Usually by episode seven of a series of Top Model, I’ll have all my preferences sorted out – who my favourites are, who I love to hate, who’s the most likely to go on a murderous spree – but nup. The best I’ve managed is to come up with the worst nicknames ever for each of the girls.
Danielle = Scarecrow Beanie
Holly = Hatchet-Face
Courtenay = Sees Around Corners
Michaela = Dimples McGee
Dakota = Batshit Crazy
Lara = Wake Me When It’s Over
Nellie And Elza = We Met Across A Crowded Womb.
The problem is that by the time I’ve called each of them by name, the end credits are already rolling.
This is what I remember, anyway:
Sara, I do believe that’s a slouchy graphic t-shirt worn under a tuxedo jacket, sitting beneath some gently tousled hair. Which I think looks good. Which really makes this quite a short paragraph.
I’ve nailed it! I’ve finally figured out why it irritates me so to see you wearing an unnecessary amount of clothing, Chris – and it’s not just because the fewer the layers of fabric between you and me, the higher I think my chances are of finally toasting and buttering you. It’s because unless I can see the outline of your torso, you’re... um...
You’re white hot in a way that only my pants understand, but you’re boring.
Now come and nuzzle my buttock and let’s forget all about it.
YES! At last! Finally you bring the accessorised kook, Colin Hyphenated-Surname. We’ve got pink with tan, we’ve got pants tucked into socks, we’ve got dangling braces, we’ve got a yellow bow tie with a plaid shirt – we’ve got a massive sigh of relief and a barely-disguised facial expression of horror.
Thank you for once again choosing your outfits from a homeless blind person’s wardrobe, in the dark, after spinning around so much you’ve fallen over.
Mind you, it’s apparent that no matter what you’re wearing, you still have a magnificent walk. Holly even comments that you “look like Tyra Banks from behind”.
Wait – I think I have a picture of it somewhere.
Oh, no, sorry – that’s just a picture of an ass. Tyra wants you to know that you can kiss it, though.
This is that bit whereby the simple transmogrification of certain vowels makes things sound piss-funny. As a side note, try saying ‘transmogrification’ with a Kiwi accent. It’s piss-funny.
Beck To Bay-sucks = Strupped down to the beer munna-mum.
Hups = Those thungs at the top of your ligs.
Ligs = Those thungs denglung from your hups.
Widges = A style of shoe, or a kind of delushus chup.
Chuckun Wungs = What Colin Mathura-Jeffree keeps in his hendbeg, or something you eat wuth widges.
I’m going to start a fundraising campaign in order to cover one more cameraman’s salary, so that important footage is not missed. If there’s anything that Australia’s Next Top Model has taught us (and let’s be honest, it’s taught us a LOT, like exactly how shiny a human can be, and how buying cheap earphones is a bad idea), it’s that when a bogan punches a wall, WE NEED TO SEE IT. We’re told that Danielle punched a wall, and we see her bandaged finger afterwards, but WE WANT KNUCKLES ON GYPROCK, YO. It’s just television science.
Not that I’m saying the budget for this show is low. Elza looks totally jazzed about her challenge-winning prize of a pair of flup-flops. Honest.
• The bist of all buts, winning the coveted Bist But Trophy, filled with smaller trophies also intended as prizes for the bist but, is the image of Colin Mathura-Jeffree running in high heels, trying to kick the girls after yelling “BULLRUSH!”. See, that’s the thing about fashion. It doesn’t have to make sense, it just has to wear stripy socks.
• Danielle kicks off one of her heels, which flies forward to hit Elza in the back of the head. Danielle instantly becomes my new hero, and not just because I’m scared she has a fork hidden in her beanie that she wants to stab my face with.
• The first Sara-Mail of the week is hidden in the bookshelf. It takes the girls eight years to find it. The first excursion of the week is to a university, where Lara asks “What are we doing here?”. Nobody can answer her.
• Dakota thinks that Juicy Couture is an Italian Designer. Gianni Versace and Pierre Cardin turn in their graves.
• The photo shoot, themed according to different wacky varieties of Herbal Essences shampoo, involves bizarre props like tigers and topiary and telephones, and photographer Russ Flatt who giggles and squeals like soprano helium. It’s kind of awesome, and affords me the opportunity to regale my housemates with hilarious jokes about ‘trimming the hedges’, ‘taming the tiger’ and ‘looking like a gigantic slut’. The housemates didn’t laugh, though. I don’t think they understand sophisticated humour.
• Michaela is completely and gob-smackingly gorgeous, and that’s my daily quota of sincerity suddenly all used up.
• If the twins ever form a band, it will be called The Robots Of Retard, and their set list will look like this:
And yes, it would be in Comic Sans. Typeface of choice for retards.
• Holly is contstantly told she has dead eyes, and I can only assume that they died of starvation. That is one skunny butch. Her photo this week looks like someone’s personal collection of acute angles, wrapped in a black dress, wrapped in crying. In a surprise tantamount to opening a clear plastic bag of grapes and finding grapes inside, Holly is sent home.
E haere ra, Holly! Remember that the square of the length of your hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the lengths of your other two sides!