“Me friends would call us an idiot,” says Charlotte, one of four sexually available females recruited to live in MTV’s Geordie Shore house. In case you haven’t made the link, this is the UK’s version of Jersey Shore--the MTV "reality" series about Italian-American twenty-somethings enjoying themselves with booze and genitalia (their own and other people’s) in an east-coast summerhouse.
Back in Newcastle, I sensed that Charlotte’s bleak revelation wouldn’t reduce her chances of hooking up with any or all of her penis-owning cohabiters. And if this same sub-group wasn't instantly attracted to “minger” housemate Holly, then learning that she’d not only named her breasts but was prepared to share them with the group might persuade at least one of them to reconsider. Sure enough, that one was Gaz. Earlier, in a piece to camera, he’d made sure to talk up Little Gaz. So it’s a shame that Holly, who might have backed his story, was so out of it that the next morning she had--or claimed to have--no memory of “doing anything my boyfriend wouldn’t approve of.” Well, it’s not like she went to bed and read a book.
Like their American counterparts, the Geordie boys are mother-pampered, jobless and spend their days preening. That means lifting weights, removing all torso and bottom fur and baking on a sun bed. Because, “Looking like a ghost in Newcastle is never going to get you a girl.” Only one of the four, Greg, isn’t a gym bunny, and he feels left out. It’s down to Vicky, the most popular girl, to persuade him to stay, which she does by nibbling seductively on a rocket leaf as they enjoy an in-no-way-choreographed lunch date. Later, Greg even manages to convince the rest of the boys that he’s a team player by joining in a violent clash in a club. And Greg’s the “sensitive” one.
Geordie Shore is every bit as monstrous as it sounds. And I’m only now getting to the best part. On their second night, the group go clubbing. The boys arrive home with a fresh catch of ladies and lure them into the hot tub. The female flatmates take this as a massive snub but quickly turn their vitriol on their Geordie sisters, calling them, “fat lasses in bad underwear” and the hot tub contents, “whore soup.”
We’re only an episode in and already Geordie Shore makes The Only Way is Essex look tamer than a dead cat. And we haven’t even got to the inevitable girl-on-girl sexy time and the catfights that end only when one woman's hot pink false nail becomes lodged in her opponent’s implant. All this to impress boys who still need their mums to cut up their sausages. Alas, I’ll have to settle for imagining the future fisticuffs and robotic shagging, because Geordie Shore is too monotonous and miserable to merit a return trip. Maybe if there’s an instalment where they’re all confined to their own beds with something painful and sexually transmitted I’ll check back in.