The beginning of the end

So here we go – in front of a live audience Big Brother chucked 13 of over 80 hopefuls into the best looking house yet, to jeers of ‘it’s a fix!’ from the audience. I’m not sure how they knew that but they were hushed by security purdy darn pronto.

The boo’ers were out in force, as has come to be accepted at launch (and eviction) nights. People always seem to predictably hate the posh boys, the slutty girls and anyone with a massive ego.
Super-posh Ben got so booed he practically legged it through the doors just to get away from the audience.

Jordan wannabe Corin wore a dress so low I swear I’d seen both of her nipples in the first three minutes of her entering the house. There was a monk (in robes) a Beyonce lookilikey, a supposedly intelligent girl who had changed her name to Sunshine and the hottest Aussie us POMs have ever laid our eyes on. Eyes only though, as on opening his mouth his hotness melts into oblivion, sadly (but fairly – surely no-one is or should be blessed with both).

Poor old unlucky for some number 13 Mario got sent in with an ‘impossible’ mission to not be outed as a mole despite being sent in dressed as a mole and having to sleep in a mole hole. Isn’t this the same task every year?

Davina was glorious as ever, in a role that was made for her perhaps a little too perfectly as I can’t imagine her flourishing doing anything else.

And so it begins. The beginning of the end. Places please (and tweet me updates as am off on holiday from Friday…)

And so we say goodbye

It's always hard when a friend leaves.

Memories are gone through and wrapped up, looked through by rose-tinted glasses. Sad laughs and spontaneous chuckles as you remember the good times. Sorry shakes of the head as you remember the bad.

I've not always loved you, but you've always been there... Big Brother.

As the days towards my 30th birthday drip painfully nearer it is with some surprise that I realise Big Brother has been on for the entire of my 20s. The BB Generation.

Children of the 70s hippies, everything had been done before us - Elvis, acid, the pill. What was left for us but reality TV?

And look who it gave us! Skinny Nikki. 'Who is she???!!', dear, skinny Nikki. God love her. Superfan Brian with the super blue eyes (are they in fact contact lenses?), tourettes Pete, controversial Jade, Alex the door singer, Kinger the minger... the list goes on and on. ..


No, these aren't movers and shakers. They haven't secured world peace or goodwill to all men. But they put themselves on live television and let us laugh at them - that takes a good amount of guts or masses of stupidity.

I hope they don't go too crazy with the format tonight, our last opening night ever. Dermot should definitely come back for a cameo. The housemates should neither be too out there nor too ordinary. Rationing should be, well... rationed. Come on C4 - it's the last one - lavish them in champers and food, for next year, we will be destitute.

I'm only watching it this year because it's the last one. Now that's good marketing ... Enjoy. x

A standing ovation for the world's worst excuse

I feel compelled to write about this.

84% of pregnant women have been forced to stand on their commute to/from work because other commuters don't give up their seats. This according to Mothercare owned gurgle, which also highlight that most other commuters blame not knowing whether the woman is pregnant or simply carrying a little extra weight.

I've never been pregnant. But I know what a pregnant tummy looks like. And it doesn't look like fat.

It seems to be the group mentality. Once 5, 10, 20 seconds has passed without someone offering up a seat, everyone sits soundly in the knowledge that everyone else also had their chance to be chivalrous.

Frequently on my latterly commutes from East Sussex into London I would leave my window seat to offer pregnant women my seat, having to displace the odd young man on the aisle seat as I did it. No excuse.

One time a young woman fainted right into my arms as we stood by the train door pulling off from London Bridge station. I helped her up, collected the girl's belongings for her and had to actually ask a fellow commuter to give her their seat. Which they did, grudgingly.

What is it about the commute which does this to people? We've got a few bumps in the office this summer - spring certainly had an affect down here in Cornwall - and I'd be mortified to think of them standing on their way into work.