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.
OH PLEASE, THESE GIRLS HAVE PIMPLES FROM BEFORE THEN.
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.
THEY’RE GOING TO DUBAAAAAAIIIII!
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.
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”.
|OH MY GOD YOU'RE IN THE WRONG LANE.|
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.
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.
|BRAIN NOT FOUND ERROR|
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.
Conclusion: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD CAN WE STOP NOW.
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?
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’.
OMG FINALE OMG FINALE OMG FINALE TOMORROW NIGHT.
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:
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.