Colin has single-handedly turned this season of Big Brother into the most gloriously unbearable trainwreck in recorded history, a true masterpiece of televised human decay.
His symphony of wet, weaponised farts that could strip wallpaper, combined with that gurgling, spit-flecked goblin laugh and a speaking voice that sounds like a clogged drain of gargling gravy, would be grounds for evacuation in any civilised society.
Then, of course, there were the nightly erotic wrestling routine with Holly the Hunter, two greased-up gremlins dry humping their way toward a public health violation while the viewing nation reached for the sick buckets in perfect unison.
He has the emotional range of a toddler who’s dropped his ice cream in a sandpit, one minute he’s leering, the next he’s sobbing snot bubbles into a pillow. A full grown man child, marinated in his own juices, proudly displaying every red flag known to psychology and several that haven’t been invented yet.
Meanwhile, Channel 10 is practically twirling its moustache, cackling “yes, YES, this is the villain we ordered!” as they edit him into every second of airtime like he is Gods gift. They’re not even pretending anymore, they want this sentient biohazard to waddle away with the prize money so they can sell another similar season of “BB The Flatulence Awakens” next year.
If the other housemates possess even a single functioning brain cell between them, the second his Head of House crown slips, they’ll nominate him so hard the ballot box will need therapy. Otherwise, congratulations Australia we’re about to crown the undisputed King of Cringe, and the throne is already pre-gassed. Pewwww
