Reality Bites

The monthly figures are in and they tell a sorry tale from the perspective of yours truly. My numbers are down and I’m being out-rated by my esteemed stablemates at Making The Nut.

How do I pull myself from this funk? How can I save some face? Should I write harder and longer and in purging my mind of ideas somehow weave a loose narrative that might flatter to deceive the reader?

Sure, it’s worked before and it might just work again. But we all know the readers at MakingTheNut.com aren’t the kind of Friday floozies whose affections can be bought with one witty line and a glass of chilled rosé, are they?

So, here I sit, frustratedly flicking through the best terrestrial TV has to offer in a bid to give my mind a break from the tortuous process it is occupied by.

While on the subject of television, if I were a network executive staring at another month without a ratings hit I’d be looking to commission a new series of MacGyver, or I’d be screaming out for the next fresh fix of reality.

Or maybe I’d commission a series with the aim of unearthing a new MacGyver, for Richard Dean Anderson must be well past his ‘best before’ date these days.

Hell, the way it looks from the comfort of my sofa, even if it’s not all that fresh, a reality series can still have legs if the ‘reality’ aspect is sufficiently screwy to turn heads.

So, maybe I can do it. And maybe, just maybe, this week’s column, despite a distinct sidestep away from the wonderful world of sport, might just bag me a few new readers – most probably the kind with New Zealand’s Next Top Model on series link.

But, I digress – back now to the task of cracking this reality game. First thing first – it’s time to rule out the formats that have already run their race.

Big Brother: The original thoroughbred that eventually proved less popular with the Australian public than the annual jumps racing season.

The Mole: My first taste of ‘reality’. Sufficiently short-lived for me to think there must be an inherent problem with the format that precluded it from further development.

Masterchef (and any other ‘reality’ cooking show): If ‘celebrity chefs’ weren’t precious enough before the gobsmacking rise to prominence of kitchen-based reality, they are now – and I won’t be party to any more rising foodie egos, nor professional circle jerk… I mean to say, when was the last time you heard one chef criticise another’s food with the cameras rolling?

Biggest Loser: Let’s all pat ourselves on the back while we watch the salvation and transformation of these folks from ‘A-grade tub-o-lard’ to ‘Z-grade celebrity’ whose trousers no longer fit and whose excess skin would be enough to give Buffalo Bill a month-long chubby.

Generic dancing/singing/talent shows: C’mon, people, please. You’re all better than watching that crap. I long for the day when my plasma screen need not be darkened by the likes of Messers Cowell, Sandilands, Minogue or Keating again.

Doubtless this list of pap could run and run and run, but now’s not the time and I’ve spent too much time ignoring all kinds of televised garbage to now bring it all to the forefront of my mind.

I figure that what I need is something like Farmer Wants A Wife: A vehicle that reaches out to the hearts and minds of kind and romantic-at-heart folks across the country and is not reliant on dishing out the lashings of shock and awe that remain the trademark of many competitors on Reality Street (see the list above).

As if going through something akin to an immortal experiencing ‘the quickening’, thoughts flow forth, surging through my mind like pieces of a huge jigsaw independently spinning into place. I make connections I’d previously overlooked. I take into consideration aspects of this challenge I hadn’t previously acknowledged. And, by gum, I’ve got an idea.

What I want is not something like Farmer Wants A Wife, it’s basically the same thing – with a twist.

And in time-honoured ‘reality’ fashion, allow me to recap and elaborate before the big reveal…

As a sports nut in his early-20s, the chance to experience Australia hosting the 2000 Summer Olympics was a privilege, but it wasn’t perfect.

I was fortunate to make up part of the media contingent following the torch relay across the Monaro and into the Snowy Mountains and to form part of the 95,000+ crowd watching the Olyroos play Italy at the MCG a few weeks later.

But I didn’t travel to Sydney to see and experience more. It is a city I prefer to avoid and marks the imperfect aspect of the games I alluded to earlier.

Two people who were in Sydney for the Olympic experience, however, were Crown Prince Frederick of Denmark and his future wife, Hobart’s Mary Donaldson.

Like countless others before them, the pin-up couple of the Danish monarchy met in a Sydney pub. Just how natty the Prince’s opening line was, and whether it was a glass of chilled rosé he tempted Miss Donaldson with, remain aspects of their courtship open to speculation.

What is not to be speculated about is that their visage has adorned the cover of every gossip magazine worth its salt and we, the Australian public at large, have watched on with more than a passing interest down the years.

Arguably the most famous Tasmanian in the world, ‘our’ Mary seems to have her feet well under the table as a much-loved royal, the brood now four-strong and the world’s media, particularly on the home front, almost as excited by the prospect of her next trip home as they are by the current shit-storm brewing up around the Warne/Hurley tryst.

This, my friends, is the kind of interest I believe will be generated by the launch of my reality brainchild. Its name, you ask?

Tasmanian Wants A Princess!

They’ve got one of ours and we want one of theirs in return. The logic is simple and, if I’m honest, the format will see only a very slight departure from its aforementioned predecessor.

In the early stages, a cattle call will see a sample of the Island State’s most eligible males hand-picked by a visiting contingent of Danish beauties. We’ll see plenty of light-hearted and genuine moments as the group is whittled down to the finest of the flock.

With the public hooked (!), and before anyone even sets foot on Danish soil, viewers will be given an opportunity to vote for their favourites. Not only should this see any remaining bogans and idiots weeded out, it’ll launch the first wave of phone and SMS voting (read: primary revenue stream).

With the lucky few strapped into their airline seat and en route to Copenhagen, the rest of the series is set to sail on in tried and true fashion.

With lashings of Elephant Lager, pre-arranged super dates with super-hot Danes and a host of Tasmanian males well and truly out of their element trying to woo a potential spouse in a country packed full of ‘princesses’, what can go wrong?

Sure, Barry from Burnie might get over-refreshed and vomit on the snowy blonde hair of his princess, or Tim from Taralleah might freak out at the prospect of a plate of pickled herring and a night watching Bjarne Riis’ highlights reel.

But there may well be moments for blind love and ratingstastic romance, too!

Hell, even if there’s not, who cares? This is car crash television we’re talking about – the kind of fodder that’s perfect for entertaining the mindless masses, but that may prove less stimulating for anyone who has ever enjoyed an evening of Foreign Correspondent and cribbage.

Which camp are you in?