And so to the most hotly anticipated televisual event since Courtney Stodden supervised the construction of a pole in the Celebrity Big Brother house. Made In Chelsea is baaaaaack, and I’m raring to go, having plumped up my goose-down pillows, ordered a Faberge omelette and adjusted my monocle for maximum viewing comfort. Actually, I haven’t been able to get my monocle out since the Christmas special, and it’s gone a bit sticky – I think my eyelid might be growing over it. Anyway, Mark Francis has said: 'Darling, the champagne is waiting,' just to warn off anyone who was hoping for an episode of Benefits Street, and we’re off.
We see Lucy and Jamie Biscuits in an intriguing room. Is it a bedroom with a bath in it, or a ludicrously fancy bathroom with a sofa? Either way, it’s a sex room, but the pair of them are not having a sexy time, although Lucy is seen doing some oddly erotic slo-mo running. They’re having a 'storming off stony faced and avoiding each other time'. What could possibly have happened? 'For me to go to Miami and hook up with someone was upsetting to you…' explains Biscuits, as if he’s Attenborough, telling a venomous snake why it doesn’t like it when he pokes it with a stick.
Elsewhere, Binky and Spencer are going off-road, charging through puddles in the sort of Jeep that only posh people have – the kind that could double as a bunker for the mega wealthy come the nuclear apocalypse. Binky has been briefed about Biscuits. 'He has to stop saying he loves people!' she sighs. She’s been caught like that before. Which might be why she doesn’t mind that Mytton hasn’t mentioned it. 'Has he dropped the ‘L bomb yet?' asks Spencer, inadvertently making a Loser sign on his forehead. Someone, please GIF that up. Still, Binky’s happy. 'I just don’t want any drama to happen,' she sighs! I love it when they get all-knowing and meta.
The first, 'It’s good to get out of London!' comes courtesy of Fran, admiring Cheska’s new Thailand tan and toned arms. After four seconds of yoga she comes to a breathless pause and announces she has gossip – Mytton might have cheated on Binky. NOOOOOOO! 'I don’t want to interfere!' whispers Fran. Of course you don’t, love. And you maintain that physique on a diet of Wetherspoon's pulled pork sandwiches.
We need to talk about Spencer’s hair, which is five millilitres of serum away from reaching sentience. It’s coiled on his scalp like a tame lemur in the throes of ennui after years of having its dignity ground away as it entertains bored visitors at Monkey World. One longs to set it free, and see it gambolling away from his head. Spencer, or Ol’ Monkey Head, as I think he should be called, is embarking upon a new and thrilling friendship with Andy, which seems to be based on the name checking of fancy labels. 'I haven’t seen you driving,' banters Andy. 'Not in the Givenchy, mate!' smirks Spencer, grinning like a fellow who knows looking manly is far more important than being it. Spencer, you can wipe it down! It’s leather! I could sort you out with a bit of spit and a used Kleenex. Does Spencer think Mytton has been cheating? 'He can always squeeze it in!' he beams. Oh, LADS! Fnarr.
Much more shocking than the Mytton rumours is Victoria’s surprise appearance in a charity shop, complete with bin bags. We’re amazed that, not only is she prepared to touch the bin bags, but she knows their true purpose and hasn’t attempted to fashion them into some kind of trash luxe cape. Victoria is giving away some old sports kit, because she’s turning over a new leaf and being kind, abandoning her alleged habit of burning piles of luxury goods in front of a crowd of terminally ill orphans. This does not stop genius Mark Francis from christening her new look 'bitter hockey sticks.'
However, Victoria is about as bitter as a sack of Haribo. She’s so keen to change her ways that she insists Sophie invites Cheska to her gothic fairytale couture birthday party. But not Lucy, who remains on 'the blacklist'. Sophie calls a gracious but surprised Cheska. 'You can definitely tell Binky, but not Lucy,' she is instructed. Presumably there won’t be enough Sylvanian Families to go round if Lucy comes too.
Over at Binky’s, Mytton is fuelling the rumours that he is a dirty rotten cheat as he appears to be cultivating Spencer hair, implying he is also enjoying some Spenny-esque behaviour. You know what they say, boys. 'Use Mane ’n Tail, your relationship will fail.' Still, he’s looking tenderly at a picture of Binky in the bath. Binks, we love you, but you make us question that love when you frame a six by four print of your nips insufficiently covered by foam and rose petals. Spencer is in the Buddha Bar with Biscuits when his couple-dar kicks in, and he decides to ring Mytton and fill him in on the 'rumours'. Bafflingly, Spenny signs off on the call with the words 'Cheers mate, lots of love, see ya!' which is the sort of suffix you might use if you’re so posh that you’re not sure whether you’re talking to a pal, your papa or a plumber. Mytton tells Binks that it didn’t happen. 'It’s the sort of thing I’d remember.' 'Unless you were really drunk,' replies Binky, darkly, possibly casting her mind back to a morning when Mytton was very quiet and smelled of vomity blue WKD.
After a few more 'kind, helpful' people have taken it upon themselves to tell poor Binky about the Alex rumours, we meet Mark Francis who is checking out some 'curious, geometric' pieces in a gallery. 'I’m having a very early life crisis. For my walls,' he explains. 'I need pieces that will work with Louis XV furniture and gilt pillars.' How about a Keep Calm And Carry On Poster? I think they have them in pound shops now. Perhaps Mark Francis will experiment with texture, taking inspiration from his excellent scarf. Imagine Father Christmas had a moment of existential angst, and dyed his beard with Grecian 2000, before deciding to give up and shave the whole thing off. That is what is caressing Mark’s elegant throat. He is still being forced to defend Victoria, following Turkeygate. 'She didn’t mean to be so rude! NO-ONE could mean to be so rude,' he tells Rosie. Oh, Mark. You have more class(es) than a city centre Pilates studio.
Biscuits bitches about Andy over beer pong with Proudlock, wailing about his new friendship with Spencer. 'They’re not friends. Me and you are friends.' Biscuits, it goes both ways – friends don’t let friends maintain topknots like that. Because we’re in Chelsea (well, probably Fulham) a minimum of 57 per cent of all social encounters must be awkward. So Andy and Stevie immediately walk through the door. A superficially civil encounter descends into doom when Andy takes Biscuits to task over his poor treatment of Lucy and Biscuits responds 'WHY ARE YOU SUCH A FUCKING PRICK?' Oh, I dunno, Jamie, maybe because YOUR MUM.
This is a relaxed and happy social engagement compared with Binky and Mytton’s dinner with Spencer and Louise. Oddly, it’s the latter couple who seem the most chilled. Binky pokes the meat on her plate gloomily and tries not to think about where Mytton’s meat has been, while Spencer does impressions of drunk Louise and reveals that although they haven’t seen each other since the last series, they have been texting each other pictures of bulldogs. 'So, when you have sex later, will you tell us?' asks Mytton. Now who’s bitter hockey sticks?! Louise tells Binky that relationships only work when you can trust each other, which seems a little like Putin lecturing world leaders with a paper called 'The importance of tolerance'.
Andy stops by Lucy’s house and lectures her on getting over Biscuits and going out again, but I find it very hard to concentrate on what he’s saying because I’ve just realised his new glasses are the ones the optician gives you during an eye test, that hold all the different lenses but aren’t actually supposed to be worn out of the shop. If my theory is trye, the Specsavers on the King’s Road can’t serve any customers and it is all Andy’s fault. Anyway, it’s off to Sophie’s pardy, and no-one has let us down on the dressing up front. The boys have taken to eyeliner as enthusiastically as toddlers with their first Sharpie markers, and Louise is wearing some sort of sequinned rhombus. Worryingly, Binky’s crown is horn based. She is a cuckold in couture. A magnificently ruffed Mark Francis comforts her with the words 'As Socrates said, great minds discuss ideas, mediocre minds discuss events, simple minds discuss people!' 'I love that,' replies a despondent Binky. 'If only I could remember it to repeat at other people.' Oh, love, you’ve already forgotten the last and most important sentence.
Cheska and Fran form a kind of Number 837 Ladies Detective Agency and vow to find the woman who claims she has slept with Mytton. They’re like the Famous Five, only they have the combined sleuthing skills of Timmy the Dog and no-one will care when they eventually get murdered by creepy Uncle Quentin. And Andy has one last go at getting Biscuits to apologise to Lucy. “Tell her you fucked up!” he says, sternly. 'It’s confusing!' replies Biscuits. I’m starting to think he sees Miami as some sort of imaginary state where nothing actually really happens, instead of a real life holiday destination.
Victoria, covered in hearts, apologises to Cheska, saying 'I called you a turkey because it’s festive!' Understandably, Cheska accepts with reservations, knowing she has the upper hand because she’s dressed like a Lannister preparing for the most glamorous battle of her life. One suspects the producers themed the party to draw in all the Thrones fans who had tuned in by accident. Lucy grudgingly hears out an apologetic if bewildered Biscuits, and Mytton finally L bombs Binky. Please, please don’t let him have cheated. Otherwise Spencer’s Loser sign will have a new and horrible resonance.
Villain of the week
He might be a lover, not a fighter, but Jamie Bloody Biscuits is clearly part villain, part village idiot. It’s hard to make him a villain because we know his bad behaviour is born from sheer stupidity, but I’m doing it anyway in the hope that he learns a lesson. You don’t make mean remarks about Andy when he’s trying to help you sort your life out, you don’t make Lucy Watson cry, (or at least do that blinky scrunched up face thing where she looks away from the camera) and you keep your chocolate finger in your pants, no matter which postcode you’re in. Capisce?
Hero of the week
For sheer, weird, novelty value it has to be Victoria, bringing sweetness to South West London with her cast offs and enforced party invites. Also for the line 'I will continue to wear black until they invent a darker colour.' We don’t know how long this will last, but we’ll probably never get to do this again, so for one week only, Victoria is our queen. We might have to take this back next week if it turns out that she has been bodysnatched.
Also props to Cheska for playing it cool instead of playing into her hands. There is no such thing as a festive insult.
Follow Daisy on Twitter @NotRollerGirl
This article originally appeared on The Debrief.