Party House? I Care!

Last week I wrote an article about E4’s BAFTA-deserving new show “Party House”. This prompted a bit of Samantha Brick-esque controversy. “#yellowteeth” appeared on Twitter, although I don’t think that was just down to my observations. A few pissy comments appeared on my blog. Someone suggested I “go back to school” because I lazily misused an “of” instead of a “have”. I would like to publish a formal apology to Floella Benjamin, the Chancellor of Exeter University, where I obtained my BA in English, for this disgusting grammatical mistake. Someone also debated whether or not I was eligible to write a blog about a show I had “seen 10 seconds of”. I think the fact that I was able to comment on most events from the hour-long show proves that I did indeed sit through the entirety of the hour. An hour of my life I will never get back.

Because my article delighted some, but upset others, I decided to grit my teeth and sit through last night’s new episode which was actually WORSE than the week before. However, in the interest of keeping people happy, I would like to try looking at the show from a non-cynical perspective…

*I have also embraced blue-ness in this post, so as to show my support for dip-dyed blue hair*

This week’s heroine is Allie. She has hair the shade of the deepest, purest, bluest ocean and within the first 30 seconds of the episode says “my party fucking rocked; thank fuck for my mates”. I personally admire her brazen admiration for her friends and this choice of language is, frankly, brave and meritorious.

One of her friends refers to her as a “stereo-dyke”. I giggled at this, like a coy Christian at my local madrigal rehearsal. “Stereo-dyke” – what are they like, eh? Girls will be girls, and all that. There is a “goth” there (I believe that’s what the kids call it). She doesn’t really speak, poor love, because someone has inserted several bits of metal around her lips, against her will, I’m sure. She also doesn’t smile, but I applaud her for this seeing as one doesn’t want premature wrinkles on one’s face, does one? Also present is “the straightest gay guy” that they all know. He is one tool-belt short of being positively butch. They all seem like jolly nice chaps.

Allie’s girlfriend, Elise, is at home. She lives behind a gated door, at a skate park. This is a metaphor for the oppression that the youth of today feel bound by. It becomes evident that her and Allie’s relationship is in a spot of trouble. At this point, I disconnected my landline and turned off my mobile. I didn’t want any interruptions given that these people mean so much to me. I was deeply concerned for their wellbeing. Elise reveals that she has had Allie’s name tattooed across her special place. What a beautiful sentiment. She also has the word “pokémon” tattooed on her arm, proving that she obviously doesn’t get inked in vain. Allie and Pikachu are lucky ladies (is Pikachu male or female?) Elise also reveals that she isn’t interested in sex and that she sacrifices her abstinence to make Allie physically happy. That’s romance for you, right there. She would rather watch paint dry, she says. The fact that she will let Allie rub against her and give up a potential trip to Homebase is utterly utterly selfless.

There are two people called Dolly and Daniel at a bus stop. Why this scene wasn’t at the top of the show is beyond me because it is compelling television at it’s best.

At Elise’s house, Allie has just re-dyed her hair. It’s now even more striking – it can only really be compared to the purest nitrogen ice that dances across the surface of Pluto. I wonder for a moment if we are going to witness the beautiful art of paint-drying-sex, but alas we don’t. Instead they have an argument in which Allie tells Elise that she is “not her doormat” before storming off. I shed a single tear. Thankfully, this is the moment for an ad break, during which I am able to disappear into my bathroom and cry my eyes out with the extractor fan on, so as to drown out the sound of my angry, bitter tears from the prying ears of my cat.

The Party House has been re-done for this new group of crazy kids. They all descend from on-high, like celestial seraphins. People are wearing traffic cones on their heads. It’s inspiring, to say the least.

We meet Tobias. He is wearing fur and has chains interconnected around his face. He looks, frankly, like the Angel Gabriel, before he impregnated the blessed virgin. He introduces his friend Ben to James (the nearly-butch gay guy). Ben has long hair and is wearing a hat. It’s a beautiful thing to witness a man with such distinct style. I am in awe.

Allie makes her entrance. It’s demure, it’s ladylike, it’s graceful. She descends the stairs, accompanied by two elegant young ladies wearing lycra, with dignity and refinement. She takes the microphone and, seizing all the courage her little heart can muster, asks the age-old question “who’s ready to fucking party?”. “Fuck getting a job, fuck maturity” she declares. Across the room, everyone is freed by this stunning display of unity and rebellion. It’s reminiscent of Crystal Lee Sutton’s courageous battle for the textile union of 1974, it really is.

Ben, who does yoga and writes poetry, fails to impress James, who is looking for love. He states that the party is “epic”. It truly is Ben. Truly.

Whilst Allie’s massive collection of dear, dear friends drink from test tubes, Elise becomes concerned for Allie’s wellbeing, and asks if they can have a chat. She tells Allie that she is making a fool of herself. Elise, no! How COULD you? Allie is only trying to release society from the shackles of oppression and ignorance. This party is, honestly, on a par with the anti-Nazi boycott of 1933. It’s a thing of beauty, not foolishness.

Across the room, poor James has been set up with an Irish man who wants to see James’ tattoos. Things get a bit uncomfortable when the Irish boy repeatedly requests that James takes his clothing off and jumps into the pool. Poor James – it’s homosexual peer pressure at it’s darkest. I feel the need to retreat to the kitchen and run a load through the dishwasher to once again drown out the sound of my sour tears.

However, Charles has turned up. He and James had a romantic encounter once in Brighton behind some bins. Has James got the happy ending he so deserves? I hope so, with all of my might.

Allie makes a very brave admission: she is not Kate Middleton. It’s a terrible thing for anyone to have to admit, least of all a girl with glitter smeared all over her face. Bless you, Allie. God bless you, sweet sweet child!

To make matters worse, the party looks like it’s taken a sinister turn. There are people coming out of the loo, wiping their mouths as if they have been fornicating orally. There are bare breasts on show. There is a flock of young women, running riot across the lawn in their knickers, screaming with hedonism. Poor Allie – surely she didn’t intend for this to happen when she asked if the guests were “ready to fucking party”. Surely she only hoped for a game of Twister and a naughty peach schnapps.

And what’s this? Elise has left Allie a present to open. It’s in a jewellery-shaped box, wrapped up with a bow and sealed with a kiss. Is it a diamond ring? No! Is it a vial, connected to a pendant, filled with sand from the beach that Elise and Allie shared their first tender embrace? No! It’s a thousand times better. It’s a necklace that says “Allie Bum” on it. At this point, I run outside to my car and start the engine, so I can freely cry more loud tears; tears of joy, this time – unabashed joy.

Allie runs after Elise and stops her from leaving. She spins her around. The evening mist is swirling around them. They are like Cathy and Heathcliff, out on the moors. Allie is fingering her new necklace nervously. Kiss her! KISS HER, I scream at the television. But wait! This is not the happy ending that we are all desperate for. “It’s time we called it a day,” Allie says.

I can stand it no longer. My tear-stained face is left devastated as Elise turns and walks into the night. Slowly, I raise the remote control and point it at the TV, turning it off, leaving myself alone with a blank screen. I stand and walk to my bedroom. Unable to speak I slowly crawl into bed, clutching my copy of “The Complete Works of Emily Brontë“.  And quietly I drift into a troubled sleep, where I will dream about the love of Allie and Elise – a love that, sadly, was not meant to be.

Next week’s cast have got purple hair. ‘Nuff said.

– A