No life
No hope in soap
Toby Young
Ilove Big Brother. The best thing about it isn't the programme itself — though that's compelling enough — but the various par- lour games it's given rise to. For instance, earlier this week after a very enjoyable weekend in the country, my girlfriend, Car- oline, and I found ourselves discussing who we would have ejected from the house if we had to choose one person. After agree- ing on a name, Caroline sweetly pointed out that if everyone was given the opportu- nity to vote on the matter the person most people would nominate would be me.
We then began to wonder how we would fare in the Big Brother house. Predictably enough, we concluded that I would be unceremoniously kicked out straight away but Caroline might very easily win the £70,000 jackpot. She unquestionably has the common touch. Like most young peo- ple who attended top public schools — she went to Cheltenham Ladies' College — she speaks perfect estuary English. I, on the other hand, sound quite posh by compari- son, having been educated exclusively at inner-city comprehensives. I say 'tomatoes', she says `toma'es'.
In fact, it's just as well Caroline isn't on the programme. My life would quickly become a complete nightmare. To begin with, she's significantly more attractive than any of the other female contestants. It wouldn't be long before the tabloids dubbed her 'the Big Brother babe' and began speculating excitedly about which of the male contestants she was going to snog first. The fact that she had a fiancé would just add to the fun. Indeed, I can imagine the Sun running a picture of Caroline sun- bathing topless in the garden of the Big Brother house next to a picture of me shuf- fling into my flat in Shepherd's Bush clutching a shopping bag from Sainsbury's. Readers would be invited to vote on whether the Big Brother babe should remain faithful to her bald, 36-year-old boyfriend or jump into bed with Tom, the sullen, brooding Irishman. The following day, the Sun would gleefully reveal that 98 per cent of its readers had voted for Caro- line to ditch the slaphead.
The broadsheets would get in on the act by discussing why it is that gorgeous, 25- year-old girls like Caroline end up with dis- gusting old farts like me. Are looks less important for women than they are for men? Why would a girl like the Big Brother babe, with everything to live for, throw her life away in such a humiliating way? Char- lotte Raven would devote her column in the Guardian to pointing out that you don't see many 25-year-old men shacking up with fat, middle-aged women. Actually, come to think of it, Charlotte's little brother is going out with Julie Burchill, but perhaps that's the exception that proves the rule.
Needless to say, temptation would prove too much for Caroline. Gore Vidal once said there are two things in life you should never turn down: the opportunity to have sex and the opportunity to be on television. How could she resist doing both at once? She and Tom would end up playing hide- the-salami in the Big Brother store cup- board in front of 6 million viewers. I would wake up the following morning to find two dozen reporters camped on my doorstep, all wanting to know how it felt to be cuck- olded so publicly. Front and centre would be the Daily Mail, having concluded a six- figure deal with Caroline courtesy of her agent, Max Clifford. The most I could hope for would be an appearance on a special edition of Jerry Springer in which half a dozen men who had been betrayed by their girlfriends on docu-soaps would have a chance to confront their cheating partners. It would very quickly get out of hand and Tom would end up flooring me with a right hook, I would officially become Britain's biggest loser. No woman would ever go out with me again.
Thinking about this, I was reminded of the fate of poor Michael Russo, a middle- aged man who agreed to be one of four participants in a 1998 fly-on-the-wall docu- mentary about the New York singles scene called Unmade Beds. Russo was portrayed in a particularly unflattering light and shortly after the documentary was broad- cast he lost his job as an assistant director of New York University's security force, lost his apartment and found himself living on the streets. He wound up in Bellevue, New York's notorious loony bin, where it was discovered he had an enormous brain tumour. He is currently convalescing while living with his mother. I shudder to think about it. I've instruct- ed my lawyers to include a clause in our prenuptial agreement whereby if Caroline ever appears on a docu-soap she will be obliged to give me every penny she's got.
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