If you believe the result of The World’s Most Orange Face competition would be a draw between Peter Andre and Donald Trump, take a look at Paul Danan. Located on the glow spectrum somewhere between an easyJet headrest and a pan of burnt carrots, the marmalade dementor sucks all the colour out of a room, it being unable to compete with his thermo nuclear, Ibiza travel rep hue.
I mention Paul only because this week he fell out with Sarah Harding and insults were exchanged. The Sun gleefully reported the Wildean exchange: “The pair clashed on Monday night with Paul branding Sarah “insecure” and “moany” while she described him as “psycho, snide and a hypocrite”. 3-2 to Sarah.
Tonight is eviction night. Who would go? More to the point, who cares? 1.1 million of you, apparently, according to the ratings. Not as good as Usain Bolt failing to win the 100m final of the World Athletics Championships (8.9 million) but then not as bad as Football On Five (600,000).
Which meant your writer opened £5.99 Côtes de Provence Rosé from Aldi (not sponsoring me either, the swines), switched on the telly, and readied herself for an explosive night’s viewing.
I will make a brief confession here. I haven’t watched a single minute of CBB since the launch night, so I remain blissfully ignorant of the identities of a fair number of the housemates. But since the car crash that is Ms Harding is eclipsing everyone else anyway, why bother? Economy of effort, folks.
On came Emma Willis, looking unfeasibly beautiful as per. She went through the people up for eviction. Nope, nope, and nope. The Monobrow. And poor old Sarah Harding. And someone else. As the roll call of names was announced, half-hearted boos rang out from the gathered mob, all of whom had nothing else to do on a Tuesday night. I don’t have much fellow feeling for any of the housemates, but really… who cares what this bunch of losers think?
Cut to footage of the housemates waking up. Holy crap, Bazza from EastEnders, naked in bed. Shouldn’t there be a three second warning before broadcasting this sort of thing?
Sarah came to the Diary Room. “I miss my dogs. If they’re not happy with you, they pee on the furniture.” Be careful what you wish for, Sarah. Remember Paul Danan is in the house.
But why all the suspense? Surely, as a famous psychic, the all-seeing Derek Acorah could tell us who would be evicted. Perhaps he was too busy chatting to Sam (his spirit guide) to tell us. A quick google revealed Derek is convinced he was a “little black Ethiopian boy” (nice turn of phrase, Derek) in his last life, which is how he met Sam, as they lived in the same village 2,000 years ago. Okaaaaaaaaay.
Sarah and Paul held a duel in the kitchen, covering up last night’s spat by pretending to be concerned about each other. Paul assumed the role of the wise old man of showbiz, prepared to share his hard-won knowledge with the ingénue that is the far more successful, and indeed famous, Sarah. “Ar remember vat Love Island shit. Ar see masell in you,” he confided. Sarah looked appalled at this revelation, and went in for a hug in order to shut him up.
God this was boring. Where was everybody else? Some dude called Jordan who couldn’t string a sentence together discussed his week-long “relationship” with some woman – sorry, no idea – who felt things were going too fast. Jordan took this revelation on the chin. “We’ll coolitdarn. Sortit.” Said woman looked bored. Who ARE these people?
Okay, eviction. Chad (boos). Marissa (boos). Karthik (boos). Sarah (massive cheers). Trisha (boos). It was between Karthik and Marissa. The tricoteuses yelled “Get Marissa OUT!” Why though? Marissa appeared on the stairs looking terrified.
Why anyone would subject themselves to this kind of public damnation is beyond me. I make fun of the housemates, but it’s the public who need to have a word with themselves.