Every so often, a groundbreaking series comes along which captures the zeitgeist, challenges the existing world order and defines future generations. Made In Chelsea is not that series.

There is scarcely a receptacle on earth large enough to contain my excitement at MIC’s return, except perhaps the chasmic vacuity of the cast. No but srsly, I love it. Scorn if you will, but I care for the characters as if they were my own obscenely wealthy estranged half cousins. Their joy is my joy. Their sorrow is…well also my joy, come to think of it.

The first episode of series five began with a fake party, for as the old adage goes: ain’t no party like an MIC fake party. This was followed by an initial uncomfortably staged scene, with Jamie being reprimanded by a financial advisor for squandering the Jaffa Cakes fortune. But the real focus of this series soon became clear. Spencer (eternal tool and feudal lord of Chelsea) is livid with Francis (former vassal and everyone’s favourite diamond millionaire) for revealing his infidelity to girlfriend, Louise (meh).

This poses a problem, as manchild Jamie and crucifix earring enthusiast Proudlock must decide which fellow ‘boi’ to live with. The conflict reaches its crescendo in a tense stand-off in the estate agent’s, with Spencer shrouded in a giant Ugg boot. Throughout the course of the episode, Spencer succeeds in establishing himself as a deeply vile human, manipulating Louise and convincing her that she is of minimal worth: ‘You think I’m desperate? Remember who the fuck you’re talking to. Have you lost your mind?’ I actually quite like Louise, and I feel sad that she hasn’t yet grasped that maybe the fact she cries in every single episode is a reasonable indication that she’d be better off without Spenny. The sight alone of Spencer Matthews’s smug little chops makes my ovaries convulse with fear. 

Yet amidst the emotional rollercoaster of Louise and Spencer’s arguments, viewers were reassured with familiar, comforting sights. Close-ups of obscenely expensive cocktails between every scene. Rosie wearing a hat. Millie unable to open her lips more than three centimetres. And silences so richly nuanced that even Samuel Beckett would be proud.

In other banal news, cheeky chappie Andy and twelve year old Stevie introduced us to the three new faces of the series: Fran, Olivia and Phoebe. Fran has been to ‘loads of gigs this week’, which apparently means that she works in the music industry. In fact, they go to a gig together for Andy’s birthday, which I swear falls at least every month. Surprisingly, it also seems as if self-confessed playa Lucy has now been fully integrated into the group via her friendship with Binky. Will she be replacing dear, sweet, interfering Cheska? Perish the thought. Perish!

This is going to be a series as packed to the rafters with drama as its predecessors, and despite the frequent guilt and disgust which accompanies my viewing of each episode, I for one will not be missing any of it. To conclude, I hereby refer to the eternal words of Mark-Francis Vandelli, whose sentiments best reflect my feelings for the show: ‘I don’t like it; I love it; it’s hideous; take it away from me.’