BB cleb opening night. OK I went and did the washing up because it’s marginally more interesting but Daughtermouse showed signs of actual excitement at the prospect of following the moving pictures of people she’ll never meet in a peculiar circumstance she’ll never encounter for many hours over the next few weeks. Brian, the now chubby faced host gave the level of twat-ery away by describing the upstairs as celeb land with Champaign, cleanliness and heat and the basement, dirty, cold and miserable, as non-celeb land. That’s put us in our dirty, cold, miserable place. So we must count ourselves lucky we have this portal into today’s Downton upper floors and be flattered should one of the elevated projectile vomit over us in passing from wine bottle to whiskey bottle. My hope is that Rylan, the public’s unexpected darling of X Factor, wows us again till week 8 and in the last days before his guaranteed victory cries, “Don’t let these trashy manipulators steal your mind and your life any more!” and burns the house down. Of course once the cameras are off they’ll take him to Room 101 and make him eat rats and force him to wear beige chinos and check shirt from Sainsbury’s ‘Wear the same’ range, and force him to listen to One Direction till he can barely manage Three Blind Mice. And his mind will flicker and dim like the many thousands of viewers of this shit. This is the Doctor Who story line they couldn’t dare make. The opening night donkeys may boo the celebs they don’t like, but who’s going to boo Big Brother?
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