Okay, so let's not even pretend that there's going to be anything resembling quality on this page today. My eyeballs feel like they're sitting on refrigerated, salted saucers, and that fourteenth after-party duck pancake is not sitting well AT ALL.
HOWEVER. I did take a pen to the live finale with me, and kept a tally of catchphrases to see What. Will Be. Reality Television's Most Overused Catchphrase, with a very surprising result.
While the word 'Amazing' was uttered TWENTY-SIX TIMES during the finale, it still didn't beat the end total that 'Oh My God' managed with 80.
BUT.
Even though 'Oh My God' has been the clear frontrunner for the entire series, it was pipped at the post by late entry, 'Jen's Giggle', which totally sounds like a Melbourne Cup Horse (with just as many teeth).
Screamin' J. Hawkins giggled so many times that I ran out of ink and had to keep score by stabbing my empty pen directly into my ears.
As for the rest of the evening, let's do it in bullet points, because mummy's very tired from high shoes and champagne and avoiding April's death-stare all night.
Firstly and most importantly, I looked amazing, thank you for asking. Have you ever seen hair shine like that? Have you ever seen satin work harder at containment? Have you ever seen sparks like that from synthetic fabrics?
THE BIG HEADPIECES ON THE MODULES, DO YOU MIND. Never have so many disco-frequenting chickens been plucked and super-glued for such a noble purpose. Enchanting.
Diddles in a brown velvet suit. At least, it looked brown and it looked velvet from where I was sitting. Still. That guy can make anything look like brown velvet.
When Dawso answered 'What do you think is going through the models' heads?' with "Nothing, they're models", I think we all pretty much wrote her into our wills. I myself am leaving her my collection of tissues I think James Franco might have used.
I very much enjoyed the performances by Rudi-Soleil-Lee. I mean Rick-Cirque-De-Mental. I... what? I wasn't paying attention, but the kids in the junior mosh-pit sure were. I saw at least three of them reach puberty right in front of me.
During an ad-break, Shiny Alex Perry tripped over and hurt his leg. Wasn't watching where he was going. Should've gone to Specsavers.
I'm exceptionally apologetic about the previous bullet point.
All the girls looked incredible, most of the frocks were spectacular, some of the pre-recorded 'journey' packages were excellent, and one of the girls really, really can't do catwalk. It's like she was carrying a watermelon between her thighs across an ice-rink to a hospital especially for cyclists. Still - beats strangling.
Maddy Banana Paddy agreed to be my wife, although she's saving her official 'yes' for when she approves the ring.
Shanali agreed to stay my new best friend, because really, isn't that the best/only prize there is?
ANY of the top three could have won, and I reckon they'll all be busy modelling for the foreseeable future, and I was happy with the final two, and unexpectedly surprised but delighted with the winner. Shakespeare knew it all along, though. Didn't you, Bill?
Totes.
So congratulations to all the magnificent scrags, yay to all the people who make the show, and massive, slightly dehydrated tongue pashes to everyone who read my insightful, cutting recaps. You are the wind beneath my... well, my arse. You are all my favourite little bum-farts, and I cherish you.
I can’t believe that the instances of people looking
diagonally upwards in this show have just been reduced by one hundred percent.
But most of all, I can’t believe that Mauritius is an actual
legitimate fashion destination.
Mind you, I wear ponchos.
Don your sarong and shake the sand out of your gusset, it’s
the ‘I Bless The Scrags Down Near Africa’ episode of Australia’s Next Top Model.
Dog. Trust me.
***
Housekeeping
We see a welcome (I’m doing finger-inverted-commas) return
of some classic catchphrases we haven’t seen in a while, no doubt due to the upping of tension in the final pre-recorded
episode of this series. Still, I think we can all agree that “Oh My God” is the
Alice Burdeu of catchphrases. Aaand “The Camera Loves You” is Eboni Stocks.
I’m still holding out for “That Bitch Stole My Cigarettes”
for the win, though. I just need to get someone to say it at the finale
seventy-nine times. My money’s on Jen Hawkins.
Overseasings
The Best Final Four (BFFs) start the day in the kitchen,
reminiscing about the time there was ten more of them and they all tried to fit
into the kitchen. I can only imagine how difficult it must have been for
fourteen starving pubescent stick-insects to all cram into an open-plan kitchen
in a mansion. Brutal.
Abbie, counting on her fingers, exclaims “We are the top ONE
TWO THREE FOUR!”, which for some reason makes Duckie do this:
Which for some reason makes me do this:
And that reason is that I am a grown-up. God, I’m going to
miss making you guys fart so. Much.
Dawso enters, making Duckie wonder what she’s doing in their
house. The house provided by a television program in which Dawso is a judge and
a reasonably constant and relentless presence.
Dawso gushes, as far as her face will allow, about how far
the girls have come and how much they’ve changed. Then she starts putting a
bunch of long pauses between her words, and you just KNOW that that shit means
there’s something big coming.
“Firstly…” she begins,
“…this is your last morning…”
“…in the Top Model house. Shortly…”
“I’m going to ask you to pack your bags…”
“Secondly…”
“To test your resolve on just how much you want to win
Australia’s Next Top Model…”
“… you will be challenged by two photo shoots. And those two
photo shoots…”
“…will be off the coast…”
“OF AFRICA”
Thank christ that’s over.
New pants, please.
Dawso explains that they’re going to Mauritius, and hands
over tickets for an ironically-named Air Mauritius flight.
Melissa gives a quick geography lesson to camera, saying
“Mauritius is an island in the… something ocean”.
I wasn’t sure if she was right, so I looked it up in an
Atlas, and there it is! Of course.
Well, bugger me.
Duckie comments excitedly “My family’s originally from Sudan
and this is the closest I’ll get to getting back to the motherland”, which is
true if she never, ever travels again ever.
Despite being tired from her previous geographical
excellence, Melissa adds “It’s islands, so it’s surrounded by water, and they
speak French”.
People who actually speak French? Does Jade’s ghost know?
Yes.
Abbie, presumably whilst looking diagonally upwards at where
an Air Mauritius plane would be, says “I’ve never been on an Air Mauritius
plane”. Are you sure? That’s like Man
Ray saying “Y’know, I’ve never photographed a puppy in a rose garden in Sussex”
or, for the lowbrow amongst you, like Perez Hilton saying “I’m not sure if you
realise, but I sometimes have opinions that I don’t just keep to myself”.
Shanali notes that “The competition is getting more
competitive”, which I was going to make fun of for being obvious, but then I
remember that back at this year’s VMAs, someone noted that Miley Cyrus was
getting a tiny bit more slut-whorey, and look how that turned out.
The modules land in Mauritius and make their way to Le
Touessrok Resort, which is, in a tropically impressive way, complete bullshit.
I even picked up a postcard from the resort.
The Mauritius Tourism Board likes to tell it like it is.
Challenged
Few things are sure in this world. Death. Taxes. The
Kardashian Kollection. And now, to add to that list: Diddles Cohen should not
wear short shorts.
He’s there in Mauritius, greeting the girls on the beach and
geeing them up about possibly battling it out in the grand finale, possibly
overstretching the purpose for which the words ‘battling’ and ‘grand’ were
intended.
The miracle of television enables the scrags to change their
cossies in the blink of Diddles’ eye (which is almost visible in those shorts)
and pop themselves on a boat, a happenstance that Melissa is not entirely comfortable
with. See, when she was at a school camp once, her canoe bumped a boy’s canoe
and he was trapped underneath. Now, two things about this are very important:
That ‘her canoe bumped a boy’s canoe’ is a very
sexy euphemism; and
I really can’t make fun of someone else’s
irrational fear when I am afraid of grasshoppers.
Far enough out in the water to make Melissa wish she’d worn
her brown swimming costume, the modules transfer to another boat that has a
ladder on it leading directly into the sea/Melissa’s screaming, sweaty
nightmares.
Diddles does the “I bet you’re wondering why were here etc”
schtick, and then goes on to tell the girls that they’ll be submerged under
eleven feet of water.
On the ocean floor, they have to do their best runway walk
and then, over the space of a minute and while looking deeply into Diddles’
eyes (and directly away from his shorts), throw the most creative pose-shapes
possible, all in a bulbous helmet (which is almost visible in his shorts).
Melissa is so scared that her face starts leaking water,
only serving to ironically add to the terror. Diddles tells her that she can’t
run away from her fears, because she’ll be in a 40kg helmet, gravity weights,
and have you seen anyone try to run underwater LOL.
Seriously, though. There’s nothing to be afraid of
underwater.
Except Basking Sharks.
Duckie throws her two cents in, saying sagely “If a
photographer wants something extreme, well if you want the job, you gotta do
it”. I think we all know that the exception here is anything looks like squid or
bulbous helmets in this scenario.
Shanali goes first, and waves her arms around waftily in the
most sub-aquarianingly enchanting way. I figure I should also be enchanting and
take another opportunity to ride the slow train into fart town.
Prrrrrt blublublub
Side note – people do not look smart underwater.
HURR HURR HURR CLAPPING HURR
Abbie isn’t even scared one bit, nuh-uh, and she takes her
stupid ridiculous body underwater and kind of dances like a retard.
Just before going under, Duckie says excitedly “Africans do
not swim. We run really fast”. Adamant Little Guy hops an Air Mauritius plane
just in time to get here.
Honestly, Duckie. I expected more from you.
She describes herself as being like a drowning dog, and
re-interprets ‘catwalk’ as ‘kind of pointing at fish’.
Everyone thinks the experience is really cool. Except
Melissa. Everyone goes underwater. Except Melissa. Everyone is really
understanding of Melissa’s predicament. Except William Shakespeare.
Way to be sensitive, loser.
Shanali wins the challenge prize, which is a traditional
Mauritian sugar scrub. Totally a thing.
Phoy-Toys Part 1
Back at the luxury ranch, the girls stand outside a villa,
ready to lose their shit when they see Diddles, who they only just saw five minutes
ago, and Screamin’ J. Hawkins, who is the host of this program, stand in front
of them.
IT’S WEEK ELEVEN, YOU GUYS. LEARN TO MANAGE YOUR
EXPECTATIONS.
The two totally expected people say some dramatic things
about doing well in photo shoots, and then introduce this week’s photographer,
Chest Smith, who seems to have been working on his traps a smidge.
Hi, ladies.
Chest describes what he wants from the girls in their first
Mauritius shoot, telling them that it’s “high fashion” and that the theme is
“Sci-fi mermaid”.
Nailed it.
Their hair and make-up is greasy, shiny, black, glamorous,
and probably just as shootable around the rocky wet edges of a Forster/Tuncurry
caravan park, saving everybody at least two hundred and forty-five dollars in Air Mauritius airfares.
I feel like I should work in a retro TV theme at this point. Let’s see, beach location, nobody has good hair, people at
the start of their careers....
HENDERSON KIDS WITH BRIEF KYLIE MINOGUE MULLET
CAMEO, GO.
Now, I’m a bit of a wordsmith, so I’ll try and put this in a
way that even the uninitiated plebiscites will understand:
Everyone looks fuckin’ babein’.
Melissa is first up, and I can’t even begin to talk about
her face. Seriously, now.
Right up.
Abbie, possibly the longest human in existence, gives the
onlooking girls a couple of evils while she proves that she is, without a single
doubt in the known universe:
It's an obvious progression from being Princess Constipation-Features.
Shanali, first to work in a tree instead of on some rocks,
moves beautifully, looks stunning, and gives herself one simple piece of
advice.
What's the worst that could happen?
Shanali falls.
Duckie, also posing in a tree, says that “I couldn’t really
find myself in the tree”. Here’s a hint.
Theeeeere you are.
She’s worried about damaging her shoes, right up until the
point that she damages her shoes.
It’s a tops photo shoot. It's just tops. I’m getting soft and
sincere in week eleven. Don’t tell anyone or I’ll stab you.
Interlude: Family
Stuff In A Driveway
Back at the resort, having washed the mermaid grease out of
their hair, the modules take their seats at a table in the middle of what looks
like a tropical driveway to be smiled at woodenly by Screamin’ J. Hawkins. They
have lunch and read each other messages from their families.
It is exactly as endearing as a public pool Band-Aid. Let us
continue.
Phoy-Toys 2: The
Photening
Back from the break, we go through the prizes, which I think
this year include half a packet of antiseptic wet-wipes and a ferret.
The scrags get up ridiculously early for their second photo
shoot, and are splurted out of a mini-bus straight into a Mauritian fishing
village in extremely colourful outfits, hair and make-up. Melissa describes
their surroundings in excruciating detail, expounding: “We got out of the car
and there’s locals everywhere, all these fishing boats, like people drinking,
and like sick dogs walking around and like one like, threw up”.
To fully illustrate Melissa’s poetry, the editors briefly
show footage of a dog, and-
That, friends, and I say this after intensive research and
with hand-on-boob sincerity: THAT. IS THE SAME FUCKING DOG.
I shall call him Samedog. We shall be lifelong companions,
and I think I deserve this week’s trophy for noticing.
The Samedog Trophy. For people who notice Samedog.
The girls line up in front of Diddles, Screamin’J. Hawkins,
and Chest Smith, to hear what they’ll
I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S THE SAME FUCKING DOG.
Seriously. I’m sure I’ve seen Samedog somewhere else as
well. Somewhere… somewhere fashionable.
LIKE THE CATWALKS OF MILAN FOR EXAMPLE
Sorry. I’m sorry. Is it a dogwalk in this instance? Right,
sorry.
Of their get-ups and surroundings, Duckie says “It was an
explosion of colour, like literally”.
Don't make Hulk tell you again.
Jez explains the shoot with yet another sci-fi bent, saying
“You’re the woman that fell to earth and landed here”. He asks them to be ‘in
the moment’, and to both blend in with their surroundings and stand out. MODELLING IS SO HARD, YOU GUYS.
Duckie is first, and she has to walk down a couple of stairs
AND hold her skirt up at the same time AND look off into the distance. See: previous
statement about modelling and hardness and stuff.
She does reasonably well until, recognising the unstoppable style
maelstrom that is his own mad skill, Samedog walks in on the shoot.
SAMEDOG, RIGHT?
WALKS IN, RIGHT?
ON THE MOTHER-FLAPPING SHOOT. HE’S A MODEL, DARLING.
Samedog is my spirit fashion animal. I mean, how did he
even get from Thailand to Mauritius? Like, obviously on Air Mauritius, but how
did he even make it out of the airport?
Oh, right.
Look, as far as I’m concerned, Samedog is one of the
contestants now. See you at finale, Samedog.
Duckie tries not to get distracted by Samedog, but she’s
only human.
It’s Melissa’s turn, and she has to flick her hair, which
she handles by pretending she’s in the Hunger Games, a totes legit modelling
technique, especially because hunger = RELEVANT, AM I RIGHT?
Chest Smith confirms that “there’s actually a technique to
model hair-flicking”, a fact that Samedog confirms by nonchalantly munching on
a persistent flea.
Either that or he's just inhaling the first release of his own signature scent: 'Samedog'.
Shanali has to walk in a straight line, but just in case you
think that sounds easy, she totally has to do it first in one direction, and
then in another. The Geneva Convention is all over this shit. She absolutely
rocks it, because that’s rule eight in the Being Jo’s Total Bestie Handbook.
Abbie has to walk aggressively but nonchalantly towards the
camera with a floral-print box on her hips and a pre-teen soccer game going on
behind her. She once again brings the cranky-face, but doesn’t seem to click to
what Chest Smith is throwing down. Still. Girl is like nine feet tall. Respeck.
The modules walk along the Mauritius beach one last time for
a bit of scene-setting before we all inevitably turn up at the eliminatorium
with no sense at all of having travelled.
Eliminationosity
Suddenly, we’re back at the eliminatorium with no sense at
all of having travelled. As the girls stroll in, they each get a little bit of
voice-over time to mention that they’re quite determined and it would be
reasonably nice to win, just in case you didn’t catch that earlier as a general
motif.
Screamin’ J. Hawkins is there to meet them in disturbingly
luminous scarlet. It almost makes her hair look like it’s been Photoshopped in
afterwards. See it?
No, no, stare at it for a while. Doesn’t it look
Photoshopped?
Especially if you squint.
Jen introduces Dawso, who blows a kiss, Didier, who blows
his whole pay packet on hair product, and Shiny Alex Perry, who is dressed as a
tablecloth in a restaurant where they serve a dog’s breakfast.
An oddly familiar dog's breakfast.
Final photographs are critically leafed through, with a
smattering of interestingness:
-Do not try to say “Melissa in Mauritius” with a
mouthful of Jatz. Not that anyone did, but I just imagined it, and you
shouldn’t do it.
-Dawso tells Melissa that her mermaid shot
reminds her of Japanese horror film ‘The Ring’.
-Shiny Alex Perry doesn’t like Duckie’s mermaid
shot, saying it’s too dark. Luckily Adamant Little Guy is still in Mauritius,
although I think I can hear him from here.
-Abbie’s fishing village shot causes a great deal
of disagreement between the judges, who can’t decide if she’s ‘punching it out’
or ‘on a Sunday stroll’. I can’t see any way of resolving this without
involving the courts.
Sorry, Judge Judy.
Shanali’s colourful shot smashes it out of the
park so hard, the park is flung backwards from the force of the thrust and
several galaxies are sucked into the remaining vortex. LOOK AT THIS SHIT.
Don't even talk to me for like fifteen minutes.
The judges are beside themselves about the photo, but manage
to contain themselves. Mostly.
The judges deliberate, Dawso says “Shanali for the finale”
because I was going to use that but she got in first GODDAMMIT, the scrags file
back into the room to hear who gets to go to finale, and it’s actually really
freakin’ tense.
OMG, WHO DO YOU THINK IS GOING, AMAZING PSYCHIC DESK?!?
I did actually have a feeling you'd say that, Amazing Psychic Desk.
Shanali gets photo of the week because duh. Melissa is next,
because almost as much duh.
Eight thousand million years pass, and the girl who will
join Shanali and Melissa in the grand finale is…
Duckie. Which means Abbie gets the ol’ laser eyes.
Pew woof pew
Bye, Abbie. You grew on all of us, which is major ironic
LOLs because don’t grow any more you really tall weird freak. You’re an
awesome, awesome girl, and I think you should, perhaps with wistful tears in
your eyes, look diagonally upwards just one more time.
Exactly.
Before we go, I have three things to say.
1. The winner is decided by public vote. I thought
my notes just said ‘pubic vote’, though, which is weird. I asked my own pubes
who they thought should win, and they just gave their usual answer: James
Franco.
2. I am very grateful to be invited to next week’s
finale, which means that the recap of finale will be late, and it will be undisputed
rubbish. I’ll be doing it from memory, and I will be doing everything I can to
erase that memory with glamorous and windswept drinking. Rest assured, though,
that I will be sitting in that audience aspirating “I wanna be on top-aaaaaaah”
every single time, and expect you to do the same.
3. We can’t go without saying goodbye to one other
fashion juggernaut, using the traditional end-of-episode fade-out.
