Shebangabang's Next Top Model #10

Ooooh, it’s getting pointy with only sex girls left.
Each week, before New Zealand’s Next Top Model screens on my telly, I have to prepare myself for the tension and drama.

Sara Tetro brand industrial-strength hairspray? Check.


Bowl of potato wedges? Check.

Candles, soft music and tissues for scenes involving Chris Sisarich? Check.


Reality check? Sorry. Full.


The Judges.


Sara Tetro
Sara, I tried impersonating your weekly mantra “WHO... will be New Zealand’s Next Top Model?”out loud, and I scared next door’s cat. It’s a microphone, sweetie. It makes things louder so that you don’t have to.
Also: lace. A brooch. Bouffant hair. Horizontal sequins in the afternoon. None of these things have their own chapter in Dress Your Age! A Young-ish Woman’s Guide To Avoiding The Frump. Just saying.


Chris Sisarich
At the close of the shopping challenge, when Chris and the girls are shielding the clothes-changing Christobelle on the street, a shot lingers on Chris’s arse for a total of three seconds. If someone can find the contact details of that particular cameraman, please let me know, as I would like to buy him a beer. Also, Chris? Please say hi to your taller twin, Nigel Barker for me. A quick tongue in the ear will be fine.


Colin Mathura-Jeffree
Oh, Colin Hyphenated-Surname. It’s so good/confusing/terrifying to have you back in form. Let’s tiptoe quietly past the Cover Girl shoot’s green and blue argyle jumper (lest we should wake it and it gets cranky. Er. CrankiER), and head straight to the Eliminarium.


So dapper! So pin-striped! So poised and pinched! So square-haired! So I-just-sucked-on-a-lemon-that-I-plucked-from-my-insanely-large-corsage!


Wait – I think I have a picture of it here somewhere...

Corsage courtesy of Microsoft Paint and thirteen seconds of effort. That’s value, people.

The Icksint.

Whenever I’m writing these incredibly helpful and informative guides to the New Zealand language, I have to say the words out loud before I type them. My housemates think I have both Tourette’s Syndrome and a little bit of mental retardation. TOTALLY WORTH IT.

Top Sex – The last handful of modules still in the competition.

Lummo – A big long car that causes continuous and relentless squealing.

Cover Gew – A young female with flawless skin and sexy eyes who can’t remember her lines for shut.

Wit – what you get when you sit in the ocean in a fancy frock.

Fit – what you get if you don’t keep fut.

Work Ithuck – What you’ll need if you want to stop being fit, get fut, and become a Cover Gew.

Budgetirry Lumutations.

• For the shopping challenge, the girls are each given seventy-five dollars and asked to buy an outfit with it. AND NOT A SAVEMART IN SIGHT. My advice? A dollar over each nipple, fifteen dollars glued around the crotch, and fifty-eight dollars to get a cab to the airport.

• The punishment for the losers of the shopping challenge is to spend three hours in a fishtank in the reception area of the hotel. That’s an actual sentence. Describing something that actually happens. File under: Oh, For Fuck's Sake.

• For this week’s shoot, we’ll take the girls to Santa Monica Pier, a long jetty topped with all manner of colourful, exciting attractions. Then we’ll stick them underneath and get them to wallow around in grey scungy surf, charmingly marbled with rotting kelp and homeless-man’s piss. I only hope the budget can stretch to cover emergency vaccinations.

• The judging desk in the Eliminarium this week appears to be made of two guys crouching on all fours with a pashmina thrown over them. Apparently now Ikea does a range called Lumpy And Moving. Only in Swedish. Obviously.

• Hi, The Standard Hotel. Your sign’s upside down.

Bist Buts.

• There are two episodes in every series of every Top Model mutation that I love so much that I want to melt them down, forge them into something sharp and pierce them through my heart so they’re there permanently. The first, clearly, is the makeover episode, particularly if anyone’s getting their weave removed or their eyebrows bleached. The second is any episode that features a tape-measure. Don’t get me wrong – I don’t love hip-measuring episodes because they shame and humiliate the modules, it’s just that I love them because they shame and humiliate the modules. Oh. Huh. Look at that.

• If you’ve just been told by a modelling agent that you need to lose two inches off your hips, would you:
a) Eat some lettuce and get on a treadmill;
b) Skip the lettuce and get on a treadmill; or
c) Tuck into a plate of potato wedges, because they have less fat than shoestring fries.

Seriously. Ladies. It's like preferring to fall to your death from a cliff covered with spinifex rather than buffalo grass. Either say goodbye to potatoes forever, or say hello to frying them as a career.

• Teryl-Leigh. The red Guess dress. Oh honey, no.

• Next time I want to scare small children away from my backyard, I’m going to set up a screen on the patio that shows looped videos of Teryl-Leigh and Ho(sanna)’s Cover Girl commercials. THE SHORT-CIRCUITING ROBOTS ARE GOING TO EAT YOU, CHILDREN. ‘Saright, but – you’re less fattening than shoestring fries, and odds are they’ll vomit you up again.

• Okay, so Ho(sanna) is short. She’s sort of pretty-ish. She poses for photographs like she’s itchy in four different places at once. She has teeth like closely-parked Holden utes and owns skin-tight leggings with jeans printed on them. Why. Is. She. Still. Here.

Teryl-Leigh is eliminated over Ho(sanna), because someone clearly poked the judges’ eyes out with a sharp stick. NOT DAVOON, GUYS. Not davoon at all.

E haere ra, Teryl-Leigh! Thanks for all the laughs.

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What's Jo Got Her Finger In Now? #1

1. A miniature trophy.

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Shebangabang's Next Top Model #9

You know how guilty you feel when you cheat on a boyfriend? (Not you, my darlings. I would never cheat on any of you).

Well, this week I... I kind of... I thought New Zealand’s Next Top Model was a bit... well, boring.

I still love you, NZNTM, and I still want to have your farcical reality babies, but tonight you went to sleep while I stayed awake in bed, antsy as hell.

There. I’ve said it. Now let’s have screeching monkey make-up sex and forget this ever happened.


The Judges.

Sara Tetro
Look, woman. Wear something that doesn’t remind me of Blanche from the Golden Girls or I’m calling Supre. We’re over the lovely lady frumps already.

Chris Sisarich
WHO TOLD YOU TO WEAR A BAGGY T-SHIRT, CHRIS? I want to see cotton/polyester-outlined man nipples, please. Also: Jonathan Pease wants his driving cap and Mack Truck sunglasses back.

Colin Mathura-Jeffree
Colin Hyphenated-Surname, we need to have a little talk. Up until now, you’ve come up with the goods. Raised the bar. Tickled our fancy. Ker-schnizzled our wizzle. But in this week’s episode, you barely raise my hackles with a half-arsed scarf and an afterthought waistcoat. It takes more than a daub of pomade and a flaccid striped jumper to thrill me, Colin. Lift your game, sir.

Wait – I think I have a picture of my reaction here somewhere...

The Icksint.

What’s more helpful than my weekly step-by-step guide to the Kiwi language and its udio-sunchrasies? Nothing. Nothing, and actual information is what.

Mudget – a person of short stature, e.g. Kate Moss

Igg-plent – Well, technically it’s a vegetable, but you don’t have to have ever heard of one to become a model. Right, Ho(sanna)?

Seggy Tuts – Something you have after breastfeeding two children.

Wank – Something one should never do at the end of the catwalk. Right, Ho(sanna)?

Coffun – Where you imagine your boyfriend is lying if you want to portray grief in a photo-shoot, or what you do if you smoke too much.

Sex Boarding Passes – guaranteed membership to the Mile High Club.

Budgetirry Lumutations.

• Y’know, I’m a pretty good bargain shopper. I like to make cheap things look expensive (© Alex Perry 2004). I also don’t like people to know I’ve bought my entire outfit for the same price as a quick handy from a lisping hooker. Subsequently, I also like cheap things to sound expensive. Like “Tresemme”. “Supre”. “Paris Hilton”. “SaveMart”. Yes, this week the modules hook up with designers who source their outfits from a place called SaveMart. At least pretend you’ve got a budget, guys.

• The photo shoot in this episode is all about the dangers of smoking, accompanied by a sincere speech from Chris “I’m Doing Yoga For You” Sisarich. We learn that smoking can do things to your health, your credibility and your complexion. We can’t, however, afford to run down the shops and buy an actual pack of cigarettes to make the shoot even slightly relevant to the theme. Seriously. Bum one from the homeless guy just outside the studio. Make his day.

• The girls are told they’re going to Sydney, and we’re shown the standard stock footage of the sun-drenched harbour with the sun-drenched Harbour Bridge and the sun-drenched Opera House. However, when Lucy is eliminated, she tearfully gets in a cab in the pouring rain. You went to Melbourne, didn’t you. DIDN’T YOU. Anyway, if you want to show people footage of what Sydney really looks like, just show them a bunch of New Zealanders with a flamboyant gay man mixed in. Waaaaiiit a second...!

Bist Buts.

• During the get-the-student-designers-to-make-you-something-from-the-scraps-at-crap-shop challenge, Christobelle finds a pair of Y-fronts and offers them to Colin. Despite the fact that I’ve always imagined Colin to be more of a Schwarovski-crystal-encrusted g-string kind of man, if I was a judge on this show I’d pretty much just hand Christobelle the win right there.

• In an op-shop, Colin’s advice directly reflects my mantra for life: “Don’t think, just grab!”. Mind you don’t graze yourself on the crystals, pet.

• For the photo-shoot, the modules are asked to each portray a separate, distinct emotion. In a complete scoop, I’ve managed to get my paws* on the actual photos from the shoot. Look closely at how each model really captures the essence of the different emotions through muscular nuance and a oneness with their sense of self:

Lucy – Despair

Laura – Grief

Teryl Leigh – Surprise

Joy – Ruby

Anger – Christobelle

Fear – Hosanna

Lust - Victoria

E haere ra, Lucy! Clearly you were eliminated because you’re dumb as a bag of cheese. The modelling industry doesn’t do dumb. Sorry.

*That’s punning excellence, people. WATCH AND LEARN.

The Punchy Punchy Chronicles: Volume 6

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Punchy Punchy Club.

The first rule of Punchy Punchy Club is: You do not talk about Punchy Punchy Club. Except on blogs. And Twitter. And, y’know – on facebook, and on the ‘phone, and to people at work around the watercooler, making sure to say things like “Oh my god, did you see him in his undies” and the like. But other than that, shush.

The second rule of Punchy Punchy Club is: You must play the Jungle Juice Drinking Game. Every time anyone says the word ‘jungle’, have a shot. Trust me, you’ll be half stonkered by the first ad break.

The third rule of Punchy Punchy Club is: Get the fuck on with it. What? Oh. Right. Sorry.


The Philosophy Of Hitting Blokes And That.

If The Contender was a woman, she would be vomiting awesome instructive soundbites all over my ears. I AM LEARNING SO MUCH FROM THIS SHOW.

• Celebrating his win last week, Sonni announces: “I’m not loud only with my mouth, I can be loud with my fists too. I am like you know, your worst nightmare. I am the Jungle Boy”. Firstly: they must be the loudest goddamn fists on the planet. Secondly: DRINK!

• Sonni summarises his fight by saying: “I was expecting mountain. I was expecting lion. I was expecting silverback gorilla. But there is none of them here”. It’s Homebush, Sonni. It’s not Jumanji.

• After meeting Sugar Ray Leonard, Kariz tells us that “If boxing was a woman, I would have proposed to it tonight to marry me”. That is one honeymoon that I want a ticket to, people.


Challenged.

There are two challenges this week:

1. Trying to understand a single word that Sonni says to Sugar Ray Leonard; and

2. Trying not to get the images of the drunk boxers in the back of the Hummer tattooed onto the inside of my eyelids so that I can look at them whenever I want to.

Sometimes, a picture is worth a thousand words, especially when the picture is anything like these, and especially when the words are slurred beyond all recognition:

Nader doesn’t indulge, as he’s ‘not an alcohol person’. SO NOBLE. But not so good for playing the Jungle Juice Drinking Game.

Fuh-Fuh-Fuh-Fuh-Fashion.

This week’s episode is so full of style it’s like a fashion goiter on a fashionable fat lady. Except much, much less disgusting.

• Charlotte takes the lads shopping at Industrie (at least I think it’s at Industrie – I might have been more sure if I’d seen the logo juuuust once more), and I can finally relax. Dawson. In heels. In a shop full of clothes, giving people fashion advice. It’s so good to see you back in your natural habitat, lady. Don’t ever confuse me again. It’s also great to see you taking your styling responsibilities so seriously, particularly in the chafing-prevention area:

• You know what a scene in a changeroom means? MEN WITHOUT PANTS ON. Just for the record, I have no problem with this concept whatsoever. Victor, however, does.

Zis pants are for people without bum.

No, Victor. That bum is for people without pants.

• Despite hoping for a pink suit, Sonni ends up looking like a Black Eyed Pea.

Will I Am Not.

The Ladies And Offspring Of The Ring.

I’m pretty sure that the gene that controls the urge to punch people in the face is located on the same chromosome as the gene that controls cute kids. It’s the chromosome that perches right on the nose of the fastest swimming sperm. BOXERS’ KIDS ARE SO CUTE, Y’ALL.

KOs and OKs

• Ben withdraws from the competition with a sore neck, and the very thought of pretty-boy Ben withdrawing from anything makes a thousand Eastern Suburbs girls cry.* It also makes Ben cry, because clearly his eyes are not desert. Nader is mildly surprised at Ben’s decision, saying he’d fight with broken hands or broken legs. NOBLE LIKE A FOX.

• Every single boxer falls head over heels in love with Sugar Ray Leonard. Sonni borrows heavily from Daniel Amalm’s thesaurus when he says “It was like a dream to me. It wasn’t even like a dream, it was like a vision’. Josh puts it best though, when he says “I’m not gay, I’m far from it, but like um, he’s handsome and young, and articulate how smart he is”. No YOU’RE articulate. No, YOU are. Israel tells us that Sugar Ray put a cracker up his arse. Not really that far from gay for you then, Issy.

• I was distracted when Garth mentioned that his ex-wife’s nickname was ‘Boo’. I just thought he’d accidentally left the last ‘B’ off his chest tattoo.

• Nader can’t eat or drink during the day because of Ramadan, yet he still trains like a hard man, until he’s all sweaty and veiny and bulging and... woah. Sorry. Headrush. NOBLE.

Punchy Punchy.

Garth trains for his fight against Issy by dancing. He dances as well as any ex-footballer I’ve seen. The massive cut above his eye just adds to the romance.

Issy trains for his fight by listening to the Trainer Who Talks Like He’s Drunk tell him to punch Garth right in the ‘cut’. Unfortunately, when you talk like you’re drunk, that’s a much, much more shocking sentence.

Issy punches Garth in the cut thirty-four times.
Garth punches Issy once, right on the dial, in slow-motion. Issy hits the canvas like a sack of spitty spuds. I say this knowing full well that six weeks ago, I’d never seen a boxing match in my life, and that I was much more interested in shoes, but: IT WAS MOTHER-FREAKING AWESOME. I’ll leave my Prissy Girl membership card at the door on my way out.

Issy laments his loss, saying “If I’da seen it coming, I woulda ducked”. Sweetie, Captain Obvious called, and he wants his t-shirt back.

What?! No shower scene this week?! My darling producers, please take note: those of us with estrogen sit through fifty-nine minutes of this show purely so that we can see one minute of a pert naked arse with water on it.
Oh, well. We’ll have to make do with a shot of Nader looking the hotness instead.

Nader, your face will substitute for a pert, wet arse anyday. Wait. That didn’t come out right.


*I’m talking about vaginas. You got that, right?

Shebangabang's Next Top Model #8

Did you know that every time you say “I don’t believe in lizardy ginger aliens with yellow teeth from outer space’, another one dies?

Woops.

Sorry, Rebecca Rose.


The Judges.

Sara Tetro
Sara’s done with the funerals and inaugurations, and now she’s off to a PTA meeting. Also, am I the only one who’s noticed how aggressive her summative spiel is just before the opening credits? It’s like she’s commentating a wrestling match and trying to blow out candles at the same time.

Chris Sisarich
You’re in trouble, Mr Welcome-To-My-Pants Sisarich. The pork-pie hat I could handle. I didn’t bat an eyelid when you chose that deep v-necked t-shirt (although let’s not presume that there was no batting whatsoever). But one of those floppy flannel beanies that looks like you haven’t been able to pull your shirt all the way over your head? Go and stand in the corner. Wait... just turn your buttocks towards me a little more... thaaaat’s it.

Colin Mathura-Jeffree
See this, Colin?








That’s me being lost for words.

In the Eliminarium, you look like you’ve recently dipped yourself in a bucket full of wax, leather, and melted-down John Waters.

For the music video shoot, though, I... I’m not sure I know what to say. I know what you needed to say, though. Two things, in fact:
1. “You know, I think I’ll leave some hairspray in the can today”; and
2. “Stop knitting, nanna. That scarf’s plenty long enough already”.

Wait – I think I have a picture of it here somewhere...

The Icksint.

If any of you are going on holiday to New Zealand soon, you may want to print out these weekly language guides to help you to be understood by the natives. Also, you may want to fire your travel agent.

Krus-chen – somebody who believes in god, in fact sometimes the entire holy trunnuty.

Sa-lib-ra-tee – a person who is famous in New Zealand. See also: Who The Fuck?

The Ix Fictor – something Rebecca Rose thinks she has. See also: No.

Meer-duh – a crime that occurs most commonly on the dancefloor.

Migga-Brazullion – beauty treatment that involves the epplication of hot wex and ixtinsuve hear removal. Not to be confused with Migga-Bazullion, which just means heaps.

Budgetirry Lumutations.

• Wow! The modules just keep meeting celebrity after celebrity this week! First they get to pretend they’re on a television show with Jacquie Brown and Jermaine Leef (I know, me neither), then they get to record a music video for Autozamm (your guess is as good as mine), and then they get to have a photo-shoot with eight of Cleo magazine’s bachelors (including one who’s probably called Dave)! What’s next? Morning tea with world bowls champion Peter Bellis???*

• Honestly, they can’t even afford proper bugs in this show. One flies into Ruby’s eye during the photo-shoot and immediately breaks into three pieces. Flimsy.

Bist Buts.

• Rebecca Rose believes that she escaped the bottom two last week because she’s a Krus-chen, and because people were praying for her. Yes, my little alien friend. God wants you to make the final eight contestants in a low-budget farce of a modelling reality television program. He does work in mysterious ways, huh.

• And my girl-crush on Ruby starts... NOW.

• Close your eyes. Closed? Good. Now, imagine the biggest tool you possibly can. Got it? Now add greasy hair from the late eighties, a shirt that wouldn’t even wear itself for a million dollars, an annoying accent, and eight tablespoons of creepy enthusiasm. Next, get your mind’s eye to imagine it directing a music video. Picture it? Right. Now open your eyes.

I know! Me too!

• Teryl-Leigh wears a gorilla-suit for the music video shoot. She grunts, hoots, dances and plays drums with two bananas. This is now overtaking Surprised Kitty as the best thing I’ve seen today.

• If there was any part of this week’s photo-shoot brief that included anything except the instruction “Be the sluttiest sluts you can possibly slut slut slut”, then I certainly didn’t hear it. There’s a chance that I just couldn’t make it out over the sound of rustling vinyl, oiled flesh rubbing together, pick-axe/belt friction and the clanking of chain-leashes. Aaand of course my screams of horror at Rebecca Rose’s ‘sexy-face’. There was really a lot going on. Including the photographer telling Teryl-Leigh to “grab that bitch”. I have a beer waiting for that photographer right now.

Rebecca Rose is shafted because she only has one look, and because the budget can't handle any more dental work. E haere ra, Rebecca Rose! I guess they just weren’t praying hard enough, huh.

*Totally a real dude. Only took me half an hour to Google a New Zealand world champion anything.

The Punchy Punchy Chronicles: Volume 5

Good things come in pairs. Twins. Socks. Testicles. Two beers.

This week on The Contender, there’s not one but TWO punchy punchy sessions. Twice the punchy. Twice the sweaty. And almost sixteen times more cuddles. This is really becoming my kind of sport, y’all.


The Philosophy Of Hitting Blokes And That.

For as long as the blokes on The Contender keep saying stuff, I will keep learning lessons about life. FACT.

• When Sonni is late to congratulate Victor on his win, he explains that “I was in the toilet, man. I was too nervous. I had to take a nervous bath”. Twenty-two thousand people all assume he was going to finish that last sentence differently.

• Victor might have to ask Daniel Amalm if he can borrow his thesaurus. Alternatively, he might just keep telling people they are like a chicken. Either/or.

• Garth gets a cut to the eye during sparring, and he self-diagnoses. Now, I’m not down with all the latest medical technology and jargon, but apparently he’s suffering from advanced Claret Everywhere Bust Me Open syndrome.

• When Pradeep goes to tell Mr Beardy and The Trainer Who Talks Like He’s Drunk that he’s quitting the competition, The Trainer Who Talks Like He’s Drunk gives him a little pep talk. “This is what the fight game is about” he says. “It’s about heartbreak. It’s about letdown”. Wow. Way to market the sport, dude.

• Before Sonni fights, he tells us that “When I am in the ring, I remember that I am Sonni, but still, deep inside me, I am the Jungle Boy”. If I have to explain to you why this is eighty-four different kinds of awesome, then you’re off my Christmas card list.


Challenged.

There are no more challenges. Instead, each boxer’s name will now be frozen in dry ice, blessed by a shaman, flown to the top of a mountain and flung from the peak. Whichever two names the trained eagles swoop in and grasp with their outstretched talons will be the fighters for that week.

Actually, for the first time in five weeks, the fighter-choosing is relatively simple. The hardest bit was finding buckets in the right colours at Bunnings.

Kariz is matched with Adrian, and everybody tries to pretend that the eight-foot height difference won’t matter. And no, Adrian, I’m not going to do it yet.

Pradeep is matched with Sonni, and... Pradeep? Hello?


Fuh-Fuh-Fuh-Fuh-Fashion.

Welcome to the Fisty Fashion Festival, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight we have an eclectic and unusual collection to show you, and we do hope you enjoy it. Jatz and Cracker Barrel will be served after the show in the vestibule.

In the red corner, we have The Trainer Who Talks Like He’s Drunk in what are clearly women’s glasses.

And in the blue corner, please welcome Ben, in a fetching hat and scarf combination from the Turn-Of-The-Century Paper-Boy collection.



Finally, in the Hypercolour corner, Sonni struts his stuff in off-the-shoulder glamour. What a feeling. Being’s believing. He can have it all, now he’s punchy for his life.



The Ladies And Offspring Of The Ring.

Oh look, I don’t know. I can’t tell which wife, girlfriend or casual shag belongs to whom anymore. One thing’s for certain, though: BOXING DADDIES = CUTE KIDS. Dawwww.

KOs and OKs

• Adrian actually speaks in this episode! Hi, Adrian. Welcome to the party. And no, I’m not going to do it yet. You’ll have to wait.

• I’ve totally figured it out. Pradeep has PMT. The mood-swings, the feelings of persecution, the listless demeanour, the cryi –waaaiiit. Crying? I THOUGHT YOUR EYES WERE DESERT, PRADEEP. Let’s have a little comparison, shall we? Let’s see:

Desert.

Not desert.

TWO COMPLETELY DIFFERENT THINGS.

• Ben hurts his neck and has to see a doctor. I reckon his neck’s just tired under the weight of all that hair and all those big words.

• Matt Shirvington and Andrew Ettinghausen are in the audience for fight night. It’s like a Has-Been Hotties convention.

• I’ve just noticed that, in between rounds, the trainers hold the boxers’ belts away from their stomachs. I’m sure officially it’s to help their breathing comfort, but I’m just gonna go right ahead and pretend that it’s to cop a gawk at their junk.

Punchy Punchy.

FIGHT ONE: Kariz & Adrian
Unfortunately I blinked during this fight, and missed most of it. Still, in a surprise comparable to going into the Contender kitchen and finding someone frying mushrooms, Kariz knocks Adrian out.

And yes, Adrian. I’m going to do it now.

ADRIIIIAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNN!

Thank Christ. I’ve been waiting five weeks to bust out that shit.
Also: Your Arse + Blue-Lit Shower Scene = Awesome. Class dismissed.

FIGHT TWO: Pradeep and Sonni
Okay, so the single most important thing about this fight is that Sonni is wearing leopard-print boots. Tell me I’m wrong.

In preparation for the fight, Pradeep does some praying, some jumping around, some mirror-inspection and some shadow-boxing.

Sonni’s preparation technique is almost the same, but with one minor difference. See if you can pick it:

Fight-time, and it seems Sonni likes to cuddle and punch at the same time. And girly-slap. And elbow. And head-butt. So, he may not be that ethical, and he may not be a completely clean fighter, and the ref might have told him not to be stupid, but for god’s sake, people. Leopard-print boots. In the end, the guy who does the most celebratory pelvic-thrusts wins. JUST LIKE LIFE.

There’s not much footage of Pradeep in the shower afterwards, supposedly because they couldn’t find many continuous shots where he wasn’t wailing “The drops of water! They are like needles to my skin! They show me no respect!”.

Unfortunately for me and my pants, Nader hardly features in this episode at all. Being noble is probably just really, really tiring.

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Shebangabang's Next Top Model #7

You’re on a bus on your way to work.

An incredible-looking guy sits down next to you and smiles.

He smells amazing – a mixture of fresh hay, simmering coffee and lust.

He says “Good morning”, and his voice sounds like hoarse, chocolate-coated angels.

He clears his throat, nervous. He shifts in his seat. He looks into your eyes, searching for something.

Then he says “Would you like to come to a bible study class this week? I’d like to tell you all about Jesus”.


Well, this week’s episode of New Zealand’s Next Top Model was a recap episode.
DISAPPOINTING.

Two can play at that game, Foxtill. You want a recap? Here’s your recap, butches.












Colin Hyphenated-Surname, you complete me. I’ll see you next week.

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