MONDAY, 28 AUGUST, 2000, EDINBURGH

§pecial £ittle §ection ƒor µy ßritish Readers: <UK> A few words on this godamned ubiquitous Big Brother bullshyte. It’s constantly on the telley in every damn house I’ve been in for the last few weeks. And when it’s not on the television, it’s on everyone’s lips. You probably already know this but I feel behooved to point it out: it’s absolute tripe! Haggis! Rubbish! Stop wasting your time with it! Never has there been an assembly of more insipid, dull people doing dull, insipid things. Never has such dullness and insipidiferousness been so crassly over-marketed (with the possible exception of Madonna) and never have such mundane “TV stars” been more milked for suspense and all their worth. Sanctimonious prefacing completed, I now confess that I voluntarily watched the “week’s retrospective” last night, even though I’ve seen it, like, every day it’s been on for two weeks. I guess I should opine on the household, yah? You will be kind to not bring attention to my blushing. Tom was a boring git and the only point of him staying would have been if he and Craig had ventured into bum-banditry. Which wouldn’t happen because they’re both too straight, so I do not mourn the passing of Tom. Juju said (and I agree) that he doesn’t merit his good looks. Like he was sitting under a tree one day picking his nose and the Good Looks Fairy happened by and shat on him. Lucky Tom. Craig’s a four-year-old trapped in a well put together body, and that, as they say, is that. New girl Claire is not complimentary to her tits. What I mean is that she was obviously chosen because the Tit-Factor diminished after that hideous hippy-shit Nicola left the show and stopped bounding about the living room topless. Tits were replaced by Claire, but she’s not a very interesting vessle. She is merely a life-support device for her tits. She and Craig are made for each other, sadly. I like Anna. Only semi-intelligent creature in the house. Lesbian ex-nuns are a fetish, but I may only want her because I love to chase after the things unattainable. Mel’s gotta go, y’all. What an empty void of a manipulative, agenda-following parasite is catty ole Mel. Ever seen her actually do anything that wasn’t directly in tandem to furthering her sexo-political career qua the Big Brother show? “Someone rub my back. Someone give me a fag. Someone cook me something. Someone entertain me.” Someone kick my arse. See the one time she gave Tom a massage? So sad. Squish squish squish, missing all the vital pressure points or, I daresay, any muscles even. One-point-five minutes later, “I’m bored,” she says and promptly bangs Tom’s nose into the bedframe in her exuberance to stop having to actually do something. Utterly useless coont. (I don’t like her.) I haven’t voted yet, because I can’t be fucked to do so and 10p seems an extraordinary sum to invest in such uselessness, but I admit with abject humiliation that if Mel is nominated for eviction next week I’m calling her little 0900 number 10 damn times in a row, rapid-fire. It’s worth a pound to me if I can have a hand in ridding the media world of such a do-nothing-leech-whore-moon-pie-face-twat. So you see that I bash the show mightily, yet have fallen into it just the same, and thus I have become a BBC consumer. Yeek. Reluctant tip o’ the hat to the BBC marketing team. You turned shit into platinum. </UK> Kay. Thanks for letting me do that. I will not do it again. Well, probably not, anyway. Exploding toilet story forthcoming darlingtons. No time for it now — off for the café — but it involves the delicious smell of wet plaster, a wee tiny lady weeping with a cute, thick little Scottish accent about how “th’smail’s mickin’ me shick!” through big, moist globules of tears, and of course, many, many grogans!