This year, producers have made the interesting and frankly genius decision to cast Sophie Monk as the leading lady. But let's pretend for a second that they didn't. Let's imagine they cast someone else. Someone closer to home. Or closer to my home at least, because we’re pretending they cast me.
I’m not going to pretend that anyone really cares about this blog enough to have missed its semi-regular updates (insert obligatory and unconvincing “oh but we have...definitely...so much...cry ourselves to sleep every night” from the audience), but I still feel the need to justify my six-month absence.
They’ll all claim they were badly edited by unscrupulous producers, but reality TV villains are gifts from above providing hours of entertainment, limitless shareable gifs and more mock outraged Mamamia blogs than you can poke a stick at.
In 1971, some dude with too much time on his hands sent the world’s first email. Ever since then, in offices across the globe, people have been misusing email to frustrate and irritate their colleagues.
She’s one half of the contemporary pop world’s pettiest feud, has a soft spot for playas who will only break her heart (I’m looking at you Russell, John and Orlando), and is the undisputed queen of pop. If you would like to dispute this I kindly ask you to leave now and never come back.
The only thing worse than having to get up in the morning, put on real clothes and go to work, is the people you encounter there. I am referring to the species commonly known as ‘colleagues’. It is a truth universally acknowledged that colleagues are the actual worst.
One time when my mum was staying with me she was taking my rubbish out (she’s a good mum) when she recoiled in horror squealing “When was the last time you wiped out the inside of your bin?!” The only obvious answer was “Is that a thing you’re meant to do?”
