Sunday, 13 May 2012

If Tolstoy had TV

I had an entire day today to indulge my creativity. At the moment I have three short stories, a drawing project and a book project on the go. I had planned on getting up relatively early and writing. I really want to, you know, finish something at some point. I'm almost positive I have the next great novel in my brain.

What I actually did was get up at 5.30am (major issues with sleeping right now. Must look out my stash of hardcore sleeping pills at some point. The trouble with my new house is I have absolutely no fucking idea where anything is. I've taken to just buying new things when I can't find the old thing. Then I find the old thing and I feel like the very worst example of Western consumerism. And then I add it to my list of things I feel extremely guilty about. It's fun.)

Then I did some online shopping. Then I went back to sleep. Then I read a book. Yes, a whole one. Then I fell back to sleep. Then I decided to get up and do something productive.

So I get my writing stuff together. This involves taking my duvet downstairs and opening my laptop. It's very technical.

And then I just happened to look on Channel 4 OD and found that they have every single episode of Made in Chelsea online. And it's game over.

Anna Karenina would never ever have been completed if Leo lived now. This is why there are no great works of literature anymore. If it wasn't for the amount of TV I have stacked up to watch and all of the books that I have to read then I would probably be a bestselling author. Probably.

Made in Chelsea is possibly one of the best TV programmes I have ever seen. It's the most fantastically awkward, obviously scripted, badly acted, badly written, ridiculous thing I've seen since Neighbours was in its heyday. It's just marvellous. It's full of people called Millie, Caggy, and most implausibly, Binky. The boys wear more makeup than the girls and the girls look at least 15 years older than they are due to the sheer amount of fake tan and fake eyelashes they are staggering around wearing.

There's a rather rotund greasy fellow called Spencer who appears to be the stud of the series. He inexplicably has at least two sloaney girls on the go at any one time, despite the fact that he increasingly resembles a middle-aged lothario - despite apparently yet to turn 25. His friend Hugo guffaws his way through Spencer's romantical adventures, which seem to solely consist of Spencer saying: "Er, like, you know my feelings are for you, don't you, yah?" to whichever leggy lovely is nearest him at the time.

Everything's amaaaaaaaaaaaaazing darling.

And Binky just wondered whether Dickens wrote Winnie the Pooh.

If the Brontes were around now, I tell you, Wuthering Heights would never have happened.

Still, there's always tomorrow. And I bet it took Proust ages to write his thing, right? And he didn't even have the excuse of Made in Chelsea. So I'm probably at least twice as good as Proust by my logic. Amaaaaaaazing.

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