Vision Quest

Previously, winning Big Brother was purely a matter of huge pride and vast financial gain for the lucky contestant, but now it's a far bigger, more serious matter. Who does God want to win Big Brother? That's the vital question. Pete's not trying to sway voting or anything, but he's very sure it's him.

Pete had a vision, you see. A celestial vision. Pete's vision happened some months ago, but he's just remembered it again three days before the final. In Pete's vision, his deceased friend came down from heaven and told Pete that he would be the winner of Big Brother.

So now, Perfect Pete has a very grave worry. According to Pete, if he loses Big Brother, his problems will be threefold:
a) Pete will lose his faith in God and heaven
b) Therefore, Pete will never see his dead friend again and he clings to that to get him by
c) Pete will doubt the validity of his vision and put it all down to mental illness

Obviously no-one in Britain wants any of these things, especially not number three as we've spent 13 weeks praising Pete in a heavily patronising way for being so brave about his Tourette syndrome.

This is quite, quite brilliant. A bunch of the finest political spin doctors couldn't have manufactured it. Vote Pete or angels die! Vote Pete or meddle with God's holy order. Vote Pete or forever condemn the nation's favourite crusty to a lonely afterlife wandering wobbly lipped in a misty spiritual void searching for his dead friend!

Richard and Ash try to reason with Pete, but Pete feels very strongly about God wanting him to have £100,000. It's a pity Pete didn't feel that strongly to speak up about anything else over the last 13 weeks, preferring instead to hide in the bathroom or sulk under a duvet when the going got tough, leaving others to stand up and represent the forces of good.

"It's really important," repeats Pete again and again. He sits and frowns with his face in his hands, "Imagine if I have no heaven? How will I live with that? Imagine if I have to think that I'm just mad and there was no vision?"

Richard sensibly and patiently tries to suggest that if you truly believe in heaven, then heaven is there for you and winning a game show won't matter.

Ash suggests calmly that he should stop fixating on winning and concentrate on the amazing things that await him on Friday, like how much of a buzz will surround his band, Daddy Fantastic. "Yeah, maybe," sighs Pete. The matter doesn't go away, though.

I'm not sure how much of the "pre-elections hustings speech" task will make the highlights show tonight, but it's all rather amusing. Ash gets the task of extolling the goodness of St Pete. It all gets a bit testy when Pete feels that evil Ash hasn't tried 100% to gush his praises, therefore marring his religious mission to extract £100,000 from the holy cash register.

Five and a half hours later the matter still rumbles on. Pete's been into the garden to beg God for extra guidance, while Nikki cranks up the emotional blackmail in her usual stuck record manner.

I feel a bit sorry for Pete in a way. If he'd wanted to stay closer to God, he might have thought harder before making a girlfriend of one of Beelzebub's most heinous goblins.

I'm not sure where sado-masochist fetishism fits into the Holy Scriptures either, but Pete's not too bothered about that. "I can't wait to go shopping in Brighton!" says Nikki, "I've never been shopping there!" Pete giggles excitedly, "Yeah, we can go to my favourite fetish shop and get some gear!" says Pete.

Ah, so romantic. Don't you just adore those first fledgling weeks of new love when you're giddy and mushy? The walks on the beach, the candle-lit dinners, the visits to the local fetish boutique to get fitted with a gimp's mask and a scold's bridle. Gorgeous. I'm sure I heard a Céline Dion song about this once… No, I didn't, it was just in one of my visions.

Seriously though, I'm all in favour of Nikki experimenting in fetishism. If she has a big enough satsuma in her gob we won't hear her incessant whining.

I'm all in favour of Nikki experimenting in fetishism. If she has a big enough satsuma in her gob we won't hear her incessant whining

I'm also loving the vast discrepancy of Pete and Nikki's worlds outside the BB house and I cannot wait to see it in action come Friday.

I saw Pete's friends on Big Brother's Little Brother the other night and they seemed like a nice, down-to-earth bunch. They looked like a Chumbawamba fan club outing. Through gritted teeth a few of them made positive sounds about Nikki, though one broke free and said she thought Nikki was just something to do while he's in there.

Ah, if only this were true. Sorry, Snapdragon, but a lot of money is resting on these two being together now. You've probably got months to enjoy Nikki pitching up at warehouse parties in her bunnygirl outfit and stilettos, squealing about the air conditioning. Ask her to do her "wannabe black" impression. It's dead good.

The housemates are set a "write your own autobiography" task. Nikki has one of her little tantrum episodes. I forget what about. Maybe she'd had too many E numbers or was just over-tired, or maybe she'd wet herself or needed winding - they're the first four things I'd guess about a small child if they were acting like that.

Richard's autobiography is rather sweet. He wants to return to Canada and be a cowboy, live in a cottage with his boyfriend and drink cocoa. He says that people will always be welcome to visit his home.

Glyn, on the other hand, has far grander ambitions. After graduating from university, Glyn wants to take a Welsh-speaking wife, become prime minister, ban the sale of holiday homes in Wales, then get rid of Charles as the Prince of Wales.

You've got to love Glyn sometimes. He tries his damnedest to keep a lid on his "fight the English imperialists!" anger, as he's a clever lad who knows it's unhelpful and can be misconstrued, but you can see his passion and patriotism for his country bubbling away beneath his Wales top at all times, dying to erupt.

With media focus on Blaenau Ffestiniog so great right now, I really hope Glyn doesn't get home and find his neighbours have sold their house to ex-contestant George as a "little weekend bolthole".

I could just see posh George and his friend Princess Beatrice piling out of the Range Rover on a Friday evening, asking where the nearest deli is so they can "stock up on good brie and olives". The civil war would start there, because in Glyn's mind's eye, he's the Welsh version of William Wallace.

BraveFart, I like to call him.

Have you had a vision? Mail me on grace.dent@bbc.co.uk.