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.
Smile.
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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