How did we feel about power and poshness, in the Spring of 2011?
We had a posh Prime Minister, David Cameron – although his poshness was tempered by his coalition deputy, Nick Clegg (technically, probably no less posh, yet somehow less likely to be mistaken for the cartoon on the side of the Monopoly box). The headlines were dominated by the wedding of the poshest person in the world, Prince William, and a ‘commoner’, Kate Middleton – the daughter of millionaires, and posh and powerful enough to cause unladylike scrums to occur in smart suburban branches of LK Bennett.
On the one hand, we were still under the spell of a groovy New Labour hangover. Posh pop stars lived in Camden, and advocated for liberty, equality, Cool Britannia and dry shampoo. On the other, the austerity measures introduced after the recession were starting to have a serious impact on the most vulnerable people in society. Over the ensuing decade, we’d stop being able to pretend that being posh does not make you powerful.
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Still, ten years ago, when I saw a trailer for E4’s brand new ‘posh’ docusoap, I laughed, rolled my eyes and prepared to hate watch.
Made In Chelsea was launched almost a year after ITV scored a huge hit with something similar, The Only Way Is Essex. (MTV was on the brink of launching Geordie Shore, their British Jersey Shore follow up.) There was an appetite for ‘reality’ – but did MIC offer a reality that any of us could recognise?
Over the course of the first hour, I stopped sneering and became a fan. Initially, MIC stood apart from its peers, thanks to its production values. It was lushly, lovingly shot and edited in a series of glamorous locations – it had an Instagram aesthetic, before most of us had an Instagram account. More importantly, it appeared to be created by a production team with a sense of humour, who could see the comedy in the drama – Mark Francis’ phobia of his own domestic appliances, Millie Mackintosh’s drink flinging reflexes, and the fact that every single dog on the show was either the size of a hamster, or a wolf.
Other reality shows have served as star makers. You take a ‘normal’ person, expose them to millions of viewers, and change their lives for better and worse. Sometimes it works – celebrities like Scarlett Moffatt (Gogglebox) and Rylan Clarke (X Factor) appear to have converted reality TV exposure into successful presenting careers. However, we can’t ignore the tragedies that have been linked to high profile reality shows. Two Love Island cast members and a presenter have died by suicide. TOWIE’s Mick Norcross also died by suicide at the start of this year. Last month, the stars of the current series of The Circle were forced to launch a #thinkb4upost campaign calling for online kindness, after revealing that every single contestant had faced online abuse or death threats.
However, reality TV has also led the way in prompting conversations about emotional abuse within relationships. In 2018, Love Island inspired a national conversation about gaslighting – a conversation that MIC fans had been trying to take off screen for years. On occasion, I found the base level of misogyny rendered the show unwatchable. ‘It’s f**king hard to respect you when you allow me to cheat on you,’ said now famous family man Spencer Matthews to his then girlfriend Louise Thompson. Of course, when Louise cheated with a mystery man, she was subjected to slut shaming, double standards and made a social pariah.
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When what we see on screen appears to obey no moral laws, it’s cheap and increasingly easy for us to try it in the court of public opinion. Over the last decade, social media use has tripled, and as it’s grown, the notion of a duty of care has come into question. Who does that duty fall to? (OfCom introduced new, protective rules in February). Do the programme makers have the ultimate obligation to protect vulnerable talent – or as viewers, have we become a nation of bullies and abusers who need taking in hand?
The 10 year anniversary of MIC has prompted me to confront my own shameful behaviour. As a viewer, occasional columnist and impulsive Twitter user, I know that I have said cruel and regrettable things about members of the cast. (I did my utmost to focus on their actions and behaviour; I’m definitely guilty of occasionally making fun of their hair.) I was not kind. Why did I do it? Back in 2011, I think the world seemed funnier, and more fun. MIC was something I enjoyed laughing at and laughing along with. But seeing so many lives unfolding on screen has forced a reckoning beyond Chelsea. We’re learning to take each other much more seriously. We’re learning about consequences. We talk about the way social media makes microcelebrities of us all, and we’re under more pressure than ever to appear glossy and perfect. It’s a much more comfortable conversation that the one we need to have about our collective vulnerability, and what lies beneath the gloss. Which, in a roundabout way, brings us back to poshness.
MIC is unlike many reality shows because most, if not all of its cast members, come into the programme with an unusual amount of power. When Jack Fincham won Love Island in 2018, he was expecting to return to work at a pen factory. MIC’s cast members run diamond mines (Francis Boulle), invent smart keys and build robots (Richard Dinan) or work as full time bloggers (Ceska Hull) or society photographers (Liv Bentley). Jamie Laing was able to use the show as a platform to launch his confectionary company, Candy Kittens.
When it comes down to a conversation about duty of care, it’s important to acknowledge that while everyone is vulnerable, and no-one is deserving of cruelty, many of the cast members of MIC are better protected than their reality contemporaries, simply because they start from a position of strength. They don’t go on TV hoping that their lives will change overnight – and for that reason, perhaps they’re a little better protected from exploitative parties. In 2011, poshness was the punchline. In 2021, when the reality TV landscape is becoming increasingly bleak, perhaps the poshness needs to prompt a conversation about power and privilege. To a point, all reality TV is a reflection of the world we live in. But when reality TV becomes so toxic that you need an unearned income or a private education in order to survive it, we need urgent change.