Queuing up for this week's Big Brother auditions in Dublin, Frank McNally was quickly rumbled
The trick at Big Brother auditions, everyone agrees, is to stand out from the crowd. Surveying the freak show around me at the RDS on Wednesday, I realise this will not be difficult. Surrounded by Nazi transvestites, bare-arsed cowboys and a forest of dayglo hair, I congratulate myself again on my outfit, the dominant notes of which are a charcoal-grey jumper and the sort of black denim trousers that were briefly fashionable in 1994. Surely I'm halfway to the Big Brother house already.
Still, it's not all about looking distinctive. As many of those in fancy dress will later tell me, the important thing is to "be yourself". So, passing time in the queue, I check out my competition in-depth.
Ahead of me are Jonjo, Tracey, Kelly, and Victoria, all from Shankill Rd, Belfast (as they say nervously). Only Jonjo (21) is auditioning, it turns out. The women appear to be his handlers, and they do most of the talking while he, like a boxer before a big fight, throws the odd shape but stays focused.
One of the women is his hairdresser; the second "shares his bed"; and the third announces that Jonjo is a "gay virgin" who is prepared to lose half that description during the BB series, if he's chosen. As if that's not generous enough, he will also donate 50 per cent of his winnings to "children in Africa".
Hmm. The competition is tougher than it looked, I concede. But no sooner has this defeatist thought struck me than I am approached by Channel 4's security people. Have I stood out from the crowd? Yes, apparently. And after confirming I'm a journalist, the security people ask me to stand further out from it, in fact, to leave the hall. My Big Brother dream is over.
"You can come back in later, but we don't want you talking to the kids before their auditions," they say.
It soon emerges that the securocrats have been overzealous. The BB producers don't really mind us talking to the kids here; it's only further into the selection process that secrecy descends. But I have been outed now, and rejoining the queue seems pointless, especially since I have become strangely reconciled to spending summer with my family instead of cooped up in a glasshouse, being gawked at by millions who have nothing better to watch.
When I re-enter the hall, Jonjo has proceeded to stage one of the auditions, in which random groups of 10 are observed for 20 minutes to see how they interact. Stand out from this crowd, and you reach stage two: a one-minute personal pitch in the "diary room". After that there may be half a dozen more tests throughout spring and early summer. Channel 4 says Irish candidates - if any are chosen - will only be selected on merit, and they won't indicate when in summer the show will begin airing.
Meanwhile Jonjo's handlers are getting nervous that he's been identified in the press, and that this may compromise him.
I check with Channel 4, who say that if a shortlisted person's "full name" appears in the media before the show goes on air, it may adversely affect his or her chances of selection.
It's not strictly necessary at this stage, but people already withholding names are just "playing the game," the C4 spokeswoman adds.
EVERYONE HAS A different strategy. Andrew from Portadown rejects the orthodox view: "I don't want to stand out overly, because I don't think that's what they're really looking for." Instead he'll rely on being "funny and confident", and he'll stress that he's a media student, "because I think that'll make an impact". Junior from Belfast, who insists that's his only name, has made the diary room before and is hoping to go further this time. No, he admits, he wasn't christened Junior; but the birth cert is "only my slave name - I don't go by that any more".
Clearly, Junior is playing the game. So too is Twanda, a six-foot-three drag queen, also from Belfast. Twanda used to be a security guard, but now entertains punters at the Kremlin Bar in Little Donegall Street. The money's better, although Belfast's drag queen scene is highly competitive.
When I wish her luck, Twanda beams down at me: "Thank you very much, pet."
Not everyone in the RDS is playing the game. Olivia R from Dundalk has no misgivings about being identified in the press and I only shorten her name here because I'm playing the game for her. She's a mother of nine, including well-known Dundalk drapers Austin and
Brendan R, and, having auditioned as "Barbie's mother" last time, her latest pitch at BB is in the form of a sexy nun. Between posing for the cameras and singing songs from the broadcast media, she shows me a card her family gave her, with a message that has become her personal motto.
"If you're not embarrassing your children," it reads, "you're obviously not enjoying yourself."
Olivia may not make it into the Big Brother house. But in terms of her other life mission, she's a winner already.