BIG BROTHER BORO HOUSE WEEK THREE
Written by Andrew Morgan

Week three in the house and it's already starting to get stale- a bit like this column really. The same can also be said of the interaction between the housemates, a view demonstrated by Juninho's comment that a more accurate description of the group would be the 'playmates', a point made amidst a torrent of schoolgirl-like laughter from him and a spattering of pathetic laughter from everybody else. Before Mills punches him in the face for being a twat.


TLF models next season's Boro away kit

Apart from this however, the mood in the house is generally good, despite Mills' increasing bouts of irrationality. It was because of these violent flashpoints that he had been called to the dairy room last week. Much of the anger was directed towards Boateng who is the nearest thing he has to the steady but nothing special combative midfielder he usually likes to wind up when on the field of play. Feeling victimised, this has a massive effect on the Boat, who at one point steals off silently to the garden to contemplate alone. Confused and overrun by emotion however, an hour later this leads him to break down in front of Quedrue who ironically supports him with professionalism and experience, a support that Boateng could only dream of when both are on the pitch. However, this support is not all that surprising as Quedrue is used to suicidal challenges, although granted they are normally coming from him rather than the other way round. After a while and with the Frenchman's help, Boateng finds his way into the dairy room to talk with Big Boro. Here he is manipulated into confessing his insecurities, sobbing inconsolably about his poor performance at Portsmouth, how he thinks he will never get into the Dutch squad again and how Ricketts duped him and stole his rice pudding for the second meal in succession. The Boro cow listens intently before giving him a reassuring churn of 'Wanker' butter and her pledge that she would do all that the ratings would allow to stop the nasty man from doing anything to hurt poor Boaty-woaty ever again. She also promises him that this weeks' task will help, as it focuses more on the individual rather than the team. So very much like Massimo Maccarone in that respect.


George in the garden, drinking his milk

The challenge was revealed to them later in the day by a shaky, but clearly relieved, Big Boro cow after the England versus Switzerland match, a match that threatened to end the Big Boro project as early as the third week. This had little to do with the result per se, and the possible return of McClaren that would come with it, and everything to do with the disturbing Daily Mirror headline the Boro cows had read that morning, which promised the Swiss a cow a man if they beat England. Fearing for their freedom, as they knew Boro cows and therefore English ones were far superior in the quality of their cheese making to that of their Swiss counterparts, making them more desirable, the day behind the scenes was tense. This was particularly the case during the match itself, which kept flickering on and off, much to the annoyance of the housemates, due to the nerves of the backstage staff, a situation that was exasperated by their general incompetence. A further distraction was also manifest by the fans in the crowd dressed in cow costumes which clearly aroused some of the bovines, making their udders pop up and resulting in a few minor accidents, which were quickly mopped up. After the win no one in the house was any the wiser to the panic that existed behind the scenes, despite the relief being palpable throughout the backroom staff. Whether a completely different kind of relief on behalf of the Boro cows, directly related to seeing those people dressed in cow costumes, was noticeable, is as yet unconfirmed.


The Swiss prepare to face England with one big incentive riding on the result

Despite this conviviality however, the housemates do have some concerns, the most pertinent of which being the failure to complete the weekly task for the second week in succession. This ended in another resounding defeat after Ricketts failed to last 30 seconds never mind 30 minutes of the intensive exercise regime, falling down giddily after the first star-thrust, much to the annoyance of the other housemates. This led many to level the accusation that Ricketts wasn't pulling his weight, which, as Juninho pointed out, was somewhat unfair, stating that it is impossible for anyone to pull that much weight, as it would defy the laws of physics. Despite this, and largely in frustration at losing half of this week's budget to the footballing equivalent of John Prescott, fresh out of an all-you-can-eat buffet, the others felt he should still be taught a lesson. Thus they forced him into the stocks the Boro cows had provided for the medieval classic Carling advert reinactment evening they were due to have that night and placed one of Quedrue's expertly decorated chocolate cakes, now with a picture of Ricketts in a gibbet - as opposed to a rabbit - in a noose, in front of his nose, just out of arms reach, and left him there, salivating. A cup was placed under his mouth to collect the drips, which were to be recycled at a later date as mouthwash due to the lack of money available due to his failure in the task.


Switzerland. Not a cow in sight!

Unfortunately this didn't work as fifteen minutes later it was noted that Ricketts was lying prostrate and groaning on the floor, the stocks still around his neck and wrists, with cake all over his face like an impatient five year old at a children's birthday party. On arrival, Quedrue looked down at Ricketts corpulent twitching body in disgust, flicking between the images of bloatedness and the destruction of his beloved cake that lay before him. He muttered something obscene to himself in French and stormed off looking for the cake decorating nozzle and a packet of pink icing, which he eventually found. Stomping back with steely determination he strode over the war zone that lay beneath his feet and crouched down behind Ricketts, deliberately kneeing him in the back. Ricketts groaned slightly yet started to fall asleep, the strenuous exertions his body had endured yearning to be quenched in the reassuring cocoon of a relaxing rest. Meanwhile, with deliberate air, Quedrue looked down, his eyes scorching acidly through Ricketts' bulky frame as he dextrously drew Ricketts' squad number on the back of his shirt, writing the words 'FAT BASTARD' above. Fully sated at his retribution he flicked his lank greasy hair back in triumph and went inside to make rice pudding, knowing that it would cheer up Boateng as there was now no chance that Ricketts could steal it off him. Everyone followed, with some secretly hoping that Ricketts would wake up and smell the icing on his back and try to lick it off, as it was tantalisingly placed in a position his tongue could not reach but where its smell could easily diffuse to his nostrils. It would serve him right they thought, it would serve him right.


Karel Brückner used to play Dr Who in the 60's

After everyone had calmed down, the housemates started to think about this week's task, which as had been promised to Boateng by the Boro cow, had more of an individual flavour. In essence, it involved going into a boxing ring, bare-fisted and fighting off challenges from all those who were either confident enough or foolish enough to enter. The housemates naturally nominated Mills for the task, although this may have had something to do with the threatening fist he was sporting at the time the vote was made. Unsurprisingly it was unanimous. They also agreed to risk 90% of their weekly budget on the completion of the task, the maximum permitted amount, although again this may have had more to do with Mills' over-zealous insistence rather than any form of willed rationality. Boateng had certainly felt the power of his insistence when questioning the amount of their budget they should risk, and nobody else wanted to follow suit.


A house in Prague, where the pie secret could be held! Maybe

It was during this debate that the housemates heard a loud groan from the garden, followed by the sound of vomiting. They tried to ignore it but it came again, and again, every time getting louder and more pained. Concerned, they got up and looked out of the window to find Ricketts convulsing amidst a pool of puke on the ground. His face was flecked with vomit, the cup that had been designed to catch his phlegm now full with the bilious liquid that was now emanating from his mouth. Guiltily they rushed outside, trying to free him from his entrapment as quickly as possible. Then, supported by Nemeth on one side and Maccarone on the other they gingerly started leading him towards the house, taking step by tentative step. However, this was not that effective as there was not enough auxiliary support, the three-striker system failing to produce the goods again. Ricketts was then sick on Maccarone, who fell to the floor under the attack. After this, Southgate decided it might be a good idea to rearrange the strike-force, using only one striker up-front to support Ricketts. Nemeth was the chosen one. It worked, although sometimes it was a struggle. Indeed the midfield players sometimes provided more help and were often more successful than Nemeth was in reaching the target. But he did eventually manage to guide him into the toilet and leave him there to suffer. There was little more anyone could do now.


Beckham. Currently being talked into a move to the Riv by Steve Mc

Two days later and things hadn't significantly changed. Ricketts had got better after an increased nutritious milk ration had been prescribed by the Boro cows but the general feeling still pervaded that he was letting the side down. This came to a head after the Holland versus Czech Republic match when the camera cut to the Czech Republic coach Karel Brückner and Ricketts cheered. When asked why, Ricketts stated that he was his ideal manager due to his stating, when asked about his side's unbeaten record to date: 'The secret of my success? I only know one secret recipe. And that is for pies'. Taking this to its literal conclusion, Ricketts stated his belief that the secret to winning in football was excessive pie eating and that this means he must be one of the best strikers who has ever lived. In saying this, he again chastised Eriksson and McClaren for not picking him for an England team that were still playing under par, despite their Swiss success. The other housemates looked at him in amazement but could not be bothered to challenge such a deluded view. Ricketts smiled secretly to himself, believing he had won the argument. In celebration, he grabbed a well-deserved beef and onion slice and started to tuck in.

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