First published 19th January 2007 on

Welcome back to the regular mixture of flaky reportage, flawed opinion and crap jokes, slightly bloated cos it’s catching up on a whole weekend’s worth of numbskullduggery.

Friday night, and the wind blowing tumbleweeds around a deserted Elstree studio lot is a bizarre post-apocalyptic sight and I half expect to hear the final bars of “99 red balloons” by fuzzy pitted krautrockbitch Nena. Appropriately enough Davina appears to have dressed like a member of the Baader-Meinhoff gang to  underline the gravitas of the situation. She briskly informs us that we have the choice between voting by phone to evict either rubber-faced alleged cypto-facist Jade or delicate Eastern flower Shilpa because “that’s what democracy is all about”. Christ! The truly horrifying thought is that she might be right.

 We join the highlights with Shilpa informing a clearly shocked Jermaine of the coven’s late night farting competition . “You mean I was inhaling somebodies ass?” gasps Jermaine, making a mental note to ask his little brother the name of a good nose replacement surgeon when he gets out.

Big Brother calls Shilpa into the diary room and finally starts living up to it’s Orwellian promise by coercing her into a full apparently scripted  retraction of any sort of racist shenanigans in the house, an arse-covering soundbite rendered meaningless by the fact that Shilpa did not hear any of the comments that kicked off the public hysteria.  Shilpa muses that Jade is probably a nice person “deep down in her heart” (pretty fucking deep).

Jack the Hatstand demonstrates his versatility and originality by emulating his girlfriend’s celebrated and “hilarious” geographical retardery with yet another slight to East Angular. After claiming that his parents went shooting in  Norfolk, he’s asked where Norfolk is and clearly has no idea. “I dunno, is it in Suffolk?”

Ian_TWFS tries to teach Shilpa a traditional Welsh song called “Pure Heart” about burning down English bastards’ holiday homes. She gets the words slightly muddled and giggles to which he cheekily asks “Are you taking the piss out of my culture…my roots and my language?”

Jade gets called to the headmaster’s office, I mean Diary room, where Big Brother continues her briefing of the situation “Listen very very carefully… Big Brother will not tolerate you using this language again.” (the warning appears to be based upon use of the word “poppadom”, so presumably using “fuckawalla” and being a bullying beastoid is fair enough. Now, I’m not 100% sure, but there’s a fair chance that if I ask at my local Bangledeshi restaurant for a plate of “vile racist taunts” with mango chutney and lime pickle, they won’t make the connection).  Jade denies being “racial” in any way, having only pulled a name out of the air based on “Indian food”.  Of course reducing a complex and varied culture to a foodstuff isn’t racist, as one could so easily refer to Jade and her mother as “bargain buckets” or “battered old fish flaps”.

Less than a minute later, Jade calls Shilpa into the garden for a meaningful and entirely unstaged “reconciliation”. As soon as Shilpa removes her pink fluffy anti-Nazi earmuffs, Jade admits her crispy bread based insult and apologises with the time-honoured justification,  “I can’t be racial, my mum has Indian friends all over the place”.

Whilst indoors Jo and Danielle ask Jack to go out to the garden and spy on proceedings, Jade again denies being racist, saying she was shocked with what she had said “when Big Brother read it” to her (well duh!). Shilpa manages to sweetly twist the salty knife by suggesting that “A lot of Indians have heard it. It’s not going to go down  well… sometimes you say things that you can’t take back.” They force a hug (with Jade beaming out a soap opera “off the hook” smile over Shilpa’s shoulder) and stroll back in together, a study in plastic harmony.

Back in the lounge Hatstand launches himself like a vile ratboy from the sinking Goody ship, announcing that he is “disappointed” in his celebrity meal ticket and wanksock.

Meanwhile, in Elstree, Davina stands in front of a row of obviously symbolic portaloos whilst announcing the nominees phone numbers again (is it my imagination or is there a sound dip during Shilpa’s number?)

A painful and unnaturally articulate (on Jade’s side) “kiss and make-up” is performed in the diary room, with each claiming to have learned things from the other. It has all the authenticity of snuff movie star Saddam Hussein’s photo-opportunity with that clearly terrified English child hostage during the first gulf war.

Later Jade returns to the DR for a redemptive blub saying she wants to leave, doesn’t want to be hated for the wrong reasons, and, like Vic and Bobs Man with the Stick, really misses her kids. That’ll be the kids she’s been mentioning every day in the house…oh.  In a genius display of point-missing she angsts about whether her “effing and blinding” has been blown out of proportion in the outside world. In contrast, Shilpa sweetly frets about any repercussions Jade may have to face, and refuses to discuss the reasons for this maelstrom of mentalism with any fellow housemate.

Nominations are finally announced as Shilpa and Jade, and a startled bunny-faced Danielle and hatchet-faced, vinegar-titted Jo look fearfully around, trying to assess who’s betrayed their queen bee. Jermaine and Shilpa seem somewhat less surprised. Later the stooges cuddle up in bed. “If you get out and see Teddy tell him I love him, ” pleads Danielle, earning her man a lifetimes worth of homophobic abuse in the changing room. Jade asks Shilpa if she can borrow her “cheering up” wings and the backing witches snigger (perhaps more acquainted with “brown” wings), Danielle in ambassadorial mode, adding that when they all come out they can visit Shilpa in Indian and “buy some saris”.

Suddenly a helicopter looms outside and the blinds are lowered. I half expect Dirk to go all “Apocalypse Now” and start wittering about Charlie being out there getting stronger and throw himself at the nearest mirror. No-one seems surprised about this intrusion, Cleo saying “you know why [it’s here]… certain things… that were said…accidentally”. I know how it feels, I meant to say “80 pence please” to a bus driver yesterday, and “accidentally” said “I hope you get raped by an angry AIDS baboon”. Happens to the best of us.

Face is drily amused by the obvious media interest, “At least we know the world doesn’t have any serious problems!” He finally lives up to his fugititive past and suggests breaking the window, claiming “NIce guys finish last.” Go Face! (But don’t give yourself a hernia). He and Ian_TWFS discuss making an action film based on his past glories, where a team of “macho guys” come out of the closet. There could even be a Liza Minelli soundtrack. Yes it’s the “GAY team”. It’s not just me that can do rubbish puns folks.

Friday’s task involves the housemates making musical style noises to accompany Rossini’s William Tell Overture, although it bears more than a passing resemblance to the Elvis graveside acapella scene in Spinal Tap. Afterwards Jo curls up on the sofa, a drip forcing pressurised Tesco sherry into her hungry veins. “Just a little top up, it makes me happy,” she growls contentedly.

The other housemates suspecting that something may be up from the subtle but ominous clues (such as the fuck-off Sky Helicopter hovering overhead and a visitation by the ghost of Nazi hunter Simon Wiesenthal) sit in the lounge with Jade; Ian_TWFS amusingly cheating at 20 questions in order to ascertain the nature of the problem “Let me guess, does the word begin with “R”?” Jade fears booing and rejection from the crowd as well as crucifixion by the press and the loss of her career. Well at least there isn’t a crowd, which Jade already seems to have miraculously sussed. “I know why there’s no noise, but I can’t tell you”.

Jade is evicted to silence and not exactly universal disbelief. Some reports say that Davina’s interview was deliberately soft due to her sharing Jade’s agent, although it came across as probably the best one I’ve seen her do (not saying much), perhaps because she lets the news reports and footage speak for themselves, and doesn’t attempt to help Jade justify her actions. A gobsmacked despite being obviously forewarned Jade struggles to salvage what credibility she ever had, like a wildebeest swimming through crocodile-invested treacle, claiming that she wasn’t being racial or saying anything in a cruel way. “But Jade, it was in a cruel way. You didn’t like Shilpa,” points out Davina gently but firmly, before wisely moving on to condemn the pack mentality of the muggerbabes.  Stunningly, given the situation, Jade attempts to highlight the things that Shilpa said to her, which Davina reminds her was her first reaction to the group after several days of being treated like shit. Finally a contrite (i.e. beaten) Jade states that she’s “disgusted” in her behaviour and she can’t blame the edit; Davina says she’s been a “controversial” housemate (rather than “amayzing!”) and introduces “the story of [Jade’s] time in the house”  (rather than “highlights”) to a chorus of boos from the gaggle of technicians in the studio. Boy, Endemol know how to punish a bully. We can all sleep sound now.

Jade is perhaps as confused as the rest of us as to what it means to be branded a racist. For example, is it better to say “racist comedian Jim Davidson”, or cut through the crap with “that unfunny cunt, Jim Davidson”? Surely a proper racial hater wouldn’t be concerned about being identified as such? Arguably her main mistake has been to continue the feud her mother started with Shilpa. However for reflecting the fact that we still live in a society where small-minded people can use ethnic or cultural differences and misapprehensions as part of a bullying campaign that might not be initially solely motivated by racist bigotry, someone has to pay, and it’s clear from the frankly terrifying “Ding dong The Nazi Werepig is dead” style headlines from the weekend’s tabloids (and that was just her nan) that Jade was always going to be Endemol’s and our scapegoat. Perhaps in years to come we’ll be comparing her to Jesus and wearing little piggy pendants (wobbly heads and one trotter pointing aggressively) from Argos.

Back in the house Jack shoots Shilpa an evil look, but from his dead-eyed, slack jawed face it has all the impact of a baby chimp impersonating Leo Sayer flipping the finger.

Cleo (who continues to metamorphose into Fanny Craddock, baking cookies and generally mothering the housemates with a fixed rictus grin) exclaims that they all “must look after Jack”, who poses expressionless in the kitchen. By next week expect her to start breastfeeding him whilst he dribbles through every orifice (in fact later this weekend she actually BURPS a drunken Danielle. So it starts). As the girls crowd round Jack offering sympathy there is a faint and eminently punchable Jude Law smugness playing about his lips.

In the bedroom, Danielle sensing it’s time for some positive PR manages to covincingly behave like a two-faced ubercunt by explaining to Shilpa how “it was silly of Jade to say them things” and presenting her role as being that of a naïve young good-hearted girl led astray by the evil svengali-like powers of Jade. “You can even cook me a curry. And you can pick the onions out with your fingers, “she continues digging, ever the diplomat.

Moments later back in the lounge with Jo, Danielle’s blank little John Boy Walton face is blurred with tears and terror. She confides in Cleo that the situation has scared her “not just for Jade.” “Is it something you said?” asks Cleo warily. “No, er well not things I might’ve said… well yeah I suppose so” says Danielle, like a hoodie warrior getting an asbo at Liverpool>. “I was there when Jade said those things…does that make me look bad?” (not at all, although I can’t comment on what being a casually racist vacuous, hard-faced, tenuous-fame-whore does for you).

The next morning “Man in the Mirror” is piped into the house as a wake-up call (in both an alarm clock and a spiritual sence presumably, although it could just be to remind them all that spotty, greasy haired camera-geeks are observing them whilst they floss) . Faceman shows some pretty nifty dance moves with Cleo, whilst Shilpa reprises her wacko tribute act by staggering around wearing huge shades, hair straggling over her face.

Saturday morning and the opening yells of the late great wifebeating nutter James Brown’s Sex Machine puncture the household peace, amusingly scaring the living crap out of Ian_TWFS.

Face bullshits happily that he hasn’t had a shower for 4 days, earning the epithat “Dirty Dirk”. Whilst Jo and Danielle express disgust, he goes on to explain how his sweaty masculine musk could mesmerise even (or especially) a lesbiotic nun at fifty paces. Jo retorts that “A man that didn’t have a wash in 3 or 4 days wouldn’t excite me” (It would if it was Fatima Whitbread Jo). Asked whether he misses anything from the outside, Face deadpans “I miss my porn mags”, but admits he’s only playing when Jo and Danielle ask for the lurid details.

Jack_twat_hat_ratboy’s pants stick limply to the bathroom floor to the consternation of Shilpa, who ultimately excuses him as “He’s a very lost boy” (no he’s a sickening, viral incubus).

A misjudged campaign against the Faceman starts to brew amongst the remaining bitchtards and Cleo, who sneer patronisingly as they watch him skip and claim to be sending signals to the outside world. When he emerges to sarcastic applause fresh from the shower, he responds to Shilpa’s request for a (hopefully not rohypnol strength) sniff-test by looming over her for an innocent back-feel and prat-fall. “I will have my way with you” he teases archly. Slowly the slapperettes ensure that the banter becomes more sexual, and secretly plot to set up Face with Cleo.

Danielle and Cleo mock his muskiness and ask for his best chat-up line. Rather reluctantly Face claims he ignores the laydeez and they come a running, a tactic Jack attests to, as apparently “it works in clubs” (you’ve got to hang your coat somewhere eh girls?).

Cleo decides that the best way to teach Faceman a lesson for not fancying her is to dress up like a scary zebra-frocked, scarlet bewigged slagnasty and clumsily come onto him using a bizarrely shit cockney accent, like the world’s crappest Kat Slater tribute prostitute displaying all the respect for personal space of a coked up Emu. Whilst Face slumbers merrily on the couch, like my dad but without the unconscious flatulence, Cleo pounces upon him, all “Ello dahling, suck you off for a tenner, I fackin love you I do! The more you ignore me the more you love me” etc. etc.  Meekly he pleads for her to “Stop”, yet still this sinister charade of sexual mindgamery persists. “Go on, give us a smacker” she cries to which Face responds “I’ll give you a smacker all right. Get your fat ass off the couch”,sparking an international incident about wifebeatery and misogyny. Not really, because that would be a silly over-reaction and could never happen. With a swaggering display of wounded-dignity, Face exits, with Cleo’s mocking taunts and promises that she loves lentils ringing in his weary ears. She pursues him through the house and garden, oblivious to his requests that she leave him be, until Shilpa uses a rubbish subterfuge (“erm I want to ask you how you did that makeup… in the toilet”) to drag Cleo to her lavatory haven and beg her to desist in harrassing the Face. Immediately Cleo excuses her creepy sexpestery by claiming that Faceman has dished it out but can’t take it. Erm. Words fail me, as even the men I know who fantasised in their youth about Cleo’s knockers would have been terrified limp by this overtly aggressive show.

“It wasn’t being ‘playful'” Face correctly surmises to Ian_TWFS later (ironically echoing the thoughts of groped women everywhere.) He adds glumly that it’s “Only a week. I could live with Hitler for a week” (if she hadn’t already been evicted).

Meanwhile Danielle chortles as she “playfully” suggests putting chilli powder into Face’s shorts and underpants; “He’s opened himself up for torture now”, Jo gleefully adds.

Cleo (showing all the sanity of an aging doll collector) in the diary room states that Faceman’s response to ‘Tiara’ (Cleo’s non-comedy character, that disturbingly she refers to as a real person) proves he has “zero” sense of humour.

In Nowhere-land Shilpa attempts to comfort the mortified Face – who wears the demeanor of a slapped…er.. face. – by claiming that the girls are just bored. To the molested Faceman that’s no excuse, “I told her to STOP”, he validly bleats. “If I was teasing you and you said stop, you stop. Right?” The Face says “No means No”. It’s gone from “potential racists” to “potential rapists” in the house in the matter of days. I predict an outbreak of rabies next.

In the bedroom Jermaine and Shilpa despair of this fresh reign of wankerdom. “Why can’t they be fair and balanced, “complains Jermaine. “Like CNN News, ” he guffaws. As the self-appointed piper of peace he approaches Cleo and pleads for sanity vis-à-vis the threat of spicypantsgate.  She immediately justifies herself with mock disgust at “an old man talking about porn to young girls”. IS it just me or a world crying “oh for fucksake!”?

Cleo now seems to have assumed control of the coven and discusses how close to “cracking” Faceman is with Jo. Cleo knows the look of a man on the edge of insanity and loves it; “It’s so close…best to take the route that we’re not to blame”. “Crack – Motherfucker!” cackles Jo.

In the diary room Faceman admits the whole not showering/porno thing was just taking the piss, and plans to stay out of everyone’s way (especially Cleo, who he amusingly describes as “a desperate woman acting out her frustation and despair and loneliness”) for evah.

Jermaine and Face continue their garden bonding, the latter predicting public opinion of them; “those guys who sit under the heaters every night. Get rid of them. They’re duds.” They laugh. Someone should buy them matching rocking chairs and blankets really.

At the same time Cleo and Jo dissect the Face and his supposed “attitude” towards women. Hell hath no fury like a Cleo scorned; “He’s an old man under the illusion that he’s still attractive to women”, she spits (as opposed to a woman of ambiguous age under the illusion that she’s a hilarious minx – I’d go for the granddad). Jo claims that Face’s “problem is that he doesn’t have any manners”, rich coming from a woman who’s finishing school was Dog Borstal. Shilpa (who sadly remains present whilst the bitchpack hone in, lets loose that Face was “impotent at 29” – (ouch – he’ll thank you for sharing that one). Full of good intentions she then mentions his cancer and his wife leaving him. “I’d have left him an’all,” spits Jo.

Whilst Face curls up in bed, the girls get pissed and play table footy, Danielle’s screeches of joy reverberating round the house like the amplified death throes of a scouse pterodactyl. Their giggling twattery continues in the bedroom, with them taking turns to push each other onto Face’s bed. All a bit of a laff innit?


“I’m a prick. I dunno why I put myself back in ere.” (Jade sees the light)

 “I’m not spiteful and not on purposeful nasty…but I can be because I’m stubborn.” (Jade explains herself to Shilpa).