Monday, 23 September 2013

Rectum? I hardly knew 'em: A few obsolete thoughts on Celebrity Big Brother

Working nights is always odd. Having a tea break at 4am isn't something that man was meant to do.

It's even odder if the reason you're having a break is because Carol McGiffin finally packed it in and went to bed, to do a bit of farting.

And so ends a summer of Big Brother, and a mini-summer of Celebrity Big Brother. It's been wonderful, really. I've typed myself stupid as celebrity and non-celebrity housemates talked themselves into oblivion. I've watched Dexter Koh painstakingly plotting and replotting his gameplan after each eviction. I've watched Louie Spence, in a matter of days, go from human lightning bolt to dead-eyed prisoner of war. I've watched Abz from 5ive stack a load of cushions.

I've also heard some things. I've heard some things no one should ever hear. Who knew the world of Brit-celebs was so poo-focused? A very faeces-orientated people, these celebrities. It, surely, takes normal humanoids in a normal humanoid relationship a fairly long time before that particular level is reached. For the celebrity-inclined, it takes roughly one post-dinner chat before the subject comes up. The arse in general seems a pivotal part of the celebrity conversation package. On the very first night, the bedroom was a chorus of chirruping farts. A few days later the girls joined in with their slightly higher range, giving us the full piano roll, a symphony of arse-music cheerily parped into my ears.

I'm not saying celebrities aren't allowed to fart, or shit, or even talk about their farting and shitting in such great detail that you wonder if you'll ever dream in colour ever again. All I'm saying is I watched a house full of regular humdrum flesh-bods for 9 weeks, and it took them 'til at least week 7 before they would even acknowledge to one another the impressive regularity of their 9am sharp shit every morning. God only knows what a pair of celebrities would talk about 7 weeks down the line.

So: I've come to the conclusion that due to the world of fad colonics, wheatgrass, anti-grav enemas, and whatever else, the celeb arsehole leads a very different life to the man-in-the-street's arsehole. One's probably dusted with glitter for a start. Essentially, as early adopters of every diet craze known to man (and therefore, a wide range of stuff involving shitting the weight away), your average celeb is more simply far more inclined and open to discussing precisely what's going on with their rectum than a normal, cheeks-clenched non-celeb.

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