With regards to Big Brother, Michael Grant said: " so I shall continue to judge them and laugh at them and shout hateful slogans at them. That's the point of the show." That's the point of life, surely? So in the spirit of pointing and laughing at others, I set out to meet my partner in crime, Mr Greg Pallis, and head down to the auditions for Model Behaviour (reality tv in the vein of popstars for those not familiar), in order to revel in the sheer insanity of it all, and perhaps spread rumours about the prettiest girls having botox injections and shagging the cameramen for screen time. But of course G, no doubt far too busy admiring his eerie resemblance to James Franco in the mirror, was FIVE HOURS LATE. Luckily, being a lady of resource, I had plenty to amuse me. From the tap dancing girl with THE BIGGEST jean wedgie in the world, to the break dancing, camera hogging drama school graduates, to the hordes of Denise Van Outen wannabes, toppling over on their cork platform shoes whilst trying to justify wearing a 'belt? No, skirt' on a rainy London morning. "Good thing about the cold, it keeps your nipples pert." A quick tour of the queue turned into a mammoth hike around Blackfriars as it stretched down the street, around the corner, down that street, around another corner and down a tunnel, and I'm happy to say that after receiving numerous "you don't stand a chance against me bi-atch!" looks from the Topshop brigade, I joined the queue. For two seconds. And the I legged it across the street to hang out with an assortment of sleazoids who were ogling laydee's bootie. Naturally inclined to eavesdrop, the slobbering letches were disappointingly keeping shctum. Most likely too busy filing images away in their spank bank to discuss the merits of reality television shows and their pop cultural importance. Although two P Diddy wannabes casually repeated "hott", "nasty", "nasty", "hott" for a few minutes. They were class. And being a classy gal, I joined in on the ogling par-tay and scrutinised the queue, hoping to find sexy hunks of man meat who would be worthy enough of my crush of the day. This was more difficult than I thought as, being the type of girl who'd rather not have people noticing her jaw drop to the ground, I would need a suitable disguise and alas, the fake moustache and glasses were at home. Happily, some magazine reps were handing out free copies of Glamour magazine, which I cleverly placed in front of my face in true old-skool hideout stylee. Eyes peering over the edge, I scanned the crowd for a mod dreamboat, or a refined gentleman, or even a baller with his pockets full grown. Rather disappointingly, there seemed to be only two types of boys in the line. Those who looked like they were auditioning for East 17 circa 1993 and those who looked like they were auditioning for a Blue tribute act. Two tribes which certainly don't take my fancy. Firstly because I hate anything related to East 17 (old Take That obsessions die hard), and secondly because, well because they look like Blue and middle-aged men with a Shoreditch Mullet/Hoxton Fin (delete as appropriate) are simply the pants. So it looks like my Simon Pegg stalker status shall remain intact. Facing the reality that my bohunkless situation was not going to improve, I made like Young MC and busted a move, high-tailing it to the Thames for a quick stroll along the Southbank, which is still one of my favourite things ever to do in London. But the possibility of seeing a blonde, arrogant and extremely short judge destroying the dreams of the youth was too much to resist. And as Mr Pallis had arrived, it was back to Model B for auditions a-go-go. But of course, on return, the queue had damn well closed, destroying all hopes of doing catalogue work for Argos. Still, the day was saved when I was treated to an impromptu 'David Foster Wallace kicks ass' lecture and Spiderman watchage. Both of which were ace. xx Miss Marianna Longmire +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+