guilty pleasures
It wasn’t supposed to happen. I don’t willingly watch trash reality TV. Yet last night I arrived home just as tje second hous-ey was entering the Big Brother House, and I was hooked in seconds.
The thing is always a freak show, but this year they’ve excelled themselves:an Albino Negro; A Politics Student who’s channelling George Formby (that’s the Uke player, right? As opposed to the Geill salesman/ I still get them mixed up); Two muslims - one a refugee who claims “Everywhere I go, civil war breaks out” (I predict the house’ll look like Mogadishu within a month) - and an immigrant baiting militant vegetarian anti-abortionist Catholic. Who believes in spirits, ghosts and the fact that she may be psychic. So fully aware of the disparity between her espoused Catholicism and her new-agey-ism. It goes on and on and climaxes with a Thai Massage Therapist like something dreamed up by Messrs Walliams and Lucas.
I probably won’t watch it as religiously as I last night, in between bouts of laughter so intense they left skid marks, predicted I would.
But I will watch it. Call it a guilty pleasure, like the fact that, on the train home last night, I read an article on Josh Groban whilst listening to Linda Eder on my iPod.
Josh, Linda and Big Brother. Christ, how 40 year old Suburban Housewife is that?