Reality TV is like a white bread toasted It’s salty, it’s sweet. Does it have the highest nutritional content? Non, monsieur. Do we crave it sometimes, dream of it when we come home steaming drunk and need it in our darkest hour? Absolument!
I caught the bug and was delighted when Paris announced a UK edition of My New BFF, but by that point I had hooked onto something that was going to be a lifelong affair – The Real Housewives franchise. My breath was taken away. The fashion, the cat fights, the piss cheap hair extensions visible on a camera from metres away… How could I not fall hard?
Especially now, when I see the members of my favourite show at a pool party or overpriced restaurant slurring and chinking ginormous glasses of chilled Sauvignon Blanc , it makes me wistful of times gone past with my friends. We need being messy and silly as a release, and if I can’t get out and kiss my friends or act as wingwoman, I sure as hell want to see my adult Polly Pockets, the Real Housewives get out and do it instead.
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