Made In Chelsea Croatia, Episode 3: Harry’s In denial, Biscuits Is Full Of Bile And Digby’s Nipples Aren’t In Style

Mytton hires a dinner venue in order to create 8 minutes of extremely stressful television...

Made In Chelsea Croatia episode 3

by Daisy Buchanan |
Published on

When I lie awake at night, I tend to think about the same things on rotation. What’s the difference between AHA acid and hyaluronic acid, and are the two working together to slowly erode my skin? Will I eventually look like a cartoon skeleton draped over a padlocked treasure chest, in a cave? How is Adam Love Island getting on during his 61 date tour? Is he using condoms? Has his willy dropped off yet? Will Brexit lead to an actual zombie apocalypse, and how many hours will I survive before it becomes obvious to everyone that I have no viable skills? And is Harry Baron a twat in terrible tailoring, or a secret evil genius?

You see, Harry speaks as though the English language is something he’s only really experienced in the last six months or so. Also, everything he says sounds like dialogue that was originally written to be spoken during a wrestling match with a Victorian gothic theme. Have you ever been on holiday in Southern Spain and watched a soap on the hotel telly after a nap? Harry has. He would be slightly less ridiculous a proposition if he were to run onto a yacht wearing a cape, yelling ‘I AM A VAMPIRE BAT NOW!’

However, we live in an era consumed by twin obsessions with artificiality and authenticity. We cannot bear the truth, and yet we claim to crave it. When we talk about Made In Chelsea, we continually cry ‘but is it real?’ as though we’re Lorelai Lee and we think that the diamond bracelet in the box might be papier mâché. Harry is playing us like a ukulele. He has turned reality television into a performance art. He’s such a preposterous prospect that we have to believe in him because the horror of Harry goes beyond human imagination. So when we watch Harry’s tawdry, tacky, hard-to-believe denials about what he did or didn’t do with some girl Sam slept with in Vegas, we must remember that he is paying homage to David Lynch, Wim Wenders and Commedia Dell’arte. Probably.

Mytton arrives and bounds towards Liv, who waves as enthusiastically as you might when you see that loud person from the hotel buffet in the queue at your local post office. He’s desperate to stir up trouble with Digby, so she admits that they had a fight because her ‘personalities were on view’ and she ended up pushing him in the pool. Biscuits steals Vegas Diana’s number, and summons her to Hvar. Sam Thompson, put a passcode on your phone! You and your friends are all too casual and stupid to give each other unfettered cellular access. Sam starts to make amends with Habbs, with pistachio ice cream. Biscuits doesn’t care. He doesn’t want Sam to fall in love, he wants to start a war.

Poor old Diana turns up looking more relatable than any other cast member in the history of the programme. She’s squinting at a Googlemap looking harassed. There’s something in her eyes that suggests she’s been thinking about dumping her wheelie case into the sea. Biscuits lures her to a bar, baits a trap and waits for her to reveal that Harry is a dickhead. You can see Diana panicking, regretting everything and trying to remember when Easyjet have a flight back to Luton.

Mytton takes everyone out, makes them drink shots and forces Liv to have it out with Digby about her breasts. It’s worth mentioning that Digby’s nipples are clearly visible through his unbuttoned shirt, as terrifying and unignorable as malevolent Jelly Babies. Liv does not call him a hypocrite and Digby does not tear off his shirt and turn green, so it’s a result of sorts. Although Mytton is probably disappointed.

Sam has a post ice cream spoon with Habbs, and then runs off for a date with Diana, because Biscuits has ambushed him. Tabitha does some impressively confident cracking on with a hot boy from South America – or, in Tabitha’s own specific South West London drawl, Argen-teen-ah.

Mytton, who has been baying for drama like a small child at a harvest festival demanding to know when they’re going to cast the Nativity, has put together a gathering. It appears to be a wine tasting, but it’s clearly an intervention in which everyone is expected to yell ‘Snaaaaaaaaake’ at Harry, until he admits to doing something dodgy with Diana. It’s not helped by Sam’s revelation – he ditched Diana after their date because he had to tell Habbs that he loves her. Straight talking Liv demands to hear it from the horse’s mouth.

‘You said what happens in Vegas…doesn’t really matter,’ explains Diana, corroborating the story of the hand holding attempt. Harry, we can forgive you for most things, but that? Messing up the most famous tourist board slogan of all time? Heaven help you when you’re playing Katie Price and Christopher Biggins on Celebrity Catchphrase. Harry seems especially angry and anxious because he lives with Melissa – if she leaves, he’ll have to pay the entire gas bill. Brilliantly, Melissa responds to Harry’s declarations of love with ‘Oh, shut up! You look like an idiot!’ Harry’s comeback is hard to swallow. ‘You look like an idiot because you are doubting what I’m saying.’ Gosh, Harry gets quite, er, presidential when he’s angry. Let’s hope that what happens in Croatia…doesn’t matter!

Hero of the week

Tabitha, for her gutsy pursuit of that hot Argentinian man, and Ollie for all of his ‘you go girl!’ encouragement! Excellent work! Confident moves from all.

Villain of the week

Because I am too bored to give it to Harry again, let’s award the prize to the person who allowed Mytton to hire that dinner venue and create eight minutes of extremely stressful television.

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