Every year, we all do it. Another horrific run of Big Brother comes to an end, and we swear blind it'll be the last one we watch. And yet, the lure of Launch Night is always too big a temptation to resist. So join us as we herald another summer of ultimate car crash television, as Big Brother reaches double figures. Or, if you wisely choose to ignore Series 4, 8 and 9, its seventh birthday.20:56
...it's also Jade Goody's birthday tomorrow, incidentally. Somehow, the soulless leeches at Endemol missed a trick there. They could have scheduled the two to coincide, and unveiled a tasteless statue outside the house that at least three housemates dry-humped on their way in.
20:57
Jesus wept! The show's not even begun yet, and Davina McCall's increasingly unbearable squawk has already damaged the eardrums of approximately a third of the viewers. Which, considering the lack of buzz this series has gathered thus far, is probably about 11 people. Keep hitting refresh for updates, by the way, if you're one of the merry few joining us live.
21:01
Opening titles are a typical mess of abstract flashes. Davina's dress looks like a wipe-clean latex purchase from the cordoned-off area of Ann Summers.
21:05
We see that the house is filled with crates rather than furniture, and features a SHOCK!TWIST! phone, which will probably never amount to anything, much like the 'target that housemates MUST NOT stand on' a couple of years back. First housemate in is a posho named Freddie, who's getting booed horribly and is wearing a particularly cunty hat.
21:08
Freddie looks rather like Screech from
Saved By The Bell. Meanwhile, we meet #2 - an advertisement against lesbianism named Lisa. Christ, will they ever cast just one lone gay housemate that doesn't invoke wild homophobia in the most open-minded of individuals?
21:11
Oh look. A FUCKING PROMO GIRL. We haven't had one of THOSE in
Big Brother before, have we? Admittedly, it's an industry that gave us Aisleyne, but come on, Endemol! Think outside the box! Sophie, which is the name attached to this seemingly-irrelevant vacuum of peroxide and implants, isn't even getting a frosty reception from the crowd. They just sound like they can't be arsed.
21:19
The wide shot reveals the crowd to be rather sparse this year. Let's hope, however, enough of them have brought tomatoes to hurl at Kris, who's the fourth in. The last Kris to enter a reality show robbed the bloody thing off what would've been an awesome winner. This does not bode well. He calls himself a visual merchandiser, which means he goes round straightening things on shelves and hangers. Mind you, it's for All Saints, which means he probably goes round scrunching things up and making it look like it needs a good iron. His hair is
vile.
21:24
Noirin is an Irish girl, who's getting roundly booed on account of being quite pretty. Is she the same Noirin that went out with Isaac in
Real World: Sydney? Probably not. Mind you, whoever pays
that much attention to
Real World?
21:27
Next in is Cairon, who has somehow adopted the voice of Darnell from last year's series. He dresses like a circus clown who's rebelling against the ringmaster, and has a tiger stuffed in his back pocket. Does that signify a particular sexual preference, like different coloured hankerchiefs?
21:32
An advert for Brothers Cider, which is by far and away the most appealing prospect to present itself since this show began half an hour ago. The strawberry one in particular is all kinds of awesome, even if it does look as though you're drinking a pint of Cherry Tango. But we digress. Isn't it funny how non-existent an 'event' vibe this year's launch night has? Has the public finally had its fill, or are we just a nation of skeptics?
21:35
A Russian character named Angel is the next to grace our screens. Their gender, however, has yet to be determined.
21:38
Angel has come dressed as the video for
I Write Sins, Not Tragedies by Panic At The Disco. Which is shit, incidentally. "I love you all," she says. "Meh..." says humankind.
21:41
And we have our first self-proclaimed 'bitch' of the evening! Surely that means the first "I'm like Marmite, you either love me or hate me" within a few minutes, followed by "I always speak my mind" and the inevitable "I'm mad, me!" before the next break. Karly is unemployed, vain, and swiftly steals the blonde, cleavagey scutter crown from Sophie.
21:45
A bizarre mixture of sexless metalhead and gym twat named Marcus is the next one in, and he's somehow garnered the best reception of the evening thus far. Cairon doesn't seem to know what to make of him, which, in fairness, you can't really blame him for.
21:50
Are we being excessively negative about this year's housemates, or are they really as bad as they seem? Admittedly, not a single one has had an intro VT that's even remotely complimentary. As if to prove the point, meet Beinazir, a gobby Muslim bird with a generous dose of attitude. She carries a greater promise of action than any other housemate we've seen tonight, and yet, her VT shows her as little more than hugely unpleasant. We like Beinazir.
21:55
Pint-sized Sophia is next in, and in fairness, she seems quite good value for money. Her laugh is hilarious. Estimated time before laugh stops being hilarious and starts being eye-gougingly hateful = 30 minutes.
21:56
We were wrong. It was 30 seconds.
21:59
Rodrigo, an insanely smiley Brazilian boy who looks about 13, is the next to enter. Having a sunny disposition won't get you very far round
these parts, buddy.
22:02
And before we know it, another awful gay is heading housewards. A Kafka-esque mash-up of Brian Dowling and that gormless Dale one from last year, Charlie sprints into the house without a second's pause for the gathered paparazzi. Well, now that's something positive to say about him, at least. The directors JUST HAPPEN to leave the camera lingering on Rodrigo, because, of course, the gays will inevitably fall in love and bum each other in the Diary Room.
22:09
What the hell kind of name is Saffia? It sounds a bit like Saffy, but also a bit like labia. She seems nice enough, all things considered.
22:10
Oh, right. It's pronounced 'Sapphire'. How disappointing.
22:12
Sree is the next one in, and he's hoping to be an ambassador for India. Remember the last person to say that on their way in...? Incidentally, he'll be sharing a house with a dental nurse and any number of chavs. Daily Mail readers, best put Ofcom on your speed dial.
22:16
You know that old 'save the best for last' adage? Well, that's just been pissed upon from a great height via the final entrant, Siavash. He has a tosspot moustache which he twirls regularly, is clad in a hideous blue suit making him look like Sweet from
Once More With Feeling, and he claims Usher once told him "he is the man." Well, Usher once asked
us how to pronounce 'Ronan Keating', so nerrr.
22:20
To think someone in the crowd has gone to the trouble of heading down Hobbycraft to pick up a colossal sheet of bright pink cardboard, gone hell-for-leather with what must have been dozens of glitter pens, and dragged it all the way to Hertfordshire. Saying "RIP Jade Goody." We can't decide whether that's hideously distasteful, or a thoughtful tribute.
22:25
Davina is wetting herself with excitement as she reveals the 'amazing twist' - just as well that dress is wipe clean, eh? Big Brother calls one housemate to the Diary Room, which looks like the test card as interpreted by a colourblind Picasso, and Rodrigo is the lucky individual. The sound guys need to get their shit together, because Big Brother sounds like a small child using an empty Pringles tube to do a Darth Vader impression.
22:27
The shock twist? Rodrigo has to shave off one housemate's eyebrows, and draw a curly moustache on their face. Obviously, the latter won't have any effect on Siavash. Is
this the best they could come up with?!
22:31
Noirin, God bless her, has put herself forward. Whether she actually understands what she's put herself forward for remains to be seen.
22:33
...Turns out she didn't know, after all. There are now tears. However, Noirin, along with Rodrigo, is now an official housemate, which guarantees further tears, further humiliation, and a nice spread in
Nuts.
22:37
And that's that. It's yet to be determined whether we've found anyone as awesome as Aisleyne, Alison or Anna; as crazy as Shahbaz, Ahmed or Nikki; or as downright loathsome as Grace, Charley or Tim. What we
do know, however, is that Davina McCall gets more and more annoying the longer she does this show; that housemates have finally figured out how to open the front door, as this is the first year it hasn't stumped at least half the entrants; and that the sinister cultural pull of
Big Brother is impossible to withstand, no matter how bad it gets. God help us.
We were going to use this little paragraph of nothingness prior to the Single Reviews this week to lay into Perez Hilton, but frankly there are more important matters at hand. Although, what can we say about Michael Jackson that hasn’t already been said? Perhaps that he would’ve wanted you to throw faeces at Perez Hilton, but it’s probably unfair to take advantage of his mourning fans. Shamone, MJ.
First up is Frankmusik, whose premature buzzwagon touted him as some sort of futuristic electro-deity. Epic fail, however – Confusion Girl reveals itself to be a lifeless boyband limerick, not dissimilar to something one might have expected from Big Fun or One True Voice, and aside from its Holly Valance cameo, doesn’t possess a single positive. Here’s hoping it was just a bad day at the studio.
Following the mightily superb Love You Better, we’re treated to yet another delight from the increasing (in volume and in quality) catalogue of The Maccabees. The faintly-military drums and contented, summery strummage of Can You Give It make it another prime example of superior British indie stalwartly standing tall amidst a sea of Lady Roux/La Boots/Little GaGa fly-by-night fuckwittery.
Scumwhores Anonymous – otherwise known as the Pussycat Dolls – give us another covert solo track from in-house megalomaniac Nicole Shitsinger, and this time [cue pause with sinister incidental music] they’ve gone disco. Hush Hush; Hush Hush not only brutally rapes the very idea of semi-colons, but samples I Will Survive, officially one of the worst five songs ever written. It’s music tailor-made to be hated.
And finally, scooping what feels like their 17th Single of the Week in a row, Kings of Leon not only paper over their, shall we say, weaker moments (*cough* The Charmer *cough*) but justly cement themselves as a true force of rock. Notion is vastly melodious, yet simultaneously boasts the inimitable edge as displayed in Sex On Fire that finally won us over. Kings of Leon, 1. The Sloppy Dog, 0. Sometimes being wrong pwns.
