Unlike most Britons (male and female) that I know, I am unreserved about enjoying a British series called Made In Chelsea (MiC). I debriefed the series in a previous post here, which you can read up on here. Liking the series (and Britons who also like it, but are embarrassed to admit it in British public) may say a great deal about me as a person, and the people I attract. Let’s face it, black-identified Americans have called me “bourgie” since I was a child. It’s pretty hilarious to think about the cultural connection, too, as Anglophones typically view Francophone people as “refined” ( Ou Lah Lah! ) but “arrogant.” We all bathe in parfum and are serial epicureans. “If the shoe fits?” Continue reading
We were at my girl Sandra’s flat one night to watch a season première of the British series Made In Chelsea (MiC). MiC is, more or less, the same kind of show as the 1990s American series Beverly Hills 90210. They actually copied BH90210 and created a British version of it, called 90210, based in the UK with British actors. Not sure what happened to that show, however.
For whatever reason though, MiC is socially frowned upon here, but everyone secretly watches it at home. Oddly enough, the Brits squeal at most of their reality TV shows; god forbid you refer to Hollyoaks or to EastEnders in public here! So, go crawl into your hole, you bloody TV crazed commoner!
But seriously, Brits cringe when MiC is mentioned and, I think, it has a lot to do with the British obsession on social class and caste. You’re not meant to show anything mildly perceived as successful or an accomplishment. This must be linked to the elite here, who, if you saw them on the street, you’d think they were an ordinary person; a commoner. Go into their age old châteaux, and you’ll find hand-me-down shabby rugs, couches, cold bathrooms and an old Volkswagen parked out front, according to anthropologist Kate Fox. Anything showy is, immediately, associated with Essex County folk, the British equivalent to nouveaux riche, outlandish, bling-bling Jersey Shore “Italians.”
Accordingly, it is an absolute social requirement that fans of these shows watch them at home with no mates or colleagues around who, without a doubt, would take the piss out on them. I watch it, though; I’m not British and they find Americans excessive and showy, anyways.
Anyway, we had a few other international folks round to watch. I had longer than usual hair, then. And, when my hair grows out, it forms pencil thick spiral curls. At that point, my hair must’ve been about 3 or 4 inches on top and on the sides, but the spirals tend to be quite compact, so it didn’t seem as long as it really was.
We were watching the show. Hilarious. That Millie is so repulsive, with that feline language of hers, purring and shit. Just talk, already! It is, what it is. She’s not the only one purring as she speaks.
Rella, Sandra’s landlord, who’s from the UK (one of 2 in the entire group there), was sitting next to me. I noticed she had been studying my head, but didn’t point it out. I’ve seen that stare before; when people are trying to make out what’s on your head, in your hair or what your hair pattern is. Black-identified Americans are the worst at this. And, unexpectedly, out of nowhere, Rella asked me “so, are you going to do those ‘things’?” as she rubbed her thumb and index together making a rolly-polly gesture and partially smiling. I was in shock. I asked for clarification, even though I knew exactly what she was asking. “You know: those curly things that black people wear in their hair. I think it’s cool.” Ummmm, “probably not. My hair is naturally curly. Why would I want to make fake twists?,” I responded. But I was really thinking: why do these Brits think that all tan people in the U.S. have twists, corn-rows and dookie-braids? Weird, I tell you. Too much TV is not good.
The commercial’s off. Just in the nick of time.
Spencer’s obsessing over Caggie. Turns out that she’s decided to speed off to New York City to free her mind from all the Chelsea drama.
I like Caggie, actually. She’s the only one of the cast members that seems like a real person; plus she doesn’t do that crazy purring when she talks.
But, surprise(!), suprise(!), she somehow American … I think she was reared in Tennessee or the Carolinas with her mom and step-dad?
Cute thang, that one.
Spencer’s sobbing and supplicating has soaked up the remainder of the show for the week. Oh, well, will have to wait for next week to see what mess Cheska starts and who Jamie’s shagging next. Ahhhh
I head out as I’ve a ride on the bus home, and it’s late.
It’s biting chilly, too.
Well, that’s nothing new ’round here.