I’m not entirely sure as to why though, because lets be honest, it’s pretty shit. 16 fame-obsessed and talentless pricks entering a house to see who can get the highest fee from Heat or OK magazine when they get booted out, is not something that a cultured writer such as myself should be enthralled to view, but I am. I love, sorry loved that little Indian fellow that couldn’t speak proper English. He entered the house with the union jack tackily emblazoned across his chest, yet he struggled to string together a coherent sentence while he was in there. How ironic!
Then you have people who are so desperate for fame, that they allow Big Brother to change their names to ‘Halfwit’ and ‘Dogface’ by deed poll. It’s a pretty depressing snapshot of modern-day cuntery. But for some reason, I still watch it seven days a week. I even try to catch the pointless spin-off shows like ‘Big Mouth’ and ‘Big Brother’s Little Brother’, which are even more depressing than the main show. I don’t even want to fuck any of the girls in the house, which was my one feeble excuse for watching it before.
The other day I had a dream that the Big Brother house was entirely populated by characters from ‘coming of age’ movies from the 80’s. Molly Ringwald was experimenting with dykery with that Breakfast Club chick with all the dandruff and Ferris Bueller was there too, being…well, just being awesome. Weird.
Words: Donald Crunk
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