Nickie Muir.
Years working in tough low decile schools should qualify you for an honorary degree in psychology and so I asked one such colleague what she made of the outcome of The Bachelor banality that has surged like the backwash of a detritus filled tsunami wave through the nation's media.
Having let my daughter (against my inner feminist's will) watch the deluge of dross and drivel and tried my hardest to make constructive criticism sound vaguely rational and not my usual vitriolic venting, I was ecstatic with the outcome.
Vindicated that Jordan, was indeed an egg and completely lacking in any form of intelligent conversation I still couldn't cope with the fact that more than a few of the women seemed so needy of him.
Did it seem normal to the small person, I asked, that more than one of them said that they only felt as though they were half a human being without a male at their side? What did they mean they felt: "incomplete"? Were they missing limbs? Did someone forget to colour them in?
She felt that I shouldn't "diss" someone for wanting to be in a partnership. I thought that was a very different prospect than declaring to the world that one wasn't "complete" without one.
When I asked if the small person thought the aforementioned colleague was half a human being because she didn't feel the need to shack up with anyone right now she said: "No. I think she's a complete human being. And anyway she's complete with her dog." Which suggested an other pan-species equality that I guess was endearing.
What, I kept wondering, was the whole point of it if a) he's slept with crazy Naz (people note: anyone with a one syllable self-endowed nickname ending in 'Z' is intrinsically unstable) and b) is obviously not very interested in the person he just gave a $30K ring to?
Even for a film industry narcissistic dick-head the theatre was pointlessly self-indulgent.
"Are you nuts?" said the long suffering colleague. "Seriously, which one would you rather say 'no' to in a closed space with no cameras or witnesses? Crazy Naz who you've haplessly slept with, and in all likelihood is capable of shanking you with her nail file if she doesn't get her way, or the clueless petal that is Fleur? If you've got half a brain you'd let Naz down when she's in a ball dress and heels and can't run fast, and a camera crew in a helicopter is poised ready to take her and all her linguistic elegance (of a long-serving member of the local correctional facility) with them."
Just as well there was no pet bunny back in the house.
Who I feel really sorry for is the venerable Michael (We're for Love) Hill. Or should I say: Michael (We're for 24 hour Love) Hill or Michael (We're for not getting stabbed by crazy) Hill. The Bachelor, which should have been his advertising wet dream, has become his PR nightmare.
#wantmymoneyback.