Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series Eight #4

When I’m not shooting pool, snorting whiskey or road-testing monster trucks, nothing gives me more pleasure than sipping a nice cup of Orange Pekoe with my fucking pinkie out, because I’m a lady.

This week we learn all there is to know about being a lady, except for what period pain feels like, because you do NOT want June Dally Watkins talking to you about periods without booking into a trauma therapy specialist first.

Clutch your pearls and close your knees, it’s the ‘Scrag Looks Like A Lady’ episode of Australia’s Next Top Model’.

Don’t waste your lives.

(Just the next four to twenty-eight minutes, depending on how fast you read).

*****

Housekeeping

There’s a fairly even smattering of pointage on the old Catchphrase Counter, with surprisingly no points yet for ‘I’m not here to make friends’, despite the fact that Rhiannon clearly isn’t.

Perhaps I should have included the phrase “GERFLERCACK!”, considering the number of times the Dajana upchuck footage from last week has been used. Producers: this emetophobe thanks you, you vindictive and clever bastards.

As an aside, why haven’t I been calling Jen Hawkins Mrs Everything ‘Screamin’ J. Hawkins’ the whole time? Am I only seventy-five percent genius or something? That’s really a surprise.

Also, I hope you’re all aspirating your ‘top-PAAAAH’s whenever you hear the theme song and shouting ‘JOURNEY!’ whenever you hear the word ‘journey’. It’s fun, and it makes me feel omnipotent.

Emetophobe? Omnipotent? Sorry if I’m making you look up words. It’s all learnin’, all the time here at Jo Blogs.

What?

Oh, right. The show thingy.

Learnment

It’s an early morning sunrise montage, and the girls are reading in the living room. They’re READING. Elle Macpherson MISLED us about the reading habits of modules. I HATE it when she does that.

I can’t quite see what it is that Maddy Banana Paddy is reading, but regardless, it looks extremely well co-written and it also looks like it’s currently available at all good book stores.

This is what best friends do. Read each other's books.

Abbie is obviously reading the wrong book, but I’m able to fix that seamlessly in Photoshop.

Pfffft, whatever, EMBRACE.

Better.

Meanwhile Ashley, sitting by herself on the balcony, says that “I feel this competition has saved me in a way”, clearly forgetting that this competition actually gave her appendicitis. She talks to camera about her extreme determination to win, and gets a little emoytional.

She's not really upset, it's just that hexagons kind of freak her out.

JEN MAIL!

The low-fat iPad (or other sponsor-provided device) crackles into life and Screamin’ J. Hawkins recites “Models have style and grace. Forget yours and you’ll have egg on your face”.

Um. As this adorable puppy says….

RRRRrrrrrRRRR?

Alternatively, as Dajana puts it: “Jen was sort of saying like, some poem rhyming Shakespeare thing, we were like, what? It was like Morse code… Da Vinci Code”.

For fucketh sake.

The Jen Mail goes on to say something about dressing, something about teasing, and something about saying please, but oddly nothing about how now would be a good time to stereotype Dajana’s ethnic heritage.

The scrags shoot out of the module mansion into the Nissans and are belched out in front of Elizabeth Bay House, where crunchy-guitared production music instantly gives way to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons: Autumn.  See? See how fucking classy this shit is?

Screamin’ J. Hawkins greets the girls on the front step and tells them that today will be all about relaxing. It is a lie. It is a god. Damn. Lie.

Led to the dining room, the scrags descend upon a table piled high with teacups, cakes, scones, sandwiches, macarons, biscuits and loads of other things they would’ve thrown in the bin during last week’s fitness episode. Oddly, there are no green smoothies.

Some of the girls are marginally less couth than others. When asked to pass the milk, Rhiannon responds that she’s ‘a bit preoccupied’ at the moment.

First course: lightly fricaseed disgusting.

Second course: the unsettlingly orgasmic throes of indulgence.

Third course: Diabetes.

Rhiannon, Taylah and Abbie in particular are the biggest ratbags, causing a sudden outbreak of pigeon-eye.

To camera, Shannon comments that “It was kind of annoying, because it’s not polite to do those type of things”.

Righto, Tracy Flick. Righto.

By the time Rhiannon starts to throw food, the jig is up. June Dally Watkins emerges from the shadows to reveal that she’s been WATCHING THEM THE WHOLE TIME. The modules are suddenly overcome with posh decorum, although it’s possibly not quite ladylike for Ashley to comment that her shorts are ‘stuck to her thing’. It’s possibly also not ladylike for me to call June Dally Watkins ‘J.D-Dubs’, or to compare J.D-Dubs to that chattering-teeth dude from Hellraiser, but…

Tell me you don't see it.

After implying that a couple of the girls look like whores, J.D-Dubs gives the scrags an etiquette and posture lesson.

Even this homeless dude.

In a nutshell, the girls are taught how to stand up and sit down. Modelling is hard, you guys.

Some of the girls really listen and take to the book-balancing challenge like a Duckie to water, although... do we need to explain that this isn't how you get the words from a book into your brain?

Also: still the wrong book. Come on, guys.

Rhiannon, however, has heard it all before. She says, with my comments:

“I guess I don’t take lessons as seriously (OR BUDDHISM, OR FITNESS). I mean, I’m older than a lot of the other girls (YOU’RE NINETEEN, I HAVE A CASSEROLE IN MY FREEZER OLDER THAN YOU), I’ve had a lot more life experience (YET YOU CHOSE THAT HAIRCUT), I don’t need to be taught some things that other girls need to be taught (LIKE HOW TO BE AN ARSEHOLE FOR EXAMPLE)”.

After a short while, the whole ordeal is over, and J.D-Dubs farewells the girls by saying “Congratulations, ladies. And don’t waste your life”.

No, ladies. Don’t waste your life. Spend as much of it as possible walking up and down the stairs with a fucking book on your head.

Challenged.

While frolicking around the pool some time later, Rachael Finch walks down the stairs of the module mansion because that sort of shit happens all the time in this wacky place.

Brooke recognises her instantly because both Brooke and Rachael have at one time been part of the Miss Universe cult. I mean feminist trigger word. I mean virgin fest. I mean PAGEANT.

Rachael tells them that the prize for this week’s challenge will be paid work in a Nissan commercial, but it’s difficult to hear the next bit over Shannon’s determined teeth-grinding.

The modules are to get gussied up for a fake red carpet premiere for a fake movie, facing fake fans, fake paparazzi, fake public, and real media who haven’t turned their microphones on. The premiering film is ‘Australia’s Next Top Model: The Movie’, or as I’m calling it:

The girls are taken to the Ritz Cinema individually in Nissan 370Zs. That’s three numbers and one letter. Easy to remember right? The ol’ Nissan 2,400P? Easy.  Rachael and Shiny Alex Perry stand by to pass judgement, and to comment whenever anybody forgets the name of the car, the Nissan Pi To 43 Places.

Every single scrag looks outrageously gorgeous and elegant, because I’m pretty sure complimenting stylists will get me a free frock.

Shanali overcomes her customary shyness in black lace and kicks arse, presumably because of that highly irritating being-perfect thing.

Despite Shiny Alex Perry’s assumption to the contrary, Maddy Banana Paddy is confident, remembers the car name (the Nissan 99 Problems) and is generally just my heterosexual life partner.

Entertainment reporter Elle Halliwell tries to rattle Melissa by asking her if she’d date Diddles, but she says “No, he’s a bit old for me”. Diddles has tofu older than Melissa.

Jade does reasonably well despite the fact that I’m not sure she ever blinks, Abbie gets the car name wrong, and Shiny Alex Perry describes Rhiannon’s bad posture as looking ‘like a weightlifter that’s done too many lat pull-downs’. THAT’S A GREAT JOKE FOR THIS SHOW’S DEMOGRAPHIC SHINY ALEX PERRY, WELL DONE.

Brooke is exactly as elegant and composed as usual until reporter Elle has another rattling attempt by saying “There’s a rumour going around right now that you and Didier Cohen are a thing”.

Of Taylah from Western Austraylah, Elle asks “Is there anyone special in your life?”, followed immediately by a suspenseful ad break and recap of the question, leading us to believe that something incredible is about to happen.

Taylah finally answers “I have a girlfriend at the moment, but yeah”, and the crowd erupts with cheers, as it’s the best grammar they’ve heard all night.

Shiny Alex Perry says “She was a complete lady. She was probed on that question”, which earns him this week’s trophy.

The Probed trophy. For people who say 'probed'.

Duckie smiles and sets the world on fire, and Dajana is incredible, even giving the crowd sunblock tips at night, until she’s asked about the car she arrived in.

“Oh my god, you can’t even hear yourself think in it, it’s a Nissan 350Z”.

SO. 

CLOSE.

Once she realises, she’s relatively calm and philosophical about it.

Shannon, staring into the camera with the determination of an ice addict trying to hail a taxi, says “On a scale from one to ten of how determined I was, probably about a hundred? Maybe a hundred and one, somewhere around there”.

I'm a hundred and TWO determined. I win.

After a quick deliberation in which they describe the girls as exuberant and vivacious, Rachael and Shiny Alex Perry sit the anxuberant and nervacious modules down in the cinema and flash the three winners’ names up on the screen – Shannon, Brooke and Shanali.

Dajana is devastated, calling it a slap in the face. Maddy is disappointed, calling it a kick in the guts. Apparently Scrags 2: Electric Boogaloo is a martial arts movie. PS: Awesome, I love martial arts movies.

The winners shoot their commercial in a Nissan Like A G6. One of them mentions coffee. Another one mentions champagne. I have now listed all of the interesting things that happened during the shoot. Next.

Phoy Toys

Straight out of the ad break we’re reminded of the prizes, which I think this year include a 20-pack of plastic cups and a live macaw, and then suddenly we’re at the Mahratta Scool Of Practical Philosophy in the Sorensen Garden in Wahroonga, a place so magnificent and well-kept that the editors linger on this spider for eight minutes of the ten-minute scene-setting montage.

Diddles is there, and he introduces Derek Henderson, a charming little man from New Zealand who doesn’t own a comb. Derek announces that today they’ll be looking for “a modern take on the fufties housewife”, which he says means “Sophustucated, ilegant, demure end netural”.

Wait – is it racist to mock the Kiwi accent? Let’s defer once again to Adamant Little Guy:

THET'S RACUST.

Frocked up in their fifties ladiness, the modules have posh elegance coming out the jacksy, like me.

Ashley’s boobs pose perfectly, and she says “My photo shoots are my best aspect, much like choosed the write wording my sentingces”.

Shanali is FUCKING BREATHTAKING in a floral dress, and also in anything that isn’t last week’s puffy vest. She walks along, just blithely being my favourite.

Jade sits  elegantly in a tree in diaphanous blue, and as she’s walking away afterwards, she asks Diddles what he thought of her performance. He says:

Which makes her go:

…and I just wrote a mini-series called From Molehills To Mountains.

Brooke has great shoes and great composure, Dajana looks like maybe she works at a really girly butcher shop, Shannon asks the photographer if she can call him ‘Dez’, and Maddy Banana Paddy is adorable and we are to be married.

Derek tries to get April to look friendly, but she didn’t download friendly during her last software update.

Rhiannon walks out in a fuzzy jumper and Capri pants and I FINALLY get her. She looks forty, sure, but GOOD forty. She more or less agrees, saying to camera “I always pull a good photo, I’m not gonna be shy about that. I think I am one of the genuine contenders, but I don’t think the girls know it yet”. Oh, if we wait until the end of the show, I’m pretty sure they’ll realise.

Derek only wants to shoot Melissa’s face. If he can find it, obviously. To camera, she does this, because she is adorably self-aware…

And now she will be Melissa Sevenhead, and Melissa Sevenhead is STUNNING in this photo shoot, and anybody who doesn’t get her by now is blind, the end.

Taylah from Western Austraylah looks incredible, but says that the shoot is “not really her style”, which is like Georges Braque saying that photo-realism isn’t really his thing or, for the lowbrow amongst you, like One Direction saying that they’re really not in the mood to be not shit right now. Taylah follows up with “I’ll handle being a lady really well, because I don’t think my legs can open in this dress”. Oh what, so you’re a funny lesbian now?

Abbie is not the most successful lady in the group and hopes that her ‘inner poshness’ squirts through, while Duckie says she thinks she looks like Marcia Hines. Which is totally a compliment, unless Duckie likes solving problems with arm wrestles.

Not advised.

Eliminationosity

It’s a wonder the girls can even walk into the Eliminatorium, such is the intensity of their shitting-themselves-ness. Screamin’ J. Hawkins is ready for wordplay in white and gold, Dawso glams it down in a silk t-shirt, and Diddles is wearing a waistcoat. A WAISTCOAT. Like one of those investment wankers on Ball Street. Shiny Alex Perry is resplendent in a tablecloth for a picnic lunch at which the main course is squinting gourd.

The judges look through the phoy-toys, and Dawso asks Brooke how she liked working with Derek, commenting that he was actually her first photographer. Shiny Alex Perry zings that “He’s a hundred and seven”, while Brooke answers “I heard a couple of people making jokes about age, so maybe that’s why”.

Shit just got 75% real.

Ashley’s shot is boob-a-boob boobaly boobtown, and Shiny Alex Perry suggests that she elongate herself. THANKS FOR THE TOTALLY REALISTIC AND ACHIEVABLE ADVICE THERE, PEZZA.

Jade walks up to the judges and suddenly I have an idea for another mini-series, this one called What The Fuck Is That On Your Head.

I mean why stop there, Jade? Let’s take this to its logical extension.

I defy you to find any four-year-old with better Photoshop skills.

Rhiannon swags up to the desk with smug satisfaction, awaiting the glorious praise of the judges. Diddles says she doesn’t take direction well. Shiny Alex Perry says that he doesn’t like the photo, and that it looks like an old knitwear catalogue picture. And the Amazing Psychic Desk says:

Melissa’s photo not only knocks it out of the park, the park explodes and sets neighbouring towns on fire. Dawso can't even use her words, such is her rapture - she just says "Bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep!"

The judges deliberate sans-scrags, Dawso and Perry agree on something, a dog roller-skates by holding hands with a talking banana, and the modules return to hear their fate.

Melissa gets photo of the week/century, names are read out, Rhiannon shakes her head knowing that she’s already got this series won, and it finally comes down to Abbie and Rhiannon.

Unbelievably, despite already winning, Rhiannon gets the laser-head.

But... but I'm so much better tha-GAFLOOMSH

She cries a lot, and I almost feel sorry for her until she says “I was really shocked, because I know that there’s girls in the competition that are weaker than I. I wouldn’t feel that I’m better than anyone, I just think I’m stronger than some people”.

So, in keeping with my retro-sitcom-theme-per-week weird promise, I think that these lyrics reflect what all those other, inferior girls would like to say to you right now.

Bye, Rhiannon. Any last words?

Exactly.

Australia's Next Top Westie Scrag Series Eight #3

One of the things I like about this show is its emphasis on health and fitness.

You know, like running, jumping, eating right, punching, drinking blended salads, giving birth to medicine balls, vomiting, that kind of thing.

This week’s entire episode is about keeping your weight down, your breakfast up, and getting elegantly puffed out.

Put on your sports bra and stuff it with kale, it’s the ‘What Are Your Legs? STEEL SCRAGS!’ episode of Australia’s Next Top Model.

Let’s model ‘til we puke.

Housekeeping

After a lot of thought (four seconds, with gin), I’ve added two late-comers to the list of contenders for Reality Television’s Most Overused Catchphrase, which are “This is my dream” and “Give it my all”. They’re late, but they look strong, like a pregnant weightlifter.

Current leader is “Oh my god”, which is hardly surprising considering the modules moved into their big ol’ house this week, and also considering the number of wacky surprise twists those producers keep coming up with every week, the crazy maniacs.

Mind you, in freeze-frame “Oh my god” sometimes looks like those cards you teach autistic kids about emotions with.

Incredulity.

Excitement.

Shock.

I Sat On A Pin.

You Cannot Beat Me, Mr Bond.

Constipation.

And it’s really no wonder there’s so much wonderment. The module mansion is unbelievably superb, what with its views, and its walk-in wardrobes, and its spectacular bathrooms, and its well-stocked Miss Shop, and its… its luxurious… er, what...bedrooms.

MAJESTIC.

Directly at odds with the health theme this week, Ashley stubbornly and argumentatively gets appendicitis. She says “Basically I just got a burning sensation in my spine, and they took me to the hospital and the hospital said I had really bad appendicitis”.

That is one talented hospital.

Learnment

At the module mansion, there’s an SJHMEOONOMG (Sudden Jen Hawkins Mrs Everything Out Of Nowhere OH MY GOD), and about the module mansion, Jen says “Become a successful model, and you could have a multi-million dollar mansion like this one”.

I AM IMMEDIATELY SKEPTICAL.

Plus  I found some other skeptical things which are also skeptical.

Skeptical dog.

Skeptical cat.

Skeptical cow.

Skeptical earthworm.

Skeptical kid.

Jen then tells the scrags what the prizes are this year, which I think include three identical tubes of lip gloss and a goldfish in a bag.

Speaking of goldfish in a bag, Mrs Everything introduces personal trainer James Duigan and four hundred and twenty-five plates of junk food. James is there to talk about how bad junk food is, and says “What I want you guys to understand is that sugar is a substance that literally drags collagen out of your face and makes you old”.

Reeeeaaaally.

All the girls instantly swear off junk food and reform, as James crows poetically: “Out with the old and gross, and in with the new and the fantastic!”

He's so bardy-conscious.

James then makes a green smoothie from spinach, cucumber, celery and ginger, telling the girls that ‘just about every model I know has this just about every day when they can’, which is like James Gleeson saying he’s sometimes sort of inspired by sea creatures mostly when he feels like it or, for the lowbrow amongst you, like Kanye West saying that he might spend a little bit of time being a bit of a cock once he gets ‘round to it.

It is around this time that Taylor tells us she’s never had celery before.

Reeeeaaaallly.

April the French Robot says that the only form of ginger she’s ever had is in gingerbread, to which everyone replies “What do you MEAN you’ve never had celery before?!?”, because whatever, APRIL.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, a segment about health and celery gets boring. Nothing to do but chuck a bunch of food in the bin and go to bed, I guess.

BUT NOT FOR LONG.

Challenged.

Extremely early in the morning, a Jen Mail drags the scrags out of bed and into the loungeroom to watch a video by a thing called Candice Swanepoel, which I have just learned is not a bacteria.

Melissa calls her “the face of Victoria’s Secret”, as if faces matter to Victoria’s Secret.

Taylor says “I knew she was a sort of big person, but I didn’t know who she was”, which makes Candice exactly like celery.

Regardless, Candice speaks briefly about fitness as is required by law, and then instructs the modules to get changed into clothes they’ll find in their bedrooms and get ready to leave.

OH MY GOD WHAT KIND OF CLOTHES MIGHT THEY BE, ARE THEY CELERY CLOTHES, BECAUSE I’VE NEVER HEARD OF THOSE.

Melissa, discovering fitness shoes, a fitness top and fitness leggings, guesses that they’ll be doing something fitness-related. That girl sure has a great big brain inside her totally, totally normal-sized head.

A quick Nissan sponsored Nissan car-trip Nissan into the sticks Nissan later, and the scrags are in a swampy-looking park with James waiting for them. He announces that this week’s challenge is so big that he’s going to need back-up, heralding the entrance of the retarded little work-experience kid.

I ARE RIDE MY BIKE BRRRRRMMMMMM

Except it’s our Diddles, and he’s putting the modules through a 1KM army-style obstacle course, complete with net crawl (in faeces) sandbags (full of faeces), trauma tunnels (through which faeces comes), tyre rolls (faeces), a cable-drum leap (not actually sure what that is), barbed wire (barbed wire) and faeces.

The winner gets two prizes: two thousand dollars’ worth of gym gear…

OH MY GOD!!!

…and a year’s supply of James’s health supplements.

There was supposed to be a cricket noise here but the cricket died.

Before starting the challenge, everyone prepares by smearing mud on their face, except Duckie.

Pardon?

Oh. Oh, right. Um.

Everybody smears mud on their face.

Calm your tits, Adamant Little Guy.

Jade is a fucking gun. Maddy Banana Paddy is unfazed because she’s used to mud, which is a great quality in a model. April doesn’t short-circuit in the water despite the fact that French robots are usually only designed to withstand wine.  Taylor has a little whinge, Duckie takes forever to work her way through a ground-intestine to Taylor’s intense and malnourished annoyance, Rhiannon comes last because she’s still exhausted from ridiculing Buddhism last week, and Brooke announces that there was “100% pooh in there”.

Now, I don’t care how awesome your blog is, don’t go doing a Google image search for “100% pooh”.

You shouldn’t trust me very often, but that’s pretty much a sure thing.

Jade wins, Brooke comes second, Taylor has trouble breathing, and Dajana yacks her bikkies up all over the grass.  What better time to stereotypically exaggerate her ethnic heritage, right?

Also I gagged the whole time getting this screen-shot, but I did it FOR YOU.

Diddles tells the modules that he’s proud of them, and that there’s a present waiting for them back at the house.

So the girls not only get to vomit, they also get free shit. Free shit that’s different to the free shit they got this morning in the free shit room, and also different to the free shit that they found in their bedrooms in the house full of free shit that they’re living in until somebody finally wins a whole lot of free shit.

And also sunglasses.

Then suddenly, just to bum everyone out, Ashley comes home with her surgery wound and her pain and everything. WHATEVER, ASHLEY.

(For an explanation of the above, see Appendix A)*

No but seriously, welcome back, Ashley. Welcome back. And in keeping with my stupid thing where I include an old sit-com theme every week, might I also say…

Welcome Back, Kotter!

Go ask your mum what that means.

We go to a break and a voice-over reminds us of the prizes again (they’re the same as before except we’re pretty sure the goldfish is dead).

Phoy-Toys

HEY LOOK, IT’S DAWSO.

She’s at the gym, because god forbid we’d forget this week’s theme, huh. She introduces the scrags to the concept of a ‘sports luxe’ photo shoot and introduces photographer Justin Ridler who, somewhat unexpectedly for a softly-spoken gent in spectacles, instructs the girls to get greased up.

Everyone gets bronzed, greased, braided, and dressed in the sexiest of sexy fitness gear.

Except Shanali.

For whatever reason, Shanali is dressed in the charred and greasy remains of the Michelin Man after a very serious tanker explosion.

But she seems totally relaxed about it.

In modelling competitions, as in hangovers, puffiness is not necessarily solely the domain of losers, however.

You’re still my favourite, Shanali. 

Even though, seriously, what the puffy fuck.

What else?

In her let’s-take-you-aside-for-just-a-moment interview, Shannon stares icily and determinedly into our very souls and says clearly and surely “Whatever they throw at me, I will do. I can be Australia’s Top Model”.

And I realise that perhaps she’s not Brooke Shields. Perhaps she’s Tracy Flick.

We're pretty much fucked.

This particular shoot is MADE for Taylah from Western Austraylah, who can cut glass with her jaw, and flesh with her inevitable leotard-wedgie.

Duckie is good until she smiles, at which time the entire room explodes with outstanding Olympic exuberance.

Jade in a crop top and red leather shorts makes me want to do sit-ups for four days.

Melissa looks a lot like a doll wearing a fitness outfit, and everybody knows that dolls do not wear fitness outfits.

SHUT UP BARBIE NOBODY ASKED YOU

During her shoot, Rhiannon says “It was actually really funny because first I just sat on top of one medicine ball and Charlotte said make sure you sit between two, because it looks like you’re giving birth to it, so that was funny”. Yeah, not as funny as Buddhism, but not bad.

Maddy struggles with over-thinking (right? That’s a thing) at first, but then stops thinking (that's a thing also) and BOOM! There it is. A farm whose main crop is awesomeness, sexiness, and let's be besties.

Shannon looks amazing, but more importantly she is DETERMINED and GODDAMN if Mr McAllister is going to STOP her from winning this ELECTION.

April gets some good shots, but Charlotte worries that she only has one look. All April really has to do is update her software to include FACES 6.0 and she’ll be sweet.

Taylor looks like a boxer. Well, her outfit looks like it once belonged to a boxer. Taylor herself looks like flannel-dusted, bored twig. Charlotte gets her to punch towards the camera, pretending it’s something she doesn’t like, so she pretends it’s everything.

Dajana, Brooke, and Abbie are all now in a gang called ABS N’ BRAIDS, the membership criteria for which are being hot, having cheekbones, and looking like you’re in an Eighties movie and if you don’t dance to save the community centre, the orphans will die.

Ashley does her shoot lying down because what, she’s lazy or something. Probably. I didn't really have time to look up what an appendix is. Presumably a milkshake. Lazy people like milkshakes.

Eliminationosity

Eventually everyone no doubt jogs and does burpees towards the Eliminatorium, where Jen is dressed in pink (ready for wordplay), Dawso is dressed in floral (ready to be a garden), Diddles is dressed in a shirt and tie (ready for a job interview) and Shiny Alex Perry is also dressed in a shirt and tie (ready for a job interview for a company that specialises in squinting and making shirts two sizes too small. His chances at getting the job are outstanding).

We trawl through the phitness photographs, during which:

a)      Dajana proves herself to be quite good at bringing the quotes (not just the vomit), so I’m betting one thousand dollars that she’ll get that most-popular-favourite-model prize thingy at the finale;

b)      Dawso and Shiny Alex Perry agree with each other TWICE, dogs and cats become friends, I can smell colours and a satellite falls suddenly out of the sky;

c)       All of the photos are bullshit perfect amazing (except for Shanali’s, but I still love you, sweetie); and

d)      I make an unnecessarily bullet-pointed list, because I’m totally the boss here. Right, Amazing Psychic Desk?

Why do I even include you, Amazing Psychic Desk.

The judges deliberate, and zing-of-the-week must go to Shiny Alex Perry, who says of Taylor “I don’t think she’s photogenic, and it’s pushing shit uphill”.

Um, no, that's pulling Pooh upstairs.

Taylah from Western Austraylah gets photo of the week, and names are called until it’s down to just Maddy Banana Paddy and No-Celery Taylor.

Eight years pass, I do the grocery shopping for the week, and it’s Dawso’s turn to do the laser-eyes.

No, sweetie...

Jesus...

No….

Oh, fuck it. Do the honours, Pezza?

THANK you.

Bye, Taylor! Any last words?

Exactly.

*THERE IS NO APPENDIX, SHE HAD IT REMOVED, DER.