Finals are a weird time. Hard work and long hours are oddly broken up in my case by peri- ods of regimented exercise, as I heave my soul- less body around Christ Church meadow. So what can keep Finals woes at bay? Three words: Made In Chelsea. Yes, the girls may look like a bunch of horse-faced Barbies and the boys might be irritating pre-packaged ‘lads’ that belong in the dark recesses of Gloucester Green, but there is something about Made in Chelsea that transcends the simple pleasure of watching the future wreckers of the world economy unwind.
Made in Chelsea asks deep questions about subjectivity and objectivity. These questions aren’t just raised in the basic structure of the programme but also in what it means to be human. Is Louise’s relationship with Spencer an indication of the inevitability of true love? Does Ollie’s belief that he can “be bi for the summer” mean you can choose your sexuality? What the fuck is the point of Binky? Even deep seated theological issues are raised: “What would Jesus do?” is Proudlock’s solution to the tempestuous love triangle between Spencer, a cocaine snorting financial manager who looks like a finely waxed testicle, and Louise, the kind of girl that’s more G’n’D’s than Bridge. The nights out aren’t even particularly impressive – most clubs in Chelsea appear to resemble the toilets of Rappongi, minus any semblance of cultural diversity (this cast is whiter than a formal at Merton).
Perhaps more than anything Made in Chelsea uncovers the nightmarish vision of our aspirational future. We think our future lies in the Kettle Chip and Asti-flavoured world of Chelsea when, given the state of the British economy, it more likely rests in urine-soaked crack den in Hounslow. But at least for now we’re able to watch what could have been on Freeview.
