Fade Street (Irish 'The Hills') = Impending Doom.

ATTENTION! 

Word has reached my ears recently of a new TV show called Fade Street. Supposedly Ireland's answer to an unsaid prayer for our own version of MTV's The Hills. We're all familiar with the hills in one way or another. Some of us have stumbled across it unintentionally like a 3^rd world child does a landmine, others may live or date someone who watches it and some of you are those useless fleshy sacks of dullness whose questionable desire to be continually molested in the face by bad music and worse acting drives up viewing statistics and secures the next inevitable episode of make-up faced boyfriend baiting in shoe shops. If you are one of the latter, I hope something large metal and sharp finds itself severely and fatally jammed in your oesophagus. Thankfully though, the hills is no more as of April this year, but just as I'm snapping the elastic on my party hat, Fade Street lodges an expensive stiletto in my groin.

From what I can tell, working on my limited knowledge of either show, is that this is going to be predominantly about south side glamour tarts driving mini coopers and strolling from café to café to Brown Thomas to wine bar to rugby playing boyfriends home for some steroid champagne cocktail fuelled dress up sex, occasionally squeezing in the odd bitching session, followed by some clichéd advice giving sessions, then straight into badly informed and misplaced social commentaries, who then round it all up with some sort of horrible coco channel scented life philosophy over a pink west coast cooler. I am currently living in fear for the inevitable moment when one of them remarks on something “like really bad yi'know,” like, oh say, the recession. I can already hear the words, sounding something like “I mean, I like, don't forget sometimes, like, how lucky I am and stuff, yi'know. Cause it's gotta be really hard, like, and, like, difficult, for all the people who like have no jobs and stuff yi'know, and for their kids and people like that.” At which point I imagine I will have sunken my teeth deeply into my fingers, drawing blood, until I will definitely reach the bone when they decide to 'do something about it.' Cue fund-raising benefit (night out) where the money taken on the bar in Lilly Bordello's is three times that raised by their yob mates and I vomit up my remaining faith in mankind.

Am I alone in this? Is there no way to stop (possibly execute) this Vogue Wilson and Cosmopolitan Finnegan or whatever and her cohorts? Maybe I'll organise my own fund-raising benefit on Fade Street, a Kool Aid party, very much in the style of the Reverend Jim Jones. Any takers?

Here's what's coming. I'm going to go and fins a comfortable corner to die in...