London Stories – telling tales, two by two

Storytelling. The magic trick that became a marketing buzzword, quickly drained of its childlike innocence. All too often this rare skill has been reduced to a crude process where the exchange of experiences – pure, intimate, immersive, everlasting – plays second fiddle to the hollow humanising of a business or campaign. The sales. The promotion. The artifice.

Remember bedtime stories, Aesop's Fables, Arabian Nights, Shakespeare, Dickens, Roald Dahl, Tolkien, Star Wars? Has the word "story" lost meaning of late? Well if you had a chance to experience London Stories at Battersea Arts Centre over the past few weeks, the answer will be a resounding no.

The concept had me from the off. Guests are each paired with a stranger as they move from candle-lit rafters to chamber in the 120-year-old building, listening to a highly personal and often emotionally charged tale from six different Londoners. Each was delivered in its own way, some more theatrical than others but never once did you feel as though you were witnessing a performance.

Each pair's path through the centre is unique – mine was the "yellow journey" – and occasionally you are left on your own to hear a story, one on one. Fragments of other people's memories stay with you long after the event, as if they have become yours. There's the father whose trip to Waterlow Park with the kids resulted in a freak accident involving his son, a miracle rescue involving a fan with a dog and an enduring sense of worthlessness. Elsewhere, a highly animated Millwall fan sits in the shadows as he recounts the day his team triumphed over Man City at home, a great day in his life, yet one that others would rather remember for the petty squabbles between rival "firms". Or how about the down-on-her-luck lady – recently robbed and separated from her boyfriend – who talks a young boy out of plunging into the Thames…

Perhaps the most moving, however, was that of the 22-year-old girl, a British Muslim, who married a British Asian, against the wishes of her parents, shortly after her mother passed away. They live a secret life, adrift from the strictures of religion. Two motherless children that found each other just in time and who feel happiness, if only for one day each month. Visibly shaken, I couldn't help but admire her bravery in sharing this a dozen times, no matter how many tears were drawn.

Afterwards, there was time for tea and reflection in a separate hall where many visitors had written personal thank you notes, each of which were carefully placed around monuments made by the storytellers. It was nice to give back in some way. I really wanted to talk about each story with its "owner" but unfortunately the event required a quick turnaround. A gauntlet of emotions. Factor in the raw and chatter-free delivery of each person – as if events were unfolding before your eyes – and the resulting effect was akin to a bungee jump: being dropped into a certain place and time, and then pulled up in a whirl of disorientation and dislocation. Often I would leave a room asking myself, "What do I do with that?"

Many of us go to the cinema and theatre to escape for a few hours – surrounded by strangers – or potter around museums with nothing more than brush of shoulders to pass for interaction. London Stories teased and heightened the senses in a completely different way. You are part of an audience (of one or two) but you are truly present and instrumental to the night. You listen more closely. You feel more intensely. You are more engaged and committed than ever. You have to be.

London – where millions of lives are lived and a handful of experiences are shared. I'm looking forward to taking part in similar 1-ON-1-ON-1 festival events in the future.

Five things I love about Copenhagen

The out-of-office, carefree glow has faded since my five-day jaunt around Copenhagen but the restorative effect of a city break continues to pay off. It is fairly obvious, I know, but I often need to force myself to go away to realise that travel, particularly the solo kind, is a wonderful way to open up to the world and new possibilities.

I didn't let the mildly grey weather forecast deter me as, all around, Britain was glistening in the sun, nor did I let that most readily available of excuses – money – derail the adventure. Yes Copenhagen is among the most expensive cities in Europe – 15 to 20 per cent more than London by my bottled water, coffee and train ticket index – but it more than makes up for it with its comforting sense of ease and indulgence in life's pleasures. (Incidentally, I have since read that the heavy cost of bottled water is a ploy to encourage more people to drink from the tap, a source that is filtered and perfectly adequate. I think they need to replicate this in the Southeast.)

In any case, there is no shortage of ways to roam on a budget, from finding a quirky gem of a flat in the hip quarter of Norrebro on Airbnb, to taking the free tour, on foot or by bike. And for food, you could do a lot worse than survive on a diet of smorrebrod (open sandwiches), quintessential street food from the pølsevognen (hot dog stands) or one of the many falafel and kebab stores dotted around the city. Of course, treat yourself at least once to impeccably prepared Nordic cuisine from a local favourite such as Relae or brunch at chefs' favourite Granola. But for everything else, there's Fakta, the supermarket. Danes love to buy a few six-packs and congregate by the riverside during the summer. And they can. So join them.

As stoic as the Danes are, winters can be harsh so summer is a time where the city is in full bloom … at its best … buzzing, although not in the 24/7 London sense. (Exuberance is not the first word that comes to mind in this city.) I arrived in the midst of a busy calendar: the jazz festival had just finished, fashion week was winding down, electronic music festival Strøm was in full flow and preparations were underway for "Northern Europe's biggest food festival", Copenhagen Cooking.

Three things that Copenhagen does very well are style, comfort and cleanliness. The city has received numerous awards over the past few years including topping the UN's first Global Happiness Report in 2012 and Monocle's 'Most Liveable City" and "Best Quality of Life" surveys the following year. A large part of their success has been their will to preserve the city's "green and blue" spaces, together with a careful consideration of what amenities will improve the lives of residents and their families without clogging up the wheels of commerce. Next, as the 2014 European Green Capital, Copenhagen will act as a blueprint for efficient and democratic urban planning with ambitious aims to have 50 per cent of people cycling to their place of work or education by 2015 (35 per cent cycled to their workplace or school in 2010) and a commitment to reach carbon neutral status by 2025. 

There are plenty of blog posts listing fascinating facts about the city like this, or offering useful tips like this and this, so I thought I would briefly make five observations about Copenhagen; the things that made the biggest impression on me during my stay.

1. BEAUTY IS EVERYWHERE

One day was all it took for me to develop a real complex about the attention I was giving the locals. I am not saying that there is a Helena Christensen hanging on every street corner, but almost everyone, man or woman, is alarmingly attractive and yet blissfully unaware of one another. They dress well too (and not just in draped black and grey or tight leather like a Rick Owens or Acne model). No wonder the world's most popular sperm bank is located in Denmark (Aarhus), ready to dispense some of these good-looking genes to the rest of the world.

What a refreshing contrast to the head-turning and ogling so prevalent in other countries like England. But by beauty I also mean the municipal art, the architecture, the grounds, the abundance of elegant human-centred design – from big statement pieces such as Henning Larsen's Copenhagen Opera House and the man-made beach at Amager Strandpark to more everyday creations including the Eames high chairs in the airport and those luxury wood-grain table trays on the train that gracefully rise into place… When you have been raised in such an aesthetically rich environment how can you not appreciate beauty in its many forms?

Botanic Gardens

Nice enough to have a wedding here. So someone did

Taschen book store

Two women take down a few notes from Kate Moss in the city centre

Nyhavn

Once a shipping route in the 17th century, now an entertainment thoroughfare popular with visitors due to its chocolate box houses. Reminiscent of Bergen in Norway. An idyllic dinner setting by night

Statue at Kongens Have

Everyone talks about the Little Mermaid on Langelilie promenade but this statue near Rosenberg Castle is even more fascinating to me. Who is she and what is she saying?

Church of Our Lady

A Scarf is A Scarf is A Scarf

Pop-ups like this really give people talking points and moments to ponder during their busy day. Katrine May Hansen's outdoor photography project explores the relationship between the head scarfs of the Danish island Fanoe and the hijabs worn on the Indonesian island Java. How have these items opened some doors and closed others?

2. EVERYONE IS HAPPY, AREN'T THEY? 

Let's go beyond the surveys and empirical evidence. I walked across the city many times during my stay, from the boutiques and cafes of Sankt Hans Torv in Norrebro to the idyllic riverside homes of Christianshavn and the hemp-rich photo-free bohemia of Christiania, the popular Strøget (the longest pedestrian shopping area in Europe) and the seedier backstreets of Istedgade in Kødbyen (the meatpacking district of Vesterbro). No arguments, tension, trouble, scruffles… Instead smiles, deep conversation, exercise, enjoyment of one's surroundings … and well-behaved children. Even when I did manage to find a child ready to act up, he did it ever so sweetly and silently. Amazing. I couldn't imagine anyone getting worked up in Copenhagen. This is a city where a mother would feel comfortable leaving her child alone outside the store; where parents aren't required to give permission slips for their children to go on outings.

Although taxation is crippling over here, new mothers are treated like queens, childcare provision is excellent and higher education is free for students from the EU/EEA and Switzerland. My impression is that every Dane today has the freedom and opportunity to lead a successful and fulfilling life from the cradle to the grave. How's that for welfare, Mr Beveridge? However, beneath this placid and perfectly content exterior you can't help but wonder whether a few cracks occasionally appear. This is the home of Kierkegaard after all, the father of existentialism and philosopher of anxiety. The nation that has recently probed the darker recesses of the human condition through successful shows such as The Killing, Borgen and The Bridge. The evidence in favour of happiness is compelling, but I couldn't help but wonder if all is as it seems. Perhaps it's more a case of Danes managing their expectations in life as the following AFP report suggests…

Every year, several surveys show that Danes are the self-proclaimed happiest people in the world. To outsiders, it's a curiosity, for despite its wealth and prosperity, Denmark also has long, dark winters and one of Europe's highest tax rates. Duration: 02:13.

3. CYCLISTS AND DRIVERS LIVE SIDE BY SIDE

The air of peaceful co-existence in Copenhagen even extends to two great adversaries of modern metropolitan life. Apparently Copenhagen used to be a motor city with people commuting from the suburbs. Then the oil crisis hit in the Seventies and the government was forced to incorporate other means of transport into their planning. Copenhagen is on a mission to become the world's greatest cycling city and who would bet against them. There are dedicated wide lanes on all roads, sandwiched between the pavement and vehicle lane, and you can reach any district of the city within 20 minutes from the centre. Faster, cheaper, with an abundance of storage space on the street and by stations… Put simply, Copenhagen is a two-wheelers' town. It was Copenhagen's chic cycle culture that first attracted me to the city several years ago. If you can peddle along while chatting on your phone and eating your lunch a fork and knife, all while looking immaculate, consider yourself a true CPH local. Next time…

To hell with practicality, says this woman. It's all about being fashion forward and femme fatale on the way to work

(c) www.copenhagenize.com

No shortage of parking spaces on Fiolstraede, round the corner from the university

4.  NO STARBUCKS, LOTS OF ONE-OFFS

I believe that everyone should pay their taxes but I am not one of those belligerent socialist types that boycott a shop because it's a chain. I support homegrown and independent retailers; the green goddess is a last resort. So it was refreshing to not have Starbucks, or someone like Pret for that matter, occupying every other unit on every other street. In its place you have much smaller and arguably better names such as Coffee Collective and Kaffeplantagen beside quirkier options such as Kaffe & Vinyl (if you fancy a dig) or The Laundomat Cafe (if you're down to your last pair of pants). This is a city that thrives on its entrepreneurial spirit but in a collaborative rather than stuffy sense. Out of that comes a more whimsical take on enterprise.

On the subject of shopping, there are so many fashion boutiques to pop into if you are looking for something to splurge on. Brands such as Wood Wood, Mads Nørgaard and Henrik Vibsov (whose installation of stuffed objects, manipulated forms and mechanised structures at GL Strand is fascinating) offer a thoughtfully crafted selection of cuts and fabrics for fans of smart casual couture. Copenhagen is also a goldmine for one-off antiques and second-hand furniture collectors. The best tips I received were Ingerslev Antik (in and around Ravnsborggade), Smallegade (for boot fairs), Danish Classic on Bredgade and Retrograd (by Islands Brygge) for all your vintage homeware needs. There are countless others.

Leave the centre, get lost and stumble upon something special. Unless there happens to be a Viking market on during your stay and you're seduced by a silver half-moon fertility pendant like my friend Carmen. Then it is certainly your lucky day.

Kaffe & Vinyl

These two things go hand in hand so this place gets my vote. Freshly brewed coffee from locals Risteriet together with a respectable collection of records covering everything from folk to house. I may be some time

Mikkeller

Mikkeller Ølbar, in Viktoriagade, has an impressive 20 beers on draft at any moment, about half of which are their own. The barmen are real experts and will delight in helping you make the right choice (c) Bernt Rostad

Danish Design Centre

My magazine collection is getting out of control. What's needed is a storage unit that doubles as a display. I want people to reach out grab one, like on a newstand. I need an elegant unobtrusive solution. Who has one? The Danes of course

Sign wisdom

Courtesy of www.le-bix.dk

Henrik Vibskov – Neck Plus Ultra

We're all puppets on a string according to Vibskov, controlled by others and yet reassured by the guidance that our master provide

Henrik Vibskov – Neck Plus Ultra

A idea that was first shared on the catwalk at Copenhagen Fashion Week, these upside down flamingo necks are a current favourite motif of artist and designer Vibskov. There is a point to this but I can't remember what it is. Something to do with disorientation and the distance between body and mind. Go see the exhibition

Viking Market

Viking Market

Paints are made using a mixture of the most vibrant colours you will ever see, and then applied to different fabric designs 

Viking Market

A craftsman at work on a piece of jewellery

Viking Market

Another craftsman demonstrating how the metal is forged, moulded and cooled before being hand-finished

5. MALMO IS NEXT DOOR

Here's to Scandinavian unity. It turns out that Malmo is only a 35-minute train journey away across the Öresund bridge, a marvel of engineering. And what's more you can afford to be an idiot, have a few drinks the night before, start late, leave your passport in the flat and still be welcomed into another country with time to discover. It's that two-for-one feeling, where you squeeze every last bit of enjoyment from the trip, that I really love. And Malmo is worth the trip. Similarly calm, clean and picturesque with its river city ambiance. Their annual festival was on so we chatted to a few stall owners in Lilla Torg (the square) and tasted the most refreshing raspberry juice and surprisingly moorish licorice (coming to a food store near you). I ate mouse for the first time and had a well deserved coffee while looking out over the stunning harbour after a lengthy trek. There was also an opportunity to visit the Museum of Modern Art (a tastefully converted fire station) where Icelandic artist Ragnar Kjartansson pondered the gloomy and melancholic notion of Scandinavian Pain. How? Through an encounter with Edvard Munch in a barn and a side-splitting cover of Abba'sThe Winner Takes it All. On the subject of sadness, there was no time to visit one of my favourite clothing stores, Tres Bien. Not bad for an afternoon's 'work', otherwise.

Cafe in Malmo Central Station

How cosy does this place look? An open invitation to miss your train

Lilla Torg, Malmo Festival

Mousse kebab

The meat, which has the texture of liver and the succulence of venison, is fried in a griddle pan with onions and spices, and then spooned into a warm flatbread and served with mashed potato, jam, yoghurt and salad. That's how it tasted anyway

Malmo harbour

A good place to pause for a coffee and a geography quiz with two embarrassed girls in one of the cafes as we asked what stretch of water we were looking at. The answer is the Øresund strait

Scandinavian Pain @ Malmo Museum of Modern Art

Iceland artist Ragnar Kjartansson's encounter in a barn with Munch, and the scene of his infamous cover of Abba's 'The Winner Takes it All'

The crying statue

This piece is called Swedish Melancholy, a life-size bronze statue of actor Gösta Ekman by his wife Mary-Louise. Apparently Mary-Louise thought it would be nice to show another side to her husband, who was known as being a jovial fellow. Malmo's residents didn't agree and said they didn't want a weeping statue in the square, while politicians debated whether it was appropriate to cry in public. After being removed from Limhamn, his original resting place, Gösta was eventually allowed to ball his eyes out by Altonaparken

Boat trip

Best experienced with a few bottles of fizz

Platform projection at Malmo station

+ You should also make time to visit Louisiana Museum of Modern Art, situated in Humlebæk, 35 kilometres north of Copenhagen. The grounds alone are stunning and worthy of a few hours. Yoko Ono has a retrospective showing at the moment; I think it differs from the one that was on at London's Serpentine last year.

Uncomfortably numb watching Only God Forgives

"The worst film I have ever seen. " These words came far too easily out of my mouth last night after fidgeting through the drone chamber that is Only God Forgives. The second collaboration between ubiquitous star Ryan Gosling and acclaimed director Nicholas Winding Refn has really divided opinion since its Cannes debut. For every gushing review ("every scene, every frame, is executed with pure formal brilliance" or "a psychoanalyst's wet dream – when can we see it again?") there appear to be rows of film fans running for the exit or taking to the internet to pithily share their disdain, regardless of any skewed expectations they might have had after watching Drive. 

That's fine, I thought. I'm not afraid of the dark, the symbolic, the more minimal frames of film. Nor do I get squeamish at more harrowing fare such as Gaspar Noe's Enter the Void or Darren Aronofsky's Requiem for a Dream. Painfully long one-take assaults like those in The Killer Inside Me and Irreversible … of course. I caught the trailer but avoided reviews, determined to watch without prejudice. But when a story is so unappealing and thin that it's barely there, spliced into a gratuitous stream of graphic imagery, you can only emerge after 90 minutes feeling empty and confused.

This morning I awoke in a more forgiving mood, ironically. There is a line that comes to mind from Zadie Smith's Changing My Mind, elsewhere credited to poet Cesar A Cruz, which reads: "Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable." A noble sentiment and one that bears particular relevance to less narrative-driven forms of film. I do not feel comfortable in life but then again, I welcome disturbance from time to time. Refn is an auteur, as evidenced by this highly stylised and brutal run of films including  the Pusher trilogy, Bronson and Valhalla Rising. His impulse is to experiment and to evoke feeling, and not to pander to an audience. I do admire that conviction, a determination to not play by the rules. Provoking a reaction, positive or negative,  is arguably better than being bland, derivative and forgettable. But self-indulgence at the expense of entertainment?

Admittedly there is clever conceit at play here: making a revenge film without a hero. Smashing preconceptions of a westerner in the east. Gosling has said as much in an interview where, after coming onto the project at the last minute to replace Refn's first-choice actor, he influenced the direction and tone of the project to make it less "corny" (a la Van Damme), even if it meant ignoring his three months of Muay Thai training and "getting his ass kicked". The actor should be commended for trying to avoid stereotypical all-American roles where the handsome good guy saves the day and gets the girl (The Place Beyond the Pines certainly benefitted from his surprisingly quick demise). However this is the second film in which he looks as po-faced, catatonic and disinterested as the rest of us. Does the film benefit from this conceit? Hardly.

Only God Forgives is a morality play, set in the seedy underbelly of Bangkok – all drug dealers, prostitutes, neon-lit back alleys and karaoke bars. The 'sheriff of this town' is Chang (Vithaya Pansringarm), the Katana-blade-wielding "Angel of Vengeance" on whom the fate of all rests, it seems. When the brother of Thai boxing club owner Julian (Ryan Gosling) murders a prostitute – in the first 10 minutes of the film – he sets in motion a chain of bloody and despicable events from which few emerge with their lives, let alone any dignity. The big problem? He's not a nice person, so who cares if his death is avenged or not? The same goes for Julian and Chang. Dialogue is so minimal and the backstories largely untouched that the audience can barely bring themselves to invest emotionally in the story. There's no one to root for in this infernal hole.

Refn has referred to Only God Forgives as his fetish film and described how he tried to shoot it like a pornographer. Alarm bells are ringing when you hear a director utter lines like this: "Well, art is an act of violence. It is about penetration, about speaking to our subconscious and our moods at different levels." I would argue that the result is neither engaging nor arousing. Quite the opposite. The violence is relentless and almost laughable: dismemberment, stabbing, eye gouging… If the message is that humans are violent creatures, I got the point in the first 10 minutes.

Then there are the lame and highly inconsequential visual metaphors at play: singing detective Chang entertaining his men with ballads about lost love in the karaoke bar; the dream sequences where Chang appears to come for Julian, like a grim reaper stalking a man with a guilty conscious; the Oedipal relationship between Julian and his mother Crystal (Kristin Scott Thomas as Donatella Versace on a very bad day) and that moment where he appears to feel his way back into the womb where he longs to be once again; or the scenes where Gosling, hands tied, watches impotently as prostitute Mai, the girl he asks to pretend to be his girlfriend at a particularly cringeworthy dinner with Crystal, pleasures herself.

These are all fragments of memories from a hugely disappointing night at the cinema. The overriding message, reading very closely but imaginatively between the lines, is that the world has been drained of humanity, and all that is left is retribution with precious little hope of atonement. According to Crystal, Julian apparently killed his father with his bare hands and is "a very dangerous boy". Does he secretly long for someone to put him out of his misery? He has fled to Bangkok, a nether world of sin, to not only evade the authorities but also his past. He's a mummy's boy who always played second fiddle to his older brother and so desperately covets her love it's pathetic but not pitiful. He's the owner of a boxing club that can't fight (remember the bravado of sleeve rolling and prey circling before his pasting at the hands of Chang). He's the man boy who can't be intimate with women. And he's the bully who picks on the innocent (the two men who offer him a drink in the club).

So is this the worst film I have ever seen? Probably not. Only God Forgives, like its main character, has few redemptive qualities, asking barely any questions and certainly giving no meaningful answers. Larry Smith's cinematography may beguile you, Cliff Martinez's score may linger in the air. But you can't help but feel that with more disciplined direction, character development and a stronger spine to the narrative, Refn's 'eastern' could have taken us to a more richly rewarding place. A mesmeric, unsettling yet enjoyable detour in the mould of Lynch, von Trier or Cronenberg at their best. Unfortunately this film will probably be consigned to the pit of perverse and trashy vanity projects that directors and actors live to regret.

I miss Made in Chelsea – why "staged reality" still makes great entertainment

So I was chatting to a friend the other day in the pub, prattling on about all manner of minutiae – from heatwave hysteria to house music. Conversation soon turned to the subject of TV and the stupidity of this year's candidates on The Apprentice. Any takers for Neil's DIY estate agency? No, didn't think so.

"How could they pick HIM?" I asked. "These fools are supposed to be some of Britain's brightest young businesspeople." My friend choked on his beer, wiped the froth away and chuckled at my naivety. I had been duped. That's because it makes no sense to have a group of straight-laced and infallible high achievers on a show when the juiciest moments revolve around personality clashes, said moments of stupidity and dressings down in the boardroom. This is not documentary, no matter what the BBC tells you on the iPlayer (where The Apprentice is filed under "factual). The acid test is this: what makes great TV? And candidate selection is like casting, lest me forget the controversy and injustices of past X-Factors that have left a nation in mourning year after year.

I shouldn't be surprised by this thinly veiled deception on screen. The Apprentice has been with us since 2005 and its formula, although one based on competition as much as entertainment, is one that's best described as structured or staged reality – a buzz phrase that pierced the public consciousness in 2011 and heralded a new wave of obsessive viewing after Big Brother. To that category you can add the likes of TOWIE (The Only Way is Essex), I'm a Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here, Geordie Shore and, of course, the infamous Made in Chelsea, which documents the trivial dilemmas and entangled sex lives of a bunch of two-faced twenty-something socialites.  

The success of these TV shows, both in terms of viewing figures and social media buzz, has revived a long-running debate about the celebrity-obsessed culture of young Britain, with many claiming that these shows are dumbing down – possibly even corrupting – the nation. Not so, says BAFTA. Following TOWIE's YouTube Audience Award in 2011 (voted for by the British public), our hallowed institution of the arts created a new category to acknowledge a TV phenomenon – "Reality and Structured Factual". Speaking after the announcement, BAFTA Television committee chairman Andrew Newman said: "Over the past decade reality and constructed factual programming has captured the public imagination and been hugely influential, while innovating both in content and form." He went on to state that TV production and audiences were changing, and that BAFTA should change with it.

The Young Apprentice triumphed in 2012, followed by a shock win for Made in Chelsea, which prompted this dig from bemused host Graham Norton: "They were insufferable before – what are they going to be like now?" This followed a fuller outburst earlier in the week: "Made in Chelsea really is unwatchable. If you were in a restaurant, you would move tables so, why would you invite them into your home?" he sniped. Lord Sugar was similarly unimpressed. Earlier that night, I'm a Celebrity hosts Ant & Dec insisted that losing out to The Apprentice would be "more respectable". 

Insufferable and disreputable they may be, but the cast are certainly going places. Next stop is the US, the land that spawned structured reality prototypes such as Laguna Beach: The Real Orange County and Jersey Shore. There Made in Chelsea is shown on the Style Network, a cunning ploy from TV bosses to capitalise on the 'Kate Middleton' effect apparently (that is, a renewed interest in the young and fashionable upper echelons of British society).

I wanted to take a closer look at TV phenomenon and to ask what keeps 'em coming back. Not everyone can stomach shows like Made in Chelsea, even within the industry. They divide opinion. A producer and a seasoned actor can have completely different takes depending on where their respective priorities lie – viewing figures or artistic merit. But the public is also torn. Here are several brain farts courtesy of Twitter and the Daily Mail comments section: 

And one more, a damning verdict… "I have watched one episode of The Only Way Is Essex and it made me really sad; sad for the state of television, sad for the state of the country and sad that my wife was enjoying it too. But what makes me the saddest of all is the fact that (a) people actually WANT to be on programmes like this and (b) that they are seen as having 'aspirational' lifestyles. I suppose you could argue that it's all harmless enough, but who really aspires to be an orange-skinned, cosmetically-altered f***wit who's followed round by a TV crew all day?" – Unknown

There is a conceit at play, so obvious to some that the shows' creators are often not given enough credit. Speaking to the Independent  a few years ago, Daran Little, who acted as story producer on the first series of The Only Way is Essex and Made in Chelsea, put it best: "At the heart of this was always a desire to put in the audience's mind: 'Is it real? Are they acting? Is it scripted? Is it not?' and to leave that as an open question for them." He goes on to outline the delicate process of staging. "If there's a boy and a girl in a scene, you'll pull them over individually and you'll say: 'Right, in this scene I want you to ask her what she did last night.' Because I know what she did last night, but he doesn't. Then we start the scene and they just talk it through and if it gets a bit dry, we'll stop and pull them to one side and we'll say: 'How do you feel about him asking you that? Because I think you feel more emotional about it. I think you're pulling something back. Do you think it's fair that he's asking you this?'"

Many characters in these shows provoke pure revulsion, not least Mr Spencer Matthews, resident love rat and baker boy of Chelsea.

A few howlers:

"I wouldn’t sleep with anyone other than my girlfriend ... at the moment."

"I’m so honest with everyone. Maybe it’s a downfall."

"It's kind of hard to respect you when you let me cheat on you.'

"Until the books closed, its open."

As Digital Spy have noted, "The debate really lies in just how 'structured' this 'structured reality television series' really is. Taken at face value, Spencer is a terrible human being and quite possibly the worst man on television. But if Made in Chelsea is as phoney as some critics have claimed, then we're all for Spencer's backstabbing, lies and cheating - it's simply great TV." And that's the point. It's the Marmite effect of the dastardly but lovable rogue and his on-off chums that keeps the majority of the public tuned in. Producers of these types of shows are experts at playing on the line, dreaming up awkward scenarios crowned with irresistible "I can't believe he/she said that" quotes. Creating that world for others to pick at, second guess and gossip about. And Twitter is the instant feedback loop, firing at up to 10,000 comments per minute, that allows them to fine-tune each episode, giving us more of the cringe and hilarity that we love from our favourite characters.

These shows are obviously more popular with the 16-30 age group, who are looking for light relief and something to chat about on a school night. But I am a few years beyond that mark and I still love Made in Chelsea, despite my inclination towards sombre art house films, introspective writers and obscure music. Series six can't start soon enough this autumn. So what's the attraction? Good old-fashioned escapism and silliness, I suppose. To that end,  The Call Centre has also been hitting the spot although that's partly down to nostalgia I feel for my halcyon days, when I sold everything from electricity to accidental death insurance.

Whether they come from Chelsea or the Toon, these characters are not aspirational to me … no matter how much fun they have or fame they garner for no apparent reason. But there is a place for everything in our gargantuan schedule: the thought-provoking (Question Time, Dispatches, 24 Hours in A&E); the heart-racing (Luther, Richard II, live sports such as F1); the side-splitting (Alan Carr: Chatty Mann, Twenty Twelve, Britain's Got Talent); and the stomach-rumbling (The Great British Bake Off, Rick Stein's India). 

To that list you can certainly add the aforementioned genre – for as long as the creators of Made in Chelsea continue to be inventive with their storylines. The Apprentice? I have time to that. TOWIE? Not so much.

Structured reality proves that the most compelling drama is often real life. Well … with a twist. And if you don't like it, as Bee-bee from Yorkshire says, don't watch.

Forget the music, there's a Pussy Riot going on

In 21 February 2012 three members of a dissident group called Pussy Riot, dressed in bright balaclavas, neon tights and tops, stormed the Orthodox Cathedral of Christ the Savior in Moscow and performed Mother of God, Put Putin Away. As the title suggests, it was the most defiant of anti-Kremlin protests, a sucker punch to the core of the state-church axis. 

So what prompted them to kick out against the president and his administration? Why not read the strident lyrics of their song to get a clearer picture of what it feels like to be a young woman in Putin's Russia:
 
 Virgin Mary, Mother of God, put Putin away
 Рut Putin away, put Putin away

Black robe, golden epaulettes
All parishioners crawl to bow
The phantom of liberty is in heaven
Gay-pride sent to Siberia in chains

The head of the KGB, their chief saint,
Leads protesters to prison under escort
In order not to offend His Holiness
Women must give birth and love

Shit, shit, the Lord’s shit!
Shit, shit, the Lord’s shit!

Virgin Mary, Mother of God, become a feminist
Become a feminist, become a feminist

The Church’s praise of rotten dictators
The cross-bearer procession of black limousines
A teacher-preacher will meet you at school
Go to class – bring him money!

Patriarch Gundyaev believes in Putin
Bitch, better believe in God instead
The belt of the Virgin can’t replace mass-meetings
Mary, Mother of God, is with us in protest!

Virgin Mary, Mother of God, put Putin away
 Рut Putin away, put Putin away

The act was condemned as blasphemy by the establishment and an attack on the Russian Orthodox Church, not Putin, by a cross-section of god-fearing citizens. Almost overnight, Pussy Riot had gone from being a punk group to enemies of the state, their images beamed into homes across the world. Two members, Maria 'Masha' Alyokhina and Nadezha 'Nadia' Tolokonnikova, were sentenced to two years in penal colonies for "hooliganism motivated by religious hatred". Apparently those camps – the former in Perm and the latter in Mordovia – are among the harshest in the country. Alyokhina and Tolokonnikova had petitioned to serve their sentences in Moscow, arguing that they wanted to be close to their children, both under six, but the court refused.

Meanwhile the world protested, shouting, tweeting and wearing the slogan "Free Pussy Riot". If the reaction of the Russian press was one of vilification, elsewhere the trio (third member Katja Samutsevich was later released on a suspended sentence) were celebrated as anti-authoritarian heroes. From the Arab Spring to Sao Paolo, millions of people under 30 have been in revolt, fighting for their basic human rights as individuals – particularly their freedom of expression. It quickly became clear that Pussy Riot's cause had struck a chord. As another member of the group uttered to the New Statesman during one of many illicit interviews outside of Russia: "Nobody is a prophet in their own country."

In the wake of the trial, an anti-blasphemy law is close to being approved by the Russian State Duma and it could come into effect next month if accepted by the President and the Upper House. Those who break this censorship law could face imprisonment for up to three years "for desecrating religious sites and paraphernalia". Then there are other pieces of legislation, informally known as the Pussy Riot laws, that forbid the discussion of their protests and distribution of promotional material, covering your face in public and criticising the state while speaking to a foreign journalist. (The latter calls to mind the expulsion of the Guardian's former Moscow correspondent Luke Harding, who branded Russia under Putin "a virtual mafia state". Tolerance is not the president's strong point.)

Pussy Riot are feminists, that much is clear. But are they dangerous extremists? How are their hopes and dreams any different to those of their contemporaries in the West? What do we actually know about their lives and the sacrifices they are willing to make? Thankfully we now have a few answers as the ensuing media circus and show trail has been made into a fascinating HBO documentary by Michael Lerner and Maxim Pozdorovkin, appropriately titled A Punk Prayer.

In it we are presented not only with a fly-on-the-wall account of events as they unfolded – the riot in Red Square, rehearsals, extensive courtroom footage – but we also get a chance to meet some of peripheral figures that have helped to shape the Pussy Riot story: Nadia's supportive father, her husband Piotr (a co-member of performance art group Voira and a key facilitator for this film), Masha's mother, Katja's father (who remembers his daughter devouring the work of leftist French philosophers at a prodigious age), Patriarch Kirill (a man who called Putin's rule a "miracle of god") and his "Carriers of the Cross", one of whom says this about Nadia: "The main one, she is a demon with a brain."

So much has been written and said about Pussy Riot that it can be difficult to pierce through the prevailing narrative – brash group of punks rebel in Russia. Beneath the flurry of web articles you get either comments from those who side with the group and their radical stance, or you get those knee-jerk critics who seem to miss the point.

"There music is just noise. How can you expect anyone to listen?" (It's punk, not pop.)

"Protesting in a church; they got what they deserved." (Did they really?)

Or "stupid girls, attention-seeking – get a job." (Several have one by the way.)

Their choice of protest may have been inappropriate but the attention that they have drawn to Putin's totalitarian regime and the alarmingly repressive nature of society in Russia is not. Making viewers aware of these issues is all that the directors could really have hoped to achieve over 90 minutes as they tried to establish their main characters and each woman's story. Had they not obtained the court footage we would certainly have seen a more investigative piece about a divided society subservient to its state and blinded by its faith. Part two perhaps, when Masha and Nadia are released next year.

A scene from the final moments of the film where Pussy Riot lodge their appeal

In the trials the women come across as being very eloquent, patriotic yet progressive. They have no interest in being pop stars or celebrities. The illusion of the outspoken artist is a seductive one. It makes good headlines. But it rarely spurs people into action; the kind that draws hundreds of thousands of people out on the streets to protest your innocence. As the film progresses you quickly come to appreciate their irrepressible spirit, their conviction to stand up for what they believe in and their will to inspire others to follow suit. "Our aim is to change humanity, to free society from prejudices and stereotypes," we are told. But "only radical revolutionary action can change anything".

For co-director Lerner, the importance of a Pussy Riot in our times – in our cities – is clear. "I think we are experiencing a new wave of punk feminism around the world," he told the Guardian. "What has happened under Putin is an increased radicalisation of nationalism in Russia. It a story about the Orthodox church as an icon of nationalism. They see the group as an attack on Russia. But Pussy Riot don't want to destroy Russian society, they want to improve it. The longer they are incarerated and persecuted the stronger their message."

'Pussy Riot: A Punk Prayer' is showing at the Rich Mix, London, on Thursday 27 June at 8pm. This will be followed by a Q&A with Mike Lerner.