The (Big) B**b Tube

update: 9 Dec. 2008. I can't deal with people hitting on my blog because they are searching for porn. Therefore, I have taken to the title with asterisks.

I have watched A LOT of bad TV in my life. Living in the States, I was always amazed by just how high my threshold was for ridiculous, soul-sucking reality shows. Even though I was likely haemorrhaging (yes, it too has an extra letter in British English) active brain cells, I loyally watched from start to finish such gems as Rock of Love I and II, My Fair Brady and Love Cruise.

That said, upon my arrival here, I think I might have finally found my limit. Ladies and gents, I present Big Brother in the UK.

Now, before you Brits get your knickers in a twist, claiming, “You Americans took it from us…blah blah blah,” I’ll have you know that I never really watched the American one either. I dabbled in it around the time that the good-looking doctor was on it, but I have never logged on to the web site to voyeuristically watch the housemates sleep or eat Cheerios or whatever (hey, no judgement…I actually referred to the day I met the Bachelor’s friend as the best day of my life).

Also, host Julie Chen is so bland that I can actually feel myself experiencing cognitive dulling while watching her. So yes, it’s a bad show in the States, but if I may be so bold, it’s an even worse show here.

Okay, where to begin…

First, a disclaimer:

As a bad TV junkie, I’m willing to admit that when something becomes a cultural phenomenon, it’s usually because at first, it shocked and appalled the nation and pushed its widely accepted standards of decency or normalcy to a new limit.

Exhibit A: Jerry Springer. When this trainwreck first arrived on the airwaves (or at least once it evolved from a somewhat respectable political show into the perverse social commentary it came to be), Americans (at least all but those of a particular socio-economic group) were likely appalled by such episodes as “My neo-Nazi skinhead brother is sleeping with my sister’s bestiality-loving lesbian girlfriend” or whatever. Now, when the re-runs come on and it’s all “beep this” and “you’re a beeping dirty-beep mother-beeper,” most people just sigh dispassionately and change the channel.

But you can imagine that if someone who’d never seen the show watched it (like someone from outer space), then they’d be shocked all over again. So with that in mind, I’m willing to concede my lack of an adequate adjustment curve and say that this is merely the observation of a newcomer and not a disparagement of a national jewel.

/disclaimer

Now, a list (natch):

1. The announcer guy.

I’m trying to think of the cultural equivalent of using a guy from Newcastle as the un-seen narrator for a show, and I imagine it’s probably akin to heading to rural northern Minnesota (ooh dontcha knoow) or the local packie in Southie Boston (where you buy wicked cold beah) to discover the Next Big Thing in Voice-Overs. Just not a good strategy.

England’s a smaller country and all, so maybe this guy’s accent is more widespread and easy-to-understand to the natives, but to me, he sounds like this:

Ett’s teeyoo thairtay pay em. Da reeoomatts air en da gayairden.

Translation: It’s 2:30 p.m.. The roommates are in the garden.

Leaving aside the complete and utter tedium of that statement (we’ll get back to that in minute), this guy is almost incomprehensible to the untrained ear. Worse than that, you kind of think he’s kidding…like he’s “doing a funny voice.” Fortunately, I now know he’s not, so the next time I meet someone from “Neeyookissle,” I will not laugh and say, “Come on. Talk NORMAL.”

Another day, another cultural mishap successfully averted.

2. The aforementioned tedium.

Big Brother is on ALL of the time here. Seriously, I haven’t analyzed the TV lineup or anything (yet), but it seems to me that 24 hours a day you can access the show, the recap of the show, the recap of the recap of the show, or the nail-biting elimination episode (which seems to drag on for hours).

Call me old-fashioned, but even with my exceedingly low standards, I STILL find myself seeking some small thread of a plotline or a story arc in my entertainment media. Fortunately, American television likes to indulge my preference by editing and packaging its Big Brother episodes in easily digestible narrative nuggets so that I can refer to the episode later as, “The one where that blind dude held a knife to the fat guy’s throat for accidentally using his toothbrush” or “The one where the hot twins and the cocky guy got it on in the hot tub even though he has a girlfriend.” You know, the glorious stuff of water cooler chats.

Here, it’s Just. So. Tedious. The passing minutes are reported with remarkable earnestness by Mayor Monotony McNeyookissle (because I don’t know his actual name) and supplemented by statements like, “The roommates are sitting at the table” or “The roommates are contributing to the population of the earth” or “The roommates are exhaling carbon dioxide.” The only thing potentially more boring than those people together in that house is me, watching those people together in that house (and then telling you guys about it).

3. The talking wall.

If I recall correctly, the American version of the show has the obligatory confessional, where the housemates go to dole out heavy-handed sh*t-talking and cry about completely asinine things like someone stole their peanut butter or “it’s so stressful” being here sitting around smoking cigarettes and boozing to the point of emotional tears every day.

The difference here is that in the British one, the confessional actually talks back. “Big Brother” is this disembodied voice that comes from a hole in the wall that looks like those splatter paint machines that we girls used to use at birthday parties when we were kids. When it speaks, the camera actually focuses on the hole, and you half expect it to spit out some super-cute t-shirt that you can wear with one of those totally 80’s slides and black stirrup pants.

But no such luck. All you get is some dude asking leading, slightly judge-y questions and referring to himself in the third person: “Big Brother wonders if you didn’t act impulsively when you shouted at the housemates.” Fortunately for everyone, Big Brother is not from Newcastle, but still, you can almost hear George Orwell turning in his grave.

4. The elimination episodes.

If Julie Chen and Davina Mccall had a street fight, JC wouldn’t stand a chance. Davina, the drug addict-turned-singer-turned-Eric Clapton girlfriend-turned model-turned-Big Brother hostess, is hands down the best part of the show. Once a housemate gets eliminated, he/she goes through this magical door that leads to a huge outdoor studio. A whole bunch of people with nothing better to do stand around, usually in the rain, waiting for the opportunity to boo the poor bastard when he/she walks out the door.

There’s the usual preening and sarcastic bowing by the contestant and then he/she joins good old Davina for a post-elimination interview. Everyone there is taking the whole thing SO SERIOUSLY except for Davina, who probably had one of those soul-crushing “this is what my life has amounted to” moments early on (similar to what I imagine Jerry Springer had in the 90s) and rather than hit the heroin again, clearly just decided to say, “Screw it. I’m going to have fun with this.”

In every interview, Davina somehow successfully manages to make the contestants feel like she’s interested in them, while simultaneously managing to communicate to the discerning viewer (me) that she’s soooo above it. Sure, she’s the host of the dumbest show ever, but the joke’s on them. Pure genius is our Davina.

Anyway, there you have it. Apparently I do have some television standards after all. In the meantime, I am CRYING inside over the fact that the latest instalment of Project Runway has just begun in America and I’m not there to watch it. Guess I'll be forced to find something else on TV to tune into. Hmmm….I wonder if Big Brother’s on.