIDS.

The second completely random example shits all over the first one:

It’s a bit blurry, so I’ll help you out. It’s a picture of this blog with the words ‘so funny’ written above it. Succinct. Concise. YOU MAY LOL WHEN READY.

Dawson tells the scrags that they are now celebrities, to which Rachel responds “I can’t really see myself as a celebrity. It’s a bit weird. But I would use fame to be a role model for decency’.Pffft. Join the queue, lady.

It's okay, Rachel. Britney, Charlie and Nikki here have got that covered.

Lara Bingle arrives and gives the modules the advice that “You just have to be aware, yeah”, because she’s busy with her PhD right now, and rhyming advice is about all she has time for. Sure, it’s not quite as effective as “Your arse shouldn’t be bare, yeah”, or “Don’t shave off all your hair, yeah”, but it’ll do.
Then Charlotte gravely announces that ‘Im about to introduce somebody that for years and years has terrified both myself and Lara”.


Oh. It’s just gossip columnist Ros Reines. She gives some pretty good advice, though, including letting the girls know that “Whatever you say on social media is going to be like a tattoo on you”.

In the eyes of the public, your cat will wear pants forever.

When quizzed upon what the worst thing would be that the girls could do to make a gossip columnist go to town on them, Ros quickly answers “A sex tape”.

Rachel responds that she would never make a sex tape, which is as surprising as finding bread in some bread with some bread around it.

Bingle pipes up incredibly relevantly with “Don’t get engaged too soon!”, to which Doik muses “I’ve got to meet a cricketer first”. I don’t really know what that means, but she’d better get her jargon down.

Phoy-toy Shoot

Suddenly the lesson is over and the modules are playing bocce on the beach. It’s bitchy beachy bocce! See: mad wordplay skillz. A message in a bottle arrives on the shore because lame and cheap is why. “I was really excited, actually – I thought it was real”, enthuses Rachel. “I want to use my fame to be a role model for stupid”, she adds.

The message in the bottle indicates an ‘epic adventure’. The message in the bottle is a lying, deceitful little whore. The mention of an island gets the girls imagining Barbados, Costa Rica or ‘the Caribbeans’, but I’ll give you a hint. YOU CAN SEE IT FROM YOUR HOUSE.

The scrags pile into a helicopter. Are helicopters exciting, Montana?

Fucking oath they are.

Doik says knowledgeably “Helicopters fly over water, so we’re gonna be going somewhere good”. Because a plane would never fly over water, Doik. And because no good places could possibly be over land, Doik. And helicopters never land anywhere bad like war zones or hospitals, Doik. Or...

Sorry, Doik.

Yeah. It’s Cockatoo Island. Josh Brigitte Flinn Neilsen greets the girls in leather, which really brings out his eyes.

Welcome to Cockaboob Island.

Josh introduces photographer Hugh Stewart and then talks the scrags through some of the features of the island, including  historical sites, landscapes, and breathtaking views.

Like the majestic Visitor Information Centre...

...and this crane.

The photo shoot today will be cinematic and dramatic, unlike Hugh Stewart's hair, which looks a little like what I clean out of my shower drain every fortnight. The girls will be strapped into a crane and suspended out over the wat –
“Why do they call it Cockatoo Island?” muses Doik suddenly. “Because I didn’t see a cockatoo anywhere”.

Sigh. Oh, Doik.
Anyway, we soon find out where all the cockatoos and other birds went – they’ve all been slaughtered and plucked in the name of fashion. YAAAAAAY!

White cockatoo.

Black cockatoo.

Great Crested Booby.


It’s fair to say that all the girls look frigging amazing, but nerves are high. Rachel says to camera “I think it’s important to not be the girl that falls at the last hurdle, and gets eliminated before the top three’. Yeah. That’s pretty important. You let me know how that goes, sugar-cakes.

After the shoot, Brigitte Nielsen gathers the scrags to tell them that they’ll be camping overnight on the island. Or “glamping”.


Simone is distinctly unimpressed, which means we can update our list from back in episode 7:


1. Water
2. Neo
3. Nature
4. Milo-stealing fat chicks
5. Camping
6. Not mentioning how much she hates camping.

She says she would “rather stay in a brothel or in a mental asylum than stay in a tent”, which is like Marc Chagall saying he’d rather bite off his own testes than use another primary colour, or, for the lowbrow amongst you, like Tara Reid saying she’d rather learn all the primary colours than bite another testicle.
To add insult to injury, she’s sharing a tent with Rachel.

In the morning the girls get up and go home on a boat they’ve apparently been on before. Now, I know that watching four girls get on a boat for the second time after camping overnight in the middle of the harbour for absolutely no fucking good reason at all may sound interesting, but I’m momentarily distracted by shopping for calico.

Mmm. Poignant.


Fresh off the boring boat, Charlotte Dawson hands each of the girls a map, a Fashion Fiesta, a list of four designers and a deadline, and tells them it’s go-see time. Most of the modules are anxious about their map-reading skills, which is fair enough – it’s a pretty complicated map:

Watch out for Godzilla.

Simone starts by walking in a swimming costume at Isola in front of Megan Gale, and boingy boingy boobaly tit-nork. Next it’s off to Camilla Franks, where DISASTER STRIKES!


See, you might not be able to make it out from that shot, but Simone has UNSHAVED ARMPITS! Here, I got a close-up shot for you.

Let Simone's armpits beat you at chess.

Doik's excuse is that she was being held hostage on Cockatoo Island.


Doik can’t find Fernando Frisoni, so she gives up and heads back to Chic.

Rachel heads to Camilla and Mark first and then to Isola, where she walks in a floor-length frock. For a swimwear designer. Because she is a role model for the Amish. Rather than visit any more designers, Rachel roams the city seeking out ‘No Right Turn’ signs and finds pretty much all of them. She has a little cry and heads back to Chic.

Montana, trying to find Woolloomooloo, ends up in St Leonards, which for those of you who don’t know Sydney is like your boyfriend trying to find your clitoris on the big toe of the guy who lives next door. She (eventually) starts at Fernando Frisoni, who has an accent I could spread on toast, have one bite of, spit out, and then oddly want more. He says that Montana is “very byoodeefuool”, and asks her to do a “leedle wowk” up and down his studio. After observing her, he says she “sounds good”, because apparently Fernando is on acid. He also thinks her career smells purple, and that he would book her with his eyes closed. See, when ABBA asked if Fernando could hear the drums, this is the guy they were talking about. Drums and a whispering unicorn. After a quick stop in at Camilla Franks, who she calls Camilla and Mark, Monty runs out of time and heads back to Chic.

Camilla Franks loves Liz, because Camilla Franks has eyes. Liz has boobs, and one of them pops out for a go-see of its own. Later, Liz arrives at Isola only to realise that it’s run by her idol, Megan Gale. Is that exciting, Liz?

Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god

Megan asks why Liz looks so sad. Y’know. Because Liz looks so sad all the time.

I think you mean this, Ms Gale.

Boo sorry thank you hoo.

Eventually Liz remembers she’s my new best friend and heads back to Chic.
Montana wins the challenge. Come on. You know that.


After a quick run-through of the prizes, which I think this year include a packet of novelty straws and a motorbike, the modules enter the Eliminarium for the very. Last. Time.  Saint Sarah, fresh from a Save Glamping Hostages rally, greets them and introduces the judges. There’s Shiny Alex Perry, dressed today as a hairy billiard ball that’s been dropped in a bucket of ink, Charlotte Dawson, dressed today like she’d stab anyone who gets between her and the presidency of her local Neighbourhood Watch chapter, and model mentor Josh Flinn.


We have a squiz at the photos, and the judges go into spastic rapture over Montana’s shot.

Doik Simone is overwhelmed by coming this far in the competition and starts leaking some kind of fluid from her eyes. Huh. She has a soul. Who knew.

Rachel is also overwhelmed and also cries, which is as surprising as oxygen.
Nobody’s fighting. Nobody’s being catty. What’s going on, Magic Psychic Desk?

All of the judges love newly-confident Liz’s shot except Shiny Alex Perry, who says she looks like a ‘shag on a rock’ and that her dress ate her. Dawson responds with “It was a shit designer that did it”, and the Magic Psychic Desk breathes a sigh of relief.

The judges deliberate, decide that the show shouldn’t be called Australia’s Next Potentially Okay Model because the acronym would be ANTPOM, and thankfully nobody is asked to give a little speech about why they think they should win, because that usually makes me want to stab and burn things.
Montana is called first.

Liz, no doubt because she’s my best friend, is next.

It’s down to Doik Simone and Thank You Sorry Rachel, and Saint Sarah wonders who is the most versatile.

One and a half millennia pass, and because ‘versatility’ in the modelling industry means ‘boobs’, Rachel is out on her fully-clothed arse.

She doesn’t thank anyone. That girl should really learn some manners.


This is no longer a country song. This is a freakin’ concept album. The eleventh verse of the longest one-verse-per-episode country ditty below.

If yooou’re
In the news for your personal views, making sex-tapes, high or single;
You’ll be all the rage on the gossip page – take a tip from Reines and Bingle.
Now we’ll stick some dead feathers on your head in a frock from Alex Perry;
On a pole? Intense. Overnight? In tents! Till you go home on the ferry.
Go and get some gigs at designers’ digs , but avoid complete perfection:
Pop out one of your tits, forget to shave your pits, and go in the wrong direction.
Now despite your height, Rachel, say goodnight, ‘cause you’re fourth when judges rank you;
Say your sad goodbyes, then apologise, thanks and sorry, really, thank you.