It begins at Fashion Week, where we learn that – thank goodness – Victoria’s sweet, sensitive era had less staying power than the chocolate coating on a Malteser, or a declaration of love from Jamie Biscuits. ‘Look at the shoes! It looks like she’s working in a nursing home!’ she crows, failing to observe the stylish goings on closer to home and note that Sophie’s bizarre purple coat coat makes her look like a resident of this imaginary nursing home, which is a hospice for dying Muppets. And then there’s Spencer, who has schlepped all the way to the front row purely for thigh-rubbing purposes. ‘Why would anyone pretend to care about the clothes?’ he murmurs horsely, looking at Emma’s cold, catwalk face in the way other gentlemen might look at a publication entitled, ‘YOWSA YOWSA YOWSA! These naked ladies have MASSIVE bazoingas!’
Someone needs to take Proudlock into a room full of his friends and family and get him to sit down and hear that he is very loved, and very special, and they will do anything he needs when it comes to getting him professional help, but his bun is starting to resemble a single, gingery dreadlock and they can no longer support his choices if he doesn’t hack it off immediately. Proudlock’s hair is so very bad that it makes his tartan suit look quite sensible, and not like a Scotch Milky Bar kid on the brink of yelling, ‘Shortbread all butter fingers are on me!’ Spencer yammers on about Emma for a bit, and Biscuits wants to know where the next fash pardy is, so he can keep up the model lechery. ‘Where are we going tonight? Probably… the same party Proudlock is going to!’ rejoins a panicked Spencer, just about maintaining the structural integrity of the fourth wall despite Biscuit’s best efforts to take a metaphorical bulldozer to it.
Mark Francis appears to be taking a selfie, but he subsequently admonishes Binky for engaging, and for taking any pictures at all. ‘That’s what the 35,000 photographers are standing at the end of the catwalk for!’ he whispers sternly. Either, admirably, Mark Francis doesn’t want to see these hard working men and women swizzed out of a job thanks to a load of Sloanes with phones. Or he’s channelling Nicky Haslam and believes it’s terribly vulgar to possess a picture of a person who isn’t a member of the Royal Family. ‘Fashion is seasonal, style is a constant,’ he explains to Binky, who is screwing up her face like a nine year old who has just been made to play the 1982 edition of Trivial Pursuit.
Binky is pursuing this line of thought later with Louise. ‘It’s not that I don’t like fashion, it’s that I don’t care enough to sit down, and…’ ‘ANYWAY, Robbo!’ rejoins Louise, her voice cracking slightly after hearing hours of anti-fashion chat from someone who has rejected shampoo and all its works. Binky is so very excited about the prospect of Louise and Robbo that she rings Mytton to tell him they should probably get married, or something. Mytton, having finished up a ‘secret date’ – ooof! – with Mummy Felstead, is now drinking with Robbo and passes the message straight on. ‘I’m not blushing, it’s hot in here!’ shrieks Louise, whose face is now Pantone shade 18-1763 TCX – High Risk Red.
Utterly Bloody Cheska has holed up with Sodding Stevie for a big chat about the whereabouts of Mytton’s willy. ‘Our friend Freddie texted me, knows the girl, the date, the bedroom it was in,’ says Cheska, with all the conviction of a pervy Poirot who knows what’s in the envelope at the end of a game of Rude-o Cluedo. ‘I don’t want me and Binky to fall out because I’ve purposely kept something from her.’ Cheska, I don’t think a woman has ever said, ’I am so pleased you mentioned this! Now our friendship will be stronger than ever before!’ because you told them their boyfriend’s wand has been Slytherin up someone else.
The fash party is over in mysterious East London, where the Champagne foams because they’re far from home and the girls have made up names. ‘You’ll love the concept of the second girl, Victoria Gucci!’ announces Spenny, who has just told Biscuits that surprise enema-faced Emma is bringing him a date. Victoria is wearing a football jersey with lace sleeves, which is so fash and cutting edge that they are available exclusively at Walthamstow market, £12 for three, on the stall next to the batteries and plantain shop. ‘Do you like sweets?’ asks Jamie Biscuits, who subsequently fails to produce any. Victoria Gucci, I know you are a cosmopolitan woman of the world, but I hope you realise you should never go off with a strange man who has offered you confectionary. However, Biscuits is less excited about his date and more enthusiastic about getting the chance to go fully Attenborough on Spenny. ‘I’ve always wanted to know what it would be like to go on a date with you. It’s literally like being back in South Africa watching the hippo.’
Elsewhere Louise is slagging off Emma for not being ‘playful’ and having a bad accent. Louise is so playful and full of fun that she has turned up dressed in an outfit that could have come straight off the set of the X-rated romp Riding Little Red Hood. ‘Emma seemed really confident that he’s really into her. But he didn’t care too much because he went drinking with Mytton and turned up three hours late.’ Louise, you’re expecting some next level commitment from Spencer. He wouldn’t invite someone to a dinner party and actually go unless they were married, or otherwise contractually obligated.
Mytton tells Victoria Gucci that he has a girlfriend and he’s in love, and Victoria manages to be spectacularly condescending about it. Cheska is alone, drinking Champagne and looking worried – is it because she doesn’t know how to talk to Binks, or that she knows her dress is the worst thing a human being has ever bought off eBay and she’s already given the seller a starred rating? Louise loses her cool around Robbo, which is odd because she allegedly shags celebrity famous pop stars, but Robbo has been prepped and primed to ask her for a proper drink. Hoorah!
Victoria BH and Sophie are collapsed on stools, looking more knackered and drained than a couple of decorated war heroes that just fell off a plane. ‘Fashion Week this year has EXHAUSTED ME!’ keens Victoria, and Sophie adds, ‘I don’t know if I can survive it next year!’ Surely it’s like chickenpox and GCSEs – you should only have to go through it once unless you’re desperately unlucky, or stupid. Luckily Sophie has a solution. She knows a graffiti artist and she wants him to spray on her handbags! Um, right then! Sounds… good! Off they go to the gallery and, wearing what appear to be giant vacuum cleaner bags, start stencilling. ‘You could not look like two skinnier bitches!’ announces a newly arrived Mark Francis. Victoria claims to be ‘embracing my inner hood rat!’ Victoria, you don’t look gangsta. You look like a bee keeper with a pollen allergy.
In other mad activity news, the bois have gone on an assault course, which means we get to see Spenny greased up and falling out of a big tube. It’s the Circle of Life. However, Mytton hasn’t got muddy – he’s as clean and bouffed as ever. If he’s faking the activity, what else is he pretending about? His quiff is clearly full of secrets, and it’s becoming increasingly right leaning. His quiff probably gets up in the night on it’s own and donates money to UKIP from Mytton’s Paypal account. His quiff might even have strong views on the space behind Binky and Fran’s fridge.
Lucy, Rosie, Fran, Binky and Louise don’t have to get muddy, but they do have to have a painfully fake conversation during the most forced shopping trip that ever was. ‘What is that?’ asks Fran, gingerly fingering a frock. ‘Raffia!’ replies the cheerful shop keep! We learn that Lucy’s birthday pardy is coming, Louise is skipping it to smooch Robbo and that the plan to tell Binky what’s going on and ruin her life forever is reaching critical mass.
Biscuits decides to bring Victoria Gucci to Lucy’s party despite not properly fancying her, and Lucy is magnificently rude. ‘Have you told her you love her yet?’ she asks, icily. Lucy claims that, at 23, she feels ‘wise beyond her years’, when Rosie rocks up and announces that she’s 24. Lucy, you know what this means. You have to let Rosie go in front of you in the tuck shop queue. Representing for the Family Fortescue is Sam, who tells Victoria Gucci and Fran that he’s too nervous to talk to them, and running across the fine line between adorable nerd and creepy weirdo, while waving his hands and doing the Mobot.
In another bar, Louise and Robbo are having an excellent, geeky game of Jenga. Robbo asks Louise to describe herself. ‘I get bored really easily, I couldn’t describe myself in a couple of sentences, I’m really complicated.’ Louise, I think he just wanted to know about which films you like and whether you have any pets. Spencer also on a date, and tells Emma he would love ‘the honour’ of calling her his girlfriend. Emma points out he is ‘not boyfriend material’ and then looks like she’s about to unbend the second Spencer comes up with some guff about ‘meeting the right person’. Emma, if you can make Spencer stay faithful I will eat a bag of kale chips every day for the rest of the year.
Back at the party, Mytton greets the birthday girl. ‘Shall we sing for Lucy?’ he asks Binks, desperate to cover up the sound of any terrible revelations with a few off key ‘tra la LAAAAAAAAA’s. But Stevie is telling Biscuits and Pruders about Mytton: ‘All of Oxford knows about it,’ he whispers. Poor Binky is going to be so embarrassed next time she goes to the Boat Race. Then Cheska arrives like a wicked fairy godmother turning up at a Christening, if the wicked fairy godmother had spilled coffee on her chosen outfit and had to be loaned something pink, sequinned and mad by Vanessa Feltz, who had also been invited and had some fresh dry cleaning in her car. ‘The rumours are true,’ she tells Binky solemnly, doing her level best to look like she isn’t enjoying the delivery of bad news, but occasionally seeming as gleeful as a puppy that has just found a fresh patch of fox poo.
Binky disintegrates like a tissue in a pair of jeans pocket that has just gone in the wash. Mytton claims, ‘I’ve had nights where I forget everything!’
‘You’d forget putting your dick in someone!?’ howls Binky. Mytton, you have to admit your drunk amnesia is suspiciously convenient. Binky is not doing telly crying, but real, proper wailing, with hiccups and throat snot and whale noises. There is nothing to say but Mytton, you hideous shit.
Hero of the week
It has to be new girl Victoria Gucci for busting out some serious LOLs, possibly bringing discount fashion retailer MK One out of administration, not being taken in by Jamie Biscuits and his rogue sweetie offering, refusing to crumble to dust or burst into tears after being shouted at by Lucy Watson and generally having a more cheerful, animated face than Emma ‘Tales From The Crypt’ Modelly Whatserface.
Villain of the week
As if there was ever any doubt. Mytton, how very dare you break our girl’s heart and lie about it?! I hope you were sick in your shoes after your dodgy blackout drinking, I really do. You haven’t just lied to Binky, and us, but Mummy Felstead. Mytton, you’ve broken the hearts of the nation. I hope you’re happy. You’re no better than Spencer Matthews. You’d better start saving up for the leather jackets.
Follow Daisy on Twitter @NotRollerGirl
This article originally appeared on The Debrief.