Admitting is the First Step

I have a confession to make. It isn’t something I am proud of, but you are going to find out sooner or later, so I might as well be the one to tell you. I am watching Big Brother. I can’t explain it, I can’t understand it, I have watched both episodes so far from behind the sofa in horror, but I cannot deny that I am watching it.

For seven years - seven years - I have avoided it like the plague. To be fair, I have spent three of those summers out the country, but still, that leaves four years I have dutifully and determinedly avoided Channel Four, every tabloid and Heat magazine for months on end as I strive never to fully understand who Jade Goody is. It isn’t that I have a massive problem with reality tv per say: anyone who worked at Gap in Guildford in autumn 2002 will testify to my brief but exciting obsession with Fame Academy (no, I can‘t explain it either,) and I could hardly deny in this blog that I casually flicked over to Rockstar: INXS once or twice last summer, but the mere thought of Big Brother has, for years, made me shudder. I suspect it has to do with the sheer pointlessness of it: no structure or activity or competition, not even a real prize other than the chance to feature in OK Magazine on a regular basis for a few weeks. I realize of course that many people would argue that that is precisely the fun of it, and as it looks like I’ll be eating my words this summer anyway, I’d better get my defence ready.

It seems to me that all these series live or die on the characters that feature in them. On Thursday night when my sister was watching the launch show of BB and I couldn’t be bothered moving from the sofa so ended up watching it with her, I could feel (with horror) interest pricking as the house filled with potentially interesting characters and the scene was set for clashes. (Damn you Endemol casting people.) If the contestants are an intoxicating mix of likeable or so unlikeable you can’t tear your eyes away from the screen, then, just like any good drama, you have something. While last summer I started out watching only the performance shows of Rockstar (clinging to the notion that I was only interested to see how INXS picked their new singer) within weeks I was glued to the reality episodes (not to mention the spoilers on the internet boards) for any news about these characters whose journeys I’d become fascinated by. I say characters deliberately, because as far as I can see, the Ty and Jordis and J.D. that we saw on screen last summer are every bit creations of Mark Burnett’s production teams as Jack or Kate or Sawyer are creations of J.J. Abrams. Which brings me neatly to my next point: how much of reality tv is actually reality?

I bring this up because last summer I hated Ty Taylor with a passion. The bitchface when he received less than glowing critique, his “message received loud and clear” comment (which he presumably didn’t even know was an INXS lyric because he’d never bothered his arse to listen to more than Kick) … the fact that he’d never bothered his arse to listen to more than Kick… the bursting into tears over being in the bottom three because he was representing black people (when he could have been sky green pink and still not right for INXS) - I had to stop myself from childishly hissing when he came on screen (that I saved for Suzie MacNeill.) However, months after the show ended, I was dashing around a casino in Vegas looking for my friend Susu to give her someone else’s jacket (as you do) when I came upon none other than Ty Taylor. In the flesh (and not a lot of it, he’s a teeny weeny little man) and right in front of me. Despite my opinion of his personality, I couldn’t deny that he has a great voice and stage presence, so felt it rude not to tell him so. To my astonishment, he took both of my hands in his and thanked me, very genuinely and humbly, smiled and walked on, leaving me standing there gaping like a fish. Shouldn’t the Ty Taylor I knew have laughed and replied “well of course?” Shouldn’t he have recoiled in horror at a prole like me attempting to speak to him and run off in the opposite direction?

Now I realize that neither watching him on tv nor holding his hands for approximately 20 seconds gives me any real clue as to who this bloke is, but my impressions were such polar opposites that it did make me think.

However, despite my best attempt, none of this blethering will distract you from the fact that I admitted I am watching Big Brother. Nor that I had a lump in my throat watching Shabaz crying in the loo last night, and have a bit of a non sexual crush on both Imogen and the gay Canadian. I don’t want to talk about it.