I feel like the Edward Snowden of The Bachelor. An extremely scary woman told me that, “Nothing should leave this room!”. That it was our responsibility to “keep the magic alive”. Sorry, but I don’t give a shit about the magic.
I decided to apply for Richie Strahan‘s season of The Bachelor in the spirit of you-only-live-onceness. I’ve heard that over 25,000 people apply each year, so I had zero hope I would get past the first round.
The application was horrendous; it asked my number of sexual partners, whether there are any sex tapes or jilted lovers floating, why I’m single (like I know) and what my bust measurement is.
Somehow, I got a callback.
Spoiler: I am not Cass.
The dress code for the audition was a ‘Sunday session with the ladies.’ What does that even mean? As a Melburnian, my Sunday session usually involves a kick-on at Revolver wearing the same clothes I put on 36 hours ago.
I arrive at a St Kilda hotel on audition day – the room is full of big-busted, taut-bodied women with the ‘South Yarra look’. I instantly feel underdressed. I’m from the North side.
Two women walk in and sweetly thank us for coming in, before ripping our relationship history to shreds. We’re herded like sheep into a semicircle and one of the women in charge speaks. “Introduce yourself,” she says behind pursed lips. “Give the lady next to you a compliment.”
Then one woman is asked to tell a happy story, and another is asked to tell a sad story. Welling up, she tells us about her experience working in a mental health ward, and the tragedy she is faced with every day. The room goes quiet.
“Great! Wonderful!” the adjudicator cuts through the silence cheerily.
They ask us if our friend won the lottery with a ticket that we had given her, would we expect her to share the winnings? We’re told to stand on the side of the room we agree with, then to debate each other. You can tell which women are trying to make an impression on the facilitators.
The next debate is about whether or not Muslim prayer rooms should be introduced into AFL footy grounds. Unnerving tension begins to fill the room as high heels shuffle along the carpet. I creep to the right side of the room – the ‘yes’ side – as the rest of the group disperses. I assume the question was an attempt to out the xenophobes in the room; whether they wanted to keep or throw them, I have no idea.
There are five women on the ‘negative’ side, trying to get a word in over each other – to be the most opinionated in the room. One girl on the ‘positive’ side worked in the AFL and argues how necessary the prayer rooms are. Things get heated.
The adjudicator suddenly and loudly declares that we’d now be dancing to Justin Bieber’s ‘Sorry’ to ease the tension. It’s 9am on Thursday morning, but everyone’s dancing like we’ve been Snow White-ing it for 48 hours.
Continuing the dog and pony show, the adjudicator asks us to share a party trick with the group. People are folding tongues in half, licking elbows and hyperextending arms while we all feign amused interest.
We’re paired up and two women are pulled to front and asked to compliment each other. There are superficial compliments about dresses and good hair, before the adjudicator asks one to insult the other. The woman fumbles and stutters before spitting out that she doesn’t like her accent; people snicker, boo and yell things out at her. The Canadian girl she just verbally attacked stays silent.
“Right,” the adjudicator scribbles at her clipboard. “You?” She points to another couple.
“I hate that you’re tall because I’ve always wanted to be tall!” one woman says to her partner.
The final thing we’re asked to do is pick someone in the room that, throughout the day, we felt a good connection with. It’s that awkward scramble to avoid being the last kid picked for Oztag. We each explain to the group why we picked our partner and, without a word, the adjudicator leaves the room.
Five minutes later she comes back and announces she’ll only be taking through one girl… out of the 60 there.
“Thank you for your time! Please keep watching!” She smiles sweetly as she walks over to the contestant she’ll be taking through to the next round.
Everyone else is deflated and shocked.
We all pat each other on the back and say goodbye. I grab one girl’s number so we can hang out later.
I felt exhausted from the façade I had put on all day. I was told to my face that the Australian public wouldn’t like me enough. There was one girl who had auditioned three years in a row. I couldn’t even believe she’d want to come back.
The girl I paired with told me how in Big Brother auditions, you’re asked to crawl around on the floor like farm animals for half an hour while people watch you behind a one-sided mirror. Then you are asked to sit in a room with thirty people in complete silence for an hour; they just observe you. They’re clearly just looking for the one particular personality type from each group.
And, if the Bachie audition was that big a mind fuck, I couldn’t even imagine being on the show for seven weeks. I’ll be watching this season from the comfort of my own home, with the knowledge that the people on it all had to lick their elbows in front of a room of total strangers to be there.
Want to apply? Head right here.
