A Load of Old Wombat Scrotum
“I’m A Celebrity” has to be the greatest reality TV show ever, no?
What could be more enjoyable than watching people you sort of recognise off the telly being forced to dine out on Scrotum of Wombat? And they have to leave their goose down duvets and Egyptian cotton bed linen at home and sleep in a hammock for a month! And they have to talk to those irritating little Geordie men who used to be in Byker Grove!
It’s a really bloody brilliant show.
But the coverage surrounding the show doesn’t always sit well with me. In fact it’s starting to repeat on me like a greasy bacon sandwich bought from one of those filthy road side vans….made by a woman with dirty finger nails and a moustache.
Every tabloid paper and news site currently features some Pussy Twat Doll or soap opera actress in a stage of undress. Usually they are wearing really tiny bikinis under that waterfall they like to be snapped under in their really tiny bikinis.
Or sometimes they find pictures of them which don’t actually have anything to do with the show. Ones from old glamour shoots, you know, thumb pulling lacy black knickers down slightly, mouth a little bit open – gazing at you from the page, all smoky eyed like they’re trying to communicate a little private message to you…”I’m a Celebrity – fancy a blow job?”
This has become an annual ritual which starts with the build-up of the show and is yet another excuse for the media to shove highly sexualised and gratuitous images of barely dressed models and soap actresses down our throats. Because that is what sells and that is what everyone wants to see, at all times and everywhere, apparently.
But what do we (the females) get out of this? A few paltry snaps of David Haye in his birthday suit have been reluctantly flung in our direction by the men who largely edit these kind of publications and ultimately decide what pictures should be uploaded to the “news” sites.
But David Haye in his under-crackers would never in a million years make page 1 of a Sunday newspaper because (ever so slightly) more men buy these newspapers than women and it is, in fact, an industry – and sex sells to men – yes, yes, I know. God forbid the gender which make up over 50 per cent of the population should be offered anything visually erotic on the front page of a mainstream newspaper.
During a debate on this subject today, one of my female colleagues suggested that women look at women more than they look at men and she actually backed this up with one of our own survey stories… http://www.72point.com/coverage/scouting-women-spend-longer-women.
The survey says that women like looking at other women so that we can “compare” our visual appearances. It says “Overall, half of the 2,000 women polled said they ‘enjoy’ comparing themselves to other women”.
Oh right!!! So we actually enjoy doing this???
Well, I can kind of understand how one may take enjoyment from comparing oneself to a normal person on the street. If the aim of this ridiculous game (I’m sorry but only women could invent a game so ludicrous) is that we win – then playing it when out on the town with some fat mates may secure a chance of victory – and I’m assuming a “win” is when we have bigger tits or whiter teeth or less back fat than another female?
But what kind of “enjoyment” do we take from looking at pictures of models and actresses in their underwear? Because if we are playing this game to win – then when browsing through the Mail Online – we are in dangerous “loserville” territory. Essentially are never going to have less back fat than some chick who spends more time at the gym than we spend at our desks.
So why do we continue to compare ourselves physically to these celebrities and aspire soooo much to look like women off the telly and in magazines that we go on ill-advised diets that never actually work and spend our whole lives losing out – to a digitally re-touched image!!!!
This is completely absurd, entirely futile and I would much rather look at pictures of David Haye in his under-crackers! You can find some on the Mail website but you have to scroll right down to the bottom…
By Harriet Scott
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