The Only Way Is Essex is a televisual phenomenon. Only this hebdomad 24 pages of heat magazine were devoted to the showing. With 200,000 fans on its Facebook page; nobody can deny its popularity. You, yourself maybe one of the thousands who put down every Wednesday and tune into Channel 4 at exactly one minute to nine, eagerly awaiting the treasured language the only way is up which signals the arrival of your favourite show - The Only Way is Essex. Perhaps your obsession is at a higher level and you have bought the single, which you have playing continually in the background while you sketch pictures of, your husband to be, Mark.
However, if you havent already realised, Im non one of those thousands. In point I despise the show. in a higher place all I cant understand its appeal. virtually may argue that the appeal is in its trashiness. But that doesnt explain my loathing: I love trash. In fact trashy TV is my equivalent of the Cookie Monsters cookies, to the extent that I record Young, Dumb and Living kill Mum!
Perhaps it the fact it is as fake as Michael Jacksons nose.
Stilted deliveries make more expression that fat in MacDonalds burgers and nearly as more as adverts in the X-factor.
To add to my despair, I dont understand a word thats said. It is as though there is an inexplicably heavy tax on hard consonants in Essex. On the other hand the fake accents make the complete(a) match with the generally fake atmosphere. Furthermore this rampant, raucous ice has reinforced the malignant stereotype of the people of Essex.
Last wickednesss show didnt help matter either. Its expression was somewhere between scattershot and non-existent. This particular episode consisted of a couple complicateting lost in the woods, an old madam went swimming, a playboy model getting a disperse tan, a woman asking where south London was and a pig urinating on the floor. Interesting.
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