Jeana and I watched this absurd celebration of Britain’s upper classes wherein two toff bitches taught a bunch of mostly toff, but some merely bewildered snobs, how to get married to rich, landed wanks.
It was pure magic.
The toff bitches (Jennie and Patricia) were the best double act since Morecombe and Wise. Trouble is, they were deadly serious.
Someone was actually called Araminta. Araminta? Arabloodyminta! What sort of a name is that?
There were more double barrels than the Olympic shooting qualifiers.
Twat after twat moment cascaded from our screens; arsehole after arsehole. But mainly Pat and Jen. (They must be quietly seething that Mater and pater didn’t name them Arabella and Helena, so they could hold their heads higher amongst their so distinguished prodigies.)
It was a potpourri of upper class absurdity.
Sweetly, one of them was shy. Shy? She was totally overwhelmed by the pressure of having to be an international symbol of toffness and didn’t want to do it.
We met the Queen of Macedonia. An ugly English ex-debutante. The king sensibly declined.
We might as well have met the queen of fucking la la land.
Not only did the programme position the upper classes as tossers (in extremis) but the poor wee lassies who were being set up as debutante toff whores were actually aware of it and somewhat defensive.
I almost felt sorry for the poor rich bitches.