the baggy trousered misanthropist

missives issued from the lair

Karissa & Kristina Shannon in happier, almost fully dressed times. Image: PacificCoastNews.com.

I realise that I only have myself to blame for this, but my ire has once again been inflamed by events in Celebrity Big Brother.

If you haven’t been following the show for Zeitgeist Awareness week* as I have, you should probably not bother reading the rest of this post.

Karissa Shannon. She’s gonna sue your arse off. Image: Bauer Griffin.

You may be aware that the famed plywood cabin in Elstree is currently home to Karissa & Kristina Shannon, refugees from that other sad, desperate abode from another age, the Playboy Mansion. Both are as pneumatic, toned, bleached and tanned to within an inch of their little lives as you might expect, although certainly not dumb when it comes to the pecuniary exploitation of their genetic gifts.

Clearly ‘vacuous’ was replaced with ‘acute business sense’ in the list of required skill sets a while ago.

This became super clear on Monday night, when Loose Women escapee Denise Welch got a little over-excited during a drunken four-way rendition of Cyndi Lauper’s ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ and pulled down Karissa’s pyjama bottoms. Moments later, having decided she was “not ok” with that, Karissa turned up in the Diary Room and threatened to leave the show and sue the producers if they aired the footage of her rear.

A former Playboy playmate whinging about the possibility of her backside, which was exposed to roughly the same degree earlier in the show via a bikini thong, is hilarious until you arrive at the shuddering realisation that she may have a point. In Karissa’s world, her only assets are the ones God (and a selection of plastic surgeons) gave her. If she and her people don’t charge for access, so to speak, she has nothing left to sell. I sympathised a bit.

Then, because my feminist principles were bridling at this apparent conflict, I found out what she does sell.

Um, d’you know what, love? All rights to piss and moan about a vaguely blurred shot of your arse cheek appearing on a crap British TV show with about ten viewers are revoked the second, the absolute second, you take your clothes off and pose in a sexually provocative manner with your twin sister. Are you absolutely off your trolley? Do you even have a trolley?

I realise that porn has moved on since my sneaky and ultimately disturbing glimpses of  ‘The Joy of Sex’, but is that not, even if it’s simulated, incestuous? Who gets off on the this stuff? Who buys this stuff? Is it you?

Actually, don’t tell me. If this is what passes as a bit of fun these days, I am thrilled to be labelled a prude.

*Zeitgeist Awareness Week does not exist. It’s a device to justify my inability to use the TV remote after 9pm on a week night. 

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