And so the friendliest Celebrity Big Brother in history finally reached its first nominations. The relief up on the gantry must have been palpable. At least on nomination day they can be guaranteed some kind of highlights to put on the show. And anything was better than sending a bumper supply of baked beans into the house to see if Razor Ruddock could breach the ozone layer.
But even the nominations (normally so reliable) were dispatched with clinical efficiency. There were no protests to Big Brother about how unfair it all was, no long drawn out pauses as the oh so reluctant nominator searched their conscience to see whether they could summon the mental fortitude to perform this terrible action which they’d known all along they were going to have to do and virtually no tears (Claire did manage a sniffle). Well at least as far as I saw - I have to admit that I got a phone call towards the end of the nominations so didn’t see them all (don’t be raising your eyebrows to heaven – it’s not like anybody is paying me). If Razor Ruddock broke into a blubbering mess and said he just couldn’t do it then I apologise. But I doubt it. He never burst into tears and said he couldn’t do it when he was asked to play centre half for Liverpool even though many on the Kop wished he would have. Incidentally watching Razor puffing away on his ciggies explains a lot to those of us who remember speedy strikers zipping effortlessly by him.
Back to the nominations. No tension because they were already a foregone conclusion and everybody in the house knew it. Frankie was already up for the public vote so there was only one spot left.
Step forward Speidi.
Once in the diary room it turned out that all the housemates shared an almost pathological dislike of bad manners. The shook their heads with disappointment at Speidi’s decision not to make the effort to say hello to them. The housemates concern for common courtesy and their promotion of propriety brought a tear to my eye almost as genuine as the one’s Clare squeezed out earlier. Everybody nominated the Americans.
It’s a shame they’re going to be going because I’m beginning to warm to Spencer. His undisguised contempt for everything going on around him is rather wonderful. This isn’t real reality TV, his sneer seems to suggest. Where are the storylines? Where are the scripts? Where are the retakes? Where's the realness?
He obviously feels British reality television is amateurish hokum. He can’t even be bothered to “villainise” himself because if nobody else is going to try then why should he. He just sits round looking disbelieving and waiting to get voted off so he can pick up his cheque and hop on the first plane back to California where they know how to make reality TV properly. Properly artificial that is.