On Leaving the House.

I’m going to die. Davina Gee will be talking to the house and calling my name: the countdown will begin. ‘Stiffmouse, please leave the Big Brother House.’ I will briefly pose for photo obituaries and have my final interview with D in the alcove of oblivion as my past is flashed up in video clips. I will disappear and my life re-written in the columns of the narrow sheets by their lascivious historians. Well actually I’ve got a tummy upset and may be over dramatising, and also overly influenced by watching the final of Big Brother last night. But it’s worth bearing in mind that it will happen sooner or later. What will your clips show? Will the crowd boo or cheer? Will Davina Gee look upon you kindly? How have you been in the house? As for me, apart from recognising my own face, I will probably not recognise the rest. I will accuse BB of bias. Why pick out my snide comments, my over enthusiastic nudity, those moments when I was overbearing, inconsiderate, lazy and pompous? That’s not me. There is though, unfortunately, a truth to how others see us, a truth that, as I strut my stage, I don’t immediately recognise. Yet there in the garden, the kitchen, the tasks, is my account magnetised on the videotape of history. And in those captured moments of hubris, procrastination, pride and fear I, like the crowd, will ask of me, “To have been or not to have been. That is my question. Was I noble in my mind to suffer the slings and arrows of those outrageous tasks, or….?” God be praised we have Bill.