I woke up this morning to discover I’d committed complete, unprecedented dignitycide. Still wearing last night’s jeans and very little else, I was roused by the opening riff of Have Love, Will Travel, which may or may not have been completely imagined. My right hand is covered in light burns, I can still taste brandy right at the back of my throat, and I can recall very little past ten; one particularly potent memory was standing in front of my mirror and almost sobbing with laughter at my own reflection which, although depressing for my waking self, at least gives me the option of a career in facial comedy if the whole university thing doesn’t work out. I’d also like to take this opportunity to apologize to everyone I tried to “communicate” with last night; I use that term loosely, because all evidence suggests that it took me almost four minutes to spell “I” correctly before giving up on conversation and slipping into a brandy-induced coma, face firmly entrenched in the keyboard of my laptop.
But none of that- none of that- contributed to my diginitycide as much as this. I have an awful, humiliating secret. In fact, yesterday, I sat down in front of Netflix mid-afternoon and only rose again many hours later after watching the entire series of Secret Diary of a Call Girl back-to-back. A series starring ex-Doctor Who assistant Billie Piper in what must be one of the most confusing roles in the world for young Whovians, it’s all about the kinky exploits of high-class prostitute Belle du Jour (potrayed with nostril-flaring self-awareness by Piper). Bizarrely, the main love interest throughout the series looks the spit of Arthur Darvill.
I have no problem with a series being about sex. And, much as it tries not to be, SDoaCG (pretty pleased with that abbreviation considering it’s twenty to seven in the morning) has only one redeeming feature: the novelty of seeing sex on prime-time TV. Everything else is completely without merit, and I say that as someone who has seen all the Jackass films. The characters are nil-dimensional, the plot is non-existent, the characterization is outstandingly weak, the acting (save for Piper who is sort of alright) is across-the-board dire.
And the sex is awful, too. All her clients are either pretty buff or hilariously ugly. Even after a night of glamorous romping, Piper is barely disheveled; after an evening of light drinking, I woke up looking as if I’d slammed my face repeatedly against my make-up bag. And this is a series about one of London’s top call girls; it’s likely she’d have had sex with her bra off more than once. As I always say; if you come to ITV for uncensored sex, the internet is going to blow your mind.