Thursday, 2 September 2010
Goodbye 2000 and all its little foibles and idiosyncrasies.
I have been a bit of a BB slut of late in that I have a tendency to dip back in and out of certain series.
BB4 will always be referred to by ardent BB-ers as the “lost years” when it all went a bit countryfile on us. We had some highs with BB8 with the likes of Rex and Mikey, BB5 legends Victor and Nadia and sheer brilliance in the Myra Hindley/ Camp Norwegian Spy and Deep Sea Diver relations between Anthony Hutton and Craig Coates in BB6.
What I do know, for the po-faced people who insult BB watchers as illiterate, uneducated, labour voting, vesta curry eating pondlife of society, there are lots of people who are extremely high brow who still watch it, like my good self.
Yes, it is full of idiots who are destined for the front cover of OK magazine or the Closer diet challenge but in times of people stuck down mines, cricket bungs, urban fox attacks, Peter Crouch being allowed back into Abbey’s arms we are all entitled to some fluff in our life.
Maybe it is just me who still finds it funny to envisage Craig from Big Brother One, body popping in front of the mirror singing to Madonna’s just like a prayer in his heavy scouse joiner’s lisp, or to see signs in the Big Brother crowd supporting Nadia Almada which read “Go Nads”.
Now tell me that is raw sewage.
And so to the daddy of all BBs: Ultimate Big Brother 2010.
Since the early days of the very clinical and unilever factory appearance of the first house with its whimsical mud painting tasks, we have been entertained over the years with some tasks which belie utter genius.
Housemates have been asked to drink pureed roast lamb dinners, punch their way out of human sized brown paper bags, ignore the obvious, lick thousands of crisps, eat shed loads of sprouts and the now legendary chilli task.
Enter 10 chillies hung on hooks in ascending order of strength. One glass of milk.
So for all you curry lovers out there who turn to a pint of water after a warm Jalfrezi, retreat now. The Capsaicinoids found in chilli peppers determine the heat of the food. Capsaicinoids are also not water soluble, so a little bit like a poo with the mass of a cork that won’t flush; they will remain tingling on your tongue for a good ten minutes or so.
And so bring out the milk which has milk fat and proteins which helps to neutralise the acidity of those pesky Capsaicinoids.
Number 1 is usually your archetypal Friday night in Wrexham Chilli, perhaps a Serrano. Smooth, bullet shaped. Five times the heat of a Jalapeno, guaranteed to get the bowels having a brisk workout.
Number 5 might see your housemate indulging in a Habanero “hab-an-yeah-row”. A close pal to the Na-Na- Notorious Scotch Bonnet, they are both equally fiery and likely to get the tear ducts flowing.
At this point you have to bear the housemates producing some serious stringy saliva and carrying out some serious blunders which would have Geoff Stelling hopping in his seat.
Eyes rubbing, tongue rubbing, in fact any body rubbing is out of the question here.
Some manage to have the minerals to reach number 10.
The Naga or “bhut jolokia” is hotter than Megan Fox and David Beckhams lovechild on an all expenses paid trip to the Sandy Lane Beach Resort with Simon Cowell.
The Naga is grown in parts of the UK which see some standard of decent weather, usually Devon and Suffolk.
Adrian Nuttall who grows the Naga’s at his Chilli Company in the deep sowf recommends domestic cooks to use latex gloves when chopping.
Capsaicinoids are kept in the oils which are split open upon chopping. One meeting with the skin and its Cap-ow suckers.
Chilli has been used in desserts for years in Mexico and we are now seeing this in our own chocolate in the UK. The Chilli Company have even started to produce a Hazelnut and Naga ice cream. Having a tongue like 10 emery boards and a stomach with the strength of hulk Hogan, I could take on a few Naga Cornettos no danger.
I feel a sense of melancholy sweeping across on me as I type this almost posthumously BB – Chilli inspired blog. I shall enjoy raising a glass of bubbly on the BB final night and say farewell to my formative twenties.
In the words of Mr Nick Bateman, you live by the sword, you die by the sword.