TOMMY greets the news that he is being evicted with the same graciousness that has got him so far in political life. "F**k," he says, feeling in his suit pockets for his breath spray. "F**k." It could have been worse. He could have said "Pish".
The crowd are not welcoming. He gets a jolly round of boos, and his face twists with disappointment as he makes his way down the steps of the Big Brother house and into the arms of Davina. You'd have to have a heart of stone not to laugh.
To be
fair, I'm not sure what else he could have expected from a Big Brother audience. Most people outside Scotland have no idea who he is ("Is he an actor?" an English friend recently rang up to inquire) and, while he had his moments, he was neither entertaining nor outrageous enough to keep up with the likes of Coolio. And then there were the blue shoes. You've got to boo a man wearing blue shoes.
He is honest in his interview with Davina, explaining that he did the show because he needed the money for his law degree and "sixteen grand of legal fees". Not spray tans, then? They'll be weeping into their Fake Bake in Glasgow. Interrogation over, he obviously finds watching his "best bits" excruciating. That's nothing, Tommy – wait until you see your "bad bits".
Half an hour beforehand, La Toya was evicted. She was sweet, gracious and unbelievably flawless-looking for her 52 years. She also launched into a rather impassioned diatribe about people's perceptions of the Jackson family, finishing with the statement that "you get to a point where you just don't care any more". Sure you don't, La Toya. That's why you travelled halfway round the world to spend three weeks on a reality TV show that's screened in front of millions.
The way is now paved for tonight's winner. It won't be Ulrika, Ben won't get a look in, and I seriously doubt it will be Coolio or my beloved Terry either. Much as I'd rather he didn't, I still think Verne's going to win.
But Wednesday was Tommy's night. And ultimately, you've got to hand it to him. Put the politics to one side and what you're left with is a middle-aged bloke who likes football and a drink, speaks out against prejudice and sexism and is willing, on occasion, to dress up as a pepper grinder. I've met worse.
So farewell then, Tommy, you old socialist. I never thought I'd say this, but we'll almost miss you.
