Good morning to the three people who enjoy reading this, and to the people who don’t enjoy reading this, you can just scroll on by because I can’t stop, won’t stop.
The camera pans over Sydney’s Cocaine District before we are back at the incredibly beautiful prison which houses 20+ drunk and ravenous women, of whom we may remember the names of one (two?) in six months’ time.
Awwww yeah, and five minutes in we’re undergoing some psychological torture with Stalker Cassie and an envelope. Mates, I’m absolutely bloody huffing that schadenfreude. I’m only fifty percent German but you had better believe that I’m 110% a fan of that Teutonic Sturm und Drang that the cruel Huns do so well.
The date itself is as beige as chook cack though. Oooh, we’re wearing cute hats and we’re on a fancy boat and the chick’s a brunette with tight abs and no personality, WoOoOW.
I swear they replace the same brunette from Sydney every year, on every Bachie season. One year she’s “Paige”, and then wham bam some bangs and contacts later she’s “Suzy” or some such nonsense. Same yawn-inducing goon, different wine label.
Back at the mansion all the chicks are just sitting around like a bunch of barnacles, scheming up ways to cook and eat the brunette, probably. It’s like a cult, but instead of poisoned Kool Aid all these weirdos crave a ‘roided ginger who speaks like Barry McKenzie.
Ah, and now we come to the trials of affection, i.e. the producers going full Saw before CBS guts Ten’s budget.
In these games the girls are judged on how well they can grasp a stick and balls; their ability to slide up a big and hard bit of wood; and how hard they can rock out with their crock out.
Our winner is Vanessa, who destroys the competition with her cold dead heart of a shark and her glassy black eyes which recall those of John Wayne Gacy.
Nick, sweet daft Nick, believes that she could be a barrell of laughs once he gets to know her.
Lock in b, ‘yeah nah she bloody wasn’t’, Eddie.
With the arrival of Brooke things go from haunting to hungry and horny – horngry? – as Brooke and HB share breakfast in bed. Whilst it’s supposed to be a nice lovely dovey blah blah moment all I can think of is the Gospel of Sterling Mallory Archer:
“DO YOU WANT ANTS? BECAUSE THIS IS HOW WE GET ANTS!”
Also how bloody boring is the ‘drama’ in this cocktail party. It’s a sign they’ve cast some duds when the Liberals’ spill is more bitchy than a couple of socialites getting stuck into the vodka.
The only notable thing to happen before the rose ceremony when – I dunno, Boobita and whoever – gets voted off is that Stalker Cassie continues to terrify HB, this time through the worst diary entry since the Nazis found Anne Frank.
And yet the producers have decided to keep her around, because they clearly take great pleasure in playing twisted mind games with the human version of Dicky Knee.
As someone who’s ancestors were very likely barbarians who terrorised villagers along the Rhine, I fully respect this decision.
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