This week it’s all about pink bits. Pink ribbons, pink rubbish, and pink paint.
Okay, I lied about the rubbish. To be honest, I lied one time about being a gymnast, too, but that’s not really relevant right now.
Whack on some lippy and slap your sunburn, it’s the ‘Scraggy In Pink’ episode of Australia’s Next Top Model’.
And also boobs.
After checking out the Photo Of The Week for a bit and having everyone agree with Simone when she points out how beautiful she is, Saint Sarah makes an unexpected appearance at the house with charitably tousled hair.
“Tonight is an opportunity to have a girl’s night in!”, she announces, making a marked difference to every other night where the girls don't... go... out. “It’s an opportunity for us to talk about women’s cancers”. WOOHOO! I’ll make the popcorn! Wait, what?
Oh. Saint Sarah’s brought a mate, Krystal Barter, to talk about breast cancer. And here is a space that all my insensitive jokes would go in under any other circumstances.
Thanks a lot, important issue. Thanks a frigging bunch-a-roo.
RIGHT. Now that’s done, Saint Sarah hints that there’ll be some extra girls arriving to take part in the girl’s night in, and that they’ll be ‘familiar faces’. Madeline is concerned, saying “As soon as we heard ‘familiar faces’, we were like, please, don’t just be Charlotte”.
|Remember ages ago how I said that whenever Dawson does this, you're fucked? THAT.|
All of a sudden, the sisters and best friends of the scrags are pouring through the door, bearing hugs and gifts. Well, “gifts”. Let’s use that term relatively loosely. In fact, let’s rank the gifts from Couldn’t You Have Just Brought Something I Can Use Like Tampons to Most Horribly And Pointlessly Shitful:
A netball uniform. Not that shit, but in a televised modelling competition, not altogether useful in all situations.
Donut rings. Sure, it’s actual jewellery, but it’s also a double-euphemism for ‘bum-hole’.
A bear with a sign saying ‘Best Friends’. Sure, it might come in handy if anyone needs to vomit, but JESUS CHRIST, A BEST FRIENDS BEAR.
It’s a Coke bottle. It’s empty. It has, according to Hazel’s sister Kate, a picture of ‘Karl Lagerford’ on it. It is as useful and nostalgic as a dead raccoon with a thistle clenched in its buttocks.
Izzy and Zoe tell us that when they’re together, they’re grape and strawberry Hubba Bubba. I have a slightly different theory: that when Izzy and Zoe are together, they’re borderline retarded. Exhibits 1 and 2:
Liz’s secondary, lesser best friend Katy (my invitation probably just got lost, huh) smuggles in a letter from Liz’s boyfriend. It’s reasonable to say from the scrawled, smudged ramblings that Liz’s boyfriend is not currently taking time out from his PhD studies in order to write letters. Footage of the letter was fleeting, but I managed to get a screen-shot of it for you.
The next morning, everyone hugs (again), says goodbye and piles into a mini-van, at which point there are two startling, life-changing revelations.
- Simone says “I felt a bit bad, cause like everyone was crying, and I didn’t cry. ‘Cause I wasn’t sad to like, say goodbye to my friend, because we’ve only got like, four weeks left”. Simone might actually be wise, you guys. Shift your paradigms, yo.
- THAT BACKGROUND SONG JUST SAID ‘GOODBYE, BROWN-EYE’. It did. I heard it. Submit your votes for this to replace that other thing as the elimination song. SUBMIT.
A Sarah-Mail mentioning trash and treasure is digitally delivered to the debutantes, and Madeline guesses that it has something to do with drag queens, because logic what? Hahahahahaha.
The Fashion Fiestas whisk the scrags to this week’s glamorous high-end locale, a rubbish dump, proving once again that most of the budget was spent on baguettes, chapeaux and Maurice Chevalier albums in Paris. Now, I hate to squeeze out a motif, but it’s uncanny how being IN a dump makes people look like they’re TAKING a dump. Don’t judge me. There’s EVIDENCE.
A big rubbish-moving truck, no doubt fuelled by tentative relevance, hauls engine towards the modules and then suddenly vomits out Charlotte Dawson and emotional-range juggernaut and catwalk trainer Adam Williams. They explain to the girls that the challenge this week involves wearing recycled, sustainable outfits and wandering unfettered through the Strand Arcade. So we’re here, standing on piles of rubbish that, as Doik puts it, smells ‘like the whole world got gastro’, to be told that we’re going to be doing something else somewhere else. It’s like Christo wrapping the Sydney Harbour Bridge and then inviting people to the Opera House or, for the lowbrow amongst you, like the synopsis of an episode of Glee implying that it won’t be full of twenty-four-year-old auto-tuned arseholes over-emoting in wheelchairs and skirts.
Once at the Strand, the modules change into their recycled outfits (Simone hates hers) and we take a moment to study Adam Williams’ emotional range.
|Hungry for peanut butter toast in particular.|
|Letting you know that the building is on fire.|
Hazel is dressed as a bin-liner frilled-neck lizard, and almost takes out a couple of pensioners while clearly flashing the coffee drinker behind her. No points.
|That's what I call double decaf.|
Montana and Madeline are itchy and uncomfortable (no points) and Rachel lolls her head around drunkenly like she’s trying to find the straw in her bourbon and coke (no points).
Simone hates her outfit. She’d like you to know that. She’d like you to know it a lot. She says that she feels like a prisoner who works on a farm, and that there’s a reason that nobody wears garbage. I dunno....
|I think she looks like a Barbie doll shitting a chilli.|
Liz is concerned and says “I’m not sure if I’ve improved in my catwalk. I hope I can still put one foot in front of the other”. It would be easier to mock her if she wasn’t wearing these, basically making her taller than God:
|But I have a strict policy about mocking girls walking on small buildings made of lava.|
Speaking of shoes, Izzy is wearing these, which I must own immediately.
Izzy’s whole outfit is made from recycled wigs, because of course, once those things get into the waterways the little dolphins get tangled in them and end up looking like Mardi Gras float leaders for the rest of their lives. It’s cruel. “I have a wig collection!” she says. YES, AND YOUR BOYFRIEND HAS COFFINS AND YOU HAVE TEETH IN YOUR HAIR AND DONUTS ON YOUR FINGERS. The kook. It lives. We know. Still, she rocks the makeshift catwalk hard by modelling with her hands...
And looking a little bit like that cranky violent guy from Big Trouble In Little China.
|Is all in refrexes.|
After a few more rubbish-related puns, Charlotte and Adam announce that Izzy wins the challenge, which is $500 for her favourite charity. She talks about how important it is to give back to the community, which I know sounds interesting, but I’m momentarily distracted by my other policy to not make fun of people giving to charities. Thanks. Thanks a lot.
A photo of a paintbrush arrives by Sarah-Mail, which the modules all assume is associated with nudity. Stay in school, kids. Stay in school.
The girls go to Luxe studios to be met by Josh Brigitte Flinn Nielsen, who just can’t get you out of his head.
|Boy, it's more than I dare to think about.|
He introduces Simon Upton, who in my imagination just can’t get me out of his pants, and he tells the scrags that they’ll have no clothes to hide behind in today’s shoot – just great big globs of hot pink paint and a - what’s the collective term for male models? A straining crotch of male models.
You know how girls react if they’ve been starved of male contact and are about to get into their undies and a trough of paint in front of three hot blokes?
|That's right. Blow-Job face and Hand-Job hand.|
Now, I’m not going to lie. The styling for this shoot looks like it’s going to be fucking horrible.
But then, after a little bit of this:
It becomes the most jaw-droppingly amazing photo shoot in the history of the world ever.
|SHUT. Pause. UP.|
Doik Simone calls the styling ‘granny chic’, and then comments that the paint feels ‘really thick and weird’, which is such a coincidence, because that’s exactly how I’d describe Doik Simone.
Rachel tells us that she has quite strong personal beliefs, then almost slips over and gurns her way awkwardly through her shoot. WHERE IS YOUR GOD NOW, PINKY McSTUMBLES. She mentions that pink is her favourite colour (SHUT UP, NO WAY) and then thanks photographer Simon. Thank you, Simon. Thanks. No, really, ta. Thanks for being all hot and hairy and stuff. Call me.
Izzy says she feels like a big strawberry thickshake, then lifts her leg until it looks like the male model is photographing her... er... ‘strawberry thickshake’.
Hazel unexpectedly brings it, Liz laughs adorably because she’s so pleased to be my best friend, and Montana is just disgustingly, bullshittingly gorgeous.
Best. Shoot. Ever.
So good I’m clutching at my imaginary pearls. And at Simon Upton’s imaginary groin a little bit.
After briskly skimming across the prizes, which I think this year include a lifetime supply of Mini Babybel chesses and a tricycle, the modules stomp into the Eliminarium. Saint Sarah greets them, still puffed from running all the way here from a meeting of the Benevolent Society For Bitch Bloggers Who Can’t Make Fun Of Real Charities, and introduces the judges: Charlotte Dawson, who is dressed today as a triple-preserved Queen Nefertiti, Shiny Alex Perry, dressed today in the same goddamn black shirt he’s worn every single episode yet somehow infinitesimally shinier and squintier, and Simon Upton, who is, unfortunately, dressed today.
The judges look through the amazing, amazing photos, and all agree that Simone looks ‘expensive’. She responds joyously with “I can’t believe I’ve lived seventeen years of being cheap, and now I’m expensive!’, which elicits this response from Dawson:
And this response from the Magic Psychic Desk:
Perry and Dawson have a number of minor arguments, at which point Shiny Alex advises Dawson to ‘loosen your weave, honey’, which I’m including in my general insult vocabulary from now on, the second I find out what it means.
When Hazel’s incredible shot is screened, Dawson declares that her new name is “Amazel”, causing the Magic Psychic Desk to show its support.
Liz’s photo is of course stunning, but Dawson is more interested in her Elimination attire. “You’ve taken your fashion cues today from Bindi Irwin – you’ve been at those crimping irons and you’ve got that safari look happening”, she comments. Magic Psychic Desk says:
|I love you, Magic Psychic Desk.|
Girls tromp out, arguments are heated, girls tromp back in, and everyone is picked off one by one. Hazel gets photo of the week, and the whittling continues until only Izzy and Madeline remain.
Four eons pass, and Maddie is shown the door. She can almost see it through her heavy eyeliner and mascara, too. BYE, MADDIE! I’ll miss you like a pair of sand-damaged suede shoes.
And at the risk of sounding like Rachel, thank you, Madeline. Thanks. Really. Thanks for calling Charlotte “Granny Tranny”, hence facilitating the future nickname of Ms Dawson from this day forward. I bow to you.
Yes, it’s the ninth verse of the country-song-with-no-chorus-but-one-verse-per-episode. People instructing me to get a life may kindly and swiftly get a rat up ya.
Charity’s your thing, have a girl’s night in – here’s your mates with luggage lugging;
They’ll bring gifts you hate then you’ll stay up late and spend most of your time hugging.
Now it’s off to the tip where you’ll soon get hip to the challenge that awaits you
Get your body wrapped in recycled crap, Simone I think your outfit hates you.
Bet you’d never think you’d be painted pink – swim around in that big trough now;
But it’s the best shoot yet and it’s going to get really hard to vote one off now.
But vote off they must, and the general thrust is that Madeline’s a goner.
Once the sprayed-on face, now she’s lost her place ‘cause there’s too much make up on her.