The Real Housewives of my Gonads
We Love Watching Knobheads Act Like Knobheads.
Do people think reality TV is normal?
My wife sat down next to me with a sombre look.
We need to talk, she said. And I wondered if she had been banging the milkman. Then I realised we didn’t have a milkman, so it must have been the damn postal representative.
I have a confession to make, she said, lowering her head.
Oh fuck, here it comes.
I started watching MAFS.
What the fuck is MAFS?
It turns out it stands for Married At First Sight.
And I have to admit I thought it was a decent enough premise for a TV show. After all, marriage is a 100% make-believe concept, so why not bend the non-existent rules around it to dissolve the compulsory get to know you period.
She told me I wouldn’t like it and it would make me angry.
Still, I leaned over her shoulder and watched a little to see what it was all about. It turned out that an interesting premise for a show had been well and truly let down by one thing — casting.
The pricks who make these shows understand that drama makes us wet our knickers like a granny on a roller coaster. And the only way to guarantee drama on a reality TV show is by casting the worst kind of knobheads. Stick ten of them in a room together, and kaboom — fireworks.
I mean, I don’t mind that show MasterChef.
I watch it with my wife. I also watch The Great British Bake Off. Initially, I watched for Noel Fielding, but now I watch for Paul Hollywood, giving every young female contestant that ‘You’ll be shaking more than my hand later’ look.
Aside from the underlying energetic male sleaze, these shows are decent because they don’t rely on drama, aka recruiting knobheads. Instead, they recruit people who are supportive and compassionate to each other.
It’s a shocking new approach compared to My Kitchen Rules, MAFS and the other cheap shows that deify empty-headed subtly-racist rapey sport-obsessed bogan potato-headed men and, giant-lipped botox-ridden materialistic judgemental turnip-brained women because they have extra white teeth and giant silicon medicine ball tits or the abs paid for by years of staring into a gym mirror and blowing kisses.
I would like to see the criteria for choosing one of these motherfuckers for the show.
- Must have never done any inner work on themselves.
- Must be fucking obsessed with the way they look.
- Must have the brain of a lobotomised chicken.
I sat down for a TV dinner with my wife and her friend.
What shall we watch? my wife asked. I told her I didn’t give a fuck because Everton had just survived relegation from the Premier League, and I was watching the winning goal on repeat. It was a welcome change from staring at my Instagram feed which these days is filled with pizza, muscle women and cats eating fruit.
But my indifference made them feel it was appropriate to put on the Real Housewives of Beverley Hills. My only other previous encounter with the show had been when I got drugged by a Policeman and walked into a stranger’s lounge.
I’m bamboozled by the level of fuckwittery that these so-called ‘real’ housewives can squash into their lives.
The whole show is these rich as fuck, walking blowup dolls drinking thousand-dollar champagne, eating yuzu soaked scallops with lobster dick puree and arguing through lifeboat lips about whether Randall could see up Marbella’s skirt and whether she waxed her pussy for the occasion or whether Chichi purposely sat Nigel next to Fifi at their fundraiser because she knew Nigel would get drunk and talk shit about Chichi’s ex-husband Nico and his enormous ballsack.
And yeah, I sit there and try to focus on my football, but it’s hard cos there is something sickeningly addictive about watching humans degrade themselves in a cesspool of money and plastic surgery and social teabagging. So I slam my laptop closed, and I go upstairs to write this damn article to escape the vortex.
We can watch something else if you want, my wife says. She is good like that. But, I don’t want. These fucking housewives have put me off television in general. And I could slam everyone for watching, but my short taste of the addictive flavour has made me realise it’s in all of us.
When you start with knobheads and further edit them to look like knobheads, the result is like knobhead crack.
We all love watching knobheads act like knobheads — even me.
But I’m too good for these Real Housewives and their antics. I’d rather watch grown humans kick a leather ball around a field and cry like babies when they win a giant silver cup.
We are much more sophisticated.
