All eyes on FIVE

I don't mind admitting that, back in the early days, I was a proper Big Brother fan. I can still remember my devastation at having to head to the airport for a holiday in Greece the day Nasty Nick was unveiled as a duplicitous manipulator. In retrospect, the outcry over his machinations was a little overblown. He'd been caught scribbling housemates' names on a scrap of contraband paper, and yet the public reacted as though he was Myra Hyndley's hair stylist.

In year two, Channel 4 and Endemol turned the screws even tighter, treating us to round-the-clock footage on the newly created E4. Work colleagues were arriving in the office bleary-eyed, having turned on the TV at three in the morning because "I find it soothing to watch them sleep". Then came the add-ons and celebrity editions, until it seemed as though Big Brother was responsible for 80 per cent of Channel 4's entire output. 

By the time Pete and Nicky arrived in the house, the nation was finally beginning to wean itself off its addiction. We'd been through the early experimental phase, and had collectively endured several years of fame-hungry extroverts. Now we were stuck with the worst kind of housemates. Self-aware and media savvy, they actually talked about showmances and the lucrative nature of post-eviction magazine deals. Pop culture hadn't just eaten itself, it had thrown it back up again and was sniffing at it hungrily like a guilty spaniel.

So now here we are. Having finally said our tearful goodbyes to Davina's wardrobe full of black dresses and Marcus Bentley's dry commentary, Big Brother is back again. But this time, it's on Channel 5. If you thought it was a tacky freakshow before, this is going to be like a summer of back-to-back Sheila's Wheels ads. 

They're easing us into it with a few weeks of Celebrity Big Brother, although I expect that the definition of 'celebrity' is going to be applied creatively. Mindful that we need some familiarity to distract us from the fact that it's on a different channel, Five has retained the music and the set. They've even cast Brian Dowling as our emcee, having being crowned Ultimate Big Brother Champion at the end of last summer. They've even found a Geordie voice-over artist to add an extra wrinkle of familiarity. But the effect is not unlike buying one of those triple disc soul compilations in ASDA, only to find that it's all cheap re-recordings performed by "several of the original artists".

The first two into the house are Kerry Katona and Tara Reid. Both have had pretty public struggles with drugs and alcohol, and are slurring their words like Ozzy Osbourne with a migraine. Tara Reid hasn't really done anything of note since her early appearances in the first couple of American Pie movies. Since then, she's spent the best part of a decade having cheap plastic surgery and falling out of parties with one of her odd-shaped tits poking out her dress. And if you need an introduction to Kerry Katona, well, I envy your ignorance. 

Hopefully, Five haven't spanked all their money on the extensively refurbished house, because they're going to need a bunch of subtitle writers working around the clock. As if the blonde Bill & Ben aren't bad enough, now we've got bare-knuckle fighting traveller Paddy Doherty - think Brad Pitt's dialogue in Snatch, delivered by a sculpture of Mickey Rourke made out of Parma ham.

Hoping to raise the conversational tone, they've also thrown in Amy Childs, a woman most famous for having sparkles all over her lady-pelmet. She's still over the moon about winning a BAFTA against a bunch of dead clever shows: "They was really educational. Is it fictional or educational?" she asks a cameraman who's probably choking on his own tongue. Send in Dimbleby and we can do the next Question Time live from Elstree.

"I am everything that is celebrity", says an Australian twat who looks like he skinned Perez Hilton and fashioned a cheap suit out of the off-cuts. Darren Lyons is a paparazzi photographer, which means he's usually stuck behind a lens. Sadly, that's all about to change for the next few weeks. The audience are booing, but that might just be because they've realised it's another hour until they'll be let out of the enclosure.

Sally Bercow is up next, still getting some mileage out of the fact that she once wrapped herself in a bedsheet and looked out of a window. She comes across as pretty intelligent - it's almost a shame that she's going to be locked in a monkey house for the next few weeks. Three days and she'll be frantically writing conspiracy theories on the breakfast table in coloured chalk.

The housemates have been joined by Lucien Laviscount from Coronation Street and Waterloo Road, apparently. He seems like a nice enough young lad, even if he does sound like a secondary character from an Anne Rice novel.

As if the house wasn't already full of leathery orange skin and bleached hair extensions, here's David Hasselhoff's ex-wife. I don't know much about her, but the fact that David got custody of the kids, despite drunkenly eating burgers off the kitchen floor, tells me that she may have more than a passing familiarity with the vodka bottle.

Brian is promising two more housemates, which means that Jedward are about to be dumped into the house, like an envelope full of anthrax tipped into the air-con. In the meantime, there's a male model called Bobby Sabel. Me neither. He reckons he's not your average model, since he's not arrogant or vain. But he is desperately dull, which means he's at least living up to part of the stereotype.

And finally, here's Jedward to remind us of what happens when Louis Walsh is given a say in anything. They've come out dressed as a cross between Riff Raff and Tony the Tiger. As with all the other housemates, their arrival theme is punctuated with what sounds like a double gunshot. If only.

Now for the twist. I guess it's too much to hope for a giant concrete mixer quietly positioning its funnel over the bedroom. Kerry's been given a secret mission - she has to throw a 'diva strop' so that the other housemates select her as the most irritating contestant. Unfortunately, she's up against some stiff competition. I don't imagine that I'll be tuning in tomorrow to see how she fares...

Reaching the half-way point

OK, so this countdown of the year is starting to feel like a bad idea, but I'm half cut on Fluffy Ducks, so let's soldier on and see if we can make it to the end of June

In May, Danny Dyer got into hot water for a misogynistic advice column, in which he told one magazine reader with a problematic ex-girlfriend to slash her face so that no-one else would want her. Donnie Osmond took a different approach, finding that the way to a woman's heart is through her vagina. Well, a rolled up poster of Donnie any way.

With the weather finally on the turn, it seemed as though everyone had sex on the brain. Westlife were promising their sexiest album yet (which admittedly wasn't much of a ambition), one enterprising young woman staged an online auction of her virginity (although it's not clear whether anyone sniped the highest bidder at the last moment), and a British Job Centre tried to recruit phone sex workers.

Sex was the last thing on Kevin Jonas' mind as he found himself occupying a separate bedroom to his new bride, thanks to his snoring. And anti-gay Christian activist George Rekers claimed that the young rent boy who accompanied him on his European trip was only there to carry the luggage.

Daniel Craig, Johnny Galecki and Chace Crawford found themselves fending off gay rumours, whereas the big outings of the month actually came as a genuine surprise - country singer Chely Wright and long-standing Sesame Street resident Bert.

Less surprising was the revelation that the Rolling Stones took drugs when writing music, which was a little like George Best admitting that he liked the odd tipple. This year's Eurovision also offered few surprises, once again displaying Europe's knack for key changes, glitter cannons and political back-stabbery.

Finally, May saw the end of two long-standing institutions - the Labour government and Lost. Both had spent years delighting, confusing and infuriating in equal measure, and both knew that it was time to go. In the end, it was the survivors of flight Oceanic 815 that were more likely to be missed.

As June rolled over the horizon, people seemed to be packing away the final traces of self-awareness like it was their winter wardrobe. Republican Aaron Schock denied being gay (and even announced he'd burned the outfit that caused people to speculate), Tara Reid lamented her party-girl reputation as she attempted to avoid spilling beer from a plastic cup, and Giles Coren typed furiously that he wasn't Mr Angry.

McDonalds shocked France with an ad that suggested gays might enjoy the occasional quarter pounder (who knew?) and Vermont Catholic magazine hit the news-stands with a surprising cover, showing a priest apparently offering a choirboy more than just his sacrament.

In the pop world, Beyonce complained that she was tired of the Single Ladies dance routine (despite Kanye west's vocal approval), and Katy Perry took time out from shooting whipped cream from her tits to moan about Lady Gaga's offensive videos.

Boris Johnson lamented the fact that The Wizarding World of Harry Potter had opened in Florida, suggesting somewhat erroneously that England could have done it better. I think someone needs to lay off the butterbeer before he opens his mouth. And Mad Men star January Jones was caught doing the walk of shame after a big night out.

David Cameron finally got his feet under the desk at Number 10, and was quick to send out invitations to Britain's most prominent gays for a damage limitation party. Speaking of which, the big story on everyone's lips in June was the terrible BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. Big-hearted gays staged a sponsored oil wrestle to raise clean-up funds, Sarah Palin tweeted that we should all wait for God to intervene, and Kevin Costner invented a filtration system that he sold to the government. Well, it's not like he was busy filming that much-in-demand sequel to Dragonfly.

Finally, June saw the long awaited reveal and release of the world-conquering iPhone 4, although Carphone Warehouse decided that I hadn't waited quite long enough. But the less said about that, the better. Can anyone guess what months we'll be covering tomorrow?

What's that on your head?

Poor old Paris Hilton. She seems to attract trouble like Tara Reid attracts half-empty tequila bottles. The poor girl can't go anywhere without the paparazzi performing a smear test with a telephoto lens, or someone trying to arrest her for drug possession.

But despite the regular police interventions and invasive photography, Paris is a hard-worker, dedicated to keeping up the night-job. Those newly-opened nightclubs won't attend themselves - our girl needs to be out and about, showing her face and living it large...

Since this is world where fame is measured in terms of column inches generated, rather than any kind of tangible output, Paris is seen as the holy grail (an empty vessel with little physical value - how apt) for celebrity endorsements.

So brands are constantly sticking things in her mouth, pinning them on her clothes or attaching them to her head in the hope that she'll raise the profile of their products. At least that's how it's supposed to work.

The hard-partying celebutante is in yet another legal tangle, this time with Hairtech International, who are suing our plastic princess. Paris' crime? She went out in the wrong hair. Oh stop sniffing - we've all done it.

Hairtech is looking to claim $35 million in damages, "for fraud and deceit, unjust enrichment and breach of contract" because Paris was spotted partying wearing someone else's lustrous blonde hair extensions back in 2008. Seriously, this is the world we live in.

Not only was Paris signed to an exclusive contract with Hairtech for all her artificial hairpiece needs (for $3.5 million, no less), the company had built an entire campaign around 'spot Paris Hilton'.

In retrospect, that might have been a rather silly decision, since her ubiquity on the party circuit would make it pretty hard not to spot her. Maybe Lord Lucan wasn't on the market for any hair extensions.

Hairtech is also pissed that Paris neglected to attend a commercial shoot, and the Dream Catcher launch party. Although, to be fair, she was in jail at the time. I know the US legal system tends to be pretty lenient on its celebrity inmates, but even they draw the line at day release to attend a party.

Reid between the lines

Time to break open the Bollinger and line up those body shots, everyone's favourite party girl is back on the scene. And she's flashing the flesh like there's no tomorrow.

Although technically listed as an actress, Tara Reid is a one-woman wrecking ball who somehow manages to make Lindsay Lohan look like the model of sober professionalism. After a reasonably successful start in films like The Big Lebowski, Urban Legend and American Pie, Tara discovered she was more interested in mojitos than method.

Tactfully described by the US press as a 'Party Girl' (generally considered to be a euphemism for 'drunken slut') Tara likes to raise a ruckus when she goes out - she's been on more table tops than a napkin dispenser.

It's an image she's battled hard to dismiss, complaining that "I think I’m just so misunderstood as a person…It’s like every time you see me out they’ll only show a picture of me, like, with a cup in my hand. They won’t show all the benefits I’m involved in with children. They never show anything positive." Which isn't really fair, since by the time the photographers catch sight of Tara, the cup has been drained, along with the complimentary perfumes in the bathroom and the bar's drip tray.

Actually though, Tara's problems run deeper than the fact that collapses like a camping table. She's also had a troublesome history with plastic surgery, showing off a pair of poorly augmented breasts that looked like the goggly eyes on fairground stuffed toy.

Not that she meant to show them off, one of them just happened to slip out at P Diddy's 35th birthday - "I didn’t see [my dress] fall down, so I’m smiling like an idiot, not even knowing that it’s there.” But the paparazzi knew it was there, and went to town on her botched, blotchy boobs.

Since that incident made the papers around the world she's been struggling to rebuild her shattered confidence. However, that all changed this week as she proudly unveiled her new 'bikini body' at the Palms Casino Resort in Las Vegas. Unfortunately, she seems to have borrowed it from Joan Rivers.

She may be "a young woman with confidence" (as she told Playboy in December), but someone needs to point out that she looks as though she's been stitched together using the contents of a bag of beef jerky. And if these are the new and improved breasts, she really needs to crack open the Webster and look up 'improved'.