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Posts Tagged ‘Made in Chelsea’

I can’t really get into the meat of this little entry before I tie up the loose ends of the previous one. Let me get it out of my system and onto my blog, and all will be well…
Binky Felstead failed us all.
Binky has decided that (against the advice of her fetching and wise mother, her fetching and shrill friends, and her fetching and fatalistic friends) she is going to entrust the skippering of the craft of life’s happiness to pencil-sharpened hair weasel, Alex Mytton. I am disgusted, my father is furious and Raccoon Eyed Account Manager is (in her contained and calm way) saddened by the grim inevitability of it all.
Binky: you have disappointed a nation.
That said, I overheard the most splendid conversation – or rather, monologue – on my way into the office today.
I was walking in front of (in turned out) two people, though at first I had assumed that it was one person, speaking on the `phone.
An American man was declaiming, and I have rushed to set his words down (and I wonder if it will be as funny in print – possibly not) as they were so deliciously pompous that I was almost squirming with delight as I heard them.

“You know how I was talking last night about sentimentality? How that’s a BIG part of me? How I’d seriously consider having your name and the names of the kids tattooed? Well, that’s why I bought the watch. I don’t look at it and think “Great watch!” – I look at it and think “We got here together. This is a marker of how hard we’ve worked, how far we’ve come. It’s not a watch. It’s a symbol of our union.”.”

This was – obviously – comedy gold, so I HAD to see who he was. So I slowed enough to let him overtake, at which point I noticed that he was not talking on the `phone, but was talking in person to his wife. They were both dressed in gym gear, trainers that gave them both a (much-needed) extra five inches or so of height; as they walked, she looked straight ahead, he turned his head to land his point as he went. It continued: she impassive and immune to all appeals, he determined to elevate his purchase of a (presumably expensive) watch to the level of art.

“What I’m saying is: its value is not what it cost me – that’s not what matters here. What’s important about this watch is that I bought something expensive at a time when I felt comfortable spending that on myself as part of “us”. This watch is going to be like…like…my fucking WEDDING RING now, because now I have so much more than when we got married. I have you, I have the kids…”

Just as I was beginning to stop thinking “Is this guy absolutely KIDDING?” and starting to think instead “Is this guy some sort of genius”, the most beautiful thing happened. Without a word, enabled by her springy, silent footwear, his wife simply peeled off, crossed the road and walked off down a side street. Not one word did she say – she just bailed. He didn’t notice.

“So, I guess, if you look at it as a watch, then sure it’s expensive, but what I’m saying is “This is my sentimentality poured into a watch”, it’s…WHERE THE FUCK DID SHE GO? KATHERINE?”

He stopped and looked wildly around. I passed him without telling him where she’d sought sanctuary: I thought she deserved at least that if that’s what she had to put up with night after night…

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The time has come to write of Alexandra “Binky” Felstead.
I have been a long-time follower (and let me be very clear: “follower” is entirely different to “stalker”) of Ms. Felstead, the Sophia Loren of “Made in Chelsea” and I have had nothing but admiration and enthusiasm (and frankly, old school lust) for her – but I fear that things have changed.
When first we met, all that time ago in Series One, I liked her. Yes, she was strikingly pretty (and while she is no stranger to a dab of make-up, she is clearly working with very good raw material), which helped – but she also seemed very open, very kind and (probably central to her appeal) very close to her family (her mother – who is probably more age-appropriate for me is also staggeringly attractive and has that heartening quality of seeming ready to rip the throat out of anyone who even dreams of crossing her daughter for a second). She was honest about her feelings for men, frank without being gross about her desires and acted in what seemed to be an entirely fair way in what is a very normal, albeit reasonably privileged, life.
As the series moved on, I saw nothing to make me less and a lot to make me like her more. Her BETRAYAL at the hands of the duplicitous, peroxide-haired gonk Jamie Laing had me ready to mobilise a mob of pitchfork-wielding vigilantes with a keen sense of justice and a readiness to hang out in The Hollywood Arms waiting for the little turd to come bouncing in with his cry of “Hey Boi!”.
This was, however, as nothing compared to the recent revelations about multi-fornicator Alex Mytton (brilliantly described to me as “looking like a Postman Pat garden gnome”) who has been cheating on her on any number of occasions and compounding the offence by claiming to have alcohol-induced “mind blanks” on the nights in question. Obviously, given Ex-Wife’s fondness for, and keen practice of, adultery, there are certain things that press my buttons more than others – and cheating is one of those things. I think (to divert for a second) that whilst it’s always wrong, it’s a good deal worse when you’re in your forties, married and with three children, than it is when you’re single, in your early twenties and the only people involved are adults – but the added layer of his lying about it (and again, that happened to me – so I am not being dispassionate or objective here) made me think far worse of him. In the words of Lucy (who has undergone a transformation from “Utter Cow” to “Straight-Talking Oracle”): “You don’t forget putting your dick in someone else’s vagina overnight.” – so I see Mytton as a double sinner.
My father (who is a very keen follower of these sorts of programmes, and is mourning the absence of “The Only Way Is Essex” from our screens at the moment) is also disgusted with the behaviour of the cliff-haired Mytton, so we have been able to whip ourselves up into mutually-supportive rage, so this has not been a lonely crusade – however, recent developments have rocked the very foundation of our feelings for Binky, and nerves are kicking in about how the narrative is going to play out.
The problem is this: Binky has taken Alex back (fine: some people can do this; some people can’t), but what she has also done is turn on those friends who have taken the position that he is a preposterous bell-end and she is probably not doing the smartest thing. The chief victims are the aforementioned Cassandra of SW3, Lucy, and horse-faced doom monger Cheska.
Cheska is hard to warm to. She does tend to want to take the dark view, see the worst in people and to catastrophise situations – and I can imagine that she’s probably not the kind of person whom one would want to be landed with running the tombola at a country fair. She has history of throwing stones into ponds and standing back with an (even longer) sad face as the inevitable misery unfolds – which is an aspect of Schadenfreude that no-one is likely to want to be famous for. And yet, and yet…there doesn’t appear to be a malicious intent behind what she does: there is probably a bit of naiveté, and a fair dose of “misery loves company” in her behaviour – but Binky has been harsh, dismissive and (I fear to say) selfish and unkind in her treatment of her in the last episode.
My hopes, of course, are that this will prove to be a temporary blip – a fleeting, out of character outburst brought about by some very real unhappiness – and that we will see a return to the Binky whom I have formed such an attachment to in the next episode. If we don’t, then my father and I will have a lot of “Not angry, but disappointed…” work to cover off, and I dont’ think Binky could withstand that.

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