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“Who wants to watch Desperate Scousewives with me this evening?” The proposition is met with deathly silence in my house: one housemate quickly scuttles off to his room; another becomes almost obscenely interested in her Chemistry textbook. There’s no denying that these “structured reality” programmes rake in millions of viewers – Monday’s opening Liverpudlian-flavoured episode drew in more than 500,000 – so why the hostility?
Considering Scousewives is my first foray into the world of such programmes as The Only Way is Made in Geordie Shore, I’m trying to keep an open mind. However, the initial minutes already put me in a bad mood. “Meet Amanda! Chloe! Elissa!” the narrator squeals - I squint at the screen, trying to match the names to the identical blonde bouffants - “Gill! Debbie! Layla!” - I scrabble for a pencil to jot these down - “and Chris and Mark and then there’s the fellas!” – and OH GOD, I can’t remember all this! Fortunately, for those of a panicky disposition, such as myself, or those people that don’t have the brain of, like, Stephen Hawking, the names pop up on the screen as soon as each character reappears. Whew. These guys know their target audience.
It’s admittedly easy to see how these exaggerated personalities draw in audience followings, but none of them seem at all likeable. They prance around semi-naked, they whine about other people, they moan about relationships, they do… other… stuff… I try to pay attention, I really do, but after the first ten minutes, I just want to drive one of those gargantuan sparkly stilettos through my brain. Or clobber myself to death with Jodie’s mahoosive earrings.
I still haven’t quite got my head around the scripting of this show either. Is the acting meant to be comparable to that of a primary school nativity play? A scene in which Joe talks to Layla about some sort of relationship they may or may not have is like watching Joseph forget his lines and start to pick his nose, whilst Mary starts giggling because the innkeeper has just tripped over his sandals. Sweet, but awkward.
But the most frustrating thing about Scousewives is the crude, unnecessary attempts to shock. We see Chloe furiously scrubbing her hands to wash off her fake tan, which has left her palms a dazzling shade of orange (happy advertising for The Yorker, there) - alas, it doesn’t budge, so she reaches for the bleach. Does the next scene show her screaming and writhing in pain as the alkaline rips through her tender, tangerine skin? No. We see Chloe frolicking happily on her bed in her lingerie, joking about third-degree burns.
Maybe I’m not boss enough to understand, but this show is just not good; no matter how ironically you want to take it, it’s still forty-five minutes of your life - gone. To those who call it a guilty pleasure: S Club 7 and Bridget Jones’ Diary are guilty pleasures. This is not. This is lazy TV that cashes in on society’s need to see perpetuated stereotypes in action. Pass me that stiletto.
For those brave enough to watch it, Desperate Scousewives continues on Mondays, E4, 10pm.
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