There was a school of thought, a few years ago, that proliferated amongst the more supposedly highbrow watchers of channel 4’s Big Brother.  It went along these lines: I can justify watching the programme because it’s not really just a pointless exercise in watching an incredible bunch of weirdo’s and fame-grabbing bastards bitching endlessly and pretending to do rudeness under bed covers, it’s a valid social experiment that sheds light on human interaction.

Unfortunately, that theory’s become totally discredited cause it’s bollocks.  And even if it wasn’t, what has the show, in its earlier, slightly more sober days, even taught us that’s actually worth knowing?  Let’s see…

Well…Craig won the first series, didn’t he? And then there was Nasty Nick.  Oh, yes.  And some bald lesbian woman, I think, who may’ve been Irish.  Then that awful camp Irish bloke won the next year.  There may have been some infighting – hard to say for sure.  And a Welsh girl called Helen.  Then Jade Goody the year after that.  Oh, Sod it.

This year has been more of the same.  Not much point in talking about the contestants too much, cause there’s been so much interminable gossip and ramblings about how wicked Grace is, how devious and duplicitous Richard is, and how lovely and adorable, though utterly daft Glyn is, I risk being hounded if I dare to object to any of these received wisdoms.  Although it’s always worth pointing out how desperate the viewing public, or at least those insular few who bother to text in to Big Brother’s Big Mouth, are to label people who appear to be reasonable and with an ounce of humility, either ‘two-faced’ or they’re ‘playing a game’.  How in the name of fuck would they know? I mean, I know most of them watch Big Brother about a hundred times more than me, but…you know.

Speaking of Big Brother’s Big Mouth, the sudden and alarming rise of Russell Brand is the most notable event of this year’s Big Brother.  I vaguely remember the guy from last year, but seemed much less over-the-top and zany then.  Big Brother’s Big Mouth is an extraordinary piece of television, if only because it gives Brand almost free rein to complete lunacy.  You wonder about the poor sods who sit in the audience.  Some of them have actually styled themselves on Brand himself (a thankless task, since none of them can hope to match his presence).  Then some of them actually try to match him for wise-cracks when he talks to them – again, they almost always end up looking like a fraud or complete fool.  And then there’s a sizable contingent who just look plain scared.

Brand has so much boundless (and you’ve got to say, frequently wearing) energy you begin to suspect he’s powered by a nugget of uranium that’s nearing the end of its life and determined to go out with a bang.  He’s the nearest TV presenters are ever gonna get to rock stars.  And he doesn’t even bother hiding the blinding fact that he’d clearly like to roger all the women on there, and – who really knows – perhaps all the fellers as well.  This is a man with the sexual appetite of a thousand Mick Jaggers, drunk on the exalting self-confidence which propels him (and, I dare say, a few other things to boot).  By God, he’s exhausting.