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.

.

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.

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The Punchy Punchy Chronicles: Volume 8

Y’know, I thought that with Sonni gone, that there might be a distinct lack of personality in the Contender warehouse.

WRONG. HI JOSH.

It's funny - normally I don't like people who have bigger boobs than me. Go figure.


The Philosophy Of Hitting Blokes And That.

• Daniel speaks for all of us when he says “As annoying as Sonni can be, and he can push your patience a little, I think some of the boys are starting to miss him already”. I couldn’t agree more. Also, Sonni – the boys down at the lock-up send hugs.

• Down at Bondi Beach, Garth describes the scenery as “Sun. Sand. Waves. And plenty of talent”. Dear Australian Tourism Commission: GARTH WOODS IS THE NEW LARA BINGLE. He’s also the new Rabs Warren, if his Oscar-worthy impersonation is anything to go by.

• Josh mucks around with the winner board, slotting the semi-finalists’ names into the spaces that he enshishes... envishash... envishered it. How he envishered it. Later, he talks about how his body shape has changed since starting on the Contender. “I used to be a skinny fat bloke before I come in, but now I’m sorta just a... a lean bloke”. The new edition of Daniel Amalm’s thesaurus clearly has a medical section.


Challenged.
• This week’s challenge is a Bondi surf-lifesaving styled flag race, in which the lads have to lie down (perfect so far), wait for a whistle, and then bolt to grab a flag that’s been poked in the sand (haven’t we all). There are not enough flags to go ‘round, so it’s a lot like musical chairs, but with a lot more gusset-grit.

• Kariz has a wee head-first stack in the sand, and Josh describes the event as being the highlight of his year. My highlight of the year is the phrase “When he come up, he looked like a lamington”. Mind you, if all lamingtons looked like Kariz, my local primary school could sell them door-to-door and buy themselves a small European country.

• The winner of the challenge is Charlotte Dawson’s clearly-visible undergarment. And also Garth.

Fuh-Fuh-Fuh-Fuh-Fashion.

• These boxing boys sure love their cosmetic surgery. Victor’s eye-lift is healing quite well, to be honest. Worried about the leeches, though.


• Sometimes, girls wear padded bras to make their boobs look bigger. See that’s what padding does. For this reason, I am renaming Daniel’s protective gear here ‘The Robo-Penis’.

• The call-out, where the boxers stand toe-to-toe and try to stare down their opponents, is a critical, tense time. It’s important to look as ruthless, tough and hardcore as possible. Or perhaps like a Halal Hugh Hefner. Your choice, Nader.

Noblest. Pyjamas. Ever.

• Remember when Naomi Campbell stacked on the catwalk? Don’t lie, boxing readers, you do so. I know you lap up fashion industry faux-pas like they’re carbs before a spar. Well, this clip is EXACTLY like that. We’re not just talking like we’re drunk anymore. Oh, and PS: Studio 54 wants their mirror-ball back.

The Ladies And Offspring Of The Ring.

“Fucking knock ‘im out, darl” is the best thing any wife, life-partner, mother or offspring has shouted into the ring all series. Thank you Josh’s missus. You have raised the bar.

KOs and OKs

• Does anyone else just want to spend the rest of their lives down the pub with Josh? Nader (quite nobly, to be honest) calls Josh a ‘no frills guy’, which is possibly the understatement of the year. The other boys read the newspaper. Josh reads the catalogue insert. For some reason, this is the most endearing thing I’ve ever seen in a current-affairs-related context, and I’m even including the puppy-trapped-down-a-drain stories after the weather report. The Joshy lopsided grin is like a little ray of bogan sunshine. Awwww.

• Kariz, as shown in the challenge, you are a dirty, stinking cheat. Now come here for a spanking.

• During the call-out, after a long period of staring into each other’s eyes, Daniel puckers up and blows Josh a kiss. My dream of some stand-off man-love with tongue inches ever closer. I’m buying new scented candles and a Kenny G CD just in case.

• If Aussie Joe Bugner were a bottle of cabernet sauvignon, his label would be Batshit Crazy Estate. Victor arm-wrestles the bottle of cabernet sauvignon and wins. Yeah. Metaphor kind of lost its oomph halfway through, huh.

Punchy Punchy.

Okay, so Daniel’s motto is in Gaelic, and it means “fortune follows the brave”.
Josh’s motto is in Bogan, and it means “I haven’t had to worry about me pub”.
This is important.

DING DING and the punchy punchy starts. Punching, tentative cuddles, dancing, cheeky grins, sweat, winks, claret and dribble flash past in a blur of awesome abs and (depending on who you're looking at) comparatively less magnificent man-boobs, and in no time it’s been five rounds, a fair bit of swearing, and the fight’s over.

Daniel puts up a decent fight, but in the end, the guy whose motto alludes to beer consumption wins. JUST LIKE LIFE.

Bye, Daniel. Thank you for the true privilege of seeing you without your shirt on.

.

The Punchy Punchy Chronicles: Volume 7

When faced with a difficult choice in the past, like which self-tanner to use, what time to eat my next meal containing chorizo, or which photograph of Clive Owen does the best things for my pants, I’ve always chosen the highly scientific, time-honoured ‘eeny meeny miny mo’ method.

Oh, but not any more. Not. Any. More. You know what I’m talking about.

A quick reminder, too – don’t forget the Jungle Juice Drinking Game. Every time anybody utters the word ‘jungle’, take a shot. If you hear a bonus “booyaka” or “my man”, pop a cocktail umbrella in your glass. I’ll save you a spot next to me in rehab. It’ll be ace.


The Philosophy Of Hitting Blokes And That.

Speaking of which, it’s pretty much the Sonni show as far as quotes go this week. He’s like a philosophy machine fuelled by leopard skin and bananas.

• Before attempting the rock-climbing challenge, Sonni explores all available options for avoiding it. First, he doubts the prize offer with “Monkey climb only when there is banana at top of tree, you know. Without banana, monkey never climb”. When Charlotte assures him that there is in fact,a banana, he tries “I don’t want to be a burglar. I don’t climb walls, I climb tree”. It’s only when Ms Dawson claims that she herself could climb the wall that he gets off his arse and straps it into a harness. Dude. It’s a wall with lumps on it. Get on with it.

• When discussing his family, Sonni mentions that “I miss my mum cuddle”. I swear I totally walked up to my television screen and pinched his cheeks at this point. SONNI NEEDS JUNGLE CUDDLES, YO.


Challenged.

For the challenge this week, the boys have to climb the wall of an indoor rock-climbing gym as quickly as possible. Now, I’ve been to a rock-climbing gym before, and I’m told that apparently, there’s more to do there than just stand on the ground staring up at men’s buttocks getting smaller and smaller in the heightened distance. And there is! You can also watch them coming back down again. It’s really quite a well-rounded sport. So to speak. Cough.

After some initial bitching, moaning, declarations of being scared of heights and other robustly masculine activity, Kariz proves himself as the fastest climber and gets to choose one of three boxes that contain a prize.

Does he flip a coin? No sir, he does not.

Does he engage in some brisk paper, scissors rock action? No sir, he does not.

Does he draw straws, put it to a vote or calculate the statistically most rewarding box? No sir, no sir, no sir,he does not.

Kariz gets out his index finger, points to each box in turn and chants “Picky, Picky, Ponky”.
PICKY.
PICKY.
PONKY.
Do not doubt that this is the best thing you’ve ever heard.


Fuh-Fuh-Fuh-Fuh-Fashion.

It never really occurred to me before that boxers might be vain. I always just assumed that with the facial scarring and mashed noses and such that perhaps these gentlemen might dispense with the vagaries of stylish outfitting and cosmetic enhancement. Then I started watching this show.

It’s really hard to tell, but if you look closely, you can see that Garth has the faint, tell-tale signs of an eyelift. Honestly, it takes years off him.

Victor is better at hiding his own eye work, but then gives the game away by pointing right at it.

Sonni looks pretty happy with his facelift, but the stitches are a bit extreme.



The Ladies And Offspring Of The Ring.

So blah, blah, Victor’s kids and wife are adorable, yadda, yadda. I’m way too distracted by Sonni’s mate, Luigi The Walking Stereotype. Check him out:

He-a make-a the pizza.

If his mobile phone rings and I don’t hear this, I’m suing for false advertising.

KOs and OKs

• When Sonni comes last in the climbing challenge, he says it’s his job to come ‘Everlast’. SO close to looking clever, Sonni. If only you hadn’t spelt it backwards on your chest.

• You know what makes my heart flutter? Unbridled man-love is what. And if that man-love occurs between Nader the swarthy hirsute gent and Josh the world’s biggest food-spilling boofhead, ALL THE BETTER.

Imagine the noble bogan babies.

• Leopard-skin boxing boots, you complete me. Especially when you’re accompanied by Sonni dancing in front of the mirror in both you and his underwear. Thanks once again.


Punchy Punchy.

Sonni and Victor get in their shiny pyjamas and dance, cuddle, dodge, drink, hop, spit, punc... oh, look. Victor wins, okay? We all knew it was gonna happen. Anyway, by this point in the proceedings the word ‘jungle’ has been used so often that we’re too rat-arsed on hooch to care, right?
Except we do. We DO care. Because we know that the real loser here is fashion.

Fashion, and batshit crazy.

Bye, Jungle Boy. We’ll miss you, you mental, mental, bastard.
No banana for you, my friend.

What's Jo Got Her Finger In Now? #2

2. A cheese-stuffed bell chilli.

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.

.

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

1. A miniature trophy.

.

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.