Jamie Biscuits, if you’re looking for someone to bare your soul to, you could do a lot worse than Binky. Binks is the Dear Deidre of the Smart Set - she can grant you absolution, and she won’t even demand to see you in your pants. “You’re my only friend!” he wails, presumably because the only person who might support his unholy union with Phoebe is Spencer, and that’s not going to happen. “Phoebe’s on holiday with her boyfriend - bitch!” he growls. Jamie, you can’t talk about women that way! We might be nodding vigorously and sitting on our hands to avoid punching the air, but don’t look at us! Look at, erm, society.
Metaphorically speaking, Biscuits hasn’t so much been shitting on his own doorstep as having lavish and unapologetic diarrhea in the area surrounding his Mum’s hall telephone. “I did grow feelings with - for - Lucy,” he mutters sadly, as if his emotions are a troubling bodily protuberance that he daren’t show a doctor. Binky, on the other hand, behaves like Laura Dern in Jurassic Park. Her feelings are dinosaurs, and if she hides behind her hair, they won’t see her and catch her out. “What are your thoughts on Lytton?” demands a belligerent Biscuits. “Do you like him? Do you really like him, as a potential boyfriend? Do you really like him, as a potential boyfriend? Do you really like him, as a potential boyfriend?” Careful, Biscuits. If you say it three times then Alex will materialise under the table and pour that weirdly weak Bloody Mary straight up your nostrils.
Biscuits might get free advice from Binky, but Spenny has to pay for his. He’s in his therapist’s office. The clock is ticking, and he’s in full flow. “Guys and girls, not to be sexist, argue differently,” he whines. “That may be the case!” interjects the therapist, because she too is clearly sick of Spencer and all his figurative and actual bollocks. Tediously, Spenny outlines his frustration with Jamie and Lucy, and his dream resolution. Spencer has been disrespected, and to feel like his alpha self once more, he wants Biscuits to carry on sleeping with Lucy but to text him about it and call him ‘bro’ a lot. Spencer also reveals that he has properly split up with Stephanie. “I’m not blaming anyone for anything, it’s what I wanted,” he flounders, when if Spencer were to even think about blaming Stephanie for his shagging bastadry, the UN would have to step in and lock him in a windowless room in the Ecuadorian embassy for the sake of Anglo American relations. “When it’s meant truthfully, love is a very precious thing,” he finishes portentously. Miraculously, the therapist does not start snorting, howling, banging her fists on her knees and shrieking “YOU are TELLING ME about...about...about...TRUE LOVE! YOU! I CAN’T BREATHE!”
Rosie is helping Louise with some anger management by taking her up the Embankment for a good punch. Lucy jogs by with Digby, The Most Accessory-est Dog In The World. She’s full of energy. Is it Vita Coco? Green smoothies? Cocaine? No, 110 per cent smugness - she’s come to tell everyone about Phoebe’s secret sex vacation. “I’m so happy...I’m going to go right up to her and say ‘Hey! How was your holiday? With your boyfriend?’” And Phoebe will say “Good thanks, although we had to pay extra for the quad biking and I didn’t think much of their omelette station and...hold on just a cotton picking minute! You have RUMBLED me!”
Someone who is not having a secret sex vacation, or even a blatant sex vacation, or any sex at all, is Stevie. He’s going to buy some nice shirts though, because he’s confident he can seal the deal with a triple button cuff. Andy wants to know why Stevie didn’t get it on with Laughing Tiff at his gig. “No-one pulls at gigs!” says an incredulous Stevie. Oh, it must be sex OR drugs OR rock’n’roll. I’d been getting that wrong for years! They’re going to a dinner party with Spenny, and they need to look sharp. “I don’t love the guy but you can’t fault him, he always wears a nice suit,” says Andy, wistfully. Yes, if Delboy Does S&M is your benchmark of chic, Spencer always does wear a nice suit. They surmise that Spencer might have a girlfriend at the moment, but “Does that mean anything?”
But he doesn’t, and he is telling an unimpressed Louise all about it. “I never asked her to move in with me, [Stephanie] just kept extending her holiday...Every day she was like ‘I miss my mum, I miss my dogs’ - go and see your Mum and dogs then!” And just when you think he has fully harnessed the art of charmlessness, he betters himself. “I was going to cheat on her anyway, but yeah, I hooked up with someone else.” Louise looks at him straight on, makes the sign of the cross, takes a deep breath and says “Basically, you should never, ever be in a relationship ever again.” In fact, Spencer should be given a medical bracelet or ankle tag proclaiming that he is completely undateable. And maybe another that says “Do not resuscitate.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. I’ll be a relationship within a month,” snarls Spenny. “You’re not ready to talk to me about this stuff, you’re visibly hurt...seeing me.” It’s OK Lou, you’ll have the last laugh, as you watch Spencer trying to find a girl who doesn’t have a television or access to the internet.
Over seventy five per cent of my sexual fantasies feature Mark Francis in an estate agent’s, and it looks like the MIC producers finally opened my letters, because here he is! He doesn’t do old dairies, and he’s looking for something specific but non specific. Lateral space. The estate agent peers at him for some time, and concludes “Not a house, then?” With a flash of insight, she says “You’d like Versailles.” Mark Francis’ cheque book visibly throbs, an elegant erection in his bespoke pocket, until his face falls and he realises that she is speaking allegorically. He’ll have to make do with real estate brioche for now.
Spenny is hosting a dinner party in a bad, bad suit. It looks like he bought it from the “vintage” department of Thames television, and it is lined with the sweat of a young Richard Madeley and Ciro Cittero labels. It looks like the outfit that houses David Brent’s musical animus. That’s how bad it is. “Benedictus Benedicto!” beams Spencer, which may or may not mean “the blessed one blesses you!” which definitely means “I am an entitled, greasy, self obsessed horses’ groin. “Cheers to single life!” he grins, and everyone pauses in horror, as if he’s actually just said “I called the agency and the whores are coming at nine.” Jamie Biscuits arrives late, and grumpy Spenny pointedly ushers Alex out for a cigar, because that’s what you do when you’re posh and there are bigger boys to impress. Stevie attempts to sext Tiff, saying “Great seeing you at the gig the other day, when are we going to make our own music?” and everyone cringes so hard that their body temperature rockets and they’re on the point of needing immediate hospitalisation. Spenny returns and has at Biscuits, claiming “it’s not about Lucy” and Proudlock echoes Spenny’s therapy chat - why didn’t Biscuits send a text that used the word ‘bro’? Stevie, stirring like Alex is giving him shiny pennies for it, adds “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but did you not come and stay at ours after Andy’s gig?” Stevie, just because you’re not ever going to have any sex doesn’t mean you have to ruin everyone else’s sex. I hope Tiff tells you to go and perform your own drum solo. The evening descends into chaos, as Spencer shouts “Jamie fucked Lucy - that’s annoying for me.” Oh, Spencer Matthews, let me show you annoying. I just need your home address and a pile of takeaway pizza leaflets. Or a very big stick.
More...
More cheerfully, Louise and Lucy are bonding, to form the ultimate team of Beautiful Ninja Ladies Who Hate Spencer. And they’re hatching a plan to help Stephanie, Thelma and Louise style, only without the car, or Brad Pitt, or the crime spree. Guys, revise your plan! Someone needs to go over a cliff before Christmas, or I want my license fee back.
It’s time for some confrontations! First up, Biscuits and Phoebe. “How was your holiday?” he asks, all faux concern. “Not as relaxing as I thought it would be,” moans Phoebes, presumably about to launch into an extended whine about how hard it is to find artisanal designer palm tree novelty sunglasses abroad. “WHY?” snaps Biscuits. “Because of your BOYFRIEND?” Phoebe looks as if she’s just seen someone selling her £800 vinyl car coat in a ‘two for £7’ deal in Walthamstow market. She “doesn’t know” how long she’s been seeing this boy, and anyway, it’s “beside the fucking point”. She is furious with Biscuits for making her “feel like an idiot.” “You SHOULD feel like an idiot,” he replies, and so say all of us. If nothing else, because you have reached the age of majority and are unable to measure time.
Lucy and Louise use their Spenny Ex Superpowers to lure Stephanie to DSTRKT (presumably someone still has coupons) and give it to Spencer with both barrels. “Don’t go soft on him,” urges Louise. If only Spencer had done a bit more going soft, we wouldn’t be in this mess. What follows is one of the funniest conversations to take place between two people on screen.
“I never knew you could be so disrespectful.”
“But how disrespectful are you, just moving in with someone?”
“I ASKED you if you wanted me to stay in an hotel.”
“I didn’t want to incur you the cost!”
Ladies and gentlemen, Spencer Matthews, heir of the multi billion pound Eden Roc chain, being anxious about the size of Stephanie Pratt’s hotel bill. Remembering Spencer’s reluctance to split up with Series One girlfriend Funda, because it necessitated the hiring of removal vans, I’m starting to think Spencer’s pathological cheapness is even less attractive than his pathological philandering. Stephanie leaves. “Free,” murmurs Spencer, his voice filled with the sort of sad, panicky undertones that suggest he really, really wants his Mum.
Stevie and Tiff are doing marginally better. Cocktail making looks about as much fun as scornful Lucy predicted, even though Tiff is doing her best to hoot with laughter while almost knocking Stevie out cold with a cocktail shaker. The poor love knows she’s a “cheap laugh.” “If you wanna feel good, talk to Tiff!” says a cheerful Stevie. Perhaps he has a secret 0870 habit.
There’s a pardy, and a tantalising glimpse of the bafflingly blonde Miffy, before we catch sight of baffling blonde Phoebe getting Alex to fellate a jelly worm with her, as Binks smiles bravely in the background. “Basically, I had come back to tell Jamie I now had a boyfriend,” lies tragic Phoebe, doing her “Princess Diana being brave for Bashir” face. Having used up all her delicate, fragile floweriness, she finds Fran and calls her a “fucking bitch” for telling Phoebe’s enemies about the boyfriend. Phoebe, maybe ask yourself some pertinent questions about why so many people don’t like you before you start screaming at Fran. We have a brief, relaxing sojourn in Mark Francis’ aesthetic - he has looked at 70 houses and can’t find one to house his live in seamstress, but he is quite taken with a stuffed toucan - then it’s back to the unremitting misery of the garden pardy. Stevie asks Tiff what’s going on, as if he’s a new employee nearing the end of his three month probation, and Tiff lets him go with a “let’s be friends”. Phoebe tries to ensnare Biscuits once more, who says they’re “buddies”, she makes a snarky “joke” about how he “chose” her over Lucy, Lucy holds her ground and then calls out Biscuits for being an indecisive arsehole. Series six really suits Lucy.
Spencer is pouring poison into the ear of Lou’s little brother, and we learn that Andy has been texting Louise to tell her he loves her. Sadly, Andy was drunk - and because Spencer has been Spencering at him, believes that Lou still has “feelings” for the Dark Ponce. Oh god, maybe she’ll “go there”. I would sacrifice all my motor skills if it meant I never had to hear another posh person use the expression “go there”. Andy tells Louise she’s “not that easy to get over,” which is as cruel and unclassy as “other girls have given me WORSE chlamydia,” and Spencer smirks in the corner because he knows, he’s playing the game, he’s the bastard puppet master and he will probably shag poor Louise before Stephanie’s plane lands at LAX.
Next time, we get an hour of Binky and Mark Francis messing about in a boat. I really don’t want to see anything else. Maybe some Miffy.
Daisy’s book, The Wickedly Unofficial Guide To Made In Chelsea, is available here.
