Have You Ever Thought How You Would Fare on ‘Big Brother’?
I reckon I would last three weeks until I got evicted. I would probably want to leave after one day, but I think I would be voted out by the housemates and the public three weeks in. I’d even go to Ladbrokes and put my life savings on it before hand.
Why three weeks?
Because that’s how long I think I could hold up the façade of a) being nice to everyone b) listening to other peoples problems without telling them to grow the fuck up and c) without succumbing to depression and it all turning very ugly, very quickly.
Not that I would ever stand a chance of getting on Big Brother. Not that I would ever actually try to get on it, but if I did, the odds are stacked against me being rejected after they glanced at my bio:
Job: A penny a word copywriter
Number of cosmetic surgery procedures: Nil
Number of tattoos and piercings: NIL
Number of footballers/celebrities/X factor contestants shagged: NIL
Opinions on anything: NIL
Reason for coming on BB: To get more Instagram followers looking at shite photos of my garden
I honestly don’t think they would be biting my hand off to have me on the show, do you?
But let’s say they did. Let’s say that they really wanted a 36-year-old copywriter from Ealing with not much of an opinion on anything unless it affects her directly (and even then, if it can be solved by a can of Stella, it can be let go) on their show. How would it go?
Entering the house:
I would come onto canned cheers. And I guess cheers from the friends who I’d got to come along on the promise of a childfree night out with lots of booze. God, what would I wear? Would they have a stylist to help me out? I bloody hope so, because I wouldn’t have a clue. I would probably look like a Victorian schoolteacher in comparison to all the other young things with their boobs out.
I would like to be the fifth person to enter the house; being the first one in would be awful. I’d be expecting it all to be a big joke and having to be locked in there on my own with Zombies clawing at the door.
Walking down the stairs into the house, my only thought would be “don’t fall over, don’t fall over DON’T FALL OVER”. I’d be staring intently at my feet and glaring a bit, because I am a bit blind and refuse to wear glasses because I am a twat like that. I doubt anyone in the house already would notice my expression though; they would be too busy judging my hair, which if I’d been outside and there was a tiny bit of wind/drizzle/heat, anything really would look like I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards.
I would introduce myself and do the whole air kissing and hugging thing, which makes me really uncomfortable at the best of times and would be inwardly cringing. I would also instantly forget everyone’s names and be a little too eager to get on the booze to drown out my nerves. My one over riding thought would be “Christ, I bet people I knew at school are watching and saying I look fat”.
The sleeping situation:
Oh good God, what if I had to share a bed? I don’t do being close to strangers. I wouldn’t even share a bed with a close friend – I’m not even that keen on sharing a duvet with my own husband. What if they stank? What if they farted? What if I farted? I’d have to try and bag a single bed.
I am a big, fat pig who likes to eat, so I’d see my time in the Big Brother house as the perfect time to diet. I would have to be the one who did most of the cooking as I have HUGE issues with food that other people have cooked. Especially girls covered in fake tan with huge, long hair extensions who shag footballers for a living. Could you imagine if one of their fake nails or a fake eyelash fell off into the spag bol? No, I’d have to cook, which incidentally, I am quite good at, so I might win friends that way.
I don’t argue. Ever. Life is too short for that shit, and it that would be especially true when on Big Brother. Other people would argue, but I would try to stay neutral and well out of it. I’d enjoy the show though – I’d be sat out on the chairs in the garden with wine and a fag watching it all kick off through the window.
Of course there would be people that I didn’t get on with, no matter how hard that fake smile was plastered on my face. I wouldn’t faff about and be all “oh, this is so hard, I love them all”, I would just say the names. I wonder how much the producers goad you into slagging them off though? I’d take being nominated well I think. Not everyone would like me and I am okay with that.
The bathroom situation:
If you thought I was bonkers about sleeping arrangements, I am even worse with bathrooms. I would probably come out to Flash wanting me to be in their commercials, as I would have to meticulously scrub the shower and sink before I used them each time. I would probably come across as a bit mad at that point.
I’m not going to lie, here: I’d be shit at most of them. I’m more of a sit-on-my-arse-and-have-a-chat kind of person than a doing actual-physical-stuff kind of person. I wouldn’t be able to employ my well known tactic of getting out of forced fun, which is to hide at the bar or in the bathroom until it’s all over.
Anything involving any physical activity I would come last in, anything about general knowledge my mind would go blank and I could come across as thick as two short planks. Although, let’s face it, it’s Big Brother, not the fucking Krypton Factor, so I doubt I’d be the worst one in there.
See, now this is where being in a house with cool, young twenty something people would be a very good thing indeed. They could do my hair and make up and maybe lend me a dress that didn’t come from the H&M sale in 2006.
Walking down those stairs, while smiling, waving, trying not to look like a twat all while trying not to fall over would be the hardest thing I have ever had to do. If I was wearing heels, I don’t think I’d stand a chance of getting out of there without a broken leg. Still, it would guarantee the front page of every news paper in the morning, right? Who knows, I might even get some writing work out of it.