Phil & Kirsty vs Sloanes

GOOD THING: Phil & Kirsty
Unless you enjoy the many property programmes that adorn the UK television schedules, you probably don't know what this is about. But to us house-buying-shows obsessives, Phil & Kirsty represent all that is great about reality TV. I am convinced that when I can finally afford to buy a house - even if my budget is £5.50 and a polo mint - that Location, Location, Location's Phil Spencer and Kirsty Allsopp will be able to find me somewhere fabulous. The great thing about this King and Queen of property development is their presentation style (unlike Sarah Beeny of Property Ladder, who just sneers at her clients - though, to be fair, they're often stupid enough to deserve it) - they manage to have fantastic chemistry, despite the fact that Phil is camp as Christmas. Lovely Phil, according to my fiance (how would he know?) is not gay, but I would say he certainly has 'tendencies' - he never passes up an opportunity to jump in a hot tub with a male client (it has happened), and he dresses just a little too well. Kirsty, for her part, always looks as though she's off to a debuntantes' ball, and can often be seen tramping through the English countryside in a twinset, pearls and highly impractical stiletto heels. But they're great, and manage to show huge restraint when their clients are in serious need of a heavy slap. Wednesday nights without them are just not the same...

BAD THING: Sloanes
I was prepared to tolerate Sloanes when I was at university in Cambridge - after all, there is a tradition of them there going back hundreds of years. I didn't, however, expect to have to put up with them in my home city of Newcastle. Yes, in the past few years it has been invaded by unbearably posh students, whose very presence was a key factor in my move away from the area. They were everywhere, mincing around in their silly Ugg boots, gilets (for God's sake, it's a bodywarmer!), pashminas and ponchos. Some would go that little be further, looking as though they woke up and just threw on the first six items of clothing they came across - and then didn't bother to brush their hair. But there's little chance of such Sloanes being mistaken for vagrants - get within a few metres of them in Tesco and you can hear Lavinia on her mobile, asking Jemima if they need any rocket or asparagus. And of course the typical Sloane doesn't go far without her male compatriot, the Rah. Rahs are also easy to spot: just look out for the rugger shirt (collar turned up), Hackett sweatshirts, chinos, and sunglasses perched on the top of ludicrous quiffs. They're all called George or Alastair, and annoy passers-by by throwing a rugby ball to each other across a busy road or parking their sporty little cars very badly in front of the off-license. And most of them sound as though they're sharing a comunal brain cell. Okay, so I might be going a bit far there, but the North East of England was a much better place when southerners just thought we were a land of pits and whippet-racing.