Channel 9 took a gigantic swing for the fences when they decided to reboot the Big Brother concept this year, dragging it kicking and screaming from its languishing position in the Australian broadcasting wilderness. When the concept first launched in Australia in 2001 on Network Ten, it was the biggest ticket in reality television town, harking the arrival of reality TV en-masse to the Australian public.

I’m sure we all remember that rapidly ageing train-wreck of a presenter who used to steer the gigantic turd-float of human suffering otherwise known as BB down the collective throats of the Australian viewing public. Gretel Killeen was one of the most maladroit hosts ever employed by a television network, period. I’m surprised she could find her way to the fucking studio, she was that moronic. Killeen could’ve quite comfortably played The Wicked Witch of the West in the Broadway cast of the musical Wicked without the aid of prostheses for her nose and chin. All she’d need is some green face paint, a broomstick and a cloak and she’d be ready to go…

I don’t see how the Nine Network’s choice (Sonia Kruger) is any better. The former host of other reality television shows that I actively avoid watching and wish didn’t exist (Dancing with the Stars, 10 Years Younger in 10 Days) she’s most recently announced that she intends to have a baby at 47, despite her apparent absence of a partner and the myriad of potential risk-factors for women over 45 trying to get pregnant (greatly increased chances of premature birth and chromosomal abnormalities like Down Syndrome).

Only a truly self-indulgent, selfish wanker would wait until they’re 47 to decide that they actually want a kid. “Who cares about the risk factors and potential harm I could cause? I want a baby! Gimme gimme gimme! I want it NOW”

I also love (hate) how the Nine Network has actively tried to brand this new version of Big Brother as a little more high-brow than the previous incarnation; there’s even a veterinarian in the house. The advertisements tried to establish the shows’ preference for ‘normal’ housemates (that you can relate to, of course) over your highly tanned, muscle-bound, fake-tittied types that tended to somehow wind up in the Channel Ten BB houses of old. This move is a desperate attempt to appeal to a somewhat (and I say somewhat) more sophisticated viewer-base, hardened by years of reality TV imbeciles.

Oh, by the way – I haven’t watched this incarnation of Big Brother, nor will I ever watch it. I refuse to be a +1 on any of their fucking Nielsen polls. I would rather personally remove both of my testicles from my scrotum with a rusty butter knife (and without the aid of anaesthesia) and kick them off an overpass whilst I bleed out in peak-hour traffic and expire than watch a bunch of extroverted fuckbags find new and exciting ways to subtly make themselves look good on national television in the vain hope of securing a job in the media upon their exit from the house.

Oh, and if you need convincing about keeping these vacuous, fame loving cunts out of the media industry, I have two harrowingly chilling words for you that are sure to make you avoid BB like Julian Assange avoids Swedish rape charges (however unjust).

Chrissy. Swan.

/end communication

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