Ms. T. Pisani

You don’t mind me calling you that, do you? It’s just having seen you on all those episodes on TV, I’ve come to feel like we’ve been buddies for, like, evah.

Good on ya Tiffy, you had an almost impossible goal and you achieved it against all odds. Kudos.

If you have any plans for running for office, now’s a good time to submit your candidacy and call for a snap election. Your picture could probably substitute the George Cross on the national flag, current popular sentiment being what it is. A grateful nation, one that has been struggling with its mediocrity in so many international fora, has finally found someone to be proud of. I hope this means no more Eurovision entries.

For the rest of the plebs, I’ve got two words: Cold, Shower. They really shouldn’t be boasting about “Malta’s victory” and whatnot, because a) it’s yours Tiffy, not Malta’s, b) they just make everyone else here look like a tit by doing that and c)it’s a beauty contest, not a Nobel Peace Prize. Perspective, people.

I think it’s only fair to point out at this juncture that I hate the Next Top Model franchise. Unreservedly. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m all for beautiful girls-I’m flesh and blood for crying out loud. I’m a bloke, in case you’re wondering and I’m reliably informed that most blokes like the pretty little things, in their various stages of undress, with their weird makeup and hairstyles. As eye candy. Some could do worse than get a few Quarter Pounders with Cheese down their necks, but I digress. My point is that they’re nice to have around but we can live without them. Alarm bells start to ring when I see people, kids in particular, looking up to fashion models as anything other than walking, talking mannequins-often with an IQ to match (I’m generalising here, but you have to admit-that Olivia girl was a bit of a spaz). A fashion model doth not a role model make. I leave to you, Tiffy, to imagine my joy at hearing news of the umpteenth series of the “Next Top Model” franchise, this time with added Maltese flavour. Imagine opening a packet of Twistees at lunchtime and finding a family of moths residing therein. And no Twistees. That’s approximately how I felt. Crushed doesn't begin to describe it.

Most sane people agree that it’s about time this show was allowed to die a natural death. This poor old horse is not only dead but in an advanced stage of decomposition, yet they still insist on flogging it. What with the tired faux-suspense of the judges and their corny lines (example, from Tyra- no less: “With modelling, you guys must be on point, you guys must be fierce, you guys must be ready. But the judges were so disappointed in you that tonight both of you must pack your bags... [after a few seconds] Because we're all going to London!”), it’s becoming a parody of itself.

As for “being on point/ready/fierce” what’s that all about? We used to get told that in the army, together with an order to fix bayonets, before assaulting a simulated enemy position…in preparation for deployment to some troublespot in the arsehole of the planet with supersonic bits of lead flying about your head. How that can be transposed into a context where a broken nail is a calamity of epic proportions, completely escapes me. Whoosh, over my head (the logic, not the lead. Both actually).

But it appears that I am in the minority here. A voice crying out in the desert, if you will.

And so I sit down, under protest, with my missus and watch you be catapulted to great riches, international fame and all that entails and I’m ecstatic for you. I hope you’ll forgive me but I suddenly just couldn’t hold it in anymore: “All this is, is washed-up ex-models exploiting youthful inexperience and insecurities” I said out loud. “What about the other 30-odd girls who started the contest? What did they lack, exactly? What about the other zillion girls watching the show and secretly thinking in their heart of hearts ‘I wish I could be pretty too, maybe surgery/starvation/sleeping around could help’? I bet they’re just walking on air right now.”

I was on a roll by then.

“LEECHES!”, I yelled at the telly. “the fashion industry machine will just chew our Tiffy up and spit her out once it’s done with her, like it’s done with thousands before”

And it will, Tiffy, it will. The caprice of the fashion industry is borne out by hard statistical evidence. I don’t mean to piss in your cornflakes, but sometimes statistics are brutal like that.

The whole concept just does my head in. For crying out loud girls, you just have to walk straight and assume a sphinx-like expression. It’s not that stressful, really. Get a grip, ladies. Good genes, make up and designers have done all the hard work already. Also, hearing phrases like “you have to work the outfit” or “take that look and make it your own” just make me want to hit someone. Hard.

But I’m just ranting now.

Now according to my missus, I “just don’t get it”, being a bloke and all that. I beg to differ- you see, I’m a lawyer as well as a bloke and at law school you are encouraged to look at situations from the perspectives of both sides (as you never know which one you’ll be representing next time around). I’m just utterly unconvinced by the arguments for it. Trying to justify BNTM by saying that it gives young girls their big break is like trying to justify bullfighting by saying that the Matador gets to wear sequins, and has a pretty lance. What about the bull?

And yes, I do tend to sympathise with the underdog- I am an England fan after all.

But back to that show-the format is still apparently raking in cash and cash is king, so in all likelihood, this dolled-up trash TV franchise will continue expanding and evolving with endless, ever weirder, spin offs.

Where will it end? Tajikistan’s Next Top Goat? Inevitably.

Sadly, there is never a shortage of impressionable youth out there begging for a shot at “making it” in this, well, glorified meat-market bitchfest. There, I said it. Sue me.

Not a big fan of the show, me, in case you’re wondering. Give me bullets and bombs any day. In that world, at least, you know who your enemies are.

Tiffy you poor lamb-I’m sure you’ve been told this before but I’ll say it again, keep your options open and your feet on the ground. Don’t let it all go to your head and consider the advice from people you trusted before fame and fortune came a-knocking before that of those who came after.

“What do you suggest I do, Mr. Charming Man?” I hear you ask. To which I answer : 'Call me "TCM"... ' and 'milk it for all it’s worth, ever at the ready to move on to pastures new at the drop of a hat once you’re no longer this fickle industry’s flavour of the month'.

And don't look back.

Salutations,

This Charming Man

P.S. You free this Saturday?