KEY POINTS:
Thank goodness the celebs on Celebrity Treasure Island came with handy titles. These are the equivalent of those perky name tags: "Hi! Im X. I'm a taxidermist."
So Wendell Sailor is Banned Football Superstar. I'd have thought that was oxymoronic but not in CTI, where cheating and other charming activities are rewarded.
One team pinched the flint. "Who's got the flint, please?" asked Matthew Ridge, the macho host. Nobody was giving up the flint but, "even if they cheated, they're smart," said Ridgey. This was a game, we were told, in which people rely on each other one day and betray them the next.
I'm not about to comment on whether these are values impressionable young minds should be exposed to. That's if impressionable young things watch CTI. Actually, who is it for, other than "readers" of Sports Illustrated?
Speaking of which, we were all waiting for a sighting of Rebecca Loos. Would there be an instant spark between her and Ridgey? Nah. Somebody had pinched the flint.
Loos' title was: Personal Assistant to David Beckham. It should have been updated, surely. Having A Topless Thing with the Host, perhaps.
Why is it so po-faced? Nobody ever says anything funny. Imagine being stuck on an island with a bunch of boobs who never joke. I suppose you wouldn't if you were Michael Murphy. His title: NZ Idol Runner-up and Musician. How can he compete with Banned Football Superstar?
That's worse than forever being Buzz Aldrin. The second man to walk on the moon, as Larry King so kindly put it the other night when all of America was very excited about the story of the woman astronaut who drove 1448km in pursuit of a rival for another astronaut's affections.
This story has generated more terrible news puns, and more lurid attention to detail (the diaper) than the excitement over those unposed topless pictures of Rebecca and Ridgey.
American television does this stuff so appallingly it makes our telly news look subtle and sensible.
Well, almost. American newscasts provide much fodder for the funny guys of the late night shows: Letterman and Jon Stewart. "America thanks you, brave slash crazy astronaut lady," said Stewart, not attempting to contain his glee.
This story had everything. It's like it came from a 24-hour news improv group. All the good slash terrible lines had been taken.
Stewart: "Astro-nut Lost in Space?" Taken. And so on. "How about," he suggested, "Very Accomplished Woman in Tragic Local Story? Okay! We can use it! Alright!"
"Why," he asked, "did this story capture the nation's lack of imagination? Oh. The diaper."
He showed clips of news shows interviewing any expert on anything vaguely related. So poor old Buzz was dragged on to Larry King. Here, on TV3, Carol Hirschfeld interviewed a lady from somewhere who'd been at a party somewhere with celebs who were, possibly, all discussing the astronaut. No. That was Anna Nicole Smith, another sort of tragic space cadet.
Stewart had his own expert: Samantha Bee, Senior Continental Revenge Trek Expert. "Women today have a hard time trying to balance having a family and ... being crazy." This was the most sensible thing anyone had to say about the whole loopy story.
Letterman had the Top Ten Signs an Astronaut is Trying to Kill You. Number Ten: "She keeps stabbing you with a pen that writes upside down."
That was funny.
