Yet again, we return to the realm of Celebrity Big Brother, a reality TV show affectionately bearing the sobriquet of a character from George Orwell’s Celebrity Nineteen Eighty-Four. Set in future Britain, this Orwellian tale immerses readers in a dystopian surveillance state. Much as I am yet to consume this text, I hazard a guess that it weaves a narrative around a similar surveillance regime, but this time, operated by panel members from Blankety Blank, including Rod Hull and Emu, Big Ted from Playschool, Bobby Davro, and Cheryl Baker from Bucks Fizz (A relentless felt beak endlessly nipping the flesh of humanity forms my visualisation of the future).
Notwithstanding, the gist about Big Brother from the book is his lovable, omniscient, yet invisible persona, akin to Wilson in Home Improvement, God in Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret or Her Indoors on Minder.
The real-world replica of Orwell’s Celebrity Nineteen Eighty-Four series routinely commences with AJ Odudu and Will Best beaming cheerfully in close proximity on a modest platform. In a poorly fitting suit, presumably loaned by an elder relative, stands Will, while AJ dons a glossy maroon appareled akin to a wetsuit, casually suggesting she was scooped from a scuba dive and placed directly on set. This could well be the case.
My current viewing platform is Virgin Media Two, having lost count of the UK broadcasters airing Big Brother. Springing from Channel 4, it hopped to Channel 5, before almost settling on ITV, but from there, my memory falters. It wouldn’t entirely surprise me to discover I’m observing CCTV footage from a local amateur dramatic society’s rendition of Celebrity Big Brother.
Nonetheless, AJ and Will succeed in rallying the customary frenzied assemblies of Big Brother enthusiasts, staged seemingly in an alley to the rear of a Tesco. You can clearly make out road markings and the boundaries of an industrial-looking structure. Indeed, few positive experiences are logged down a Tesco back-alley. Looming behind the duo is the symbolic insignia of the Big Brother franchise – an oversized electronical eye teeming with intricate designs. Envisage the Eye of Sauron, albeit presenting signs of an affliction.
The breathtaking fiery spectacle through which celebrity participants stride into the space, one after the other, can fill the onlooker with both fear and fascination. Initially, it appears as if they will be burnt to ashes, a thought that is momentarily accepted with indifference before you understand that the flames are just part of the grand entrance into the well-known all-seeing house— the central location from which almost the entire series is broadcast.
Our first encounter is with the celebrity housemate, Sharon Osbourne, preeminent panelist from X-Factor and the revered matron of the Osbourne family. She is first seen inside the gold-plated cube, a spot reserved for introductions and thematic posing aimed at miscontextualising their images through the hands of skilful editors. “I am Sharon Osbourne, and I happen to be the pioneer of reality television,” she declares with a gravitas comparable to J Robert Oppenheimer’s “I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”
She is soon met by her ex-X factor cohort, Louis Walsh who appears grumpy. Honestly, both of them come across as rather grumpy. It’s almost as if they were oblivious to the fact they’re partaking in a celebratory event. Either they’ve been unwillingly enlisted under new legislation, or they are participating to foot some unforeseen bills. They are immediately assigned to retreat into a concealed shelter, from where they are expected to secretly observe the remaining celebrities. Their task is to select three of them for potential eviction. Neither Sharon nor Louis find this task particularly thrilling. In fact, Louis nearly sabotages their mission by revealing their location prematurely with a shout of “We’re in here!” This makes their stay in Endemol’s bedazzling pleasure-filled prison quite entertaining. Throughout the show, viewers return intermittently to this paired-off duo, who engage in ultimately unremarkable conversation as they monitor their colleagues on a television. “Takeaways are rather to my taste,” states Louis, to which Sharon retorts, “Well, I can whip up a baked potato.”
“The nature of celebrity has transformed dramatically. I’m led to believe that some of this year’s personalities merely reserved lodgings via Airbnb, and the showrunners deemed that sufficient. I’m fairly convinced, for instance, that Colson Smith is simply enjoying time spent Interrailing. The remaining individuals seem to be unfortunate beings perpetually moving from one reality TV setting to another. There is Lauren Simon, who defended matrimony’s sanctity on a programme titled ‘The Real Housewives of Cheshire’, and vowed to coquettishly engage with the non-corporeal Big Brother much to her home-bound husband’s dismay. Additionally, we have Levi Roots, a survivor from Dragon’s Den, who fondly refers to the titular character as a kin born of a different parent, conjuring Orwell’s successive novel, ‘Nineteen Eighty-Four: Big Brother from Another Mother’.
We also have Fern Britton, who despite her name, is not a nationalistic fern, but a television host. And then there is Ekin-Su from ‘Love Island’, who confides in Fern and carries herself with the diplomacy one would expect from a trade envoy. By the time the series concludes, it’s expected that she will have brokered an accord between the attractive brigade from her native romantic isles and the starry-eyed spectators of the Big Brother mansion. Also featured is David Potts, whose CV boasts of participation in reality-TV series so unheard of they might be mistaken as local job initiatives. Intriguingly and inexplicably, he opts to go without trousers, a choice Sharon Osbourne wittily and somberly observes as him ‘putting his produce on display’. In a later episode, David shares a glimpse into his philosophical stance, declaring, ‘Should you wish to share your viewpoint with me, I’ll hear you out, but I truly couldn’t care less’. A sentiment I express when editors offer their reviews.”
The crass and thought-free inclusion of Kate Middleton’s relatives stands out, most notably her uncle Gary Goldsmith who acknowledged his assault on his wife in 2017 by self-identifying as a ‘bad boy’. Modern reality shows seem uncaring about who they elevate to fame, indiscriminately promoting pandemic-bungler Matt Hancock, right-wing provocateur Nigel Farage or even domestic abusers. Evidently, they consider all publicity to be good publicity. One is led to believe that Orwell, were he alive today, would passionately refuse any offer to appear on Celebrity Big Brother, despite the undeniable alignment with the themes of his works, especially Nineteen Eighty-Four.
Conversely, Home of the Year’s return to RTÉ One brought me ample joy. The series showcases the charmingly intrusive trifecta of Hugh Wallace, Amanda Bone, and Sara Cosgrove as they explore and critique awe-inspiring homes, even sampling the absent homeowners’ cologne. “The homeowners surely wouldn’t begrudge me a quick spritz,” quips Hugh, a line I spare from humour, out of respect for the memory of Kenneth Williams.
The solitary change I would suggest for future instalments of the show is forgo seeking householders’ consent to appraise their homes. This would inject an exciting element of risk into their aesthetic evaluations. Despite this proposed adrenaline-pumping change, the design enthusiasts could still provide commentary like, “I find this wallpaper comforting, not overpowering” or “The understated exterior of this house did not hint at its grand, lavish interior”, with the added excitement of daring getaways from pursuing gardaí.