The Time I Applied For Big Brother...
Sometimes deciding to do something on a whim isn't the best idea.
Not long after I’d started University I applied to be on Big Brother. After an initial call with the producers I was invited to a Holiday Inn in Hammersmith that was in the middle of a giant roundabout to experience the in person portion of the day.
Finally, Everybody really IS talking about Jamie!
For context, this was 2016. Glee had been off the TV for 12 months so the television set had been stripped of any decent sense of homosexuality, hence the casting room being brightly striped and as colourful as Mr Blobby’s underwear drawer. I knew a few faces from ‘the scene’ - drag performers and nightlife socialites up in ‘full fucking glam’ at eight in the morning, whom I greeted with a wave and a nod.
As someone who is within their venn diagram (just minus the nightlife extravagance) I said hello and connected with them over our penchant for full coverage foundation and using discarded fabrics as clothing. Like moths to a flame, when one faggot walks into a room and feels intimidated, we often flock over to our nearest light and talk about niche pop culture or how we thought we’d end up seeing someone we knew here.
The day itself ended up being more like if the hit ITV show Airline put on an immersive experience in a Holiday Inn. As we sat in a holding lounge of large cushioned chairs and beanbags, all atop a nauseatingly designed carpet that made the 14 patterns I had clashing in my outfit look monochromatic, I noticed that groups of people were being plucked to form new groups which were then being ushered through a side door into a new part of the maze. Much like how the contestants in Squid Game stay trapped in their dorms and are then neatly walked to their multicoloured death, as groups of men and women were taken from the dull holding pen into the makeshift ‘Big Brother House’.
As I sat there I looked around and assessed the crowds. 2016 was an interesting time socially, especially for reality TV. The year when Mel, Sue and Mary left the bake off, Honey G had just informed us of her presence and talent on X Factor, and we too were treated to one of the greatest Celeb Big Brother moments ever.
But politically in the UK we were still in an interesting place, and this can’t be underestimated when it comes to who was in this room I appeared to be trapped in. As the casting for Big Brother was taking place we were in the lead up to the Brexit referendum with a Conservative Government helmed by David Cameron, with the final ebbs of the London 2012 ‘fever’ finally leaving the countries consciousness. After achieving what seemed to be social success and strides for progress (Marriage Equality Act) over the decade, in retrospect 2016 was a turning point for social attitudes. The ‘Glee’ of it all was slowly dwindling and conservative ideals were becoming more and more integrated into mainstream conversations, especially on TV. As Nigel Farage and his merry gentlemen continued to spread their message of division under the guise of wanting to leave the European Union, we were beginning to see a new image (and definition) of ‘patriotism’.
The seeds of division, growing separation and the fight for national independence were being sewn, and they were growing at a rapid pace. The appetite for this to be reflected on screen was growing too - if shows like Big Brother were to represent the country that we lived in, then surely including this emerging voice was necessary to be in their show? After all, it is the original televised social experiment.
After looking at the walls for what felt like 28 days, I was shunted through into a room, past queues of people waiting to go into the ‘fake diary room’ which was just one of our chairs from outside but shrouded inside what looked like a photo booth made out of cotton, and was greeted by 10 other people. We all sat inside our room and were told we would be taking part in a shopping task, similar to that on the show, in order to see how ruthless we could be in an attempt find out what we really thought of each other, despite the fact that we had just met. It was one of those games they often would play in the garden on the first day based on pure judgement and first impressions. ‘Who is the most likely to eat a melon on the toilet?’ or ‘Who is least likely to want to watch someone eating a melon on the toilet?’. That kind of thing.
Several rounds later (or after some of our whiteboard pens ran out) we were asked to vote for the person who was least likely to make it through to the next round of the audition. Again, a similar experience to what would happen in the house during nominations. Little did we know that the person we voted for, a plucky woman with a tiny tiny bob and the highest heels I’ve ever seen, was in fact eliminated from the process. Much like that episode of Doctor Who when Tanya from Eastenders is in the Big Brother house in space and has to ‘evict’ another housemate into the laser beam of death, our new tiny young bobbed friend had to face the music, although she wasn’t murdered in front of Christopher Eccleston (guess that’s not really like it at all then and was just an excuse for me to talk about Doctor Who).
Fast forward and I’m in the canteen at the end of the session, having made it through the whole day. I was moving on to the next round. My bald head, shiny blushed face and increasingly hazardous outfit had swung me into the final round where I would now be put into the box of faces that the producers would choose to be on the show. As I sat in the canteen waiting to go home, we were given bright green forms to read and sign. The forms were green, which in my mind meant good - but instead it was essentially the folded up instructions you’d get in a packet of paracetamol, but for reality TV. It included some of the following statements:
“You will not get rich from doing Big Brother.”
“You will be psychologically evaluated”.
“It will be incredibly boring”.
“Your family will be looked into.”
“It may be difficult to get a job after you leave the house”.
“You may be asked to eat a melon on the toilet.”
(Here’s a TikTok I made of the experience with the green letter, but I got the date wrong so ignore that it says 2018. I’ve lived many lives, I don’t remember them all….)
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So, naturally I signed on the dotted line without thinking. Seemed fine.
I went home and never heard from them again, only realising that nothing was going to happen when I saw the trailer on the TV for the upcoming series. Obviously I thought that maybe they’re holding out to the final moment, keeping me on my toes so I kept my phone by my side in the two weeks run up to the show in case they rang and I would inevitably drop all commitments to go into the house.
As the series aired, there was one man that stood out to me that had made it through the rounds of auditions and ended up on the show. He wasn’t that interesting on the surface, but his observations of his other housemates became increasingly polarising to viewers and as a reality TV connoisseur, a polarising figure creates engaging viewing. Some found him creepy and domineering, some found his confidence alluring. Some men even saw him as someone that said the things they were thinking, but had never had the confidence to say. An inspiration almost? Until one day he was removed from the house. A video had surfaced of him allegedly hitting a woman with a belt, which a national newspaper was threatening to publicise whilst he was in the house. So, he was called into the diary room and left via the backdoor.
It was a moment of reflection for the producers I’m sure, but as the society we were living in at the time became increasingly more binary - it became the start of something I believe was more sinister. This wasn’t just any man - this was Andrew Tate. Yes, the Andrew Tate. He had made his way through the audition process onto our television screens and was now in the most famous house in Britain. Granted this was allegedly before he had committed any of the crimes that he has been found guilty of in the present day, however his personality and his presentation had been granted as TV worthy. His views points, his confidence, his ‘masking’ as a normal, proud and opinionated man were all given the green light to be seen by millions of viewers.
At the time, this wasn’t a bad thing per se. He represented the ‘alpha male’ that people aspired to be at the time. He wasn’t unattractive, he was vastly different to some of the other characters in the house and on the surface he represented a facet of British culture that was growing in popularity.
But as I sit here now, tuning into the newest series of Celebrity Big Brother in 2025 nearly 10 years on, I can’t help but acknowledge that our attempts to represent the vast world we live in only shine a deeply uncomfortable light on the realities of who is really in our world in the first place. The people who, underneath their once polite personas, actually represent some of the deepest and darkest parts of our community. By bringing Nigel Farage into the Australian Jungle, it might make ‘funny TV’ and allow those in our society who agree with what he says to be represented, but it also puts those who are in the path of his anger and prejudice at risk.
But in a time where representation politics and optics are often the main driver in deciding who is cast in shows like this, don’t they have as much right to be at the table as the more progressive contestants? Specifically with a show like Big Brother, that aims to show you people from all walks of life under a brightly lit microscope, what balance do we strike in bringing people we disagree with into the fold? What’s the line when it comes to casting the people who do believe there are two genders and that the world is too woke? Because we don’t have to scroll on our phones for too long to realise that those views can result in you ending up in very powerful positions and whether we like it or not, are popular.
Obviously they’re abhorrent, and the alleged crimes that Tate has been accused of should never merit him being on our screens again (or in the first place to be quite honest), but him being unmasked on Big Brother all those years ago feels like yet another reminder that misogyny can and does live within so many men and can go undetectable for years.
It makes me question how as we grow increasingly more polarised as a society, how do we navigate putting ‘real life’ people into reality TV and is there a way for it to ever be completely safe, ethical and representative of society when so many peoples views aren’t just controversial - they’re dangerous.
If we are really trying to represent the breadth and depth of the UK, should we continue to allow people like Andrew Tate or Nigel Farage on the TV? Is it the same as putting a Just Stop Oil protester in the house or (heaven forbid) me walking in as a queer non-binary person?
Of course not. But I also don’t know what the balance is and how we can continue to create a show like Big Brother that aims to mimic society when our world is so deeply divided and extremism grows in tiny suburbs behind closed doors?
All I know is that every single time I go past that Holiday Inn on the roundabout by Hammersmith tube station I contemplate that I was in the same room as Andrew Tate, and that’s enough of a memory to make me realise I will never apply for Big Brother ever again.