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Something to ponder over
Little Blogger surveys the scene.
He looks out upon a desolate wasteland of JonnyB's pants, NML's thongs, Zoe's tiaras, various smashed-up Cillit Bang crates, overturned tables and chairs, and to top it all off, the drinks trolley which has been wheeled into the pool and is bobbing about upside down, almost like a really crap rubber duckie. Some bottles of vodka and unopened packets of peanuts are drifting on the surface of the Pimms.
Clair appears to still be in the shed with her hammer - lord knows what she's still doing in there - and Gordon is spreadeagled on the veranda, a pretend baby's nappie on his head, dribbling on to the veneered wood decking, mumbling something about The Times.
A couple of the ladies appear to have recovered more swiftly than young Gordy, from the previous two nights exertions (if you will) and are getting stuck into the new poetry task thing. Girl even appears to be reciting the bard. Perhaps a touch over the top, but innovative nonetheless.
I waggle the joystick to the left, and the camera pans round to the kitchen.
Nothing happening there.
It pans to the living room.
Nothing there either.
To the bedroom.
Ah. There they all are.
All the men are huddled in the corner comparing their guts, in the primordial way that only British men can.
Although that doesn't include Mike. He's in the bathroom arranging his hat.
And nobody is in the Diary Room.
Well that's about to change.
Little Blogger taps on the microphone.
*chok chok*
"Testing one two.."
*cough*
"Big Blogger house! This is Little Blogger. Put down your bellies and listen to what I have to say!"
The throng assembled in the bedroom grumble to themselves as only British men can. The girls, quite probably, get really really excited.
"Thankyou! Right, I have a mission for you all. Within the next few days I want you all to sit down, have a think, ponder the meaning of it all, delve deep within your psyches, and one at a time come to the Diary Room to answer three questions for me."
Gordon shudders in the manner of an alcoholic suffering from withdrawal symptoms. Good god Gordon! It's only been half an hour...
"Question One is: How are you finding the Big Blogger experience?"
"Question Two is: What do you hope to achieve from your time in the house?"
"And Question Three is: If you could change one thing about the house, what would it be?"
"If you could all please make sure that you have visited the Diary Room and answered these questions by next Tuesday morning, it would be greatly appreciated. Otherwise there may be consequences. Little Blogger signing off."
And with that Little Blogger flicks the little shiny green switch next to the wagglestick on his console, watches patiently as the monitors fade out and the system powers down, then swivels round on his chair in a way which might be considered cool by a six year-old. He tries to leap out of the chair in an energetic fashion, but trips on one of the whells, falls forward, attempts to stop himself falling by reaching for the nearest thing which is unfortunately a towel that isn't attached to a towel rail, and promptly twats himself on the head with the floor.
He picks himself up gingerly, and in a somewhat futile attempt to regain some semblance of trendiness, shimmies his now ever-so-slightly bent frame out of the door in a way that isn't considered cool by anyone.
Thank god no-one was watching.
He looks out upon a desolate wasteland of JonnyB's pants, NML's thongs, Zoe's tiaras, various smashed-up Cillit Bang crates, overturned tables and chairs, and to top it all off, the drinks trolley which has been wheeled into the pool and is bobbing about upside down, almost like a really crap rubber duckie. Some bottles of vodka and unopened packets of peanuts are drifting on the surface of the Pimms.
Clair appears to still be in the shed with her hammer - lord knows what she's still doing in there - and Gordon is spreadeagled on the veranda, a pretend baby's nappie on his head, dribbling on to the veneered wood decking, mumbling something about The Times.
A couple of the ladies appear to have recovered more swiftly than young Gordy, from the previous two nights exertions (if you will) and are getting stuck into the new poetry task thing. Girl even appears to be reciting the bard. Perhaps a touch over the top, but innovative nonetheless.
I waggle the joystick to the left, and the camera pans round to the kitchen.
Nothing happening there.
It pans to the living room.
Nothing there either.
To the bedroom.
Ah. There they all are.
All the men are huddled in the corner comparing their guts, in the primordial way that only British men can.
Although that doesn't include Mike. He's in the bathroom arranging his hat.
And nobody is in the Diary Room.
Well that's about to change.
Little Blogger taps on the microphone.
*chok chok*
"Testing one two.."
*cough*
"Big Blogger house! This is Little Blogger. Put down your bellies and listen to what I have to say!"
The throng assembled in the bedroom grumble to themselves as only British men can. The girls, quite probably, get really really excited.
"Thankyou! Right, I have a mission for you all. Within the next few days I want you all to sit down, have a think, ponder the meaning of it all, delve deep within your psyches, and one at a time come to the Diary Room to answer three questions for me."
Gordon shudders in the manner of an alcoholic suffering from withdrawal symptoms. Good god Gordon! It's only been half an hour...
"Question One is: How are you finding the Big Blogger experience?"
"Question Two is: What do you hope to achieve from your time in the house?"
"And Question Three is: If you could change one thing about the house, what would it be?"
"If you could all please make sure that you have visited the Diary Room and answered these questions by next Tuesday morning, it would be greatly appreciated. Otherwise there may be consequences. Little Blogger signing off."
And with that Little Blogger flicks the little shiny green switch next to the wagglestick on his console, watches patiently as the monitors fade out and the system powers down, then swivels round on his chair in a way which might be considered cool by a six year-old. He tries to leap out of the chair in an energetic fashion, but trips on one of the whells, falls forward, attempts to stop himself falling by reaching for the nearest thing which is unfortunately a towel that isn't attached to a towel rail, and promptly twats himself on the head with the floor.
He picks himself up gingerly, and in a somewhat futile attempt to regain some semblance of trendiness, shimmies his now ever-so-slightly bent frame out of the door in a way that isn't considered cool by anyone.
Thank god no-one was watching.
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