IF YOU WANT TO READ THE ACTUAL ARTICLE: POP JUSTICE

Darren Hayes' Gift To You - America's Next Top Model
March 02 2006
You're probably wondering how my Brits experience was.

What's that you say? You didn't see me on the telecast? Well I was there, nuzzling up to the Gorillaz ( I forget which one - I'm terrible with names) I, like the rest of you, was perplexed as to the actual host. I am not that familiar with British celebs yet, but was that Austin Powers hosting the show?

Anyway I digress. I did not actually go to the Brits. Sadly, I must confess to having watched it on my television about a week later. I taped it because I had a back log of important stuff to watch. Important programs and informative pieces of visual research that relate to my art and the pursuit of pop nirvana.

And by important programs I mean America's Next Top Model. It's ruining my life. As is most reality television. Well, it's ruining creative writing anyway. What are all the script writers doing these days? Poor fellas. Even though my gift to you is a reality show and therefore by law soul destroying and hideous - at least it's not celebrity based, which I for one and grateful for.

I have no desire to learn any more about what people in Heat magazine had for breakfast. Or to see their breakfast poking out of their mini skirts when they arrive at an important premiere to such ground breaking films as Miss Congeniality 2.

This week's gem is not a product, life couching (and possibly saving) survival tip. Not a CD or a suggestion for a leotard (does Madonna ever wear pants anymore?). Hell, if I had an ass like that I'd wear a leotard. In public that is. Wearing it at home when I'm dusting is not the same thing. I like grapes. Is everything I'm thinking just pouring out onto the page?

All hilarity aside (and I know by your email* that you do find me side splittinglly funny) this particular gift to you is one I have a moral problem with, but I feel I must confess to being addicted. And it's pure evil. A guilty pleasure. Can I call something that and then dismiss all my ethics just to include it in my column?

Okay. Twist my arm. But you will go to hell for it.

First there's the concept. 25 or so extremely good looking people are put before a panel fashion hyenas and torn apart on national television. Well global actually since I'm watching it in London. Anyway, my point is the show is like crack. Not that good for you and presumably really difficult to give up. But seriously the show offers all kinds of insights into what it takes to be a model. Sure there's tips on how to walk but that's boring. What's really groundbreaking is the level of meanness.

First of all, they manage to expose every tiny flaw these girls have, and then psychologically torture them about them so that if they don't win, they'll be forever scarred. They take women who have won the d.n.a lottery in good looks and strip them down to the bare insecure and fragile forms the rest of us have adopted. They are taught nothing, put in a series of situations that will never happen in their hopeful future industry and then make them stand in a queue whilst a former super model in a conveyor belt of nylon wigs each week dismisses one of them.

The catch phrase is really lame however. I don't know if there even is one. You know, the catch phrases all these shows have when they dismiss someone? Like - 'you are the weakest link' etc etc? I've heard they toyed with the idea of saying "You're a Hag. Now Fuck Off". But that wasn't considered mean or soul destroying enough. This show could borrow from Liz Hurley's reality television jaunt and hurl like acid the fatal blow as only Liz can - "Fashion has no mercy, you must leave the catwalk".

I forget the name of the program but it crucifies designers for dressing badly.

Could you imagine if we did that to popstars?

Dismissal for dodgy outfits?

For starters I'd never had have a career. And the Brits would never have been televised last week that's for sure.

So that's my one and only gift to you this week. I'll leave you with a tip. Don't insult your postman. He knows where you live. I just found this out the other day when he and I had a bit of a fight. Long story. He was rude, I was half asleep. Doors were slammed. He does, however, have my address. And lately, not a lot of letters have arrived.

Go buy Jose Gonzales's version of 'Hand on your Heart'.

And call your Mother.

Until next time, if you have a breathmint, please use it. People have been talking.

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* One person emailed me to say that I was funny. Thank you. To the rest of you - you really hurt my feeling. That was not a typo. I have only one. Please conduct a poll to discuss. I'll give you the possible choices. My feeling is either 1. My ego 2. A sharp pain in my left leg 3. An erotic urge 4. The word 'grape' 5. My personal view of my self in relation to the omnipresent universe. Results revealed next week.