"Don't throw it up, cos it won't count," declared AntandDec. And so the final of I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here ended, as it began.
It seems a long time since Freddie Starr arrived late, regaled camp mates with tales of hamster consumption and wolfed down plates of camel toe, mealworms and turkey testicles before being whisked away in an ambulance quicker than you can say "do I still get to keep my fee?".
Last night, viewers saw new "best friends for life" Dougie Poynter (McFly), and Mark Wright (The Only Way Is Essex) go head to head in the grand final. To win a slap-up feed, they too faced the now traditional platter of the private parts of Antipodean animals. Penis on a cocktail stick, vomit fruit dipping sauce and "dim-bum" (or ostrich anus to you and me).
Yet the most disgusting thing anyone has tried to eat this series must be the platters of "miniature Beef Wellingtons" served up by former Jungle Queen Stacey Solomon, right, in the show-sponsor slots for Iceland.
On being declared the winner, Dougie, who seems a genuinely nice guy, declared it the "best couple of weeks of my life". Which will be hurtful for his McFly bandmates. While the winner officially gets nothing more than a trophy and a week traipsing round the tabloids, the spoils can be great. Just ask Stacey.
Even though lovable plonker Mark didn't win, he declared himself "110 per cent a better person", and the "happiest boy alive". Contemplating their final night in camp, he told Dougie that they should "do some mad shit... let's do each other's hair".
Frankly, who wins is a sideshow. It is the taking part. Or rather, the question: Why do they take part? The former model Lorraine Chase, for example, presumably only joined in to get as far away from Luton as possible. She was notable only for having a teddy bear, which Pat Sharp threatened to execute. Like a late-80s Sampson, the former Fun House host seems to have lost his charm when he had his mullet cut off.
Antony Cotton was early favourite with his Corrie following, cutting wit and cooking skills, but boiled over once too often. Still, the ultimate athlete, the fascinatingly competitive Fatima Whitbread, set a speed record for snorting a cockroach out of her nostril, with an agog AntandDec looking on.
Yet, you learn so much from this show. Who, for instance, knew that Sinitta could stand upright in a sheet in a cave for three hours? Or that Willie Carson is a brilliant drunk? Who, for that matter, knew who Emily Scott was?
With relentless misery in the news, this show is pure joy. Anyone who sneers has never sat and properly delighted in its shameless celebration of British celebrity down the years – people who were once, maybe briefly, famous for something: singing, acting, javelining, bikini-stretching.
This series in particular has seen AntandDec shine, smirking just enough when contestants freaked out; mocking contestants, the viewers and, crucially, themselves to prove why they are the best hosts in the business.
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