O Big Brother, Where Art Thou? O There Thou Art...

Well, it seems that reality television (if there is such a thing) is kicking up again in this country, with the launch of the new Big Brother series. I think this is the fifth one now.

Of course, this show manages to effectively split the country into three groups of people.

The kind that watches it religiously for the entertainment and spectacle.

The kind who objects to the voyeurism this show promotes, but watches it anyway.

The kind who doesn’t watch the show at all, and proudly announces it to the world as though their moral standpoint is vastly superior to everyone else’s.

Initially I thought that I fit best into the third category. Yes, it’s hypocritical of me to judge others when I’m the one waving a gavel around with gay abandon. Don’t bother pointing that out. Contrary to popular belief, I’m actually quite human.

Super Andy writes for another blog, and has vast amounts more talent than I. He is Super, after all.

Ahem. I indulged a little bit of Big Brother on Monday night. If by “indulged” you really mean “forcibly pushed through means not unlike The Clockwork Orange”, then you’re not far off the mark.

But I think my perception is changing… a bit.

I can see this show’s appeal, to be honest - if only for the fact that it makes people feel better.

I mean, who wouldn’t like to bitch about someone else when they’re in full view, but unable to respond to your scathing judgement of their guise? The BB housemates are the hapless victims of the scorn of hundreds of thousands of Australians who are comparing their moral fibre against those of people who may or may not be acting their normal selves on camera.

Which is silly. I mean, I constantly compare my life to that of Detective Goran from Law and Order, Criminal Intent, and I constantly feel inferior. Even more so when I compare my life to Vincent D'Onofrio – I mean, I haven’t been granted the privilege of blowing my head off in an iconic Stanley Kubrick film.

So, now what’s my major malfunction with Reality TV, I hear you ask. Well… none, really. Jeez, you’re a presumptuous little ragamuffin, aren’t you?

I have no major bones with Reality TV anymore. It’s just like regular local TV, but instead of talentless, vacuous crazies with perked bodies playing characters as they were written by the show’s scriptwriters, there are talentless, vacuous crazies with perk bodies playing themselves as they are portrayed by the show’s producers.

So, now I just choose to not watch it and I shut the hell up about it… er apart from this blog post. It’s not for some kind of moral objection, and not because I like scripted television. I just don’t need TV to show me just how nutty some people are. I can see it for myself whenever I step outside the house.

So, I’d like to believe that I’ve created a fourth category.

The kind who doesn’t really want to watch Reality TV, despite its endearing foibles, but will refuse to question those who indulge in its ostensible grandeur whenever it’s turned on.

Besides, it’s not like whinging about it will make it go away.

At least I got to use the word Ragamuffin, though. Yay.