Contestants Brooke and Mitch stand for everything mean and rotten about life in New Zealand, writes Steve Braunias.
How sweet it was to once again watch The Block NZ: Villa Wars from the comfort of my own home. I missed the two previous episodes last week for the flimsiest of reasons - a national book tour - and was reduced to trying to download an app to watchthe missing shows late at night in various hotel rooms after the crowds had gone home. Behold the author, in public posing as a distinguished man of letters, in private wallowing in low, supremely entertaining culture.
Or trying to. I phoned front desk for help at the Southern Cross Hotel in Dunedin. The nice old chap at reception was marvellously adept at polishing the floor with a vibrating machine but didn't know anything about apps.
There was no point, the next night, asking for help from the trouts at the Museum Art Hotel in Wellington. I have declared war on this establishment for the rudeness of its front desk, and for their mean little tactic of sneaking into my room to empty the fridge and snack bar while I was out. It was "policy", explained a frosted blonde with an icy face, when guests were unable to present a credit card as security. I'd left my wallet at home. I made a deposit of $50 cash. They wouldn't give it back until they sent a housemaid to inspect the room and confirm I hadn't stolen the bed.
I may have imagined it but I think the cold trout's name tag read BROOKE. It's hardly exaggerating matters to suggest that Brooke and Mitch, as resident villains of The Block, stand for everything mean and rotten about life in New Zealand. I think of them as Judith Collins and Whale Oil, two government agents who naturally assume that the end justifies the means.
There they were in last night's show, once again chanting their miserable slogans about the need to win at all costs while busily creating a backyard that was as joyless as North Korea.
Hayden and Jamie's backyard.
They lost. Good. Jamie and Hayden won. Goodish. It was their first room reveal triumph and it was nice to see them finally winning. They seem like decent people on the surface but there's something about them which hints they might be members of a cult.
Hayden and Jamie.
They're zealous. They're determined. They're cunning: they bought Cat and Jeremy's favours last night with $90 of free labour.
Brooke and Mitch moaned about it in their dead-eyed way. The two neoliberals had seen evidence of socialism - neighbour helping neighbour - and they didn't like it one bit.
Jamie and Hayden have the largest backyard, and it didn't take much effort to turn it into Eden Park. You could stage World Cup rugby or cricket on that vast expanse of turf. It didn't have much else going for it, but all that green, green artificial grass of home spoke to judges Jason and Bernadette, those commissars of what passes for taste on The Block.
Impossible to take them seriously. Real estate shark Bernadette would flog a chook house and call it a do-up opportunity; Jason wears a scarf. I rate their credibility four and one out of ten, respectively.
Sarah lays some ready-grass.
As usual, they responded to Sarah and Minanne's clever, nuanced design with fear and loathing. "These chairs are facing the wrong way," snapped Bernadette. God forbid they could be picked up and turned around.
Poor old Cat and Jeremy used all their energy worrying about who to eliminate. The power of their vote was a curse. They stuck up a picket fence and hoped for the best.
