 If there's only one reality TV fan, it is me. If there are no reality TV fans left, I am no longer roaming this earth. If you didn't already gather, I am a big fan of reality TV. The biggest. I've never missed an episode of The Only Way is Essex, I'm pretty confident I could win Mastermind with Keeping Up With The Kardashians as my specialist subject and, despite declaring each year that I might give Love Island a miss, my bum will be parked on the sofa religiously at 9pm every night as if it's as compulsory as jury duty. I take joy in every part of it – the fashion, the fallouts, the fun, the addressing of hard-hitting topics… even the obvious product placement gives me an endorphin spike. But there is one reality TV trope that is a common fixture in the genre and is starting to make me feel very uncomfortable. It's always been a niggling annoyance, but it really hit me when I got settled for bed and thought I'd give Netflix's new number one show, At Home with the Furys, a go. I thought it would be an easy watch to send me into a slumber. It was not. The Furys with their kids (Picture: Courtesy of Netflix) During a scene in the second episode of the series, Tyson Fury returns home from a work trip in the Isle of Man. His wife of 15 years, Paris, has been looking after their six children, but has also taken the time to make a trifle for his homecoming. Yet when she walks to the front door to greet him, Tyson immediately chucks his coat over her face and informs her that he's instead going to see the dog. Her face drops and she quietly returns to the kitchen. It's painful to watch her humiliation. This isn't a standalone moment. Throughout the series, we regularly see Paris treated poorly, rather than with love and respect. Even Tyson admits 'she gets the brunt of it all' when he's in a bad mood. The couple are open about how Tyson's mental health can impact his behaviour, so like anything in life, it){kind=link}
NEWS… BUT NOT AS YOU KNOW IT
If there’s only one reality TV fan, it is me. If there are no reality TV fans left, I am no longer roaming this earth.
If you didn’t already gather, I am a big fan of reality TV. The biggest.
I’ve never missed an episode of The Only Way is Essex, I’m pretty confident I could win Mastermind with Keeping Up With The Kardashians as my specialist subject and, despite declaring each year that I might give Love Island a miss, my bum will be parked on the sofa religiously at 9pm every night as if it’s as compulsory as jury duty.
I take joy in every part of it – the fashion, the fallouts, the fun, the addressing of hard-hitting topics… even the obvious product placement gives me an endorphin spike.