Ges on the box: BB perfect for us voyeurs

TO be brutally honest (and as our relationship develops, you will come to expect nothing less) there’s more than a bit of the voyeur in me.

Not the sort that sits in bushes with binoculars — but only because once sat I can’t get up without a hand, and voyeurs don’t usually hunt in packs. No, I’m more the “eyes sneakily right” sort as I pass by number 36.

She never draws the curtains. Such a tart. I’ve seen what she gets up to on a Saturday night. Has she no shame?

Then there’s the chap in the house on the corner. He hasn’t even got any curtains. True, his window is technically shielded from general view — but not for anyone standing on top of the post box and leaning left. Huh! Then ALL is revealed. Suffice to say, he’d look a whole lot better in fishnets if he shaved his legs.

I’m only telling you all this because it goes a way towards explaining my latest obsession. I wouldn’t admit this to just anyone, so keep it between ourselves: I’m THE “Big Brother” fan. I must be in a minority of one because nobody else admits to watching it.

But for us voyeurs there’s nothing better. Where else could I get a daily fix of seven grown men dressed as elephants peeling spuds while completing the Tour de France? And all from the comfort of my sitting room.

The late Him Indoors — no “Big Brother” fan — used to accuse me of watching paint dry. Mind you, the new Him Indoors does so too, but, as our relationship is still in the hand-holding-sickly-cooing stage, he says it with a smile. He even watches it with me. Not that you’ll get him to admit it. But you can catch him out. Just say “Mario” and he’ll launch into a 10-minute spiel about the obnoxiousness of body-building, health and safety know-it-all nobodies who have nothing better to do with their lives than appear on some half-baked reality show with a bunch of kids half his age.

Now Mario has gone, we don’t need the Valium. I’m weaning him off gradually . . . there’s still Bex’s screaming to contend with, we don’t want to rush things.

Weren’t you sad to see Belinda, Belinda, Belinda fall to the public vote on Friday? No? Are you telling me you have better things to do on Friday nights than stay in waiting to see who’s been kicked out of the “Big Brother” house?

I’ll have to get a life.

But back to Belinda, Belinda, Belinda: here’s a woman who can snore almost as loudly as me. In two short weeks she’s done more for us middle-aged, overweight snorers than a pride of lions could accomplish in a year.

If you are wondering — or even care — my money’s on Luke to win. He never swears, drinks or smokes.

Sorry, have to go — the next exciting, nail-biting, thrilling episode is just about to start. . .