I realise I’m probably in a minority but there’s not been too many Friday nights that I’ve spent in the company of 13 untrousered penises and 1 naked woman. But yesterday after a few down the appropriately named local, we came home watched an episode of something taped, saw the magnificent Mo Farah do his thing one last time we then flicked the channels and came across 6 of the aforementioned genitalia hanging around in Perspex coffins, each coffin illuminated to a different colour.
There is a selector, in this case a young man, who gets to comment on and discard contestants as more of their bodies are revealed. When we’re down to 3 they are allowed to speak; short bland sentences, mainly about which part of their own body they dislike/like most. When one more is discarded and we are at our final 2 they step out of the phone booths and join the selector and presenter on the studio floor. The selector then disappears, disrobes and returns to join the fun.
At this point a word on the presenter: she stands (dressed) with three naked men discussing each other’s attributes, (“I like your tattoos”, “nice willy”) gamely ploughing on with the show displaying a certain stoic fortitude which is admirable.
Our final unlucky loser is discarded and the two happy bunnies head off for their date (and reprise ‘one month later’). So, in a reversal of the norm, the first date begins by putting clothes on, then out for a few cocktails, followed by a meal at which they realise that they have nothing in common (other than having appeared naked on national TV).
In the other half of the programme the selector was a young woman, self-confessed gym-bunny, who had grown sick of randomly dating the type of muscle-bound weight lifting hulk she found in her local gym and wanted “something different”.
Once more a vague horseshoe of 6 Perspex coffins in rainbow hues, lift to reveal…etc etc. Of course, having got naked herself, our selector finally chooses a man who looks like the archetypal ‘condom stretched to bursting by walnuts’. They wander off, have some fun. Back on the couch a month later she revels that she likes him ‘as a friend’ and for an instant Mr Muscle becomes a little puppy that’s just been scolded. While she reflects, “I think I’ve been a little shallow.”
All of which seems an awful lot of effort to go to to prove a couple of widely accepted home truths: within certain parameters we all look a little different, but not wildly so; and judging books by covers only ever works in certain niche markets.
Final thought: anyone standing bollock-naked on national TV claiming to be ‘normally very shy’ really needs to take a long hard look at themselves standing bollock-naked on national TV…