You might think you are above watching appalling trash such as this, but a true intellectual knows that ALL information about one’s fellow man is valuable.

To date, no one has managed to prove or indeed put forth any evidence to support the validity of that assertion, but no matter. These people have in excess of 3m Twitter followers between them. They’re taking over the world.

This will help you communicate with them until you work out an escape plan.

Jay Gardner. A massive tit?

The gang are told they are going to house sit in Cancun for six weeks. Thrilled at the prospect of transplanting their drinking interspersed with frantic rutting existences to another continent, they set about tying up the loose ends of their busy lives. Jay (looks like Barney, but orange) kisses goodbye to his new, now concerned, girlfriend. Sophie (occasionally intelligible, most sensible of the group when pissed, blind spot when it comes to idiotic boy-men in scoop necked wifebeaters) tells boyfriend Joel she will miss him desperately. He tries very hard, but fails to conceal his delight at the prospect of her absence.

Charlotte Letitia (genius of comic timing, mistress of the deadpan, parsnip enthusiast) swears she will not sleep with Gaz (penis like a parsnip) again.

We sigh and eat another handful of Doritos.

Within seconds of their arrival, the villa they are supposed to be ‘looking after’ looks like a herd of buffalo have passed through it at speed. What kind of idiot you would have to be to allow eight sexually incontinent twenty-somethings near your clean bedding?

This query is answered when a butch man in a Crocodile Dundee hat arrives. His says his name is Cancun Chris and he owns the villa. Neither of these statements impress the Geordies, who variously ignore him, gape at him in wonder, or imitate him, presumably thinking it might be perceived as some form of flattery. It’s not.

Cancun Chris is not pleased. He tells Charlotte and Rebecca (skin tone: rust) to stay at home and clear up. They go to a beach party instead and as a punishment are sent to live in a zoo/hotel where they are attacked by a monkey.

We chuckle self-righteously and eat yet another handful of Doritos.

Meanwhile, James (muscles, standout shoddy dress sense, combover) has a plan. He’s going to “bang some birds”. He’s going to go to the beach party, flex his muscles, make small talk, smooth his combover and women will be unable to resist the urge to throw off all their clothing and queue up to be ravished. The fact that James gave his brilliant plan a run out almost every night in the first two series of the show plus last year’s holiday special ‘Madness In Magaluf’, and banged approximately one bird (Holly, fellow cast member, perpetually off balance due to perilously large breasts), does not deter him.

Unsurprisingly, he returns home alone and is dry humped by Holly when he falls up the stairs.

We chew thoughtfully on a pretzel and wonder whether we should feel sorry for James. Unfortunately, whatever reverse charisma James possesses is also palpable through the TV screen. Hopefully, he’ll bang while he’s being humped and find himself in a parallel universe where he is only capable of becoming sexually aroused by Holly.

We chuckle darkly, like Dastardly & Muttley.

Luckily for James, fate (and a bunch of MTV writers) decide what’s going to happen on Geordie Shore, and resident couple Vicky & Ricci are reeling under its (their) cruel and fickle hand. Like most relationships that flourished in a haze of alcohol and hormones, they veer almost exclusively between sickening displays of affection and venomous outbursts of mutual hatred. Or, as Vicky puts it after Ricci spills a drink on/near her dress in a club,

“The atmosphere’s electric, the drinks are flowing, I’m having an amazing night and then I have a massive argument with me boyfriend cos he’s a f***ing tail.”

We nod, sagely. Vicky is not wrong in her assertion.

This article first appeared on baggytrouseredmisanthropist.com.

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