I’ve a friend who likes “reality TV” shows. If there was a show called “Midget Transsexual Melbourne Housewife Celebrities Locked into a BB House in the Jungle” and they had to renovate something, call each other trollops or just get drunk when not otherwise occupied, I’m pretty sure she’d marry the telly (in California, Carol Santa Fe has married a railway station – hence her new surname – so don’t judge my supposition as mere whimsy).
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But it set me thinking that there’s a lot of manic stuff to which reality TV could still be open. Since social satire of some sort can be found anywhere, why stop at plumbing only the depths of depravity achievable by botoxed, bosom-enhanced and bum-tucked B-list celebs? Reality TV’s next foray should include the entirety of society – everyone, potentially, can be laughed at; so let’s get out there and get everyone involved.
The program “Vision at First Sight” (VAFS) could initially include anyone, anywhere publically using tautology (which means reiterating the same identical thing twice). For example this week Boyd Cordner (NRL Roosters) opined, “I love all the memories I’ve had so far” which, unless he also has memories of the future, is a lovely example of a phrase too many.
Recent DA articles give hope for a strong regional presence in the tautological stakes: a Wagga bike spokes-person (no pun intended) said “Bike paths around town aren’t up to scratch and could be a lot better.” What? Not just bad but could also be improved? A delightful one-pronged argument rolled out as two – who could disagree with such logic? Simple obscurity and incomprehensibility would mean automatic disqualification from the contest; which will probably be disappointing to any WWCC nabobs seeking instant celeb stat.
Speaking of spotlight lovers, “I’m a Celebrity: Get Me Into There” could use CCTV to present weekly spots where wannabe statesmen, sports-stars and others who assume instant recognisability try to get into clubs, pubs and restaurants without membership, without a booking or when simply as hammered as a peg. Drunkenly shouting, “Do you know WHO I AM?” to burly Tongan bouncers would instantly progress the contestant to the next round – or the next round closest to their discharge from the Fractures Unit. Actually gaining admittance to the venue would see the contestant up for eviction on the assumption that since he or she is in reality, a no-hoper, then clearly a razoo or two have changed hands somewhere in the negotiations – which completely undermines the theme of unbridled Hubris.
“Real Pensioners of Sydbourne” might see a few camera crews tagging around after various octogenarians on their daily business: counting out pennies at the op shop, stocking up on tins of Spam, sitting in the park wrestling a seagull for its chip, or spending the whole day waiting their turn and then trying to figure out how to get a refund on their empty geritol bottle from the recycling machine – laugh-a-minute stuff brought to you by successive Australian parliaments.
“Survivor: Outrage Alley” could use just about any public space where people come into close contact or where they need to interact. Outrage at the fact that applause involves making a scary noise; or that the opinions of others might contradict one’s own; or that strangers often make unwanted eye-contact; would all be fair game and the least outraged people each week would be eliminated. Members of the Permanently Outraged Party, as professionals at the game, would be barred.