Made In Chelsea Argument Essay

Things are hotting up in Chelsea. Who knows, maybe it's something in the water on the King's Road.

If you caught last night's MIC, you'll know there are plenty of fights to choose from. But who came out on top in one of the most intense episodes of the show to date?

Sit down, grab a delicious healthy juice and let us deconstruct the three most nail-bitingly ferocious arguments from last night's episode.

Let's get ready to rumble.


If a conversation ever begins with the words "Is there anything that you feel I need to know?", alarm bells should ring immediately.

Alas, poor Sam Thompson seems adamant he’s done nothing wrong. But wait, who’s this?

No seriously, who is this? We’re really struggling to differentiate all the blondes nowadays.

Still, with all the verve and volume of a man who’s been told by his producer to yell the name of the new character for confused audience members, Sam informs us it’s DAISY ROBBINS.

Daisy is here because she distinctly remembers Sam saying, as a "passing comment,” that they “should bang.” Sam, on the other hand, is baffled.

Even though he 100 per cent definitely said it.

Tiff is angry because Sam and Daisy have slept together before, despite Sam’s protests that it happened 10 years ago.

“I don’t care if it happened 8,000 years ago!” Tiff responds, clearly not caring that contraceptive methods didn't exist during the Paleolithic–Neolithic overlap.

In a last-bid attempt to save his relationship, Sam dismisses the whole thing as “banter” (it wasn't) and says: “Every boy does this!” (they don't).

With his defense dismantled, Sam does the gentlemanly thing: shouts “nope” three or four times, declares “I’m out,” says goodbye in an American accent and leaves the restaurant.

The winner?

To be fair to him, it’s probably Sam. It’s definitely not these two.


Louise, Steph and Alex Mytton are having a normal, friendly conversation about a night out while Frankenstein’s Monster lurks ominously on the sidelines.

Trying to act like a normal, functioning human being, Ryan Libbey interjects once by loudly grunting BAD INFLUENCES into Mytton and Steph’s petrified faces.

He then turns on Mytton, who apparently made a “rogue comment” about wanting to sleep with Louise.

Despite the fact that every drama in this show could be avoided if the guys just stopped asking random women to shag them, Mytton sticks to his guns and acts well and truly nonplussed.

Although fair enough. You wouldn’t want to be on Ryan's bad side, would you?

Ryan, who is 80 feet tall and was hewn from solid marble by the Ancient Greeks, tells Mytton he isn’t going to go “toe-to-toe” on this.

“Please don’t,” Mytton cowers.

Everyone is terrified. They sip their drinks in devastated silence.

The winner?

On a moral level, probably Mytton.

On a purely physical level, he looks like he’s shit himself while Ryan seems to be contemplating whether to grind his bones to make his protein bread.


After a definitely-not-foreshadowing “we’ve never had an argument!” conversation with Fred earlier in the episode, Liv is on the warpath against the Canadian girl who is trying to steal her boyfriend.

When asked if she fancies Fred, Mimi proceeds to dig herself into an enormous hole by talking and talking and talking about how they liked each other’s Instagram photos and haha flirted a bit when she should really just learn to put the fucking snow shovel down.

“I have a flirty personality!”, she explains, and drops the bombshell that Fred had called her cute and asked her "where she’d been hiding."

Liv, who is imbued with the destructive dark power of a thousand exploding suns, pulls this face.

Oh, and here’s Fred! Turn back now, Fred, in the name of all that is good and holy.

As the shit well and truly hits the fan, Mimi tries to politely leave. Liv bats her down with a curt “stand there, please” so obviously she stays awkwardly rooted to the spot because politeness is the Canadian way.

“I’m a flirty person, she’s a flirty person,” Fred bumbles, as Liv seethes and seethes as if she’s about to eviscerate them both.

Still, she remains endearingly posh, telling him he’ll be single if he wants to fuck “every Tom, Dick and Harry” he comes into contact with.

The winner?

Well it's not Fred, is it?

"That's just my rhetoric," the flaxen-haired neanderthal moans, scratching his big old head in a way that makes Ryan Libbey look like Jean-Paul Sartre.

Give up now, Fred. It won't end well for you.


Clemmie is a total class act in the face of Biscuits' total bullshit

I can’t resist starting this week's Made In ChelseaMade In Chelsea recap with an old, old joke. What’s the difference between a hedgehog and a Ferrari? With a hedgehog, the pricks are on the outside! This Ferrari contains James and Sam Prince, who is using every single atom of willpower he has not to push James from the car onto the kerb while shouting ‘Vroom, vroom! BEEP! Look at me, pretty ladies!’ We learn that James has been snogging Frankie, and Frankie briefly went to his place after the circus party debacle. ‘Conveniently, my flat was 500 metres away!’ he chortles, sounding like the creepiest and worst. That does give me an idea for a gross but maybe lucrative line of t shirts emblazoned with the phrase ‘If you slept with me you could be in bed by now.’

Meanwhile Biscuits is still obsessed with Frankie and meanly manipulating Clemmie, who is blithely, obliviously, hanging out outside posh greengrocers’. Sam has a flirty moment with her while shopping with Louise, who is trying to make her brother eat fruit and vegetables. Louise has selected a mango and some limes. Does she really expect Sam to eat limes? Does she think that the slice you lob in with your Tanqueray and tonic really counts as one of your five a day? Ryan, say something! (It doesn’t get better. Sam ‘No-one is coming round for sorrel!’ Louise ‘Yes they are, it has a unique flavour.’ Louise, I daresay Donald Trump’s anus has a unique flavour too, but I don’t think anyone could make a convincing argument for licking it.) Sam knows exactly how Clemmie’s golf date with Biscuits went, down to the swing assist, even though neither party has filled him in. How depressing.

Elsewhere Biscuits is taking part in a new reality show, Bragging On Ice. ‘I threw a cricket ball 52 metres! I hold the world record!’ he announces. I was going to accuse Biscuits of nonsense and say there is no such thing, but it turned out that there is a record, and it is held by Robert Percival who managed 128.6 metres in 1882. Biscuits might be the world record holder for ‘Bluntyly Stating Personal Selfishness And Cruelty Without Being Able To Comprehend Own Monstrousness.’ Of Frankie, he says ‘I don’t want to get back with her! But I see her with another guy and I can’t handle the fact she’s drifting away. I find it so hard to let go…there’s only one thing to do. Kiss Clemmie.’

Even if he really liked Clemmie, he would not deserve her, and he makes this clear by failing to understand her excellent crab claw/ Toy Story joke. ‘I have a really interesting fact,’ he says, flirtily. ‘If girls touch their hair during a date, it means they like you.’ Clemmie sneers. ‘Where do you come up with those silly things?’ she replies. I’m guessing Thought Catalog. She tells him she didn’t think the golf date was great. Now, the thing to remember about everyone in MIC is that they keep going on about how much fun it is to go on any romantic excursion that isn’t dinner - then they visibly relax as soon as they’re within spilling distance of a white tablecloth.

If anyone has been struggling to fully grasp the concept of Hygge, it’s essentially a photo of Mark Francis with a big red cross through it. He and Victoria are horrified by anyone who enjoys bodily warmth. ‘I’m not going to sit here with a mug of hot chocolate in my hands, curled up watching a BOXED SET!’ they hiss. The ‘Bah, humbug!’ is silent. Ah, well, all the more Cadburys Highlights for us. Harry notices that Habbs and Mytton are taking the time to get to know each other and not engaging in public sex acts, and starts to weasel into the gap like a zig zaggy Tetris piece being flipped over to cram its way into a sealed gap on the bottom row. The gang goes to watch jazz in a bar called Wringer and Mangle. Now, I don’t know if I should talk to Sadiq or the MP for Spitalfields or Theresa May herself, but this has to end. STOP GIVING THESE PLACES LICENSES. Tell them they are only allowed to open if they call themselves ‘Bar That Has Jazz On Wednesdays.’ I still can’t believe that the Cereal Cafe attracted so much hatred when no-one has tried to end the sick spread of Scoff and Banter.

Anyway, Frankie does her bit for feminism by suggesting that only guys can ‘pull off’ saxophony, and then, at Louise’s suggestion, tells Clemmie that Biscuits’ treatment of her breaches the entire Geneva Convention. Clemmie is furious, and excellent. ‘Who the fuck does he think I am? I would have got hurt down the line, I’m not the sort of person to stand for that pathetic, shit behaviour.’ In celebration of this fierce and unusual display, here’s Joan Didion’s essay On Self Respect.

We learn that Biscuits has a horrible habit of getting drunk and turning up at Frankie’s house, and Frankie has been letting her in. We also learn that James is rude and sizeist about dogs. ‘You let her sleep in your bed? No thank you!’ (Proof that James is not properly posh - none of the really smart set would be caught dead in a Ferrari, and dogs are usually adored companions and central heating.) Clemmie confronts Biscuits, faultlessly. If it were up to me, I would have her throwing the red wine at him rather than drinking it, but perhaps her way is classier. When Biscuits says that he’s sorry if he upset her, and she hisses ‘it doesn’t upset me, it pisses me off, Clemmie becomes a hero and gives us the perfect line to use every time anyone offers us a shitty non apology. ‘I had a great time with you!’ grovels Biscuits. ‘What does that mean? Absolutely fuck all at this point!’ she replies. YES CLEMMIE.

Digby and Liv have a dinner party, which is allowing them to celebrate the fact that their greatest point of compatibility is their shared inability to button a shirt. Sophie warns Victoria that she’s at the ‘wrong’ end of the table and so a safe word, ‘Candelabra’, is suggested, presumably in case anyone says anything about enjoying blankets, hearths or slippers. (Isn’t a safe word supposed to be something that doesn’t jar too much? How on earth will they bring it up, unless someone says ‘What was that film from 2013 about Liberace?’)

Biscuits claims to have two ex girlfriends at the table, when golf balls and crab claws do not a girlfriend make. Clemmie calls him a ‘little bitch’, forces an apology from him and says ‘we can move on, it’s fine!’ So adult! We do not deserve her! Mytton accuses Harry Baron of snakiness on the Habbs front, and is soon drowned out by Biscuits and Frankie. She sobs ‘You’ve broke up with me, you broke my heart, you fucked it with Harry, and now with James, I want you to move on, how many times?’ while Liv and Biscuits suggest that she’s using James too. I truly believe Frankie likes James - bugger only knows why - but the feelings are there. The worst thing about Liv’s aggressive stirring is the evil, spoon licking look she has on her face afterwards. This is why people hate dinner parties. Candelabra! Candelabra! Candelabra

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