Honking Box Review: Big Brother 8 Launch

You know, it's actually scary to consider how many of the Big Brother cliches mentioned in our glossary were uttered throughout last night's launch episode. Every year, you can rely on the consistency of that neverending supply of fame-hungry imbeciles willing to throw themselves to the lions. Fingers crossed it never dries up.

So, what of this year's Housemates? The all-female twist is certainly an interesting one - and would have been even more so had it not been leaked by the scabloids - although could get old real quick. And not least because of the actual selection of ladies chosen to inhabit the day-glo asylum...

Sam and Amanda - effectively Lauren Laverne split in two, sneezed upon by Claire's Accessories, and possessed by Chip 'n' Dale - have already proven to be criminally annoying, and are likely to last approximately half an hour. Annoying on a somewhat different level is so-called 'rave hippy' Tracey, who at this stage, appears to be equal parts Donny Tourette and Jackiey Budden.

While we'd rarely condone the booing of Housemates before they've even entered the house, it was hugely amusing to see self-appointed It Girl Charley jeered for not having a job. Perhaps this is the start of a new national pastime - hordes of loons waving banners sporting Scott Mills Show in-jokes gathered outside the Social Security office, hollering pantomime abuse at anyone trudging in to sign on.

The opening note alone of Truesteppers' Out Of Your Mind invoked a high-pitched squeal of Spice-related excitement. Had we known it was to illustrate someone named Chanelle, we might have held back. That said, we feel a strange affinity with Chanelle - as one of the three other people to own Victoria Beckham's criminally underrated first album, it's difficult to feel anything other than unfaltering solidarity.

But our favourite at this early stage is 60-year-old Lesley, whose expression began to scream "what am I fucking DOING?" louder and louder as yet one fuckwit dolly-bird after another tottered through the front door on glittery heels. But we feel the entire night is summarised in a text received from a friend approximately 45 minutes in: "I am dry-wretching watching these sad scutters", a sentiment presumably echoed by the majority of the viewing audience. And yet, we'll nonetheless be glued to the box once the lone male enters Oestrogen Towers on Friday. Let the dry-wretching commence.