The Only Way is Dalston
I’ll admit it; I love a good juicy bit of reality TV. Watching dramatic weekly episodes packed
full of tragic tales of sour break-ups, listening in on revealing testosterone-filled conversations
between men that women were never meant to hear and watching people get caught in
embarrassing situations can momentarily make you feel a little bit better about yourself. The
entertainment is a cross between the lows of Jeremy Kyle and the vibrant characters of Big
Brother but hosted in bars and clubs that you will have probably visited yourself, which allows
you to suspend your disbelief and pretend all of it just might be real.
For example, I like Made in Chelsea (despite the overall concept being quite atrocious: kids
getting even more rich solely based on the fact they are already rich somewhat baffles me). I
like it because I don’t think the cast take themselves too seriously. Sometimes I think I catch a
glimpse of a smirk beginning to crease in the corner of their faces just before the camera cuts
at the end of scene, as though they begin to really get into character by improvising some
seriously pompous lines that even shock the director. It’s a posh peoples play and they are
getting fame and fortune by being themselves and getting paid for it. Who wouldn’t.
Getting home and putting on a TV program that requires zero brain power, with the only
necessary energy required being to open a screw-top bottle of wine and let out the occasionalunsympathetic chuckle in response to the on-screen life woes. Poor you, I often think, whilst listening to them complain for the hundredth time about the absolutely awful lives they live, simply because their ex-boyfriends are too busy whipping their hair back and forth and pretending not to be gay, whilst they all sip Moet together on cowhide rugs, and in their free time launch diamante jewelry collections and shoot music videos with some spare cash that they’ve found lying around.
Some reality TV cynics may ask, what on earth could be worse than this? The Only Way is
Essex may be a close contender – but no – there is something on the horizon that is much,
much worse.
Think of something that might not be as jovial as embracing a group of light-hearted toffs
or Essex ‘birds’ who live in a tipsy whirlpool of emotion. Imagine another young-persons
program on a social mission to be desperately deemed as the ambiguous term: “cool” Think
Skins, but older and therefore should be wiser. Welcome to…The Only Way is Dalston.
In TOWIE we are invited to look upon the glamorous world of the Sugar Hut, PVC dresses,
fake tan, the infamous term ‘reem’, laughing at embarrassing engagement parties and the
trials and tribulations of an epic one-and-off break up fit enough to be in the Guiness Book
of World Records. These things at least spurred online conversation, featured a token
hilarious grandparent, and even allowed our parents to ask us what on earth a Vajazzle
was. Similarly with Made in Chelsea, at least we have the comic relief of Francis Boulle, who
comes equipped with an office, whopping inheritance and modest title of CEO (all whilst
looking about 12 years old), who appears to do nothing but embarrass himself in front of his
exotic ‘intern’ and pose for self-potraits whilst strategically holding fruit. We also have Mark
Francis Vandelli who’s infectious laugh has us in fits, as well as his endearing yet concerning
way of speaking to his maid, by yelling in over-accentuated Italian when a lightbulb is in need
of fixing. Not to mention his casual flitti ng to and from his modest sea-side resort in Cannes,
because well, he can.
However, with this new East-London series about to hit our TV screens, it looks to me like
we have a team of serious artistic fashionistas on our hands, who are deadly serious about
appearing to be the height of cool, living on the edge with their ‘Shoreditch back and sides’,
and wouldn’t be seen dead without a vintage fur, retro sunglasses , pocket comb and bed-
head that has taken a good half of the day to style. I wonder how this particular cast would
react when asked to do a celebrity meet-and-greet at an Oceana in Slough. If these potential
cast members are anything to go by, they will be too busy shining their Raybans, rolling their
eyes or knitting a scarf perhaps.
The Only Way is Dalston, also termed ‘Shoreditch Shore’ appears to have already spurred a
few negative opinions. My long-standing N16 neighbour educated me on arrival to the area
that Dalston is not now what it used to be. I felt sympathetic at realizing that she had felt her
neighbourhood had changed, even though I will never know the true beauty of what those
old days were like. Like many places that used to be based on the small simple pleasures of
community living, such as a nice bookshop with a nice librarian and local authentic eateries,
the local residents are becoming increasingly out-numbered by young strident hipsters who
one day decided they would mark their territory by riding vintage bicycles up bus lanes and
playing garage music until the break of dawn.
With that said, however much I disapprove of MTV rocking up invited to the Dalston street
party armed with nosey cameras and machinery, I must admit that I do understand why.
Dalston is one of my favourite places in London, and not because the Prodigy made their
debut there, or Howard Moon is deemed to be “the biggest ball fondler in Dalston”, or even
because Britney Spears decided to shoot her recent video there last month. No. It’s because
no matter what happens to a place where you enjoy spending your time, despite the changes
or the interruptions or unfamiliar new residents, it’s the atmosphere and fond memories that
remain personal and will always stay the same.
For more information, visit here: The Only Way is Dalston? Pass Me My Shotgun.