I have a family connection to the island of Jersey. So last night I popped my ‘The Real Housewives of…’ cherry and watched an episode of ITVBe’s The Real Housewives of Jersey. Suffice to say, after wincing through about 25 minutes, I had to re-watch Threads to cheer myself up.
Trading standards should take note, as the contents appeared to contain neither ‘housewives’ (they all seemed to have jobs of a sort) or any sense of reality — the infantile script soon shattered that illusion. I can confirm it’s set on Jersey. But not the actual Jersey, more a Jersey of ‘alternative facts’. There are no cliff walks, WWII relics and friendly seafood restaurants here. This is Jersey as seen though the lens of Liberace’s bed pan.
Each interchangeable participant is a random assemblage of creosoted tits and thighs, vacuum-packed inside a drag queen’s nightmare. Each has a vocabulary on par with a Mr Men book. And each appears to spend a great deal of money to look like they shop at QVC. This is an irony-free zone: watch as shameless self-importance ruthlessly fucks modesty in the arse.
The ladies bounce and totter and squeal in a futile effort to repackage the banal as sensational. Lordy, there’s a couple of gay guys. One of them sometimes wears a dress. Look out, one housewife has glanced at another housewife in a slightly displeasing way… OMG scandal!
The show presents the island’s Royal Yacht (the piss-head’s disco of choice) as a venue of sophistication. The wives coo over some local Banksy rip-offs. And when the husbands are wheeled on to mouth their lines you can almost feel the gun in their back.
Naturally the whole thing is plastered together with tone deaf cuntspeak about “loving Champagne and diamonds” and solemn nodding when a character dressed like a Toffee Penny with builder’s carves says something like: “you’ve just got to take every day as it comes.”
It’s televised Coronavirus. Breathless, queasy and if you watch enough of it you’ll lose your sense of taste.
Needless to say, I won’t be tuning in again. Instead, I’m going to do what I should be doing here and gawp at a smart, tasteful shirt. This is from Comme des Garçons Homme. It’s only just landed over at Haven and I suspect it’s AW20, which means by rights, it should be on sale any minute. This is precisely the kind of shirt I love and precisely the reason why I wouldn’t fit in at a Real Housewives of Jersey party.
It seems the blokes on the TV show are contractually obliged to wear diabolical floral shirts at all times. I suspect the arcane visual grammar of the ‘Real Housewives’ brand book equates men in floral shirts to being both rich and fun. A shirt like this (blocky, navy, stripy, neat zipped pockets) just wouldn’t look right holding hands with a rouged slab of mutton in stripper heels.
Needless to say, being Comme Homme, this is a wedge — you’re looking at a solid £589. But if you’ve got any Santa money looking for a home, you could do a lot worse than keep this page open on your browser, giving it a refresh every day in the hope of a reduction.
Apologies for spending so much time blathering about The Grizzly Housewives of Bumhole County. I just can’t get the thickness out of my head. In the scant 25 minutes I spent in their company I witnessed one housewife complaining, straight-faced, that another housewife was too much of an attention seeker. This is from a women pouting down the camera on a reality show. You’ll find more self-awareness in a used handkerchief.