Celebrity Big Brother

I had hoped that, with a new year on the horizon, those responsible for scheduling at our illustrious broadcasting corporations might have made the resolution not to continue tormenting those of us who are trapped – imprisoned if you will – in homes where the humanbeans watch “reality” television. Yet here I am, with another column about my tragic life behind bars, being forced to watch this drivel, yes, drivel, by a tele-addicted humanbean with taste so bad that she once ate a degunugget and said, ‘That’s not half bad.’

There is always a ghoulish delight to be had from watching celebrities on “reality” television. Ironically, this makes it even less real, but I’m just a caviomorph and not an expert on social realism. The same frustration and irritation applies as you watch people struggle with basic tasks, like eating porridge, which they can’t do because they’re used to having their “people” do it for them. Not that I can complain on that score, as I do, technically, have a “person” too.

Actually, the porridge task was a brief highlight in this series. Firstly, because I like oats. Secondly, because the idea that the “celebrities” had to eat bovine urine mixed into porridge should have made me feel rather nauseated, instead we were exposed to a display of the most diva-ish behaviour I have ever seen. Teenage glamour models running round the “diary room” swearing and screaming about how “you can’t do this to me”. Seriously? Did you check your reality-o-meter at the door? This is not something to scream and cry and swear about, this is a silly task on an even sillier game show which you are on to further your career, it is not third world debt and it is not a terminal illness, no one has died and you are perfectly safe. You chose to be  here, so get over yourself.

In the case of Celebrity Big Brother, I find it more difficult to complain about the premise of the programme. The locking up of people and watching them run around inside their little prison, grooming themselves, eating, drinking, exercising and then some inappropriate things which I will not comment upon because they are, frankly, rudies. I detest reality television, this garbage that The Human inflicts upon me. But, if I am going to be honest, I like that the boot is on the other paw. Now I get my revenge: I can watch some other species being imprisoned, publically eating their degunuggets, drinking their water and washing their naughties. Not that I ever want to see Natalie Cassidy’s naughties.

What I have enjoyed about this series of Celebrity Big Brother so far is the unashamed way that the inmates have talked about how they are taking part in the hope of getting work out of it. “It’s all about the job, isn’t it,” one housemate said to another. Although I do suspect that Michael Masden doesn’t actually understand what the whole business is all about, he seems confused all of the time.

I was devastated when Andrew Stone left. I enjoyed watching as he made those celebrities dance to keep fit, but also I feel rather let down that he never showed us how to make a dance studio out of a pineapple. Apparently this sculptural feat is what he is best known for. I did, however, cheer when Natalie Cassidy was voted off last week. Presumeably this was for crimes against use of the word “babes” as a form of address for ones contemporaries, especially as she couldn’t say it correctly and insisted on saying “bayebth”. I suspect that the perennially confused Mr Masden thought she was a non-English speaker.

Of the other housemates, another TOWIE “star”, though how going from one reality show to another makes you a celebrity I’m not altogether sure. Thank goodness, he’s on there because I was almost suffering withdrawl after almost a month without the other TOWIE chap who was in I’m A Celebrity… A month which was filled only by the charity single that the cast of that esteemed piece of programming released in an attempt to add “Christmas No 1” to their list of reality achievements. Not that matters now as poor old Kirk was voted off by the sensible Great British public.

I was rather concerned when The Human and chums became excited that there was a loose woman in Big Brother this year, I had my suspicions that this was an attempt to sex up – as New Labour would say – a televisual concept that is, frankly, stale after a decade. Just as I was about to turn my paws to the typing of a strongly worded letter to Ofcom, I discovered that Denise Welch is a television presenter from a programme so vile that even The Human doesn’t watch it. If anybody’s interested, my money’s on her to win, all the Loose Women viewers will be voting in force.

Frankie Cocainer, one of my particular favourites from X Factor, seems hopelessly ill-placed in a programme that supposedly features “celebrities”. What is he actually famous for? Let’s break this down. He entered a performance based competition from which he was forced to retire because of an alleged substance abuse problem. On what planet does this make him anything but an abject failure? A loser, he surely does not qualify as a celebrity.

And while I’m on the subject of celebrity status, I would be interested to know how Channel 5 and Endemol justify the presence in the house of a former lover and sister-in-law of a celebrity. By definition if you make it into the press because of a super injunction you are not a celebrity, you are part of an entourage, and a secret part at that. In fact, I’m not even sure if I’m allowed to include you in my column, so I’m not even going to say your name.

In short, television has hit an all new low with this series of Celebrity Big Brother. The celebrities are wannabes, the talented housemates are the ones being voted off and, frankly, if I wanted to watch someone locked up in a cage doing ordinary things with the occasional jump through a hoop then I’d get a mirror.