TL/DR at the bottom
How channel 9 sees its audience:
Mum, in her 50s floral crinoline just-below-the-knee with a full skirt and tight bodice dress and sensible, yet still sexy inch-high kitten heels clearing the dinner table, as Dad gruffly but affectionately tousles the 2 kids’ hair as they amble towards the lounge room. The kids automatically know that one of them is to sit on the floor in front of the 3-seater leather lounge, ready to rest their head against dad’s leg, the other to slump into the far corner of the sofa. Dad? He’s striding manfully towards the TV set, ready to twist the miraculous technological marvel, the combined on-off/volume dial and hold his hand there briefly so he feels the satisfying bump of the cathode ray tube springing to life. Pride swelling as the bright light in the centre of the screen spreads towards the edges, he reaches for the knob that controls the channel. He is the master of his domain. Mum comes into the room, gives dad a playful pinch on the behind, they exchange knowing smiles and admire their brood as they settle on the couch together for a night of family viewing.
Result:
The channel that captures this racy and modern audience has it made. It has topped the ratings with mums, dads and the teens! Demographic win!
Who the audience really is:
Mum, in her trakkie pants and t-shirt is plonked on the sofa; day’s over; fuck off, cat, this is *my time*. She picks up the TV remote and flicks on the box. One kid’s in front of a computer playing Kerbal Space Program; the other’s supposed to have finished her shift at Woolies two hours ago and still isn’t home; the bitch. And Dad? Yeah, he’s still at fucking work. Always at fucking work, that asshole. Mum’s got her iPad on her knee, and is alternating between Facebook and CandyCrush. Daughter-with-the-Woolies-job has actually gone to a party, and despite having the very latest and greatest device from Samsung or Apple, hasn’t bothered with even a text message to lie about having to work overtime.
At the party, daughter Alice is talking with Bruce and Walter. She wants to let BFF Giorgie across the room know that Bruce is as hot a spunkrat as she’s ever come across. So, while maintaining eye contact with Bruce, she whips out the iDevice of her choice, and blatantly snaps his picture. Without breaking eye contact for more than a nanosecond, and certainly without missing a beat in conversation, Giorgie gets the message. And responds: “Where Ru?” Alice is still in deep conversation, but can communicate “Nr sofa”, probably with another pic, this time of the green chair they’re standing next to. Bruce and Walter don’t see anything wrong with this; in fact, they’re in thrall; she’s deftly wielding the latest and greatest accessories from iPhoneCoverLover, so has to be a unique and special snowflake; and so totally worth the bullshit because this is a deadcert for a blow job tonight.
Result:
The OzTam ratings box on top of the TV cabinet isn’t getting much work tonight. The TV’s on, but nobody’s home.
TL/DR:
Big Brother’s “failure” is simply being amplified by its producers’ inability to manipulate the content and deliver it via multiple media in a relevant way. To capture a market today, content must be delivered with immediacy, flexibility and urgency. And we get: what happened on Friday, maybe, delivered at a variable timeslot, possibly next Monday on a monolithic box in one room of our house, with a terse update on a badly-designed website 12 hours later. Or never.
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