SUNDAY evenings are about bouillon spoons and dinner jackets, clock winding and curdled hollandaise. They are Downton Abbey and the warm, fluffy cushion of a fairly silly period drama, a final sip of hot cocoa before the chilly Monday morning commute.
They are not, Julian Fellowes, about killing off a much-loved character, indeed the only much-loved character on a show so sedate that a broken oven now counts as a plot twist. But on Sunday, among the usual storylines about ruined kidney soufflés came the cheapest of shots; lovely Lady Sybil died in childbirth.
Stop winding all the clocks, Downtonians. This marks a distinct shift in a programme in which various threats (cancer, financial ruin, stained dinner jackets) lurked in dusty corners for about half an episode before being quickly swept away like Carson doing the spring cleaning.
Even the issue of whether Mr Bates murdered his annoying ex-wife (he didn’t! She poisoned her own pastry! The proof was literally in the pudding!) has been a bit of campy fun. This was different. This was Downton Does Dark and I didn’t like it one bit.
It all felt like a big ploy to jolt the show (which has been faltering for the past two series) back into life, a suspicion confirmed by the melodramatic tweets from the official Downton Abbey Twitter feed: “There are no words. Tweet your #Silence.” and then “Our shoulder is here for you. Share your thoughts and feelings with us. #Silence.”
#Groan. Now that Lovely Lady Sybil is haunting the halls of Downton, there’s no place for frivolous plot threads that centre around bouillon spoons. Anyway, it all felt so unnecessary; if period dramas have taught me anything about childbirth in the early 20th century it’s that if they’d boiled some water and torn up some sheets it would have all turned out fine.
Made in Chelsea
E4, Monday, 10pm
If you like rich people doing rich person things like spraying each other with Champagne and launching their new swimwear lines in St Tropez, you’ll think it’s ruddy marvellous that Made In Chelsea is back for a fourth series. Forty-seven minutes of Everything That’s Wrong With The World, the “dramality” show follows a group of rich twentysomethings as they navigate life, love and swimwear launches.
Since actual posh people would rather take tea with the help than be involved in a programme that renders The Only Way Is Essex positively cockle-warming in comparison, the producers have had to settle for some particularly nouveau riche kids (heir to a biscuit fortune, heir to a chocolate fortune) playing at posh by attending polo matches and laughing at peasants.
In episode one, it’s all change. Spenny has grown a beard. His girlfriend Louise is angry at him because he “kissed a couple of people” over the summer. Actually, he appeared on Channel 5 flop The Bachelor, in which 20 women competed for his affections before he selected one as his girlfriend, but acknowledging that on screen would spoil the dramality for everyone. So, “kissed a couple of people” it is then. It’s all “pretty jokes” as Proudlock would say.
Perhaps the biggest insight in this first episode, however, is the news that Mark-Francis, a young man whose job appears to be ordering his maid around, brings a completely different wardrobe to St Tropez than he does to Cannes or Sardinia. There are lots of printed silks and linens, apparently, but not the sort of linens he’d wear in Capri. Different linens. His other contribution to this episode? His assertion that “an overly tanned stomach is never chic”.
The Great British Bake-Off
BBC2, Tuesday, 8pm
I’ve decided that what I’ll miss most about The Great British Bake-Off is innuendo about soggy bottoms. It never gets old. The grand finale saw two soggy bottoms courtesy of eventual champion John, whose “showstopper’” cake was an edible representation of heaven and hell realised in sponge and desiccated coconut.
In this charming final instalment, presenters Mel & Sue were spot-on, Mary Berry was as sparkly as ever and Paul Hollywood did his scrapey sponge test with his usual sexy menace. It was an exercise in heart-warming telly, no sob stories or key changes necessary.
It was the anti-X-Factor. After the winner was announced, runner-up James observed that it felt like everyone was a winner (and not because the losers get record contracts anyway) and the sense of cakey conviviality oozed from the screen. Downton take note; we like our telly warm, fuzzy and preferably bakey. Stop killing off characters and get Mrs Patmore back in the kitchen to whip up a soufflé.