As usual, a new series in Chelsea brings a glitzy array of new characters to fuel SW3’s beloved bitching: however this time, it was more of a barrage.  From Andy and his nostrils to up-in-my-grill Lucy, the producers left no room for peace. But series 4 didn’t really expand, it just sank to even greater depths than we could have possibly imagined: from the ‘erotic’, a 50 Shades of Vom shower-scene with Spenny-Weez, to the violent, thanks to Millie Smackintosh, but more crucially to the clunkingly inauthentic, less endearingly set-up than badly-acted poorly-scripted sub-soap.

So, was the series finale a slap to the face? Louise cried multiple times (totally out-of-character) and there were also a lot of very awkward prolonged shots, in which members of the Chelsea gang look awkwardly at each other. Having said this, I’m still not quite sure about what happened to Gabriella. After whinnying something about leaving London, she gets into a black cab looking awfully downcast.  But somehow, in a way which doesn’t induce any sympathy. Maybe she was escaping the hordes of Twitter h8rz that still haven’t forgiven her for that horrific rainbow dip-dye in season 3. But basically, as Twitter-user @connorandrws succinctly concludes, ‘watching the Gabriella and Ollie taxi scene makes [us] want to castrate [ourselves].’  

But what about series 4 as a whole? What have we learnt?  Sadly, if anything, that this ‘structured reality’ perhaps isn’t as real as it is publicised to be: a classic example of MIC falling into the category of ‘scripted’ rather than ‘spontaneous’ is of course, the Spencer-Louise thing. None of us are going to conveniently forget about Channel 5’s The Bachelor. We pretend to, because watching a weekly MIC bitch-fest is our guilty pleasure, and we wouldn’t want to ruin that. But still we knew something was up. The predictability of the finale just sums up the progression of the genre: reality is spontaneous. Made in Chelsea is not. The rare occasions when reality interrupts this structured glitz – for example, that mundane setback when Herbie was taken away to a foster home– serve as glimmers of hope. But sadly, there aren’t too many. 

Lastly, if you were upset you missed the End Of Year Party on NYE because you were getting drunk, don’t worry. It was excruciating. And if you think the broadcasted episodes of MIC are awkward, this was just on another level. Even Binky’s ‘TOTES AMAZE’ t-shirt didn’t alleviate the pain.

So yes, the series 4 finale wasn’t as shocking as it was trying to be, and apart from Francis and his teddy-bear, I won’t be missing anyone. And for now, we can say ‘but whatever’. I guess we watch MIC for the bitching, not its insights on people and reality.  But when you think of MIC’s counterparts, the critically acclaimed Desperate Scousewives, or even TOWIE, I don’t know how many more series of MIC we’ll be able to bear before the ‘structured reality’ of SW3 starts getting up in our grill… or disappears entirely. Something tells me it won’t be too long.

Album by Girls is not exactly a one-of-a-kind album. Plenty of bands have had the same world-weary attitude, the same skill with harmonies, the same knack for tragic lyricism and the same ability to bring the whole lot together into  a world-beating song. Very few, however, existed in the late ‘00s. Girls revived and revamped the classic sixties record, not as teeny-bopping Beatles-wannabes or psych rock rejects, but as lush instrumental pop musicians, much as The Beach Boys were at their creative (rather than commercial) peak. Their main musical powerhouse was their frontman, Christopher Owens, a man with a tragic past involving cults, drugs, family issues, and yet more drugs. Each and every song they produced was fantastic, strung-out, sway-along stuff. It’s a shame they split up in 2012.

However, if you liked Girls, then you’ll love Mac DeMarco! Although Mac DeMarco are far less ostentatious in their orchestration (try saying that after a couple of drinks!), the same spirit lives on in their work. Tales of love, desperation and all sorts of misfits are conveyed in an uplifting and intriguing manner. The minute that you really begin to see the similarity is during “Ode to Viceroy” from 2012’s sophomore effort, 2, as Mac drawls the name of the recipient of the song over lush, expansive guitars. There could not be a more perfect inheritor of the crown of slacker-pop.

Girls may be gone, but Mac lives on!

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As I child I could never understand the appeal of panto. New Year’s Day seemed to be the time for families to go out together and experience ‘the arts’. Some might see the Nutcracker ballet at the Royal Opera House, others may hit up the West End or a classical music venue. Failing all that, you can get your culture fix by watching the New Year’s Day Concert from Vienna on the Beeb.  Why, then, did my mother and father insist on taking me to the Wycombe Swan to see a bunch of washed up soap actors and reality TV ‘stars’ poorly re-enacting a fairy tale?

Of course I went along with it. It was something I was meant to enjoy. In fact it was something that everyone else did seem to enjoy. Year upon year these farcical productions were happening in local theatres all over the country, and year upon year people would spend money on these things. Six-year-old me was bemused: from my theatre seat I would gaze around this room of seemingly reasonable people who had assembled to watch a fat, balding ex- Emmerdale star in drag express his emotions through the medium of a cheesy 90s hit. It was no aria.

Although panto wasn’t exactly my cup of Earl Grey, I could at least see why other (probably more normal) children enjoyed it. The fairy tales were familiar, the humour was slapstick and obvious, and, if you were lucky, Buttons might throw some sweets at your face. But what perplexed me most were the adults. Whereas the majority of children were too shy to respond to the cry of “Oh no he isn’t!”, the adults always replied with an enthusiastic chorus of “Oh yes he is!” What on earth compelled them to partake of this farce with such fervour?

But now, at the grand old age of twenty, I have begun to see the light. As in the pantomime classic Peter Pan, this in-your-face, ridiculous tradition allows adults to feel like kids who never grew up. For all its absurdity, panto allows escapism from the toils and troubles of everyday life. It’s the perfect antidote to those inevitable January Blues, fed by a dwindling bank balance, expanded waistline, and the awareness that no matter how enthusiastically you resolve not to drink/smoke/swear, within a week you’ll be off your face with a fag hanging out of your mouth and shouting expletives at the dog.

Whether you love panto, or just see it as an annual excuse to dust off Christopher Biggins and put him in a gaudy dress, the charm of this festive tradition cannot be denied. It’s mad, it’s camp, it’s often a bit tacky; but at the end of the day, it’s all just a bit of fun. And, in the Wycombe Swan’s production of Snow White this year, it has brought Ann Widdecombe to the stage. That is nothing short of a Christmas miracle. 

★★☆☆☆
Two Stars

My usual barometer for choosing programmes, the ‘if it’s got a Spooks actor in it then it’ll probably be quite good’ method, was thrown out of kilter by the first episode of Ripper Street.

Opening with the aftermath of a brutal murder and leading Matthew Macfadyen and his band of gritty policemen chums to a violent pornography den, it lacks any real character and relies too heavily on its shocking contents.

Everything is really grimy, but in quite a nice, shiny way. Almost as if it’s been made for television. This is forgivable in, say, Doctor Who, where the period and setting are just vehicles serving a larger concept. But in this world of late-Victorian London, setting is everything. It’s the place that conceives the action; the dark and treacherous streets breed the crime that terrorises their denizens.

It’s in the name, for goodness sake: Ripper Street. And yet the programme’s setting lacks real atmosphere, real fear. It’s all a bit too carefully placed. This has a huge knock-on effect upon the character of the piece as a whole. It’s quite difficult to really care about the crimes, because, at least before the explicitness gets going, so little is at stake. We aren’t afraid of Jack the Ripper, because it’s so patently obvious that he’s got nothing to do with the crime. And no amount of worried looks and mentions of the dark past will convince us.

Ripper Street struggles throughout against association with Sherlock Holmes. There’s not a great deal of room for detective dramas set in a late Victorian London underworld, and this attempt lacks any of the charm and character of Conan Doyle’s work and its adaptations. The writers have gone for gritty and serious, and have sacrificed soul and feeling. It’s all just a bit dull and flat; Macfadyen is fine as the slightly bland lynchpin, but he needs more dynamic characters around him. There’s none of the necessary flair here.

This first episode sets a gruesome and explicit standard, taking the exploitation of women and the first violent pornographic films as its subject matter. But these shock tactics don’t resonate or chill as much as they should because the production values never let us quite feel the humans being hurt behind them.

It might mature across its eight-episode run, and with any luck a good cross-episode plotline will develop to give it the sense of intrigue it really needs. But unless Jack comes back sharpish, it’ll just stay horribly flat.