Jimmy was a bit slow to hit his ban-tah stride when he woke up. Perhaps his ban-tah strength only really gets going when the Greying Bun of Despair is twisted into place, rather like Samson. Okay, not at all like Samson.
The head-to-head challenge was conducted between Foggy and Jake. “Experience vs. Youth,” said Foggy. Foggy is experienced in jungle trials? The world of super-biking has passed me by so this may well be true. Both men were shackled inside a tank which filled with water etc etc. Both men were fast and determined. Youth triumphed over experience. Foggy was gracious in defeat. “How you going to feel when you go back into camp and tell the Galahs they’ll all eat tonight?” enquired Ant of Jake. “Well,” Jake replied, “I’m used to being a wombat.” Aren’t we all?
Jimmy, his scrawny frame horizontal on his jungle bed, suggested he would be furious if Foggy had lost. He took the bad news as well as could be expected. “Anger’s kickin’ in. Proppa strugglen,” he told the Bush Telegraph. Jimmy decided to rev up his team mates with a Braveheart-style rallying cry. “COME ONNNNNNNNNNNNNNN WALLABIES!” he squawked encouragingly. “We’re wombats,” deadpanned Foggy.
Up came Terror Tombs. Celebs in a tomb, stay in there for 15 minutes, keys, hidden locks, creepy crawlies blah blah. Edwina said she would lie back and think of England. Her husband must be thrilled. The first batch of slebs were entombed. “You alright in there?” asked Jake of Nadia. “I’m buried alive. It’s not f***ing great,” she replied. Michael, the loon, chose to wear shorts. A rat headed for his ball sack with the speed and accuracy of an Exocet missile.
Kendra wasn’t keen on the whole exercise. “Just get in and lie down,” instructed Jake, words Kendra must, surely, have heard many times before in the Playboy Mansion.
The Galahs won. The Wombats, who have been surviving on 500 calories a day, looked like they had just been told to go into the boudoir with Hugh Hefner. Jimmy had no ban-tah whatsoever. I fear for the Greying Bun of Despair.