Just when I need a visual aid, no visual aid will come. I'll have to wing it.
I just switched on E4 in the hope they'd be showing Big Brother as I haven't the faintest, foggiest notion what form of sub-human effluent is vying to win. They're showing 'Gilmore Girls' instead.
If memory serves me from those disgusting five minutes I spent watching it three weeks ago (while lying on my couch with the mother lode of hangovers) the 'house' is/was inhabited by an Irish girl, a black girl with long hair and glasses that says 'proper mingin'' a lot, 17 gays, some boy who's good at maths, a pre-op transsexatrix, a fat Geordie builder with a lazy eye and a former member of Bros.
Yeah yeah, I made most of that up, but that's beside the point.
I think Big Brother is responsible for 90% of the horrible noise that society makes. It is a disgusting blight on our ether and I can't wait for its demise.
I will grant it that it started out as an interesting idea, albeit one lifted from an earlier BBC incarnation called 'The Living Soap,' itself a rip-off of MTV's 'The Real World.'
However, whereas those shows were condensed down to half an hour a week, Big Brother went the 24-hour route and I'll admit to some initial curiosity about the effects of cabin fever and such. That soon abated when the producers started cutting out the good stuff, replacing it with the sound of crickets, and it died a death when some boy called Nick was hung, drawn and quartered for talking about nominations.
It grew a deep hatred in me, one I'd never quite tapped into before, and it only got worse as it entered my working life.
Some years back I had to run a Big Brother micro-site for Vodafone's mobile web content, so I had to become au fait with the nonsense of it all and pretend to be enthralled by how many times Chantelle went about her daily ablutions.
Thankfully, the Vodafone site went tits-up and I got back to writing injury updates from Wolves v Bolton, meaning I could give Big Brother the berth it deserved. A great big yawning chasm between us.
Still. Still. How can one REALLY avoid it? Not when its stars are gurning off the pages of Heat and Closer and Stalker and Yowza magazines. Not when they're hawking their latest tell-all stories in the tabloids/on the internet/at signings in Easons. Not when I meet their haircuts on every second teenager I try to swerve on Suffolk Street. Not when I overhear the latest 'ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod' stream of studenty antivescence on the bus.
One of the worst things I've ever seen on telly was a portion of the final a few years back, when the lad with Tourette's Syndrome won the thing.
I think his name was Pete. Watching him yelp his 'fucks' and his 'shits' and his 'cunts' while Davina Dyspepticpig McCall fawned all over him - telling him how cute he was - made me sick sick sick because I knew that this scene would cut to a year later and he'd be there, in his pyjamas in his mam's house, still yelping away and biting his own face off in nostalgia, probably teary. Can you remember his surname? You can remember fucking Chantelle's.
I'm glad it's finishing but my pleasure is tempered by the knowledge that what it started can not be stopped. The idiotification of society as spawned by Endemol has taken on many forms since, and I dread to see what next summer has in store.
It won't be pretty.