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{Thursday}

 
{Also recall that what Warhol actually said was "WORLD famous for 15 minutes." Which isn't the case here. It's barely the case that the small other irregulars of Big Brother are even famous or infamous in all or even most of Britain ... In fact - and I don't know how this measures or registers on the 15 MINUTE scale(s) - but I've forgotten a lot of their names, already. Federico and Jon I remember - but some of the others: nothing. Those two - and ghostly Gos, pseudo nostic Nush, day nurse Steph, canny Cameron {whose brother back in Orkney is - get this - a TV PRESENTER} - and that's it. And Guy-tano. {Whose first words on arriving back in the S.Afrikkka house were, did you know, a big bad boast that he had shagged Nush, TWICE already, in the B-B-bathroom! Oooh, who's an insecure big (or little?) black "brother" falling into stereotypical line then, mmm?} But even the one who left on Friday - like a Heat-death version of the Cheshire Cat leaving behind two glowing marks of BLUSHER and nothing else ... I can't remember HER name, already.
{But: 9/3 on, she'll be hosting a 'street' makeover of the 'posh' girl BBC2 makeover show within the year, mmm?}

Instant forgetability?
'Talk to the face coz the name ain't important?'
Very Bo Selecta, somehow ...

As for that (brilliant) title, BO SELECTA may not have been selecta'd because of its near resonance with B CELEBRITY, but it might as well have been; the show's Swiftian moral does seem to be that ... in the future, everyone will be a B LIST CELEB for the last 15 years of their career. Michael Jackson, Madonna, Sharon Osbourne, Melanie B, Craig from Big Brother: ... the same plane.

Big Brother as B-celeb Wimbledon - except you're guaranteed a British 'winner'. A whole (prissy, pristine) household of Henmans.

PROPER BOO!

Let us pause here to commemorate Greg Rudeski and his - there's no other way to put this - BO SELECTA! moment at Wimbledon. Wo-ah selecta! Off slipped the PR mask, the nice boy domain name, and out jumped this HOBGOBLIN, the OBSCENE other, the Tourette-i-kit under the tennis kit, UNetiquette fuck wanker shit!

"I'm a tennis playin' call disputin' (sponsorship losin'!) motherfucker, sha'mon!"

Just goes to show how uncannily true that occasional feeling is - that underneath the party masks, we're all potential chapters in an Oliver Sacks book, even clean livin' autograph signin' pseudo-British "hopefuls"* ...

{* "It seemed that a sort of 'disinhibition' had occurred [...] releasing something animal-like or childlike, so that [he] now became a slave of his immediate whims and impulses, of what was immediately around him, without the deliberation, the consideration of past and future, that had marked him in the past, or his previous concern for others and the consequences of his actions."
Oliver Sacks frm The Last Hippie in An Anththropologist on Mars [Picador 1995]

posted by Ian 7/10/2003 12:55:00 PM

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