Our Ladies of Luncheon–I Mean London–and Their Little Snake, Too

Cheers for the Ladies of Luncheon–I mean London! What’s not to love? Besides that Prairie Homely Companion, Juliet. I’d have to say nyet, nyet, nyet to her as fashion maving, blogging, clogging and fogging about on the “East Side” of London. What a silly, sad sod without a screw, a vowel, a compass or a clue!

And what about our Julie Not-To-The-Manor-Born? Here’s what first came to mind, a season ago and still holds true to this day: That expat Julie Lady who pratfalls on air bubbles really does resemble Gena Rowlands in “A Woman Under the Influence” and let’s hope that it’s just a mere resemblance-coincidence and not more, ’cause have you SEEN the film? Without blowing the plot away–that the title alone couldn’t–let’s just say that it may explain why we seem to pick up that cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof, uber-nervous, frayed and frazzled to that very last nerve’s edge vibe about her…

As for Caroline Fleming: is she a hoot or the very best thing about a holler? What’s not to adore? And isn’t there the coolest Pippi Longstockings vibe about her? A gone worldly and blonde, gorgeously, effortlessly chic, unfreckled, bare legged Pippi vibe about her–or whatever thing that made Pippi the magical, quirky girl you wanted to hang with–if you were not daring enough to want to be her– even in your dreams?!

And Sophie–she’s the reason for the season and everything one dreams London would have to be if it could come to life as an up-to-this-minute Georgie Girl with better than Pantene hair. She’s that Prell Girl a-go-go. Imagine her in the heart of the 70s in stark Mary Quant, or Yves Saint Laurent Moroccanly haute caftans, or vintage far-out duds from Granny Takes A Trip. Easy-breezing, Cover-Girling–or better yet–Yardleying–while free spiriting and frolicking about in a decade that might have been a perfect match to her true spirit, dangled on a rock star’s arm, having songs like “Angie” or “Dandelion” written about her-only it would have to have been someone cooler than Mick penning and torch singing them–someone as cool as Bowie.

Yeah, a very much alive Bowie, making that half exception for a white chick, while still married to Angie (O.K: Here I’m going to allow myself to laugh in order to stop crying. It’s been a year. A brutal, gone to h-e-double-hockey-sticks in a hand-basket year that ushered-in-the-beast of a year! A 666 of a year. O.K?). I do see Sophie in the free spirited, swinging 70s, dancing on tables as the reason for quite a few seasons. She is the essence of the breezy elan of this fabulous show. And a nice person, to boot.

And a truly nice person on these chit-chows seems even more miraculous now, after a beast of a year that offed everyone who was a Hero-of-all-Heroes–a Would Be King! (that reassured us the very power of love would crown us all Kings or Queens, be it just for one day–a singular, transcendent day worth dying for) a Prince, a Princess, her Mother! or countless Legends that made Art-As-Magic on this planet, and in galaxies, far, far away. After such a beast of a year that brought us Brexit, and crashed that fascist global tide wave across the pond, hitting us hardest, bringing to light the crazy hatred that was always there in that vast space between our shores–what can I say but this is not my America, so fuck you, new U.S.of A. and your Trumpy dog, too–and don’t we desperately need Sophie putting some elan in a Bravo show, now more than ever?! And don’t we need to look deep within ourselves to find more reason for using perfectly unused, beautiful words like elan now?

So, now that the party’s over and Caroline Ssss has stopped farting rainbows in bubble baths because this show is no longer about her and her having to go to a literally manmade, true fart city like Dubai and nobody seems to care enough to trip over themselves to give her ponies and fare-thee-well wild seventies orgies and parties and gift baskets and libraries and…

Too bad it’s all blown up in her face since she’s iced the cool girls and has to settle to be seen with the likes of a same old, shrieking-at-nothing, stupid-is-as-pointlessly-mean-does cast member in weird prairie frocks bobbing for fashion’s gaffes and guffaws.

Too bad that it’s as saggy and sorry as having to take a dingy to a party on a sandbar in Dubai, but so it goes when it’s never too soon to have to say goodbye on your way to some buttfuck place like Dubai. Isn’t this how it should go when you underestimate that the real coolness of resfreshingly humane girls like Adela and Sophie could possibly be picked up by the TV-Eye and audience alike, and you’re made to watch them get out from under your frostbitten thumb to steal the show from under you? Too bad for you and your little snake, too, Carline. Oops, I mean, Caroline. Now, that’s a typo worth printing and worth way much more than anything I could have pulled from under my hat.

Oh, did I forget to mention Marissa?
Cricket. Cricket. Fart. Fart. Poofy. Fart. Cloud.