Rachel Johnson’s Golden Oldies

The list of things we were not allowed to smuggle into the Celebrity Big Brother house was long and shocking. All devices (ipads, iphones, mobiles). Pens, paper. Reading material, from newspapers to books. Kindles. Electronic appliances. Even watches. As the long dark January extended, I sometimes didn’t even know if it was day or night. I once asked Big Brother how many days I’d been incarcerated (nineteen). He refused me the satisfaction of an answer.

For almost three weeks, I was forbidden all the crutches and props and distractions that my untested generation depends on to ‘self-soothe’, like fussy, colicky babies, in a crisis. Not a world war, my grandparents’ notion of a challenge, but a 24-hour flight delay en route to a winter sun break, say.

The German critic Oscar Adolf Hermann Schmitz once said England was Das Land ohne Musik – the Land Without Music. The Big Brother House in Borehamwood was a sprawling telly set where cameramen lurked, smothering coughs, behind two-way mirrors; and, even though there were cameras filming us 24/7, even in the bathrooms, there was no TV, and no way of playing music.

It was total sensory deprivation from start to finish, apart from alcohol (which flowed freely most evenings) and prescribed meds (it was impossible to sleep under the klieg lights of the set; so anti-anxiety pills, sleeping pills, you name it, were popped a lot).

We had to make our own fun but, if we ever broke into song, Big Brother would intone, ‘Housemates are not allowed to sing commercial music.’ Once Big Brother even stopped Ann Widdecombe singing God Save the Queen. There were two pop-star housemates, a Boyzone singer and an American R&B star called Ginuwine, whose hit was a mating cry called Pony, so we were allowed to sing their songs, but, apart from that, the rule was, every ditty, even the national anthem, was ‘commercial’.

Before we went in, we were asked to nominate a few of our favourite songs (for me, Janis Joplin’s version of Kris Kristofferson’s Me and Bobby Mcgee, and a couple of tracks by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young). We had no idea why.

Then, after days and days without music, one evening without warning, Big Brother changed the lighting to disco. The beats of a thumping dance track filled the ‘lounge’. We all leapt to our feet and threw ourselves about wildly, like maenads, me not caring that my ungainly mum-dancing might be broadcast to an audience of millions, including my cowering offspring, the next day. It was like manna from heaven.

After that, the very few nights with music became more important than the rare nights without booze. Some housemates even burst into tears if Big Brother played ‘their’ song (Malika Haqq did so when Celine Dion came on).

I was evicted second (not soon enough for me) and, as I write, I am listening to Janis’s yowling. A tear of joy that I am in a house – if not a land – with music again is trickling down my winter-pale cheek.