Big Brother Is Back. My Brain Has Smushed Out Of My Nose To Escape.

It had gone forever.

Full, layered, decent people danced in the street. Weapons of war were placed down, replaced by ice creams and kittens. Joy spilled out of previously dark and cold corners of the world.
Now it’s back and my heart weeps into my soul, smearing its thick mucus over my souls sweater. I am talking, of course, of Big Brother.

Why did you do it Channel 5? Why. Apart from money and viewing figures, a more prominent place in the schedules, advertising revenue and an army of sedated clowns, what can this achieve? Oh, right. I see. Well I had hoped that you would show a little more maturity than that, for some reason. I had hoped that you’d see what a painfully bad decision this is. Think of the children Godamnit. The children.

I had actually managed to completely avoid any of the build up to this moment. Possibly because I haven’t watched anything on 5 for ages, which is probably why they’re broadcasting this nonsense, which is definitely why I’m writing this, which is possibly raising the profile of Big Brother. Which is a terrible thought. A little bit of sick has just appeared in my mouth. Apparently there’s been quite a heavy advertising campaign surrounding the relaunch. Apparently it shall be a celebrity based opening series. Apparently people still give a single, solitary shit. Surely the only sort of ‘celebrity’ left that would agree to appear is the Only Way Is Essex sort, and they’re not celebrities. They’re barely human beings. I personally guarantee that nobody in that Hell House will be likeable, with the exception of perhaps one outsider desperate for the money who was previously alright. Previously, because the second he or she is associated with a Geordie voice over and that horrible, ear drum offending theme music, they will be universally hated. By me. And that’s all that really matters. To me.

What really grates is the fact that hundreds of thousands of people like me – normal, angry, bitter, disillusioned, fearsomely average people like me – will be forced to listen to the mind numbingly dull water-cooler discussions in the workplace. Did I see so-and-so snuggling up with whatsisname? Have I read about thingamebobs tear-away childhood? Is this possibly the subject most bereft of worth and interest? I’m sorry, my brain has smushed itself out of my nose, becoming a useless paste in the process, in order to escape just one second of this nightmare. I would literally rather watch an entire series of ‘Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps’. Literally.

I know I’m not alone, but I am clearly part of a minority. A minority that will surely throw down their young cats and Cornettos, take up arms and rise up to overthrow their oppressors. I call the shovel. But my brave, true, non-dribbling friends: I have terrible news. We are part of the problem. I know, that doesn’t sound right, but it is, and actually we’re probably the bigger part. As minorities so often are (as someone on Big Brother might say). You see, by opposing this movement so strongly we give it merit. By providing a rigid, unmoving sounding board for the conversation to bounce off, we create the noise. We are the buzz. We are the publicity. We. Are.

So next time a heavy head turns to you – empty, soulless eyes burning into your clever – wipes away the drool and says something like “did you see it? Did you hear what Fucknuts said to Hasbeen about Talentlessvoid?”
Look up.


And leave.

But, crucially, don’t engage with them. Never engage. It only makes it harder to bring down the shovel.

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