Who wants to live forever?

I’m getting ready for the smells, sights and sounds of Summer. From all the cut grass and the warming smell of barbecues to laughing at men wearing too tight speedos on the Costa-del-cheap, I’m actually excited for the onset of Summer 2010 in the real world.

With regards to television, however, it’s a whole different story. For the eleventh (and final) time, television schedules are going to be dominated by Big Brother. The rotting, stinking corpse of Reality TV is going to be dragged mercilessly through that ignominious house. We can marvel at the desperate never-will-bes parading about in scant clothing talking about their future in the tits and legs industry and arguing over which fatty ate all of the chick peas. We don’t have to pretend not to like any of them because, and I say this from watching ten years of this brain mush, they’re all twerps. I honestly can’t tell you one person from the last ten series with whom I would like to share a pint.

This once great bastion of all Reality TV is now completely in opposition to what it once sought to be. It is not representative of British society, of real life. It’s not even what people want to watch. It’s only on TV because of a contractual obligation, not because anyone asked for it to come back. It’s partially disabled from all of the tussles and controversy of the past ten years. Blinded by the Shilpa Shetty race row, fattened and dulled by Big Brother 5’s fight night…I think that it’s fair to say that Big Brother is the Gordon Brown of Channel 4.

I’m also approaching this series with apprehension. I am incredibly worried that the twenty or so people who are going to parade around that house throughout the course of the Summer are relatively unaware of how devastating the whole experience could be for them. With the exception of a minority who will use the program to foist their well oiled breasts upon the discerning readers of Nuts and the astute few who spend their Sunday evenings watching Babestation, the program has little to offer the contestants.

They all have to put whatever is going on in their lives on hold. Jobs are quit. Relationships break up. All for ‘fame’. Attaining any sort of fame on Big Brother is the equivalent of making a gastronomic feast out of food from Iceland. It’s cheap, it’s tasteless and it’s practically impossible.

Outside of the reality they delude themselves with inside the Big Brother bubble, most of them will make no money. Only one of them will get the £100,000. The others get a nominal sum of £30 a day and probably nothing after the show ends. Most of them will be unemployable afterwards. Most of them will have abuse hurled at them in the street for the next few years. All for the sake of a couple of tossers in some kebab joint recognizing them, waving chips in their faces and slurring ‘HAha yuhr thrt cnt fruhm BIG BRUVer!!’ Hypothetically.

Then again, I’m probably preaching to the converted. At Warwick we’re all really good students who hate trash TV like Big Brother. It’s not for us exam-career-oh my god I have to become a lawyer-death before fail- (if I don’t become a lawyer I suppose I’ll teach) people. Well, prepare to mock me. For I was almost a part of this whole debacle.

To cut a long story short, I attended a Big Brother audition last year whilst still drunk from the night before. I passed all of their auditions and tests. I even spent a few days in the Celebrity Big Brother House before it launched last December. I got invited to audition this year and I ended up being asked to be a part of the opening show. Which, due to me being a bit of an exam-career-oh my god person all of a sudden, I pulled out of. I understand how seductive the whole experience can be. It’s almost therapeutic. You’re sat in rooms for hours on end writing and talking exclusively about yourself. Invitations to come back for further auditions make you feel interesting and worthwhile. Everyone you meet is bright eyed and full of hope and misconceptions about where the program could take them. I just felt increasingly idiotic, saying things like ‘I am OBVIOUSLY the most intelligent person you’ll ever see on the program.’ Twat.

Looking at the hotch-potch mess of delusionals who went into THE HO– USE last Wednesday, I’m so pleased that I’m not a maggot on television’s most potent corpse. I’ll be glad when it’s finally off our screens so I can go back to experiencing the proper British summer. feeling sick at the sight of all the sweaty fat people, not pandering to twats and their tasks.


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