If there was entertainment to be had in Running In Heels, I’m afraid I missed it. Likewise, I missed any hint of a new concept; it’s just yet another show of The Apprentice ilk, or even Jade’s PA, or in the really worst case scenario, Paris Hilton’s Best Friend bilge. And having watched episodes two and three last night, I’m afraid it definitely fell into the latter category.
Joanna Coles is editor-in-chief of Marie Claire in New York and as such, commands – apparently – much the same worship as God, but she has infinitely more clothes; up to five different outfits on any given day actually, according to the lady herself. She therefore has someone who attends to that for her and makes sure she has all the power outfits she needs to hand.
How nice for her. As a lowly TV critic, I must choose my own clothes and have nobody to hand to find my underwear for me, which, to be honest, sucks.
In fact, Joanna has a person to do everything for her, and they do so while veritably tugging their forelocks and asking “What colour?” when she says “Sh*t”. And this show introduced a crop of newbies for her to devour and choose the magazine equivalent of her new BFF.
The hopefuls were all of course desperately hoping to become said BFF; gushingly desperate in fact, and in the main, seemed to have feet bigger than their IQ. Lots of “oh my God, I was like…” abounded, as did much nervous primping, preening and general butt kissing.
To be fair, potentially, one of them had actual ideas but as to the others, if a camera could’ve gone inside their heads, I suspect we’d have had a film full of tweeting birdies, pretty butterflies and the sound of the sea, along with shiny things.
There was Talita, Ashley and Samantha and I didn’t take anything remotely resembling a liking to any of them. Ditto the entire programme. It was vapid, vacuous and inane, and I won’t ever get that hour of my life back.
In fact, so worried was I that shallowness and lack of brains might be catching, I had to go and read something clever right away, lest the TV leech out what remains of my brain cells. Booze, a shady past and age are all doing that job very nicely thank you. There’s really no need to encourage the exodus of grey matter by watching insipid drivel like this.