Made in Chelsea

Despite the fact that I solemnly swore to myself never to associate myself with these so called structured reality television shows, due to a personal request I have succumbed and last evening sat down to watch a programme by the name of Made in Chelsea.  I must confess to having preconceived ideas as to it's dreadfulness.

Firstly, I would like to state that I do not understand the concept of this genre of television.  My interpretation is that they put people in situations and propose that these "real people" have discussions about their lives.  Do people who watch this think this is real?  I am afraid this escapes my reasonably educated mind.  It's Big Brother, outside, and they know each other, and they're told what to say.  Entertainment?  I think not.  Alas, I shall discuss.

I shall describe my feelings towards the initial scenes.  This particular edition began with three gentlemen in a small park playing boules.  I am about 74% certain that it was the same park in which Ronan Keating sang that Love Actually track.  The first chap whom caught my attention was a sort of slim, young Gordon Ramsey, who for the purposes of this article I shall call now Gordon, wearing the single most questionable piece of material on the upper part of his body I have ever seen.  It was like something Sinita might have worn during towards the end of her dwindling pop career in the late eighties.  A sleeveless leopard skin collared waistcoat?  What is wrong with you, you dreadful man.  It is commonly said that you should not judge a book by its cover, and perhaps that is so in the case of real life, however in this instance I am choosing to trump that saying with "a leopard can never change it's spots".  Ha Ha point proved Gordon.  You Sir a whopper of epic proportion.  What is somewhat more disturbing is that the other gentlemen proceeded to compliment it.  Perhaps they were serious, or perhaps it was some sort of upper class banter which is beyond my contemplation.

The second scene began with two gentleman on a sofa in a house talking about people I do not know and certainly do not care about.  Suddenly appearing out of the bedroom appears an excellent creature in orange lingerie.  Now I take two issues with this.  Firstly, this does not happen in real life.  Nobody of such exquisite bodily structure chooses to parade themselves as two males sit in the living room, without prior motive and or payment.  What motive perhaps?  Ah of course, fame at any cost.  How foolish of me.  Secondly, the reaction of the gentlemen.  If I was the flat mate or the friend in such a situation my face would instantly turn a deep shade of scarlet and I would certainly be unable to speak.  Perhaps I would have to place my fist in my mouth in order to prevent unusual sounds coming from my mouth to ensure she remained entirely comfortable.

I would say that it took me a good 30 minutes of the programme to understand what anyone was saying in amongst the "oh ok darlings and "yahs".  The programme has absolutely no flow or continuity.  Here are 3 random people in a falsified situation.  Here are two people who utterly despise each other, let's make them talk for no reason.

I have so many unanswered questions.

1. What is Mark Francis?  He is the epitome of awfulness.  He just appeared from behind a wall at a tennis club and said something along the lines of "rah rah rah ooh rah darling masquerade rah rah dogs yes rah".  Then held a party.  The only thing that redeemed him is when Professor Green's girlfriend informed him he was ridiculous.  I concur.
2. Who meets on London Bridge at night for a chat?  These people are not former soviet spies.  Bars and restaurants welcome these people.  I will meet you by the bridge at sunset.  How medieval.  Good job the lighting was perfect.
3. How do these people go to the best bars in London and yet manage to find copious amounts of space and quiet to have discussions.  Perhaps they film at 3 o'clock in the afternoon.  

I must confess to rolling around in laughter when in an overly staged restaurant situation a blonde person told a gay version of AC Slater from Saved by the Bell "I think you're a twat.  What you're gay now?" Clearly there is some background to that situation but fortunately I am blessed not to know about it.  I spotted that a mile off.  Good job they managed not to cause a scene...  See what I did there.  

I summarise this programme, and all those like it, as a downgrading of the intellectuality of society.  Do people in this bubble never discuss anything other than, for want of another phrase, "who's getting with who".  If these people are as "active" as they perceive themselves to be, I predict that they are not too far away from incestuous relationships.  When do these chaps talk about football or other interesting things like football.  I fundamentally fail to grasp how it is interesting.  The only line worthy of any praise was the man in the Venetian mask who said his mask was worn "for the aristocrats to scare off the peasants".  A single, highly appropriate, clever, amusing and well delivered comment in an hour of dross.  It causes me genuine grief that this is deemed entertainment and that money is not invested into creativity and new quality television programmes. It is a culmination of everything that is wrong with the recently generated culture of instant fame, and how you can be famous with absolutely no creative ability.

The worst thing is, I wish I was in it.