The Punchy Punchy Chronicles, Volumes 1 & 2

Okay, so if you’d asked me three weeks ago if I’d be interested in a show about boxing, I might have rolled my eyes, scoffed in a condescending manner, and turned back to my book about the origins of postmodernism and my lime-packed, gin-based cocktail.*

But if you’d asked me if I was interested in watching a show about inarticulate sweaty men without shirts, co-hosted by Uber-Scrag Charlotte Dawson and featuring a man in a leopard-skin suit who considers his own penis as the single love of his life, I would have signed on the dotted line with ink distilled from my own tears of joy.

Hence, here are my thoughts regarding the pugilistic juggernaut that is The Contender.

I know. I’m as astonished as you are.


Episode One.

I’ve been a bit slow off the mark with this show, so I’ll just get you up to speed with what you really need to know about the first episode, screened last week.
Point one: Make no mistake: this show is about Sonni “Jungle Boy” Michael Angelo. Anyone who turns his back on Anthony Mundine in a bright yellow, leopard-skin-lapelled suit jacket is welcome ‘round at my house for kangaroo-based metaphors anytime.

Point two: There are fourteen boxers, two hosts, two trainers, and a dude who looks like a dessicated geriatric Mr Sheen, except instead of cleaning, dusting and polishing, he does... um... well, nothing. Unless you count wearing unnecessary tracksuits. Which I don’t.

Point three: There are two teams, who compete weekly in the most complicated challenges in the entire world ever since the dawn of everything. If you win a challenge you pick the two blokes who fight that week, and if you win your fight you get a necklace and your name gets slotted into a big board and you’re exempt from the following week’s challenge and you get to pick the exact wardrobe that leads to Narnia and I need an aspirin and a lie-down.**

Point four: There is a boxer called Adrian. Oh, you know what I’m doing with that when the time comes, bitches.

Right. So on to...

Episode Two.

The Philosophy Of Hitting Blokes And That.

These guys aren’t just boxers. They can lead you through, like, life and stuff. Need proof?

• Daniel Amalm tells us that we have “boxers, fighters and warriors”. It’s his way of telling us that he really really loves his new Thesaurus.

• Upon winning the first fight, Josh says it was “Like I had two tennis balls under each arm”. Your guess is as good as mine, really. When he’s given his golden gloves necklace, he says “I’ll only wear it out if I’m going somewhere special”. Badge draw night at the Mount Druitt RSL won’t know what hit them.

• Garth informs us, as a reason he was a little off in the challenge, that ‘too much masturbation sends you blind’. He did, however, break the record for Earliest Mention Of Personal Fiddling In A Reality And/Or Children’s Program.

• Luke lets us know that he’s “not blessed with any natural athletic ability”. You should totally go on a show about boxing or something, then. And by that, I mean ‘pretty much anything except a show about boxing’.

• Garth is confused by Sonni’s under-performance in the weekly challenge, and wonders if his ploy is to ‘perform like a busted arsehole’. I dunno – with the amount of shit that Sonni spouts, I’d say he’s performing like an arsehole in perfect working order.

• Luke explains that he has ‘fought in and out of a suitcase, in places that you wouldn’t tie a dog”. Don’t make me come over there and explain why this is awesome. Don't. Make me.


Challenged.

This week’s challenge, as devised and calibrated by qualified actuaries and that dude who solves Rubik’s Cubes really fast:
• First, the boys have to punch a blue dot on a wall.
• Second, the boys have to punch lots of little lights on a wall.
• Third, the boys have to throw a ball.
• Fourth, the boys have to run around a pole.
• Fifth, the boys have to run on a treadmill.
• Finally, the boys have to swear at Sonni and do what they can to avoid shaking hands with him. They pretty much kick arse at this one.


The Ladies And Offspring Of The Ring.

Boxers are nothing without their families (and their various gods and whatnot), and serious style and parenting lessons can be learned by studying the women and children behind the man behind the gloves behind the other dude in front of him with the gloves on as well.

• Luke’s missus pretty much lets the side down by dressing in a tasteful, understated blouse and non-slaggy jeans. His mother, happily, saves the day in a loud print, hair recently gusted sideways by a wind straight from the Eastern Suburbs, , jangly jewellery and a lipstick thick with matronly pride and chardonnay. THAT’S how you dress for the boxing, ladies.

• Daniel’s missus is back in New Zealand in a hoodie, so his best mate Henry visits him in the locker room, which is seriously no fun at all. Let’s have the ho-nails and inappropriate puppies-out polyester back next week please, girls. It is your duty as ringside WAGs. Thank you.



KOs and OKs

• I’m a little bit in love with Nader. He utters the phrase that will feature on a t-shirt I hope to have made soon (and one that features in the introductory chapter of Joining The Mile-High Club – A Guide): “Step up. Ball up. Stand Up”.

• I’m not entirely sure that anyone on this show eats anything besides fried mushrooms.

• Charlotte. Honey. You’re wearing a sloppy joe, tracky dacks and yellow sneakers. If they’re not lined with Swarovski crystals and phoenix feathers, I JUST DON’T KNOW WHO YOU ARE ANYMORE.

• Junior completes the running portion of the challenge in his underwear, and adjusts them thoroughly enough to show us the... er... lawn around his Hills Hoist. I’m going to need a little quiet time. Back in six or seven minutes.

• I really don’t think that any blokey, biffy reality show is complete without its fair share of cuddles. The Trainer Who Speaks Like He’s Drunk (sorry – it’s only the second episode, so not everyone’s name has sunk in yet) calms Sonni down with a touching bathroom clinch. If it wasn’t for Sonni mentioning that he wanted to shoot someone, enter their stomach and start eating them from the inside, it would be almost beautiful.

• I LOVE TRASH-TALKING FACE-OFFS LIKE BINDI IRWIN LOVES HAIR CRIMPERS. It’s all chest-bumping and cussing and other blokes getting involved with their arms and shoulders and lifted chins and wide eyes and SIT DOWN, SONNI. Wow. At this rate, I may never need porn agai... um... y’know, ever. There are few things more romantic than two men standing an inch away from each other, staring each other down. If any of them ever kiss (and I live in eternal hope), I will give each and every one of you a dollar to put towards new underpants.

• Junior, Alex Perry wants his sunglasses back.

• Can someone Everlast give me a clue Everlast regarding who this show Everlast is sponsored Everlast by? I think I blinked and missed it. Everlast.


Punchy Punchy.

Daniel and Luke take off their pyjamas, put in their good teeth and smack shit out of each other. I don’t really understand the rules of boxing, but from what I can see, the guy with the smallest number of bogan tattoos wins. JUST LIKE LIFE.
Bye, Luke. Your skill with spelling and grammar will be missed and stuff heaps and that.


And we close tonight with some images of a naked man in a shower in dim blue light. I’m pretty much going to insist that every show on television finishes like this from now on, including the news, Mornings With Kerri-Anne and all Zoot Reviews. Back me up.

*Beer.

**Beer.

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Shebangabang's Next Top Model #4

Okay, so it’s late at night, you’re feeling peckish, and you check the ‘fridge to see if there’s anything worth pillaging. You open the door, and there, right on the top shelf, is an unopened packet of Tim Tams. You put one in your mouth and chew slowly, savouring each divine, satiny, brown-drool-inducing tongue-roll. All of a sudden you hit something unusual and tough, so you pull it out of your mouth. It’s a piece of paper. You unfold it and realise it’s a voucher for eight thousand more unopened packets of Tim Tams.

New Zealand’s Next Top Model is finding the packet of Tim Tams.

The makeover episode is eating the Tim Tams.

The photo shoot involving plastering the modules’ faces with sequins, feathers, glitter and paint is, quite clearly, eight thousand more packets of Tim Tams.

And Colin Mathura Jeffree is the limp carrot in the crisper. You know I’m right.


The Judges.

Sara Tetro
DRESS YOUR AGE, WOMAN. Also P.S: I know you’ve been going to a lot of funerals lately, but nicking frocks from dead old ladies is really crossing the line. As is, granted, the use of the phrase ‘dead old ladies’. Sorry. FYI, ‘Lacy Shoulders’ is a drag name, not a dress code. I know you love me, though, because you totally said the following on purpose during the Eliminarium deliberation: “Ulivin girls, but we ken only keep tin of thum. I suspect we might get un a but of a screp over this, so shell we try and keep it suvul?”. Thank you, Sara. I love you too.

Chris Sisarich
Waaaiiiit. I see a deep v-necked t-shirt and a driving cap. I’ve... I’ve seen this before. Could – it’s not – Chris ‘Do Me Right Now’ Sisarich, have you been raiding Jonathan Pease’s wardrobe?! Tut, tut. That’s a spanking.

Colin Mathura-Jeffree
Colin Hyphenated-Surname seems to have spent a lot less time around powerpoints and humidity this week, but someone still needs to take his Big Book Of Fierce Gay Stylist Words away from him. Every time he refers to it, he appears to skim through the pages, looking, seeking, and then suddenly bursting forth with a “FEBULOUS!”, or a “STUNNUNG!”. Still, I have to give him points for embracing the briny theme of the underwater walking challenge by dressing as a pirate. He even went to the trouble of making his hair look exactly like kelp. Wait – I think I have a picture of it somewhere...

The Icksint.

This week I’ll be providing you with a glossary to help you out with some words and phrases that you may be having trouble with:

Jezzercise – exercise one performs to a contemporary pop soundtrack after getting dressed in a hurricane in the 80s.
A-queer-i-um – a place with heaps of fush, but sadly no chups.
Redicowl Dufferunce – what happens when you get a haircut.
Vij-ta-bulls – what Ho(sanna) eats instead of chocolate.
Ix-ercise Ekwup-munt – various apparatus delivered to the house to facilitate weight maintenance and futness.
Squunt – what you do with your eyes in a photo shoot in order to look sixy
You Kept-a-vated The Lins - you take choice photos, ay.

Budgetirry Lumutations.

Clearly the production budget blew out on face-sequins for the photo shoot, and there were only just enough spangles left to furnish the modules with one black sequinned frock. Last week Teryl-Leigh wore it to wreak racial havoc amidst the shower-hogging crowd. This week, Christobelle turns up to the walking challenge wearing it, and Lucy fronts up to the Eliminarium in it. That. Dress. Is. A. Slut.

Bist Buts.

• A lot of the girls are upset with the drestuck changes that are being made to their hair, and daub their faces with a mixture of tears, snot, and clumsy strings of damp tissue. Ladies. Take your elegant crying lesson from Ajoh, winner of this week’s Single Crystalline Tear award. Now, if we can just get the girl to blink, we’re on a winner. Seriously. Blink. I beg you.
• Sara tells Ho(sanna) that she’s getting an Eva Mendes haircut, but her hairdresser confuses her when he mentions that she’ll be getting ‘a Mediterranean kind of look’. Ho nervously asks “Is... is that near South America”? Yes, sweetie. Just next door. Near Belgium, but with heaps more sombreros.
• Everyone does quite well out of the makeovers except for Laura, who I will now be referring to as ‘Cotton Bud’. No reason.
• This week’s walking challenge involves confusing designer clothing, heels, walking on a conveyor belt, and being in an underwater aquarium tunnel. For reasons like this, I would eat this show’s snot if it asked me to.
• Despite my better (bitter?) judgement, I’m starting to pinpoint my favourites, and I mean that in an if-I-was-gay-I’d-totally-have-a-badge-made-featuring-your-face-and-if-you-leaned-in-to-see-it-I-would-jump-you-like-a-cheap-trampoline kind of way. Victoria and Ruby, I’m talking to you.
• Ajoh. Honey. Look into blinking. Come on.
• This week’s photo shoot tattoos daisies on my heart. The 2nd grade arts and crafts class from Taranaki Remedial Primary For The Blind has a fucking field day with sequins, glue, glitter, feathers and acrylic paint, making all kinds of miniature facial models of cartoon explosions and bacterial colonies. Apparently the theme is ‘underwater tropical fantasy’, but I see it more as ‘petri dish chic’. Except for Rebecca Rose, who has gone for more of a ‘bowel-looseningly terrifying bird/alien hybrid’ vibe. Bless.
• FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, AJOH, BLINK.

Anyway, Olivia is eliminated, presumably because she’s wearing a black velvet bow in her hair.
E haere ra, Olivia! You really and truly... well, showed up. Thanks, by the way. Bye.

Sweet, fierce baby jesus, this is my 100th Next Top Model-related post. That’s eight different kinds of get a life.

Shebangabang's Next Top Model #3

This episode of New Zealand’s Next Top Model is respectfully and sombrely dedicated to all those who were killed during the making of the program.
In random order, this includes:

- The English language
- The last vestige of credibility attributed to the hip hop genre
- My eyes and life
- Eight thousand brave, frizzy chinchillas
- The memory of Jackie Onassis.

Moment of quiet contemplation, please. Thank you.

The Judges.

Sara Tetro

Sara is no longer satisfied with just dressing as if she’s attending a Kennedy funeral. She’s dressing as Jackie Onassis. Come on now, hair and make-up people. You know that if you take your finger off the hair-spray nozzle, the hair-spray stops coming out, right?

Chris Sisarich

Even in a bad hat in a fake snowfield, Chris is hot. You know the kind of hat that rednecks generally wear when it gets cold – kind of a furry thing with flaps? Chris, you may wear mine.*

Colin Mathura-Jeffree

Colin Hyphenated-Surname, you kill my life. If I listed what you were wearing during the “hip hop” (*cough* Blossom-the-prostitute-years *cough*) challenge to someone who doesn’t watch the show, they would assume I was describing the contents of Jennifer Beale’s and Bernard King’s combined suitcases. And your hair during the dance lesson? Wait – I think I have a picture of it somewhere....

However, and I mean this with a heart full of dread and an oesophagus full of sick, the sour icing on the horrifying cake was the look you dragged into the Eliminarium. SHOW ME IN THE BOOK WHERE IT SAYS IT’S OKAY TO MAKE YOUR HAIR INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM YOUR COAT. That... that shit ain’t right. Wait – I think I have a picture of it somewhere...

The Icksint.

• The lesson this week? Densung! The style? Hup Hop! The level of ability? Shut! Even Colin can see that through his coiffure du canine, and describes the girls as looking like “whin you pull spaghitti out of the peckut end drop ut on a plate”. Aah. It’s funny because it’s pasta.

• Just before she gives up on life, Sarah starts small by saying she “hes a bed hidache”. She refuses any offers of Penadowl, though.

• Colin Hyphenated-Surname could not possibly have said the word “dindruff” more frequently in the Eliminarium. And he could not have looked more like he probably had some.

Budgetirry Lumutations.

• As the walking-challenge winner, Teryl-Leigh gets to go on a chartered flight around New Zealand. Lord knows what she’s going to do with the other twenty-three hours and forty-five minutes of the day. Pray, probably.

• For the snowy photo-shoot, the modules are wearing hats that have clearly been sourced from the Tatarariki Women’s Institute Knitting Circle.** It’s good to see the production team supporting local industry, and besides, what are they gonna do – run out of wool?

• No fancy snow-blowing machinery for this show, no sir! We’ll just get Dennis the runner to peg bits of ice at the girls for a sumular affict. DINDRUFF!

Bist Buts.

• I loved every single outfit worn by the modules in the hip-hop challenge, because when I burn things, I like them to burn fast, and I like them to burn bright. By far my favourite, though, was Teryl-Leigh’s shirt, which said ‘WHITE BY BIRTH. TRASH BY CHOICE’. It was. It was choice.

• Also losing at life today: Olivia, who a stylist decides will be wearing an eyepatch down the runway. A stylist I would like to kiss on the lips for making this very decision (unless the stylist is Colin, in which case there’s a brief thank you note in the post). Colin describes her runway performance as being a ‘bit flet’. THAT’S BECAUSE HER DEPTH PERCEPTION IS IMPAIRED, ARSEHOLE.

• Wow. We have racial tension in the house. Let’s spend about fifteen minutes dwelling on it, shall we? I’m not belittling racial tension, I’d just like someone to wake me up when there actually is some. As far as I was concerned, it was a fight between a shiny anorak and a sequinned t-shirt. SEQUINS WIN.

• Was there a reason that, for the photo-shoot, the girls couldn’t have just gone and done it in a nice warm studio, with nice warm fake snow? Or do you think that they did it in sub-zero temperatures because it’s so much more entertaining to see skinny girls’ internal organs crystallizing? I’m just going to leave that question open, really.

Sarah is kicked out because she’s homesuck, instead of Olivia being sent home because she sucks. No, because if you say it with an accent, it sort of sounds the sa – shut up.

E Haere ra, Sarah! You’re still the hottest epileptic ex-junkie single-mother dirty quitter I’ve ever seen, doll. Go buy yourself a rainbow.

* Just in case there’s any doubt, I’m talking about my vagina.

**That’s totally a thing! I looked it up! I may have made up the Knitting Circle bit, though. I was kind of asleep from looking at the website of the Tatarariki Women’s Institute. God, no wonder they take up knitting.

Office Face.

It will come as no surprise to regular readers that I like to make up games.
It will come as a surprise to everyone, including my closest family members, that I have an actual job that I work very hard at. I arrive at the office at sparrow's crack, and often don't leave until late at night.

At some point, these two surprising/unsurprising things were bound to cross paths.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my newest game: Office Face.

It all started quite simply, with a cupboard near my desk.

Slowly it escalated to the paper-recycling bin in the hallway.

I then started to think a little bigger in the office kitchen, with questionable results (please add points for unwavering attention to foreshortening and difficult angles).

At this point, I noticed that my desk-neighbour, the awesome and good-eggy Jen, was having what is known in professional circles as A Bugger Of A Day. I suggested to her that perhaps some stress relief may come in the form of a quick round of Office Face. She agreed, making light and brilliant work of both the office trophy cabinet and the kitchen 'fridge.

By this point, we were so full of company-condoned alcoh... er, enthusiasm, that we started seeing faces everywhere, and even paraphrasing Crocodile Dundee.

That's not a fax machine. That's a puppy dog.

Last (for now) but not least (perhaps), I present to you the (so far) pinnacle of excellence in the game of Office Face (up to this point).

That's right. You guessed it. It's the smoking adjacent microwaves.

I seriously, seriously doubt that this is the last round of Office Face. I haven't even explored the office toilet yet. In... in any meaningful way.

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Shebangabang's Next Top Model #2

I was seeing this guy once – he was hot, smart, talented and dressed well, and I was smitten as a kitten (New Zealand readers – please say out loud). The relationship lasted a few months, then he moved overseas. I missed him. I wished he’d come back. I started hanging out with his brother. The brother wasn’t as good-looking, a bit on the thick side, had almost no discernable talent, and dressed like he’d picked clothes at random from a blind man’s washing basket. DAMN, he was good in bed, though.

Okay, so that’s not strictly true, but you know what New Zealand’s Next Top Model is? It’s an ex-boyfriend’s brother with a big penis.

The Judges.

Sara Tetro
Moment of silence, please. It seems another Kennedy has died, and Sara is on her way to the funeral as soon as this shoot wraps. She’ll be fine, though – she’s hiding a triple-pack of tissues in her beehive. Woman is incapable of dressing for day.

Chris Sisarich
Whether he’s wearing a close-fitting black t-shirt or a pork-pie hat, I still think he’d look better wearing my legs. You want a pork-pie hat, Chris? I’ll give you a pork-pie hat. Without the pie or the hat. Apparently in this episode he says some stuff, too.

Colin Mathura-Jeffree
Colin Mathura-Jeffree, you are BREAKING MY EYES. When you stand in front of a wind tunnel wearing a cape (and let’s face it, who isn't), you look like an intensely gay bin liner that’s been blown against a tree-branch in a storm. From his Wikipedia page: “His acting debut was as the sword wielding Prince of India in ‘Xena: Warrior Princess’, where he played the reincarnation of Gabrielle into a powerful and handsome warrior willing to sacrifice himself to save his Kingdom“. Right, so he played a reincarnation of a chick who was okay with dying. COINCIDENCE?! PS: I’m okay with you dying too, Colin. And I bet your eyeliner will be the last thing to decompose, and will be found thousands of years into the future by robot archaeologists who I’ve given you more words than you deserve already so now I’m going to stop.


The Icksint.

A few pearlers this week:

• Sara’s voice-over recap of last week’s episode alluded to the girls who didn’t make the cut, saying ‘Before long theer shups hed sailed’. Except by ‘shups’, she means ‘jit boats’.
• Sarah, the ex-junkie epileptic, takes pill-popping to the extreme in the kitchen. Now, let’s just make a bit of a list of words and phrases that sound brilliant in a Kiwi accent:
o ‘ex-junkie epileptic’
o ‘pill-popping’
o ‘kitchen’
o ‘anti-depressants’
She’s not sure that the judges will be impressed with all her ailments, though, adding that “Un theer eyes, ut wull probably be a nigatuv”. I love that pasty, frail, morphine-shooting gal. She’s a hut et parties for difunut.
• Colin Hyphenated-Surname introduces the modules to their weekly challenge by asking them to “guv me your bist top model pose in a suxty-kulometre wind’. Thank you for not making it forty kilometres, producers. Thank you so much.
• Colin tries to make Teryl-Leigh look angry in the wind challenge by shouting “Scream! Someone’s stolen your kuds!”. Um... Colin? That’s kind of a prucky thing to say.Go touch up your kohl.
• I’m calling this week’s aeroplane-themed photo-shoot Chucks On The Wung. Because I’m hilarious, and because taking the piss out of the NZ accent hasn’t gotten old yet.
• Photographer Jackie Meiring uses the word ‘aviatrix’. Clearly Jackie Meiring is now my favourite person in the entire universe.


Budgetirry Lumutations.

One of the weekly challenges is to strike poses in front of a big fan. So basically, this week the production budget can afford air that moves really fast. I believe that is all that really needs to be said.


Bist Buts.

• Teryl-Leigh is goddy as all get-out. From naming one of her kids ‘Zion’ to attributing her self-styling challenge win to god’s intervention, to calling the house’s stripper pole ‘dirty’, she’s like the world’s hottest happy-clappy. I’m a bit concerned about her belief that god is looking after her kids while she’s away, though. I sure hope he knows where they keep the fruit roll-ups.
• In the wind-tunnel, Victoria says that her outfit is a downer, because she can’t move her legs apart. I pour a gin and put my feet up, as this shit clearly just writes itself.
• We get it. Olivia and Lucy are sisters. There’s rivalry. Until there’s some blood spilled or some hair pulled out of someone’s head, can we move on please?
• A word, Rebecca-Rose? I was kind of hoping you’d let us know if you’ve ever had any modelling experience. Oh, you have? In that case, could you please mention it eight or nine thousand times? Also – just something to look out for – I think there’s a chance that your disproportionately large head might actually be getting bigger each week. If you stay in the competition long enough, we may have to convert part of the house into a Ginger Containment Unit. Just a heads up, is all.
• Ho(sanna) is labelled a bit of a try-hard, which I have to at least partially agree with. She’s trying hard to close her lips over her giant boogie-board teeth.
• Rhiannon’s body and Teryl-Leigh’s face make me cry. Like, good, supportive tears. Totally different to they’re-not-tears-my-corneas-are-just-melting-from-looking-at-Colin tears. DIFFERENT.
• Chris, I’ve installed a lounge, pillows, and tea and coffee making facilities for you in my underpants.
• HOT PHOTO SHOOT. Most of the modules scrubbed up decent, the actual photographs were artful and dramatic, and I’m waiting by the ‘phone for you to call and tell me how I can get almost every outfit delivered to my house by the weekend. In my size. Which is.. er.. totally the same as they used in the shoot. Carry on.

Anyway, Tiffany is the last one to have her name called in the Eliminarium, so she can leave Auckland and go back to Awkward. See, because they sort of sound the same, and so it... no, but they’re... I’m talking homophones, peop – forget it. E haere ra, Tuffany! There. I learned a word. I am letting this show educate me. You should too.

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Shebangabang's Next Top Model #1

I want to make one thing absolutely and patently clear: I will not, repeat not be making fun of the New Zealand accent in my synopses of New Zealand’s Next Top Model. To do so would be condescending, unkind and rude.

PSYCH! Of course I’m going to make fun of the accent. Without the accent, this show would just be about judges-I-can’t-look-at called Colin, clown-haired-models-I-can’t-look-at called Frankie, morphine-shooting epileptics and racks full of coloured thongs. BORING. I’m going to take an academic (eck-a-dim-uck) approach to this show, carefully analysing the cast and summarising each scenario with the keen acumen of a PhD supervisor, brandishing a sardonic microscope, and listening to Wagner. Plus, I’ll probably hang a bunch of shit on it.
RIGHT!

The Judges, In Order From Least To Most Terrifying

Sara Tetro
Pah. A successful businesswoman and ex-module who seems intelligent, articulate and probably likeable. HOW DOES THAT HELP ME, PRODUCERS?! The only thing she seems to do wrong is wear after-five frockage when it’s only a quarter past four. Granted, in the last scene of the show she looked like she was dressed for a Kennedy funeral (and let’s face it, that’s a new frock every couple of years), so maybe there’s hope.

Chris Sisarich
Being an ex-model and a photographer, his career bears a remarkable resemblance to that of America’s Next Top Model’s Nigel Barker (the only difference being that Nigel’s name wouldn’t sound quite so awesome in a rap). Accordingly, I would like to extend the same invitation to Chris as I did to Nigel, that being to live inside my pants.

Colin Mathura-Jeffree
Colin’s Wikipedia page says “Colin has been an model for 15 years”. An model should really see an different hairdresser, use an different eyeliner and stop giving me an aneurism. Whilst he was on screen, my housemate Nat did two things – covered her eyes, and said “PLEASE GOOGLE HIM AND TELL ME WHY HE’S THERE!!”. I did. I can’t.


The Icksint.

Here I’d like to summarise the most eloquent examples of the meandering twists and turns that the Kiwi accent lends to the English language, sufficiently rivalling the bends found in a triple helix. I would also like to hear a New Zealander say that last sentence aloud.

- The voice-over at the start of the episode tells us that Kiwi models are known for a number of things, including their “work ithuck”. At this point I smile, nod, and ecstatically close my eyes, just as I do when I have the first bite of some delicious cheese. This show is delicious cheese. Just in case you didn’t get the whole I-use-metaphors thing.
- When calling a mother-module to tell her she’s made the semis, Sara says “You kuss those kuds, and peck your begs – you’re go-ung to Queenstown!”. Don’t forget to peck some sendwuches for the trup.
- One of the girls has (say it slowly) epilepsy. She’s asked how long it’s been “sunce she hed a fut”. She also used to shoot up morphine, but sadly isn’t asked how long it’s been “sunce she cleaned her kut”. She has a nervous vomit before the photo-shoot, but nobody says “Thet chuck hed a chuck”. More’s the putty.


Budgetirry Lumutations.

Shebangabang’s Next Top Model seems to suffer similar budgetary shortcomings to those of its mainland counterpart, although it takes a keen eye to pick them out. Luckily, I was watching closely:

- Usually, semi-finalists arrive at their lodgings welcomed by a teetering pile of free goodies. Our kiwi modules are greeted with a new ‘phone and a laminated lanyard. What, no Chup-A-Chup?
- The New Zealand Tourism Commission certainly did their bit to try to help out, ensuring that everyone arrives everywhere via either jet boat, go-kart or cable car. If bungee-jumping isn’t mentioned or engaged in during this entire series, I will pluck, skin and eat a Kakapo Parrot.
- The walking challenge is staged in a vineyard, however not a single grape makes it onto camera. I suspect this bit was filmed in a warehouse in South Auckland, staged by the same people who faked that whole moon-landing thing.
- For the first photo-shoot, the modules wear their own swimming costumes. I hope this trend continues, and we see the modules waxing themselves, doing their own make-up and telling themselves that they have to lose weight.
- Jandals. Thongs. Flup-Flops. It doesn’t matter how you say it, none of these words scream ‘expense’. The girls scream a lot, though, when they’re running up a beach towards a rack of thongs with their names on them, to see if they’ve made the cut. Next week, I assume the eliminated contestant will just be the girl left over after a game of musical chairs.


The Bist Buts.

- Rebecca-Rose-Ranga needs to eat, and needs to blink. If she ever looks up to the camera and says “But mummy, I am your daughter”, I. Am. Out. Of. Here. Freaks me out, man. As I said to Nat, “she lecks pugmintation”. I’m fucking hilarious, you see.
- Frankie. Hair. Sideshow Bob. Says “I’ve got a different look”. Spooky is what.
- Ho(sanna) seems to be our resident uppity bee-yarch. After getting almost every other module off-side, she claims that she would do anything to win this competion. START BY NEVER WEARING THOSE JEAN-PRINTED LEGGINGS AGAIN EVER. Yeah. See how that goes.
- One module’s claim to fame is that she won a chilli-eating competition, and she demonstrates her mad asbestos mouth skillz to the judges. This is on my television. That I paid for. I’m tongue-pashing this show as soon as I get the chance.
- I still can’t look at Colin Hyphenated-Surname. Ugh. Ick. No.
- In her audition, Rhiannon brings in a picture she drew. Rhiannon. Honey. It’s a modelling audition. If you don’t bring in a dried pasta collage at the very least, you’re dead to this industry, and to me.
- My new lover Chris tells one of the girls during the photo shoot that she needs to concentrate more on how she uses her mouth. Ladies. This is the most important lesson you can ever learn in modelling. ALWAYS BLOW THE PHOTOGRAPHER.
- Successful finalists are told “Peck your begs, girls – you’re go-ung to AUCKLAND!”. The disappointment is tangible, until they all leave on another fucking jet-boat.

Yep. I’ll be watching this series. I just have to work out a technique whereby I’m not repeating the word “ip-uh-lip-sy” over and over again in my sleep.

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Extreme Avocado.

You know what makes me happy? Well yes, there’s that, but I mea… well yes, granted, there’s that too, but what I’m trying to get at is… what? Well technically yes, but that’s more a young person’s ga… LOOK. You know what makes me happy today?

The fact that I will have too many games to play come Summer.

You might remember that I invented Bee Bingo, and you may have also subsequently realised that this is a game that has taken the world by storm in a quiet and unobtrusive way.

WELL. My new housemate Lozzy, of oh errol fame, told me about a game her boyfriend plays, and I want to play it. I need to play it. I want you all to need to play it too. I’m an eddying maelstrom of wants and needs. See paragraph 1.

Lozzy’s squeeze has an avocado tree in his backyard (although this would work well with any tree that bears fruit or other heavy-ish, dropping things. Bats or possums, for example).
When the fruit is ripe, he and his friends crack some (many) beers and sit in the yard wearing custom-built helmets.

Each helmet is a bike helmet with a bowl super-glued to the top of it. Anyone who doesn’t already think this game is awesome even at this unresolved point has no business reading further. Helmet. Bowl. Dreams. Realised.

Whenever game-players hear an avocado dropping through the leaves, they RACE TO CATCH IT IN THEIR CUSTOMISED BOWL-HELMET.
Sometimes it's a long wait, so more beer must be consumed, rendering each subsequent avocado-drop more and more difficult. Also rendering all spleens burst. Because of the hilarity.

If you want me at any time during avocado fruiting season, you know where I’ll be.

Also PS: Please somebody tell me when avocado fruiting season is. ‘Preciate it. Thanks.

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