Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series 6 - Audition Me, Baby.

On Saturday January 16th, auditions for Series 6 of Australia’s Next Top Model started at Westfield Parramatta.

This was excruciatingly exciting for me for two reasons:

1. Unless this is your first visit here, or you’ve been living under a rock made out of much, much more important and relevant things, I am spastically in lust with the entire Top Model franchise, and hope one day to marry it. Our babies will be tall and stupid and punch walls and get nose-bleeds. It will be excellent. Excellent and sexy.

2. For the first time, the Sydney cattle-call fell on a weekend rather than a weekday, so I was able to attend.

And attend, it’s fair to say, I did. In fact, I auditioned. I hauled my size ten-to-twelve, late-thirties, mildly-pleasant-looking-but-nothing-special arse out to Parramatta and lined up with hundreds of tiny wee gazelle-y things straight from either school or outer space.

The experience was very, very educational. Here’s what I learned:

· That Top Model auditions contain lots and lots of shoes I want, worn by people who don’t deserve them as much as I do.

· That if being looked up-and-down with judgement and disdain was chocolate, Westfield Parramatta is the Wonka family crypt.

· That the hilarity of desperate stage mothers never, ever gets old, unlike the stage mothers themselves.

· That given the right motivation, I can keep a straight face under any circumstances.

· That if my red boots and my moonwalk were both in a competition for The Best Thing Western Sydney Has Ever Seen Ever, it would be a tie.


Don’t take my word for it. TAKE A CURRENT AFFAIR’S WORD FOR IT. Because everybody knows that everything you see on A Current Affair is true. Except for that deluded bitch at the end of the clip. What a wanker.

Clippy Clip Clip Here.

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The Punchy Punchy Chronicles - THE FINALE

Okay, so this final recap of The Contender will be a little different to my previous efforts. And by that, I mean it will be unmitigated rubbish.

See, normally I sit down with a nutritious meal, a helpful beverage, my laptop and a number of leisurely, quiet hours in front of me. I eat, I drink, I tap, I think, I take sneaky screen grabs.
But last night, I actually went to the Sydney Entertainment Centre to see the fight (thank you, oh benevolent TV types). Let’s see the difference:

Nutritious Meal: FAIL. The mini meat pies in the secret room where drinks were free (I will always find the secret room where the drinks are free) were delicious, and I will be saving the streak of gravy I spilled on my top as a souvenir, but nutritious? No.

Helpful Beverage: WIN. Win plural. Win myself a couple of new kidneys.

Laptop: FAIL. I started scribbling notes on a highly technological piece of paper, but that made it impossible to concentrate on proceedings, and given that I only have two hands - one of which was holding a beer and the other of which was clamped over my mouth with amazement – I figured I should get my manual priorities in order. Just like life.

Leisurely Quiet Hours: Are you f*cking serious?

So. Y’know. Don’t expect much.


The Philosophy Of Hitting Blokes And That

I managed an in-depth interview with all of the Contender boxers who weren’t fighting that night. Well, I spoke to a number of them briefly, including the hosts. Oh, okay, I mumbled a couple of things under my breath and may or may not have been overheard.
Exclusive boxer soundbytes below.

Daniel & Israel: “G’day”.

Josh: “Anyone know where the gents is?”.

Victor: “Blog? What is ‘blog’?”

Les: “Blaaaaaaaah! Chantelle Dawson! Blaaaaaaaah!”

Charlotte Dawson: Something about boob tape.

Sonni: “My man! My woman! I just shake hands with you, man. I have a piece of paper say I not go near the woman. BOOYAKA!! BOO! BOO! BOO! BOOYAKA!”.


Challenged

The challenge was keeping my eye on the boxing ring instead of just checking out everyone in the audience. For a while there it looked like hairdressing would come out in front (the variety!), with multicoloured fingernails coming up the rear (Oh. I see how that sounds now. Ouch), threatening the mastery of That’s Really Quite A Lot Of Tattoos, Sir, but it was seriously too close to call.

Of course, the real winner was Ed Hardy.

“Winner”.


Fuh-Fuh-Fuh-Fuh-Fashion

Oh, Nader. You’re a Knight In White Satin with a waxed chest. It may not necessarily be noble, but it totally works.

Oh, Junior. You so sparkly.

Oh, Garth. Nice haircut. Good to see you get some new eye-work, as well.

Aaaaah, Kariz. It will only be a shame if you get modelling work out of this if they insist on putting clothes on you.

OH SONNI. If someone had just told me you’d worn a leopard-skin suit that looked like it had actually been mauled by leopards AND a wooden mask WITH DREADLOCKS, I would have assumed it was a dream. An incredible, jungle-esque, batshit-crazy dream. BUT NO! I have proof. Fuzzy, black-and-white, didn’t-get-the-mask-in-shot, why-are-my-eyes-glowing proof.

The Lion Sleeps Tonight. On Sonni's jacket.

KOs and OKs

Did I blink, or did Nader and Junior’s grudge match only last as long as Bindi Irwin’s Greatest Hits album? See, apparently if there’s a head clash within the first three rounds of the fight, and there’s a crescent moon, a light westerly wind, enough polyester-cotton in the room and the blood drops from one of the boxer’s faces makes a pattern that looks ike a monkey riding a bicycle on the floor of the ring, it’s a technical draw and they stop the fight.

It’s true. I looked it up.

Punchy Punchy

It might have been the contact high from all the (awesome) testosterone in the room, it might have been the culmination of eleven weeks of build-up, or it might have been the way the stadium lighting glittered elegantly off Kariz’s abdominal muscles, but hot damn, I loved this fight. Garth got low and close to counteract Kariz’s reach, Kariz kept up with relentless body-shots in the clinch, and eventu – OH MY GOD, THERE’S TAHNEE FROM AUSTRALIA’S NEXT TOP MODEL. Girl just cannot keep away from blood at a Foxtel finale.

Despite being the underdog (or underbunny, more correctly), Garth emerged victorious, said something about starring in a feature film and winning an Oscar, accepted his gigantic novelty cheque from Charlotte Dawson, and no doubt went out to get irreversibly stonkered.

Nice one, Garfus.


So that’s it! I must say that between the incredible personalities, buff gods and questionable eating habits on the screen, the criminally heated and riotous goings-on on the Contender facebook page, the outstandingly generous and hilarious people I’ve met from the show and those little mini-pizzas with feta and olives on them, it’s been a hell of a ride.
Thanks for reading!

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Shebangabang's Next Top Model - THE FINALE

I can’t believe this is the last episode.

Look at where we’ve been! (Oh. New Zealand. Exotic. I guess).

Look at what we’ve worn! (But maybe sort of overlook the dead pheasant head-dress, the inflated laundry bag, the Michael Hill watches, the purple bra, the jean-printed leggings, the recycled sequined dre... okay, forget everything except maybe the mascara and the socks).

Look at what we’ve learned!
a) How to pronounce every word in the New Zealand language;
b) How to dress like Jackie Onassis and my grandmother;
c) That Colin Hyphenated-Surname can be both the best thing on the planet and the main killer of my eyes and life all at once. That’s multi-tasking television royalty, that is.


The Judges.

Sara Tetro
Oh, Sara. At various times in this episode, you were wearing some kind of purple manchester item, a doily, and a prim, almost cartoon-esque number. I can’t pinpoint exactly who the cartoon frock reminds me of, but I’ve got a great suggestion for a guy you might want to start hanging out with...

I yam what I yam, Frumsky! A-gig-gig-gig-gig-gig-gig.

Chris Sisarich
Chris, I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for maintaining an unprecedented level of moist over the last three months. In fact, I have a prize for you. It will be ready as soon as I have it mounted. By you, preferably.

Colin Mathura-Jefree
Oh, Colin Hyphenated-Surname. I hope you know how much you’ve meant to me during this series. I could never get rid of my weekly build-up of phlegm if it were not for the opportunity to shout “NO! WHAT ARE YOU... HOW DID YOU... IM BLIND! BLIND, I SAY!” at my television screen.

And this week is no different. Not only do you front up at The Wharf dressed first as Mary-Ann then as Thurston Howell from Glligan’s Island, at the first elimination you reek magnificence and mothballs as Ali Gaga And The Forty Divas.

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

Trelise Cooper
I know, I know, I don’t usually mention the guest judges, but I’ve finally figured out where I’ve seen Trelise Cooper before.

It’s Glenda, Good Witch Of The North Island.

The Icksint

Are you guys going to be okay? Like, without me letting you know how to translate New Zealandish? Or has my persistence in banging out basically the same vowel-based jokes every week become predictable and lame? Wait. Don’t answer that.

Feshion Spictekular – A cetwalk parade in a two-level waterfront silo.

Cettiness – see: “Buchiness”.

Buchiness – see: “Cetiness”

Near-vuss – What modules feel before their final cetwalk show.

Banana Splut – A dish that is planned for dessert right before the best thing in the world happens.

Lemungton - Bakery item that is thrown with considerable force in order to become an integral part of the best thing in the world.

Peer-spix - a real bugger to walk on without slupping.



Budgetirry Lumutations

• All the monetary stops are pulled out for the deciding catwalk show, and high-end models are sourced from all over the world to help Christobelle and Laura strut their final stuff. Well, middle-level models from the Antipodes. Well, girls with a couple of years' experience from Wellington. Oh, okay, all the eliminated models from previous episodes before their contract options run out. Paying people is for losers.

• That’s it. We’re completely out of money. There is nothing left in the budget to pay for back-combing, hairspray or new clothing for the final Eliminarium, therefore Sara will look borderline human, and Colin will be dressed in his pyjamas. Wait – Sara, we just found a lace doily under a vase in the foyer of the hotel – go nuts.

Bist Buts.

• The photographs from the Cleo shoot are universally amazing, however the actual outfits are a bit hut end muss. All the major soap operas are represented – Dallas, Dynasty, and Debbie Does Dallas. It’s thorough, is what it is. As is Laura’s “I’m in a fringed dress and these veins on my legs are the road map to my undies” pose. It’s heaps editorial, ay. Alternatively, on the commercial side of life, we have Ho(sanna), who waves the top of her body around like a flag on the back of the town bike.

• Ho(sanna), can you guess what happens to people who borrow their blouse and cardigan from a librarian for an elimination? That’s right. Bye.

• When the two finalists sit down to eat their last supper, Colin arrives unexpectedly with a tray full of lamingtons, which he then proceeds to peg at the girls in a frenzied flurry of coconut and my-life-is-now-complete. He chases them. CHASES THEM. Christobelle complains that “They hurt. They were like, hard lamingtons”. Anyone whose soul isn’t buoyed by the sight of a man throwing cake at models can go stand in the corner.

Then, almost entirely without fanfare or minimum-level production values, we find out who the winner is. It’s the most predictable thing since the discovery of any other piece of information that’s been freely available on Wikipedia since early June.

It’s Christobelle. Der.

So, well, I guess it’s E haere ra everybody. It’s been one hell of a ride, and I can’t say that my life isn’t better for it. Like, I know that compared to say, the number of starving people in the world, this show isn’t that important, but if you figure that about two percent of those people are actually models, it makes sense.

Life. Changing. Television.

And a mad bitch in a turban.

Thanks for reading!

The Punchy Punchy Chronicles: Volume 10

Wow. Just.... wow. The first fight in this episode of The Contender was, in the words of The Trainer Who Talks Like He’s Drunk, “A rill ballderrer”. To paraphrase Garth and Mr Beardy, though, I’m calling the whole episode “Punches In Bunches”.

However I describe it, though, I have come to one startling and completely unexpected realisation, likely to cause shockwaves in my psyche for decades to come, and change my own outlook and that of my friends and family forever.

I... I’m kind of into boxing now.

There. I said it.


The Philosophy Of Hitting Blokes And That

How am I going to learn about life when this show is over? Who will summarise the complexities of the universe in single, badly constructed sentences? How will I know to add the phrase “and that” to the end of everything I say, and refer to myself as “meself”? This is really going to be distinctly inconvenient. And that.

• When the lads travel to fancy-schmancy restaurant Catalina’s by seaplane, we’re reminded once again of Josh’s discomfort in relation to matters of extreme altitude. Or, as he puts it, “I’m shittin’ meself”. SO SUCCINCT. Victor also pitches in with “My eyes is heppy, but my stomach – very, very unheppy”. I can't believe I have the impulse right now to tell champion boxers to man up. Jeez.

• Before his fight with Garth, Victor impersonates his biceps and says “Watch out, Garth WOOOOOD!”. Impersonates. His biceps. Hot damn, I love this show.

• Regarding his own fight with Kariz, Josh pretty much summarises what it is to be a boxer: “We’ll just put our friendship aside, just for that fifteen minutes or whatever it is, and um… basically punch each other’s head in”. I’d like him to get a job commentating for the Winter Olympics. I can hear him saying “Right, so these blokes on the luge and that, they just put their friendship aside, just for that forty-seven seconds or whatever it is, and um… basically fang down the white skate ramp like the bloody clappers”. MAKE IT HAPPEN, SAMARANCH EQUIVALENT. Make. It. Happen.


Challenged.

This week’s challenge tests the boxers to the ultimate limit, shuddering the core of their very manhood and causing nerves to fray and friendships to strain under its weight.

Yep. It’s ten-pin bowling. Nothing screams brutal testicular force better than shiny balls and two-tone shoes. Victor loses because he’d rather sulk and eat borscht by the sidelines, and Josh wins because he’s a little bit awesome. There is no prize except for the fact that they get to bowl with Anthony Mundine. There is no prize.


Fuh-Fuh-Fuh-Fuh-Fashion

• Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Rose Bay Thick-Necked Thug Catwalk Show. First up, we have our models Kariz, Garth, Josh and Victor, looking actually decent in actual clothes that were actually made for actual men. Who knew?

• Just when you think there’s not going to be any ridiculous headwear or outfits that belong in boy bands, in walks Anthony “The Fresh Prince Man” Mundine. Phew. He announces his arrival with “Sup. Champ’s in the house”. Oh, boom, shake shake shake the room, Anthony. Tell me I’m wrong:

Anthony Mundine

The Fresh Prince. ‘Sup.

• In the locker room before his fight, Garth ticks off a mental checklist to make sure he’s got everything. Pictures of loved ones – check. Water - check. Dressing gown – check. Hand strapping – check. Delta Goodrem on the iPod – check. Yep, think that’s everything.

Pants, Garth. You forgot PANTS.

The Ladies And Offspring Of The Ring

• Garth’s brother Nathan calls him ‘Garfus’ and kisses him on the cheek. I reckon only someone who flies kites in budgie-smugglers and gigantic cowboy hats could be more wonderful. But that would never happen.

• The glamorous and ubiquitous Svetlana is there with her characteristic fashion sense and her awesome banshee wail. Apparently “AAAAAIIIIIEEEEEEE!!!” is Russian for “Your opponent is like a chicken, my darling!”.

• After the Josh and Kariz fight, the ring is completely overrun by tiny, adorable offspring. It’s like a swarm of cute ants teeming all over a left-over Kit Kat, if the ants were dressed in Osh Kosh B’gosh, and if the Kit Kat was covered in sweat and blood, and if this analogy was better.

KOs and OKs

• Can we just talk about the theme music for a second? It’s the most stirring thing since Jamie Oliver did a special about stirring stuff, but with a lot less need for condescending uppity wanker. I FEEL IT IN MY LOINS. I would very much like to hear The Contender music play every time I walk into a meeting or my bedroom. Okay, maybe just meetings. The less my bedroom is associated with rings and fists, the better.

• Wow. We made it to the Semi-Final! We’re one step closer to a new ute. Give yourselves a little clap. In fact, keep giving yourselves a little clap, and don’t stop until the credits roll. All anyone does in this episode (aside from wearing nice shirts and punching bejeezus out of each other) is applaud themselves and bleed.

• We’ve been through a lot over these last ten weeks, we have. Drama, fights, mushrooms, training, Ramadan, skipping ropes, tears, guts, glory and Vaseline. So when Josh is asked what his favourite moment of the whole series has been, his answer is obvious. It’s when Kariz went arse over tit in the sand and his head “popped up like a lamington”. Josh, you are the third best thing that has ever happened to me.

Punchy Punchy


Fight One: Garth and Victor

I’m pretty much speechless, so I’m just going to refer to my notes. Yes, I take notes. Shut up. Selected stream-of-consciousness snippets from my frenzied during-bout tappings:

DING DING. Garth is an absolute fucking madman – punch after punch after punch after punch. JAB JABJABJABJAB. Just massive and unbelievable.
Loads of cuddling, and Garth PICKS VICTOR UP and almost dumps him over the ropes. End of last round, it’s just wrestling and tackling. Victor headbutts Garth. Svetlana goes nuts. It’s frickin’ awesome.
It’s a full-on, claret-everywhere, BRAWL. Garth keeps picking Victor up, Briggs rushes the ring and gives the ref shit, it’s all eighteen different kinds of amazing. Garth rushes Victor again. This is just the BEST shit ever. Garth is a punching machine, yo.
GARTH WINS. Johnny says “You’re the most courageous kid in the world”. I love Johnny. Bye, Victor. You were not like a chicken.

I can’t really put it any better than that. Also, welcome to how my brain works when I’m watching television. My mother will be calling me shortly to let me know exactly which soap I should wash my mouth out with. And yes, my brain puts the word “yo” at the end of things. Again: shut up.

Victor takes his loss well, just whispering the word ‘Poop’ under his breath. And also punching sweet mercy out of the set and shouting in the shower.

Fight Two: Josh and Kariz

Josh explains his attitude towards the fight with “I take everything as a joke, but when I fight, I fight serious”. Perhaps with a nice schooner, Josh.

In turn, Kariz describes his outlook with “I see myself as a predator, and my opponent as prey. I’m just focused on chewing his heart. Having his heart on a plate”. Perhaps with some fava beans and a nice Chianti, Kariz.

Josh puts up a valiant and tough fight, his little man-boobs jiggling with every punch, but Kariz just pips him at the post, stir-frying Josh’s heart and sprinkling it with Hoisin sauce and sesame seeds. Boxing is delicious, y’all.

Later when Josh’s kids come in to the locker room and give their awesome dad a hug, he lets a few tears go. THAT’S EVERYONE. Everyone on this show has now had a bit of a sook. PS: I love everyone on this show.

So. That’s it. Final next week. I’ll be going to see it (See definition under “relentless fame-whore”), so next week’s recap will be:

a) Late, because I plan on hunting Josh down and demanding he come for a beer afterwards;
b) Late, because I plan on hunting Nader down and making him listen while I tell him how noble he is;
c) Sketchy, because I’ll be too excited to write anything down; and
d) Crap, because I won’t be able to see the screen through the tears and snot and stuff.
Other than that, it will be totally, totally awesome.

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Shebangabang's Next Top Model #12

Wait – what night of the week is this? There’s boxing. There’s people crying. There’s questionable fashion choices. There’s the word ‘contender’ being bandied about with abandon. There’s my favourite person getting the boot. I suppose it was only a matter of time until the two reality shows I blog about became a blurry, indistinguishable mass in my psyche, just next to the bit that contains everything I learned in high school maths.

Oh no, hang on. There’s a flamboyant man who calls people ‘Darlings’ and has more product in his hair than Naomi Campbell has apprehended violence orders. It’s the modelling show. Right. Carry on.


The Judges.

Sara Tetro
Waaaaiiiit. Is... is that a t-shirt you’re wearing in the interview challenge, Sara? That’s... that’s almost youthful! I don’t know what to think. My world is all topsy-turvy.
Oh, PHEW! Come Eliminarium time, you’re back in your usual Jackie-Kennedy-holds-a-coktail-party-on-laundry-day rig. Everything in the universe is as it should be. Well, as it was before, anyway.

Chris Sisarich
Thank you for the close-fitting military-style jumper, Chris. Or may I call you Sergeant Sisarich? Y’know – as in “Yes sir, Sergeant Sisarich, sir!”, or “Drop and give me twenty, Sergeant Sisarich!”, or of course “Oh, Sergeant Sisarich! Is that a flesh-bayonet in your pocket, or are you just glad to... well, you get the general idea. Ha! General! I’m even funny in the army! I’m totally Private Benjamin.

Colin Mathura-Jeffree
Oh, Colin Hyphenated-Surname. Watching you on the screen is like biting into a chocolate and finding bunny rabbits and unicorns inside. YOU NEVER STOP GIVING. First, for the facial challenge*, you look like you’ve been dipped head-first into a bucket full of photocopier-toner, Shirley Temple and facial expressions. Mix that with criticisms of the girls involving references to vomiting and not eating dinner, and I’m almost completely satisfied.


THEN, in the Eliminarium, you laugh in the face of my almost complete satisfaction, sending it whimpering back to the dark, murky swamp of Wow I Had No Idea What Was Coming.
TWO-TONED HAIR EXTENSIONS, COLIN. This is truly a time to be thankful.


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

The Icksint.

I can’t tell you how to speak. I can only show you how to be understood by 4.32 million people.**
Loose Lups Sunk Shups – 1. The opening line of a Sara Mail. 2. The best opening line of a Sara Mail ever. 3. Excellent advice for any promiscuous women hoping to join the Royal New Zealand Navy.

Windull Nussun – Wendyl Nissen, a tough, bitchy media ixpert who is quite possibly my new idol. Sorry, Bindi Irwin.

Crumunewl Convuction – what you get in New Zealand when you’re caught drunk at the wheel, or admitting that you wouldn’t mind if you never saw anyone doing the Haka again for the rest of your life.

Rape Our Hands – something Rugby League players do to models before a boxing-themed photo-shoot. To prevent bruising and stuff. I’ll shut up now.


Budgetirry Lumutations.

• Our modules are invited to a day spa, wrapped in fluffy robes, laid down on plush lounges and given facials using... oh. Nivea products. Because nothing screams ‘sumptuous luxury’ better than pulling a wet-wipe out of a plastic bag.

• The winner of the day spa challenge gets an ‘advertorial’ in an issue of Woman’s Day. You know Woman’s Day – it’s there on the supermarket shelf next to the Louis Vuitton handbags and the chewing gum.

Bist Buts.

• So Laura met her boyfriend at Pizza Hut, and has been arrested for driving under the influence. This pretty much makes her the classiest person in New Zealand.

• The Nivea challenge, in which the girls have to speak to camera about products they’ve just used, is available for sale at your local DVD store under the title Great Train Wrecks Of The 21st Century. Mind you, the girls do pull out a few tried-and-true, classic beauty-marketing phrases such as:
“Why would you pull your face down?”
“Most toners make you feel like you’ve been burnt by acid or something”
And
“Has she been drinking?”

• What’s with all the Ho(sanna) hating, ladies? Sorry? Right, yes, I can see your poin... Aaaah, yes, forgot about that one... uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yep, right – really? All the way up to her small intestine? Fair enough then. PS: using Ho(sanna) as visual inspiration to make the girls get punchy in the photo-shoot? GENIUS.

• Atip, when you get a moment, could you please send me every single outfit used in the boxing shoot? Aside from the fact that they were all awesome, edgy, and sexy as hell, I realy want to dress up as a violent slutty ancient Sumerian goddess for Halloween this year. Thanks, mate. I’ll go wait by the mailbox.

• STOP JUMPING UP AND DOWN, LAURA. Also, give me your shoes.

• STOP DOING WELL, HO(SANNA). Also, give me your shoes.

• No girl in the history of the universe has ever looked as smokin’ as Ruby does in the boxing shoot. If she weren’t my new best friend*** I’d almost be jealous. Hottest. Shot. Ever. There’s no way she’s going home, right? RIGHT?!

Sooo, Ruby goes home. And Ho(sanna) doesn’t. This is the biggest miscarriage of justice since they started only serving light beer at the cricket. Oh, well. At least now Ruby will be able to concentrate on her career of going out for cocktails with me and my other best friends.

E haere ra, Ruby! Yours is the one with the swizzle stick. Cheers.

*Actualy, ‘facial challenge’ is how I regard you, Colin.

**Correct at time of pruntung.

***Pending.

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The Punchy Punchy Chronicles: Volume 9

When I was a kid, I had a goldfish – for argument’s sake, let’s call him Nade... wait - let’s call him Rosebud. I fed Rosebud every day, and lovingly watched him circle his familiar fishbowl, blissfully shimmying past each plastic castle and piece of lacy pond-weed. He’d look at me calmly with his bulbous, glassy eyes, nodding in his endearingly fishy way as if to reassure me that, even though the whole goldfish-only-have-a-fifteen-second-memory thing is a fallacy, he was more than content to do the repetitive rounds of his watery home as long as we were together. You could almost say that Rosebud was noble.


Then, one morning, as I awoke and wiped the slumber-crust from my drowsy eyes, I looked down at the carpet and saw Rosebud. Dead. Signs of a valiant struggle evident in the splashy shadows surrounding the corpse, outlining his fateful, flipping arc from bowl to floor.


As my face fell and my lids blinked back tears, I scooped him gently in the pages of a Dolly magazine and escorted him to the bathroom, where he again joined the sea, albeit in a slightly more rigid fashion than that in which he had first left it.


I let loose a small cry and muttered these distraught, plaintive words softly under my breath and the sound of flushing:


YOU SELFISH. FUCKING. BASTARD.


Seriously. After all I’ve done for you? *



The Philosophy Of Hitting Blokes And That.


Watching all this boxing has opened my eyes to the beauty and glory that is: The Life Motto. I pretty much want everything that ever comes out of anyone’s mouth on this show printed on a t-shirt (except maybe for the phrase ‘JABJABJABJABJABJAB!’, because that’s just stupid). For example:


• Josh, after winning his fight last week, offers: “I just wanna get a new truck and have a happier life”. PRINT IT ON A T-SHIRT.


• Josh, surveying his physical damage: “Me noggin and me beak’s a bit sore, this ear’s a bit sore, but aaah, nup. No dramas. Still handsome”. PRINT IT ON AN ADMITTEDLY MUCH LARGER T-SHIRT.


• Josh (again) discussing his victory (again): “I’m on cloud 69 at the moment”. GET IT PRINTED ON A PAIR OF UNDIES.


• Victor, celebrating Josh’s win: “Time to drink beer! Time to drink beer!” GET IT TATTOOED ON MY FOREHEAD.



Challenged.


In a rush to fill their My Head Is Exploding quota for the week, producers devise a challenge so complicated I’d need a doctorate degree from Vinnie Barbarino University just to work it out.



The boys have to answer quiz questions by dinging a bell, and each correct answer gets them a shot at an archery target. Each ring on the target represents a different score, and the final winner is the boxer who doesn’t think Rocky Balboa’s wife’s name is ‘Elizabeth’. Victor gets so frustrated he knocks over his little bell-table, Nader suspects that someone has messed with the sights on his bow, and Garth wins pushbikes for everybody. It’s like primary school, only more noble and with a higher percentage of dropped testicles.


Also: damn, that Charlotte Dawson can count, can’t she?




Fuh-Fuh-Fuh-Fuh-Fashion.


In keeping with the quiz-style nature of this week’s challenge, I have two pertinent, fashion-related questions for you.


1. Q: When is a skipping rope not a skipping rope?

A: When it’s the least noticeable accessory in a Flashdance-themed training session.

2. Q: When is acid-wash not acid-wash?

A: NEVER. Acid-wash will always be acid-wash. This photo of teenage Nader wearing it will be the only thing that survives in time capsules from the 80s. Rubiks Cubes and Bananarama albums are biodegradable. FACT.

The Ladies And Offspring Of The Ring.

In the Nader corner, we have the extended family giving it their open-mouthed all. I’m calling them the Hand Flap Chapter, and expect them to be hoarse in the morning.

In the Kariz corner, we have the Kenyan Boogie Crew, notable for their loudness and their rockin’ co-ordinated dance moves.

KOs and OKs

• This week was so romantic, you guys. The boxers often remark that it’s unusual to associate so closely with one’s opponent before a match. Eating fried mushrooms together. Training together. Playing pool together. And oh, I don’t know – slow-dancing and taking long romantic walks in the forest together. Stuff like that.

• The Trainer Who Talks Like He’s Drunk comments that Nader will want to fight like he’s in a phonebooth, and Kariz will want to fight like he’s in an open paddock. Leave the metaphors to me, Briggs. And P.S: put the crackpipe down.

• By contrast, Mr Beardy tells us that Kariz ‘whacks hard’. Bit personal, don’t you think?

• Because of Ramadan, Nader can’t eat or drink anything during daylight hours, but he still trains like a madman. WAIT – ‘madman’ is almost an anagram of ‘Ramadan’! Coincidence? Er.... yes. Yes, it is. There’s an exception to the Ramadan rule if travel is involved, so Nader goes for a long drive and has some scrambled eggs. Personally, I always go the Bacon & Egg McMuffin option on a roadtrip, but you know – whatever turns your windmill. STILL NOBLE, BUT.

• I’m not entirely convinced that we’ll get to the end of this series without seeing every single boxer cry, and this week it’s Nader’s turn. It’s obviously noble, but still, man. Step Up. Ball Up. Tear Up.

Punchy Punchy.

Things that are hot: Summer. The Desert. Stoves. Fights between Kariz and Nader. Slow motion sweat and grunting never looked so good. Every time the bell rang I thought it was the sound of my underpants approving. Ding ding, my friends.
DING.
DING.

There’s the usual meld of punching, hugging, huffing, dripping and trainer ramble, but the real competition here is between opposing cheer squads and abdominal muscles.

And then... I... I can’t bring myself to report the result. It’s... the screen’s just gone a bit blurry, is all. Suffice to say, apparently dancing cheer squads are marginally more effective than hand-flapping cheer squads, and Nader doesn’t kick the rope on the judge’s side of the ring because he’s overcome with the thrill of success.

I... I can’t believe... no.

*Der. It’s a metaphor.

Shebangabang's Next Top Model #11

Tonight’s episode of New Zealand’s Next Top Model is like a ride on a see-saw.

See-saw goes up: someone falls on their arse.

See-saw goes down: the photos look like they were taken by an astigmatic four-year-old with the shakes.

See-saw goes up: Colin’s hair is a knitted tea-cosy for my soul.

See-saw goes down: HO(SANNA) IS STILL HERE.

See-saw gets typed so many times it starts to look weird: Yup.


The Judges.

Sara Tetro
Sarah, if you’re wearing that frock, then what’s my grandma using as a tablecloth?

Chris Sisarich
Chris, my darling, as a photographer, you'd make a great resident in my pants. Please stop dicking around with a camera, and just start dicking. That way, I’ll still respect you in the morning, right before you make me French toast and pregnant.

Also, in your Eliminarium outfit, please recite the lyrics to “Hangin’ Tough” for me, so I can complete the image. Although in your case, ‘NKOTB’ can stand for ‘Nice Kiss On The Bottom’.

Colin Mathura-Jeffree
Colin Hyphenated-Surname, the only time my eyes are as wide as yours are every day is when I see your hair. I’m certain that even when you’re buying milk it’s the most rapturously dramatic thing ever. In fact, I’ve managed to get my hands on some slow-motion footage of you simply saying the word “the” here.

Speaking of hair, your mohawk is exactly what I asked Santa for this year, although my presence on his naughty list is the only explanation I can think of for that cardigan. Please give your stylist a Valium and a day off, especially if you’re self-styled.

Wait, I think I have a picture here somewhere...

The Icksint.

Your weekly guide to talkung and shut.

Never-gay-shunul Tick-nolla-jee– A Vodaphone thingy to help you get lost on go-sees moving between five buildings in a three-block radius.

Texy – A hireable car that wil pick you up and take you to go-sees as long as you’re not Ho(sanna). There are roughly three texies in Auckland.

Jit Leg – A side effect of being in Los Angeles for eight and a half minutes.

Doo-ung My Hiddun – Ho(sanna).


Budgetirry Lumutations.

Dear NZNTM Production Crew,
In response to your request, you are welcome to use our ritzy, massive boat for your photo-shoot.
For the offered fee, however, you may only utilise the area between the staff quarters and the bilge pump, measuring approximately fifteen square centimetres.
Please keep your skanky wenches off the shiny upper decks, or we will get the hose.
Regards,
Snotty Yacht Toffs.

Bist Buts.

• I haven’t seen a show this concerned with the colour of people’s underwear since Fear Factor.

• If I ever need a replacement cupie-doll toilet paper cover, I do hope Trelise Cooper is available. She’s so pink-cheeked and eager-looking it’s like she’s crocheted out of lambswool and cute.

• If there is such a charity as The International Fund For Watching Models Stack On The Catwalk, I will happily sell my assets and my soul to donate. Christobelle doesn’t just stumble a smidge in her go-see, she falls smack to the floor like a clumsy, drunk windmill. And the editors show it three times. Once in slow-mo. Accompanied by the sound of breaking glass. Because they are the unsung heroes of the universe.

• I am totally on team Atip. I’m assuming that the only reason he hasn’t been the stylist for every single episode of this show is because he couldn’t get his hair and spectacles through customs. I’m sure the only reason he has a pierced lip is because the awesome needs a hole to come out of.

• You know what the wackiest two things in the world are? Everything except throwing flour at people and chucking them in the pool. Wake me when Colin’s hair is on screen.

• In the Eliminarium, Sara tells Ho(sanna) that she’s had more comebacks than Michael Jackson. Yeah. That kind of means that she’s either Jesus or dead. Post-mortem faux pas, anyone?

Victoria is eliminated, presumably because Ho(sanna) is either excellent at concealing bribes, or even better at... er... let’s just say ‘knee sports’.

E haere ra, Victoria! You’re absolutely beautiful and... no, no, that’s it.

.