My mum is watching TV in the kitchen, my dad is at work. The house is quiet. I assess: the TV is booming from the kitchen. My mum will be in there for a while. I switch channels. There is a naked woman on screen, covered in clay, pressing herself against a wall. I am not meant to be watching this. I look nervously at the kitchen door and turn the volume down. Her lips move but the words are inaudible. Now more people are getting naked and rubbing clay on breasts, thighs, genitalia. They jump up and down and cheer. They squish themselves against the wall like flies on a windscreen. I scoot closer to the TV. My chest rises and falls with the shallow gasps of someone so transfixed that they forget to breathe. I am 11 years old, watching a Big Brother pottery task get out of hand in the year 2000. My two decade-long love affair with reality TV is about to begin.
Reality TV has been a constant companion throughout my life. As a pre-teen and then a teen, I watched all the hits: Big Brother, Popstars, Pop Idol, The X Factor, The Simple Life, but also lesser-known dross: Newlyweds, I’d Do Anything, Wife Swap. The Pop Idol final between Gareth Gates and Will Young was as seismic an event in my school playground as 9/11 or Diana’s death.
