BIG BROTHER BORO HOUSE WEEK FOUR
Written by Andrew Morgan

Week four in the Big Boro House and the housemates are starting to get bored and restless. Indeed to many, this week has passed by so slowly that it seems as if it has been three or four weeks as opposed to just one. This feeling has not been helped by the actions of Juninho, who refuses to be silenced during his dictionary recitals, which are starting to become an almost daily event, much to the other housemates' annoyance.

These feelings increase with the vocabulary of the group until, five nights into the regime and fuelled by the stodge of Ricketts' fish pie, a clearly agitated Mendieta strides up to Juninho whilst defining the word 'assault' and proceeds to smack him over the head with the cursed book until he shuts up. Then, in a fit of pique and under Juninho's mournful gaze, he takes the dictionary and places it under the grill, turning the power up to maximum. Ten minutes later, during which all attempts by the Brazilian to obtain his precious book are thwarted, Mendieta serves the charred remains to him with a leaf of basil and a side salad, asking him to look up the word 'justice' in the blackened pages. At which point everyone rolls on the floor with laughter as if they were Maccarone fifteen yards from goal. Juninho starts crying whilst Maccarone storms out of the room, insulted, but only manages to make a handful of steps before slipping on a discarded bit of Brie left on the floor by Quedrue. Ricketts meanwhile, spying that no one is watching, tries to eat the ashen pages, thinking they are food and is disappointed to find that they are not. Unperturbed, he eats the pages anyway, leaving the salad untouched.


TLF's dictionary

This general feeling of frustration however is not one felt by Danny Mills, who ever since learning about this week's challenge, has been bouncier than a kangaroo in heat in a field of virile young bucks. Yet despite this enthusiasm, Mills has also drawn further and further into himself, spending a considerable amount of time alone, which starts to concern the other housemates. This escalates as the week progresses, climaxing the day before the fight when, after disappearing for most of the afternoon, he comes back with a crocheted Rastifarian hat as a peace offering to Boateng and a memorial tapestry of the 'assault' page of Juninho's much loved dictionary, which the latter was still pining after. He also carries with him a commemorative replica model of the Riverside made out of lollipop sticks and sticky-back plastic, with every single one of the 30000 fans individually crafted out of Quality Street wrappers, a haul that Ricketts was more than happy to contribute to. Quietly, and with the minimum of fuss, he presents these gifts to a rather bemused audience, before slinking off again to be alone, absorbed in thought over how he will defeat the attackers who will be rushing towards him tomorrow. He concludes that fouling is probably the best policy and heads off to the bedroom to formulate a plan.

Meanwhile, back in the main living area, this uncharacteristic bout of generosity from Mills had made the housemates even more concerned about the defender's wellbeing. However, they unanimously decided that it was probably best to leave him alone, aware that 90% of the weekly budget rested on the right-back. If this isolation was helping him to prepare for the task that lay ahead of him then, in the end, they reasoned it would probably help the group too. This was also less of a concern now anyway as Mills' gifts had inadvertently reopened old wounds, particularly those relating to the dictionary incident. This was most clearly reflected in the reaction of Juninho, who, having been reminded about the demise of his beloved luxury item, had started sobbing quietly to himself in the corner as if his cute little puppy had just been run over by an out of control Ferrari on the M62. Realising his grief, he was supported by Boateng, who, along with Juninho, tried to cut Mendieta out of the proceedings. This made Mendieta feel isolated as he was without his principle ally, Bolo Zenden, resulting in his looking down at the other two midfielders with disdain over the perceived manipulation that they were both employing. Thus the midfield diamond was starting to crack and fail- which usually happens whenever McClaren insists on using it. A few seconds later Juninho and Boateng were joined by Maccarone, who had initially decided he would try and help by running into the danger zone to remonstrate against Mendieta. As usual though, all he succeeded in doing was falling over before getting anywhere near a threatening position, causing Juninho to let out a little laugh. Yet feelings were still running high. These came to a head a few minutes later when the Italian requested that Mendieta should pass the tissues to him, a request that was ignored by the Spaniard. As Juninho's tears continued, so did Maccarone's demands, which became increasingly vociferous until Mendieta, letting it run for as long as he dared, relented, and threw the tissues all of 20 yards across the kitchen towards the Italian. Taken aback, the Italian looked up to see the box sail gracelessly over his head and out into the garden, where, still rising, it easily cleared the fence and landed in no-man's land. Or Middlehaven, as it's more commonly called.



Maccarone looked back at Mendieta incredulously and further remonstrated against him for refusing to pass the tissues, asking why he always had to be elaborate and go for glory instead of taking the simple option. Fuelled by emotion, he also lambasted him for what he called 'a pointless and unnecessary attack' on Juninho and demanded an explanation to why he never seems to be able to pass to a striker. Unphased yet slightly perplexed over how this attack differed from any of his others, the Spaniard merely held up his hand and turned to walk away, completely unaffected by his selfish blast over the fence. Meanwhile, Juninho still sat there sniffling to himself quietly.

Things calmed down over the next few hours, although as they passed there was an increasing concern over Mills' mental state, which continued to grow until Doriva was charged with going to see if he was okay. Knowing he was still in the bedroom, he strode towards it and silently peered around the door. The scene that greeted him was one for which he was unprepared as he spied Mills lying prostrate on his bed, holding a needle in his left hand and a doll in his right. The doll had streaks of scraggy blond hair thrusting from its head and its face was wearing a pained yet determined expression, an expression that was mirrored in the face of Mills at that precise moment. There was also a multitude of similar needles sticking drunkenly out of the doll, many piercing through the dark blue shirt that the figure was wearing. Doriva looked back at Mills perplexed, at the same time as his left arm arched round, guiding the needle to its precision target. Doriva winced as he saw the point bury itself within the fleshy malleability of the plasticine, observing Mills' expression become ever more determined as the needle penetrated through the white shorts of the doll, burrowing deep into his crotch. Oblivious to being observed, the defender chuckled lightly to himself, grabbing another needle and wielding it threateningly above the unfortunate pawn, mumbling to himself in crazed abandon. 'How does it feel Robbie? Do you like it Robbie? Does it feel good Robbie?', Mills whispered as Doriva recoiled in horror and backed away, scared and confused in equal measure, concerned about his housemate's sanity. He turned round to leave whilst simultaneously protecting his assets, hoping he hadn't been spotted. He walked into the bathroom to calm down before heading back to the living room to pretend that everything was okay. They didn't need to know, he thought. It would only generate alarm, and at this vital stage of the week, that was the last thing that would be of benefit to anyone.


Robert the Savage

This was also the day of the England versus Portugal match and by 6pm the housemates were apprehensive. In an attempt to quell their nerves, Southgate suggested that they should play a five-a-side match in the garden. This idea was well received by all the housemates apart from Ricketts, who moaned that he had already done his daily exercise by putting the kettle on for the Supernoodles he was about to eat. At which point, a still riled Mendieta marched into the kitchen, grabbed the packet of dried noodles, opened them and scrunched the contents over Ricketts' head, threatening to add the other important ingredient if he didn't stop moaning and start playing. Thus despite the striker's protestations, the pitch was marked and the teams were picked, which corresponded to Mendieta's strict provision that Ricketts would be on the opposing team to him. This was purely for practical reasons of course, he reassured the 230 stone striker, as knowing how to deal with petulant lumbering over-paid front-men was an absolute necessity for the upcoming Newcastle match, which the players now had to focus on, due to it being the opening game of their forthcoming campaign.

Whether it was through nerves or frustration, the match was a niggly affair, with many petty challenges being made. However, none were particularly serious until the middle of the first half when Juninho spied Mendieta running down the right wing and saw his chance of revenge. He stopped for a second and stared at the Spaniard, a sinister grin tearing acidly across his face as he remembered the pain that he had caused him. Then he launched into a challenge with all the strength incumbent in his 5ft 4in frame, focussing on Mendieta's legs, determined to bring him down. 'Here's your definition of justice, Mendi' the Brazilian bitterly mumbled to himself as he slid across the damp turf, determination etched across his face, his eyes a paragon of steel as they bore holes through the Spaniard's shins. Gaizka continued running, unaware of the raised studs that were hurtling towards him, glistening in the summer sun like sharpened razors determined to tear holes through him like the pins through Mills' flexible friend. And then it happened so quickly. The next time the Spaniard looked down at the ball beneath his feet, he was surprised to see Juninho sliding across his path having won it cleanly, grinning up at him like a playful child fleeing from a derelict house he had just set on fire. The Spaniard stared back at him looking somewhat bemused. This bemusement however soon turned into annoyance when Mendi realised that the Brazilian's challenges were usually so poor that in this instance he must have meant to take him out rather than to get the ball. Then he went apoplectic with rage, rounding on Juninho for his stupidity, which resulted in a mass brawl. Upon hearing the commotion outside, a rather aroused Mills dashed out in the hope of some sparring practice but he was too late, Southgate and Ehiogu had already separated the two parties and were urging everyone to calm down. He punched Ehigou in the face anyway, for preventing him from punching anyone else.

Despite the defenders' intervention however, they were unable to stop the argument, which only ceased when the housemates heard the deafening sound of a (Alan?) foghorn tear through the stillness of the summer air, a foghorn that seemed far too close to their isolated cocoon than it should have been. Perplexed, they nominated Southgate to go and investigate, who started to walk tentatively in the direction from which the sound came. A few seconds later there was a massive crash and the wall a few yards from the defender gave way amidst a cloud of thick, choking dust. Startled, Southgate jumped back, blinded by the fog that now enclosed the garden, unsure as to what had caused the scene of destruction that was unfolding itself through the layers of dust before him. He looked back at his petrified housemates and saw Ricketts impatiently edging his way around the now discernible truck, hoping it was carrying crisps or some other food item that he could steal from it. Southgate turned round again to face the vehicle and surveyed the scene. Before him was the front end of a large grey lorry, its wheels slightly raised off the ground and still turning slowly, whilst the helpless vehicle pitched gently in the wind, groaning to itself like a beached Ricketts. Concerned, he edged forward as he heard the engine switch off, hoping that whoever was in the vehicle had survived the accident. His heart beating, he clambered on to the first step of the passenger's cabin at the same time as a head poked out through the window above him.

'Hello Gareth. Let's go over to Andy Townsend now in the Tactics Truck,' a familiar voice said without a hint of irony. 'Let's fucking not,' a few of the Boro players muttered under their breath, hoping that the crash had knocked the former Boro player out. 'We've just got rid of Juninho talking crap, we don't want to trade it in for a more reliable model'. Their hopes however were soon dashed when Townsend appeared out of the other window with just a slight cut gracing his forehead.


The man in the tactics truck

'Thanks Des,' he replied before turning to a ravenous, disappointed Ricketts, a cheeky inane smile smothered across his face. 'I guess you're not the only one now Michael, what with all this mess I've caused?' he said, as he climbed out of the cabin and into the garden, walking towards the aghast crowd of Boro players who were assembled on the patio.

'And the thing with Boro this season is that they are not trying Des,' he continued, spouting the usual negative toss he has become famous for on the Premiership. Tactically they have it all wrong and this is the reason why they have lost their previous three challenges. They also have no drive, no determination, and frankly they are dull, which is why this column makes for such boring reading. They need to look at Man United or Arsenal, Des. Their tactics are perfect, but with this team, I fear for them completing one challenge, let alone the possibility of qualifying for mortgages with any increase in income they may attain.'.


Des

At this point Mills cracks and starts to roll up his sleeves, his hand constricting into a perfectly formed fist as his eyes lock upon his new-found nemesis. He strides confidently towards him. 'Hey, Townsend,' he shouts. 'So what have you been saying about my club on your pathetic TV show? What's all this about insults and catcalls I've been hearing about? Why do you favour the big clubs when the Premier League is a division of twenty teams?'

Townsend looked back at the rapidly advancing Mills and opened his mouth to speak. He had no time for any words to come out.

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