I’ve strangely been drawn to this year’s Celebrity Big Brother like a wanking dogger to a Ford Focus smelling of Joop in the woods. Not proper addicted like in the grand old days of Dirk Fucking Benedict or even Vanessa Feltz, but if you were going to watch one documentary this winter about unsavoury people who haven’t worked for ages living in the same place – then surely this one beat Benefits Street in the reality stakes.
The remaining panto-rejects in the final consist of
A Cabbage Patch Doll with implants and extensions (Casey).
Stage School Rat Boy Dappy
Apprentice 2013 Arch Villainess or Cup Cake Entepreneur Just Keeping it Real? Luisa (or should that be Boo-eesa, given the crowd’s reaction to her name)
Rupert Everett with a personality bypass (Ollie)
The bastard child of Gillian Taylforth and Aqua Marina from Stingray (Sam)
The nation’s favourite cuddly bigot (Jim)
Emma Willis welcomes back the contractually obliged loser housemates through pissing down rain and jeers from the standard Big Brother crowd of arsehats. Only Liz Jones (dressed as a goth Una Stubbs) and dapper Lionel Blair eschew the standard issue clear plastic brolly and work it baby down the miserable damp cakewalk of shame.
There’s final House of Tools footage of the remaining clebs tucking into a Tesco Finest Last Supper and toasting each other with bland niceties (Casey and Sam), faux Hugh Grant declarations of lurve (Ollie to Sam), references to dead Dads (a very well scrubbed up Dappy) and graciously accepting the role of Politically Incorrect House Daddy whilst thanking god for telly shows (Jim). Apart from Luisa who manages to chuck in sharpened double edged compliments “Sam I thought you’d be dumb… Ollie, I thought you’d be a trustafarian.. I thought I’d hate Dappy.. but I didn’t.” before concluding that you should “judge a book by it’s cover”, despite the fact that most of the celebs in there would pre-judge a book as being dull and worthless simply by virtue of it looking like a book.
Out in 6th place is Casey who giggles her way cutely and apologetically through her exit interview garnering boos for Lidl Love Rat Lee Ryan and sighs from viewers despairing of her inability to realise she was being “mugged off” by the world’s shittest lothario until her mum came in to tell her. Her best bits consist of her flashing her tits or crying. A role model for young women everywhere.
Whilst Jim anticipates his depressingly almost certain victory by donning a baseball cap and pulling non comedy faces, Emma announces that in 5th place is (predictably) Sam, who after admitting that much of TOWIE is “edited” (no shit?) to create a narrative, then suggests she might have feelings for Ollie (presumably if Channel 5 can pay for them to do an in depth follow up on their magical “lurve” story).
The nation have decided they hate all women so out in 4th place is Luisa to a crescendo of twattish baying from the mob. “I don’t bullshit” declares the feisty yet slightly emotionally retarded Essex girl in that time honoured tradition of annoying people mistaking being a twat for “being honest”. She’s all non je ne regrette about having a pop at Ollie (he’s too “sensitive” and “wouldn’t say boo to a ghost” (?)) and her spat with Lionel (“He ate the FUCKING chocolates” she screeches, before promising a nervous about sweariness Emma not to drop the C bomb). That’s Luisa, as she herself says, she’s like marmite. Full of waste vegetable matter and yeasty?
So it’s down to the top 3, and bizarrely I find myself rooting for Dappy to win, despite him wearing shades indoors and shaking like a shitting dog. What world of wrongness have I entered?
In third place, tediously, it’s Ollie, fake tan dripping in the rain and hopefully dyeing the crowds trainers brown. He nice but dim’s his way through the obligatory chat with Emma, with his quiff going all flopsy when he talks about taking the “beautiful Sam” out for dinner (probably the only way he’d be taking her), before heading off to snort something expensive off a dwarves bottom with a bloke called Tarquin, or something.
So we’re down to the final two, and Jim’s smug face has somehow lasted almost 4 weeks without cracking.
And the winner is:
To nobody’s amazement.
The nation has spoken and they like the way a reformed wife-beating racist misogynist gagsmith & crap sitcom-star Toryboy with a dash of 12 steps cod psychobabblosophy’s jib is cut. To be honest when I was about five I loved Jim Davidson. That was before I realised that the Chalky White character that made him the darling of 1970s telly was not actually about a man made out of chalk with a silly voice. I had quite a sheltered life.
Dappy stops eating his hand in anguish and, the pressure suddenly off, saunters casually to the runner’s up interview. I’ve haven’t seen someone look so relieved to come second since my wedding night. He’s still all arms and legs and stupid backwards baseball cap like Kermit the Frog crossed with Norman Wisdom via Mickey Pierce from Only Fools and Horses. “All I know is chickpeas and blooming tin tomatoes” he blusters twitchily, presumably spotting his dealer in the crowd . He’s still grieving for his dad and says he’s learned to separate the real him (Costas – that explains the shakiness, all that coffee) from Dappy. His highlights feature him being a twat in more hats than Jamiroquai could shake a jester’s bell at.
Jim emerges to a Nuremburg-esque blanket of quenelles and sieg heils. Well to cheers and, ironically, monkey noises. His quiet yet desperate joy as he senses a lifebelt being thrown to his career is oddly infectious. Surely a run of soul destroying Loose Women appearances awaits (one show that Jim could add a much needed liberal counterbalance to).
As the winner’s interview starts, I find myself at first rather nastily hoping for him to slip in a “nick nick” or say something utterly indefensible – just to see the horror on Emma’s lovely face, but annoyingly he does a good job. He refers to being “unavoidably detained” from appearing on the show last year (back when plod’s spell checker mistakenly branded him a rapist). “Truth will conquer all” Jim says sagely, still clearly smarting from the sex-pest allegations. I do enjoy his grumpy highlights (“Roll on death”, Big Brother: “How could this evening improve for you?” Jim: “I could die”). Given the performance and restraint he put in over the weeks, maybe he deserves his place in the Limelight of Channel 5 I start thinking, and then they show that clip of him stirring it up over vengeful banshee Linda Nolan’s dead husband (“Ask her about Frank Carson’s dressing room?”) and I remember he’s still a bit of an unpleasant twat. So still probably a fitting winner.
And that’s it for 2014’s Celebrity Big Brother – the year I shall always remember as being the one where, by default Liz Jones somehow became my favourite Housemate. And you can’t get weirder than that.
Best (most apt) quote of the series:
“I’m the only wanker looking like a fucking dickhead” – Lee Ryan