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This week I was almost admitted to hospital. I suspected I had broken my jaw. My chin had dropped out of my mouth 31 consecutive times and had hit the floor. I had watched the first two episodes of the Bachelor Australia 2020.

My first mistake was a failure to self-medicate. My second, to turn the television on. There before me stood our Bachelor. Was he Mr Darcy incarnate?

A statuesque brooding, chiseled ‘adonis’. Ruggedly handsome with a winsome smile and no doubt causing every female heterosexual heart to flutter throughout the nation.

Jaw drop one, the camera panned in and our Mr Darcy spoke. Australia and the world learnt that its Bachelor, though Tarzan like in stature had instead the brain of his side-kick chimpanzee ‘Cheetah’ . Indeed, he is so challenged that his mother had his name and address stenciled on his neck in case he got lost and needed to find his way home. We learnt that our intrepid beau is an “adventure nomad” currently living in Bali no doubt with other adventure nomads, all perhaps in Ashram Macho.

Apparently he survived ‘survivor’, a program I have never watched for obvious reasons. And now, the chimp in the man's body faced an onslaught of Australia’s “finest” maidens ready to steal his heart.

Then they arrived, and my poor jaw kept hitting the ground.

Replete in seductive ball gowns, most sadly they seemed to be cloned sisters, botoxed and ‘filled’ to perfection. I sat there gobsmacked, vomit bucket at the ready. One woman arrived dressed as a penguin with a blue rinse and another chaperoned by her male cousins beating their party drums. Another looked like a refugee from Mardis Gras in Rio. However for me, the arrival of “the ranga” with 2 bottles of beer was the moment of sublime elegance. Her party trick to win Tarzan’s heart was a demonstration of her ability to bite the cap off the beer bottle, and monkey see monkey do, Tarzan quickly joined in the ritual.

The dentists of Australia were already drafting a national health warning.

Let’s just say, they were all presenting our “chump chimp” with their own individually wrapped laxatives of love.

Shepherded into the kabal, the champagne flowed like the mighty Murray river in Christofel flutes. “Locky”, our lucky lady killer, swang from tree to tree beating his chest as the damsels swooned. Various cameo interviews allowed the psycho ‘alfa women’ to mark their territory. Cynically I would suggest that the producers seeded amongst the damsels at least 2 narcissistic psychopaths who cut a swathe through the luscious landscape of exposed cleavage and shapely legs. Suddenly a roar was heard throughout the jungle amongst the tatts and tits, it was our beer bottle biting redhead announcing,

I am a ranga and I am proud of it.” We had not heard this battle cry since Lady Sarah Ferguson had demonstrated her oral party trick, toe sucking, decades earlier. Redhead rage ruled!

It seemed obvious to everyone that the girls had been liberally lubricated with enough alcohol that would make the President of the local AA chapter blush. It certainly loosened their tongues. As the camera panned in we all focussed on their service station plastic sandwiches, I wondered if they had any curried egg, my favourite.

The dialogue amongst our fair maidens demonstrated, with few exceptions, that this sampling of young Australian womanhood, disclosed a group of potty mouthed, illiterate, inarticulate, bogans all speaking a dialect of the English language hitherto unknown. Anthropologists around the world sat taking notes; one girl announced that she, “Didn’t give you shit all,” another quipped “everything flows really noice” another; “you don’t take yourself very serious” and then we heard; “she is wife material and I’d wife her, it is 2020 and I am allowed to because I can marry chicks!” another; “Bringing it on in!” and “Looket dat”, “I’m not vibing this” and enough like, like, like, like, like, like, like, you know like…………. like

This confirmed in my mind, that the last quarter century of Australian education in English needs a complete re-think if these women and our Mr Darcy are an example of the final product. I have never been more ashamed as a parent, as an educator, and as a professional mentor to young people.

Without doubt, the notable low point for me, and which demonstrated the manipulative and exploitative nature of reality television, was the focus given to our infuriated “ranga”. Whilst neither a psychologist nor psychiatrist I offer the lay opinion that this young woman is a troubled and tortured soul. Allowing her to drink too much just added to the train wreck. Sadly I predict she will achieve her objective which is to become an insta star and B grade celebrity. Based on what? Her onscreen “mean girl” temper tantrum, her demonstrable narcissism or her delusional sense of entitlement? She may be pitching for sponsorship from a brewery too as the image of the beer bottle was still replaying in my head. She was at war with another outspoken brat, you know who I mean, surly, spoilt and a self professed snob.

In episode 2 our Tarzan took to the high seas and almost single handedly (some poor editing did show that there was a crew) steered a massive yacht towards his very own Belle. Their eyes met. He came, he saw and he pashed. The beautiful Belle said seductively “I like a champers” clearly unable to read, the bottle was Prosecco, but hey it is all bubbles anyway.

At the end of its first week, the producers, sponsors and television executives could be heard cheering amongst the corks popping from bottles of the real stuff. However on the battleground of ratings success, lay a lonely figure, a true casualty, mortally wounded….. love.

This program like, will continue and so will my like fascination and despair.

It is high school forever…. Like, like, like I feel like a curried egg sandwich..

Never give up on love...


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JD Watt, author of the book “BURNT”; the shocking true story of a woman’s deception and a man’s broken heart, is a divorced, devastatingly handsome, affluent single 51-year-old professional. He lives in the wealthy Eastern Suburbs of Sydney Australia. He is also a blogger giving his advice on love, relationships, sex and dating from the perspective of a middle-aged guy having learnt so much from his decade long search for “the one”.

Intelligent, established, sophisticated, cultured, honest, kind, loving, generous, tall and handsome, JD is every woman’s dream.

He offers advice on relationships and how to read the signs, so you never get “BURNT”. JD believes in love and so should you. BURNT by JD Watt is available on Amazon, Kindle and on online Booksellers globally. Download or buy your copy today.

JD Watt is not a psychologist or therapist; he bases his advice and opinions on his own life experience.


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