First a confession. I don’t really watch Big Brother. I should for purposes of my work as The Press, but we already have Ivan Musoke on the job so You, the public, are in good hands. In spite of his near-debilitating heroin addiction, in fact, maybe because of it, he maintains an uncanny facility for keeping his finger on the pulse.

(This pun was brought to you by Obscurity Uganda Limited.)

I only actually watched Big Brother like for an hour on Sunday when I was visiting my dear mother.

Big Brother, I thought to myself. What boring twattery this is.

All they are doing is languidly swanning around from room to room, muttering monosyllabic non-statements at one another with unconscious contempt as they pass. Except for Richard, (he’s from Chad or some such place), who stares beadily at everybody as if he is two sips of alcohol away from humping their leg.

Look at this stuff:
One person.
Walks.
Other person.
Also walks.
They mumble.
Walk again.
 Yet another person.

It was like watching bits of crud aimlessly floating around in a puddle you have upchucked into.

That is the problem with Reality TV. If you want entertainment you should have realized long ago how to get it. Lie. Pretend it is real even if it isn’t. Just fake it.

Big Brother needs to call on the services of…

Mr Macmahon 

That’s right. Vincent Kennedy Macmahon.

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