Sinister: The Model with those tragic flares

[therapy.services at xxx.org]

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



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