How Not To Use Social Media; The James Arthur Story

Whether you've just started up your own business selling novelty cupcakes or you're an international supermarket brand that buys every spare piece of land in the country in order to build lots of mini supermarkets, social media is now an essential marketing tool. Twitter in particular can add a voice to your brand, adding personality and appeal.
Now, this shouldn't be too difficult if 1)your brand is a person and 2)you are that person. However, this proved a little tricky for 2000-and-no-one-cares X Factor winner James Arthur, who last week handed over/was rugby tackled to the ground for control of his Twitter account to his management team after a series of faux pas'.

Let us now analyse all of these social media mishaps in order to avoid falling into the same pitfalls ourselves. Or, to just laugh at him.

1. Don't abuse the RT
It's nice to get compliments. Who can deny the spring in their step after someone says “Ooh, you look nice today”? Or the grin that spreads across their face when someone describes the meal you just made as “really nice”? Now imagine how much of a dick you'd look if you then wrote a send-to-all text that looked like this “Sarah said I looked nice today” and then four hours later followed it up with another that said “Mum said my soup was really nice”.
This is essentially what retweeting compliments is. It's also the kind of annoying shit that your news feed will be flooded with if you follow James Arthur. Whilst I'm sure he is very excited about the release of his debut, and most likely final, album he seems totally unaware of the fact that 15 year olds would call a dishwasher inspirational if it got them a retweet.
Also, if you're reading this James, retweeting the horny tweets of underages girls is kinda gross. I'm not expecting you to do anything as meaningful as saying “Hey girls, I really appreciate the support but I'm not going to retweet your comments because by doing so I will in fact be validating them and giving you the impression that offering yourselves sexually is the only way to get noticed and ladies, you're much better than that”, but next time maybe just, ya know, ignore them?
Retweeting should be reserved for dry tweets, hilarious pictures and giveaways, but only if the prize is really REALLY good.

2.Don't pick a fight you know you can win
Out there in 'real life', where there is grass and fresh air and stuff, arguing with a child when you're an adult is pretty embarrassing. Well, there's no Twitter loophole; it's still embarrassing. Calling teenage girls “sad and pathetic” for questioning your claims that your album was self-penned is...sad and pathetic.
Unless you're arguing about feminism, homophobia, racism, politics or exchanging furiously typed tweets with the customer services profile for an online retailer then it's best to just leave it, yeah?

3.Don't pick a fight that you definitely can't win

It's an undeniable fact of life that there are people that are cleverer than you. You probably follow some of them on Twitter. They might occasionally tweet something that you think is 'not cool', but in these situations I find it best to keep schtum. Not necessarily because your argument is any less valid then theirs, but because they most likely have the wit and vocabulary to publicly annihilate you.
Case and point- James Arthur vs Frankie Boyle.
Whilst some of the things that Frankie Boyle says make me pull a weird face in which the corners of my mouth turn down and I suck in air through my teeth, the suspiciously-curly-eyelashed X Factor winner was asking for 140 characters of shit the second he used the phrase “fucking queer” in a particularly cringe worthy rap battle with Micky Worthless (?).
I won't relay the whole argument as that would be tedious (as opposed to the rest of the post, RIGHT?), but a highlight for me was Boyle saying that he'd confused James Arthur's photo with a child's drawing of a monster. The feud climaxed with Arthur telling us all that he was “coming off Twitter for good”; the social media equivalent of flouncing off in a strop.
As I was scanning through the tweets between the two, I could think of only one thing, a quote by Simon Amstell from the Never Mind The Buzzcocks episode with Donny Tourette in it- “He's a professional comedian, you can't win.”

4.Don't forget about the 'draft' function
I am a big believer in drafting things out. I would gasp in horror when, during my GCSE's, boys would tell me that they hadn't written a plan for their coursework. Believe it or not, this post was drafted. If I'd have publicly rapped a homophobic slur then you betcha, I would draft my public apology before dividing it up into 140 character segments and releasing it like a dove.
Unfortunately, James Arthur did not.
Following the news that some fans were asking iTunes for a refund after buying his album and then hearing him use “fucking queer” as an insult in a rap battle, Arthur tweeted that “homophobia is not something that [he] believes in” and that he was “disappointed in [himself] for being so naïve and deeply sorry to any gay or lesbian people out there.”
Now, if James had just saved that tweet as a draft and said to someone “Would you mind reading this? Just want to check that I don't sound like a dick” then that someone would have hopefully said this- “Actually James, you do sound kinda dickish. Firstly, you've confused homophobia with Santa. You've suggested that you were naïve for saying “fucking queer” in an open forum, rather than saying that you were ignorant for saying it in the first place. Also, heterosexual people can find homophobia to be offensive, so I'd probs just change that last bit to 'anyone I've offended'”
He then rounded his apology off by saying “Plus Rylan is one of my best mates and he's as gay as they come.” Nothing like the old 'some-of-my-best-friends-are-black' defence to really validate an apology.

5. Don't say stupid fucking stuff like this
“I actually was a child in need though...Were you?” on the night of Children In Need.

And there we have it folks! Five tips for avoiding ending up with 'acute exhaustion' like James Arthur. I think it's fitting to sign out with James Arthur's final tweet-
 #LOVE to my fans but I'm coming off Twitter for good. HQ will be doing all my tweets from now on. PEACE!
Nothing says peace like capital letters and an exclamation mark.

Tinder Surprise

“Tinder is a social discovery app that helps you meet new people. Tinder finds out who likes you near by and connects you with them if you are both interested, whether it's for dating, friendship or networking.”

Now, I'm not sure who wrote the Wikipedia description of Tinder, but I suspect that they still believe that the “smallest electric toothbrush” that keeps advertising really is used to maintain dental hygiene, as I highly doubt anyone is mindlessly scrolling through the Facebook pictures of locals in order to source business leads.
If Tinder is news to you then allow me to explain; you download the app, sync it with your Facebook profile, allowing it access to your location and profile pictures. It then searches for Tinder users in your local area and puts them into a little pile for you to sort through at your leisure. Swipe right to LIKE someone (insert a predictable and tedious Mr Right joke here) and swipe left to stamp NOPE across their face. If you've both right-swiped each other then congratulations, you've matched! You will now be allowed to talk and...network.

It was my own morbid curiosity that led me to download Tinder. Whilst I had no intention of meeting up with a match for casual sex, I wanted to know what all the fuss was about. Also, I gave into the nagging, suppressed part of my psyche that is constantly curious to know what other people think of me; the part that would lead me to stage a Ross Gellar style fake death in order to know what others would say about me. In short, I wanted to know if people would fancy me, ok?
I'd like to think of it as investigative journalism, but in reality it was me killing time whilst desperately sourcing freelance projects, swiping through photos of people I fancied when I was sixteen with one and eating mince pies with the other. T'is the season.
Given that I once left-swiped so much that the app actually crashed, I feel I've developed more than a few opinions on how you should and shouldn't market yourself on Tinder.

Tinder is all about judging a book by it's well lit, flatteringly shot, eighteen month old cover, a concept that is unfortunately lost on many users. Now, I'm not talking about people who haven't edited their face into Victoria's Secret/David Gandy oblivion, I'm talking about people like this guy-

Now is not the time to get experimental. The photo that's shot from behind as you look wistfully out to sea, the photo of you wearing your new ski mask on the lifts, the selfie you snapped to show off your skill at applying Halloween prosthetics; these could all result in a left-swipe.
If the only flattering photo you can find is one that was snapped by a 'photographer' at a student club night then that's fine, but for gods sake take the time to crop your friends off. Group photos don't work on Tinder and will lead to a self esteem crushing radio silence when you tell your match which one you are.
Also, guys who are posing with babies, children and animals; I see what you're doing and I ain't biting.

All this being said, don't underestimate the power of words; especially their ability to make someone fancy you (a truth that I have been trying to exploit for the last 7 years). You can post the triple threat photo combination of close up, formal wear and beach wear but it don't mean a thing if your bio box is blank. Your BBM pin doesn't count.
I'm not denying the difficulty of writing a 'bio', but if anyone can manage it then the Myspace generation can! If you're suffering from writers block then go for a humorous quote from a film or TV show (not Anchorman, it's been done. To death). If your match doesn't get the reference then they will hopefully think that you're being witty and irreverent, and if they do get it then at least you'll have something to talk about as they sheepishly scramble about trying to collect their clothes before they leave.
Try to keep it light, no one on Tinder is swiping through faces in order to find a quote that will inspire them to finally start their own business; they want to know how big your thigh gap is (I tried to think of the male equivalent for this but it turns out there isn't; we'll save that for another post). However, don't keep it so light that you type anything that resembles this-

If you manage to successfully navigate this giant game of snap and strike a match then congratulations, you've just done a Tinder! 

So, what happens next?
Turns out, not a whole lot. According to statistics only 1 in 5 Tinder users actually meet one of their matches in person, compared to 66% of people who meet using other online dating apps.
As bizarre as it sounds, I think that those figures are due to the fact that Tinder was quickly referred to as “the straight version of Grindr”; it's essentially a hook-up app, and the problem the with hook-up apps is that everyone using them is assumed to be, you know, DTF, but this just isn't always the case.
Whilst there are those who know what they want and when they want it (more power to ya!), the remaining 4/5s probably hit download due to vanity, boredom, curiosity or an urban myth of a guy who right-swiped a plain looking girl only to discover upon meeting her that she was a dead ringer for Miranda Kerr and the proceeded to go back to her penthouse apartment and have an orgy with her and her hot friends. This means that 80% of the faces you've swiped through aren't truly committed to the cause and that when faced with the choice between tarting themselves up and heading out into the November chill to meet a stranger for the possibility of anti-climactic sex or staying in to watch Gogglebox, they'll probably plump for the latter.

Ultimately, although described as a hook-up app, Tinder allows for one thing that the majority of actual one night stands don't; rational thought.
The two bottles of wine, the agony of seeing the holiday pictures of your ex and their new significant other pop up on Facebook earlier, the underlying chemistry you have with that guy who gave you a pen in a lecture 6 months ago, the fact that yesterday you realised that you have fat knees and need validating, missing the last tube; they're all missing on Tinder, and call me a traditionalist, but receiving a message asking whether you “fancy a bang” at 11:42am when you're sitting at your desk frantically trying to repair a spreadsheet that you didn't save properly yesterday just isn't the same.

My two cents on...Hard Out Here.

I once hated Lily Allen. I didn't buy Elle because she was on the cover, I refused to watch her TV show (remember that?) and she did not make it onto my iPod.
Was it because she wore trainers with ball-gowns? No.
Was it because she was always slagging people off in the press? No.
It was because my boyfriend at the time fancied her.
Thankfully, I have matured a little since 2008 and no longer draw moustaches and zits onto the faces of the women that my boyfriends fancy (and no, it's not because I don't have a boyfriend, thank you), meaning that I am able to evaluate Lily's comeback with some objectivity, I think.
With Hard Out Here, Lily has kind of, a bit, offered up an alternative to the ignorant little ditties that the media have previously held up as empowering feminist anthems (We Run The World, I'm looking at you), even though their message often seems to be something along the lines of 'girlz rool, boyz drool'. The lyrics are a bit of a step up, in particular the lines “We've never had it so good/ yeah we're out of the woods/ and if you can't detect the sarcasm you've misunderstood”, (do song lyrics ever not look 'a bit cringe' when they're written down?) as I often get frustrated with the idea that The Man, and also his wife, have put a big fat tick next to Gender Equality on their To Do List.
Whilst it won't make my playlist, I do find some of the initial comments levelled at Hard Out Here a little disheartening. Annoyingly, one of the first criticisms that I picked up on was that it “over-simplified the issue of feminism a bit.” Well of course it does, it's a fucking pop song. I'm pretty sure that Feed The World ignored the more complicated aspects of third world poverty in favour of a catchy melody and no one seemed too cross about that. Hard Out Here isn't an essay, it's a song. Actually, even if it was an essay it would still probably ignore an important aspect of the feminist movement and thank god, because it's these omissions that provoke people into writing an essay in response and voila; a discussion is born.
Whilst I don't want to dismiss the pop song's ability to successfully tackle 'The Issues', I think that Hard Out Here is more of a vehicle for discussion; I feel better about the whole thing when I see it like that anyway.

Another criticism of Hard Out Here that surfaced not too long after it's release, and has been shrewdly condensed down by the media to 'Is Lily Allen a racist?', was the use of black female backing dancers in the video.
If I'm being completely honest, and not to seem all 'colour blind', but I didn't really notice the race of the dancers when I first watched the video. I just saw it as a parody of an R'n'B video and so with that in my mind, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Perhaps that was the intention or perhaps it was my own ignorance, I'm not too sure.
Since reading the opinions of those angered by the sexualisation of black women in the video, I've re-watched Hard Out Here many times. I think that these are valid criticisms, but that these criticisms should be directed at those who make 'those' R'n'B videos, as it's these videos that Hard Out Here is copying. Some argued that by copying these videos Lily Allen is only serving to perpetuate the sexualisation of black women, but really the video is showing, without 'doing', the sexualisation of all women. It's not a sexy video, it's a video that's pointing to a wobbling, champagne-covered arse and shouting “THIS is what's pissing me off!” It's recreating an image that people recognise whilst saying why this image is wrong.

Perhaps the most disheartening and frustrating criticisms that I noticed the day after the Hard Out Here release were those that essentially said “THIS ISN'T FEMINISM”, “THIS ISN'T HOW FEMINISM SHOULD BE DONE”, “WRONG!!!” or “SHE'S WEARING MAKE UP, SHE AIN'T A FEMINIST” (*cough*Janet Street-Porter*cough*)
Every time a woman comes out of the walk-in closet and declares “I am a feminist!” whilst throwing her head back and tries to offer her own contribution to the feminist movement, a Real Feminist pops up and pulls down a whiteboard that displays 'Feminism; The Rules' to tell them how it should be done.
It leaves me feeling a little “Oh what's the point?”
It's this immediate finger-waggling telling off that makes it so scary to say “Oh, actually, I kind of have an opinion on this too” meekly from the back of the room. Feminism isn't a grammar school; you don't have to take a test to prove that you've read every feminist essay ever written in order to prove your worth. And for Gods sake, you certainly don't have to be a woman. If women think that you have to have a copy of The Female Eunuch in your bedside drawers before you can express an opinion on feminism then things are going to go pretty quiet very quickly, as let's face it, you have to be in a certain kind of mood to read Greer.

Is Hard Out Here going to win a Grammy? Probs not.
Is it one of THE BEST POP SONGS EVER WRITTEN? Not so much.
It is going to create an on-going, meaningful discussion about feminism and the media's treatment of women in particular? Fingers crossed.
Is it an alright song to have on your radar on a day in which you received an email from your boss saying “No skirt today? :(“? Yes, it is. It really is.

My New Favourite Thing #1- American Horror Story; Coven

My new favourite thing can change daily. One day it might be a new flavour of crisps, the next it could be anything from a new pair of boots, a book or...a different flavour of crisps. However, an obsession that has plagued me for the last four weeks is American Horror Story; Coven.
We're about a third of the way through the third series of the anthology series and if American Horror Story is news to you then get involved now. You can easily binge-watch the last four episodes of Coven on a slow Monday night, or during the day when you're supposed to be sourcing freelance projects...
“But will I need to watch the first two series?”
No, you won't need to, but you will probably want to. As an anthology series, American Horror Story explores a different story each season, allowing your favourite characters to be loved, loathed and lynched only for the actors to be recast and return as shiny new protagonists in the following series.
After chain-watching the first two series a few months back, I awaited the return of the show with excitement but also with apprehension; could American Horror Story withstand the expectation bestowed upon it by the success of its previous series?
In a word, yes.
American Horror Story loses none of it's shock factor, or style, and successfully combines gruesome images of torture and violence with quick witted dialogue, gorgeously composed shots and moving monologues.

The series begins with a collection of the most horrific, stomach-churning scenes I've ever seen, so I'd hold off on grabbing the family-sized bar of Dairy Milk until the first ad break is over with. We begin in New Orleans in the 18th century, at the home of Delphine LaLaurie; a real historical figure (those of you who have ever spent a cheery evening Wikipedia-ing their way through the 'most prolific serial killers' will know what's coming). Played by Kathy Bates, Delphine makes Annie Wilkes look like Mary Berry. We see her smearing the blood of her slaves across her face in a quest for youth and beauty, which seems relatively cuddly after watching her chain up a slave who has been seduced by her daughter and shove a bulls head onto his screaming, pleading face.
Flash forward to present day, three hundred years after the Salem witch trials. The witches who remain are few and far between and in order to avoid impending extinction, a school to teach protection and assimilation to young witches has opened in New Orleans; Miss Rabicheaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies- think Hogwarts decorated by The White Company.
We're introduced to the school through the eyes of Zoe, who unlike Harry Potter didn't learn of her magical powers through an owl-delivered handwritten note, but is given the news when her boyfriend starts bleeding from every orifice the second he puts his penis into her vagina. That's her power. Nifty.
Coinciding with Zoe's arrival at the school is the return of the Supreme, Fiona. No, the Supreme isn't a pizza; think more Grand High Witch, with less of Angelica Huston's pruney face from the Witches adaptation and more sexy stockings, shiny blow-dries and Chanel.
We find out that Fiona is the mother of Cordelia, the headmistress of Miss Rabicheaux's; Fiona favours a more assimilaionist approach to educating the girls, where Fiona is a little more “I'm a witch, bitch, and I'll do whatever I like.”

And, in the interest of avoiding spoilers, that's the jist of it. For those of you thinking that American Horror Story still sounds like the latest teen pop-drama, don't get it twisted.

Firstly, I challenge any female watching not to punch their fists in the air and shout “fuck yeah!” at various intervals. After regularly seeing witches/women who decide not to marry or have children portrayed either as the 'baddies' who are eventually burnt, drowned or beheaded, or as young attractive women who use their power to get a date or one up on the girl that's mean to them at school, it's refreshing to see witches who are a bit more woman than witch; flawed, frightened and angry.
The cast is undoubtedly female led and with the exception of Cordelia's husband and the weirdly-fanciable Kyle, the men that do crop up either meet a very sticky end, echoing the rape and revenge movies of the seventies, or need to be rescued by the women; subverting the narrative of the traditional fairytale.

Speaking of the ladies, let's talk about my new girl crush, Jessica Lange. Whilst I realise the term girl crush is usually applied to whoever is, like, so hot right now; Miranda Kerr, Millie Mackintosh, Olivia Palermo, whoever, for me there is currently no other woman more worthy of our affections than Jessica Lange.
Her portrayal of the vampish Fiona adds some much needed glamour to American Horror Story's third series and regularly leaves me sitting open-mouthed, in mismatched pyjamas and two-day old top knot, covered in cheese-puff dust, exhaling in awe “She is so fucking cool.”
The movie-star entrance given to Lange; the black Louboutin stepping of the car, the shot of her umbrella-obscured face, makes it near impossible to resist digging out my old issues of Shout magazine to research spells and begin peeling apples in order to reveal the initials of my crush all to be declared SUPREME WITCH.

Now don't get me wrong, although I sound like I'm ready to burn my bra at the stake, it's not all about the girls. In fact, executive producer Tim Minear says that “while there is a strong feminist theme that runs throughout the Coven, there are themes of race and themes of oppression.” He goes on to say that the series will focus on the idea of “minority groups going after each other and doing the work of the larger culture.”
Given the opening scenes of Coven's first episode, the theme of race might seem pretty obvious, but often the most overt theme of a show can be overlooked in favour of the underlying. The audacity of the scenes should hammer home to viewers that American Horror Story really is what it says on the tin; it's the horror stories that already exist within the history of America. In its second series American Horror Story dealt with the treatment of homosexuality, and also the mentally ill, within the asylums of the sixties; this series it's the treatment of minorities, in particular racial minorities.

At times it's hard to believe that scenes showing slaves with their eyes and mouths sewn shut come from the same mind that unleashed Glee into the world, however, whether doused in blood or sound-tracked by show tunes, Murphy's scripts really 'get' minorities. At least, to my white, straight mind they do.
I'm really excited to see where this series is going to go. With Broadway superstar Patty Lupone soon to join the cast, Coven is set to attract a wider audience and I'm intrigued to see how it will be perceived.
As for the plot of the show, my big three questions are-
1. Is Zoe going to get a more useful power than killing men with her vagina?
2. Who will be the new Supreme? Will it be me?
3. When the fuck is Delphine LaLaurie going to be chained up and have a pigs head shoved onto her?

As always, let me know if you're watching and what you think; we can be Coven buds!

My Top Awkward-Number of Moments in...Made In Chelsea!

If the week in which the early risers of Twitter (and fellow Daily Mail Sidebar of Shame addicts) have already been confronted (or tackled, GET IT?) with the sight of Spencer Matthews' semi erect penis is not the perfect time to share my favourite Made In Chelsea moments then, honestly, I don't know when is.
So sit back, awkwardly try to appear relaxed about something that you care very much about (Lucy Watson style) and relive my Top Awkward-Number of Made In Chelsea moments with me.

1. “Your mask looks like a knob on your face.”
This is the moment in which Rosie and Amber (remember her? The “jewelry designer?”) gives Francis and Fredericko a right telling off for their treatment of P.A/Bond girl Agne. The boys, determined not to let a woman come between them, agreed that they would both date Agne and in doing so assuming that she lacks the two things that could foil this in genius plan; a memory and free will.
Frances unwisely decides to bite back, declaring Rosie a “gossip vigilante”, making her sound all noble and stuff rather than accurately describing her as the suspiciously flat-haired smug cow that she is. His efforts are in vain and Rosie scoffs back “Your mask looks like you have a knob on your face.”
It did, it really did.

2. Kimberly's Comeuppance
Ah, Kimberly, she was the girl that all the boys wanted to be with and all the girls wanted to be-at. She went for pancakes with Jamie, drinks with Spencer and to Italy with Richard (the creator of that magic bracelet thing). However, her greatest moment came at Jamie's Scottish Reeling party.
After crossing Cheska and Binky with her choice of suitor one too many times, Kimberly is brought face to face with her ex boyfriend Diego (no, he did not swagger in wearing spurs and tipping his hat), who revealed that he was not as much of an ex as Kimberly wanted the male residents of Chelsea to believe.
Why has this made it into my Top Awkward-Number of Made In Chelsea Moments? Kimberly's face. It's the exact face that EVERYONE who has ever unexpectedly bumped into their ex has pulled, some of us more than others...
At this point, Kimberly does what any independent, strong, mature young woman would do in that situation. She strops off, leaving Cheska practically orgasming with delight.

2. G-Day for Gabriella and Ollie
To be honest, any moment featuring Gabriella was toe-curlingly good, even her Proactiv ads that were crow-barred into every ad break for the duration of the third series, because she was so delightfully unaware of herself.
If Gabriella and Ollie's dinner time conversation topics of concealer, false lashes and the scientific art of hair shininess didn't hint that there was trouble in fabulous paradise, Ollie's visible despair at Gabriella crashing his birthday skiing trip really gave the gay-me away.
Well, it did to all of us who aren't Gabriella. Cue an awkward conversation on the rooftop garden at Ollie's flat (why do Chelsea break ups always happen at such suicide-friendly locations? See Moment 6...). “I don't know how I feel...towards guys and girls”, at which point, in you were watching in 3D, Gabriella's eyes leave the screen and press you against the sofa, leaving you damp with tears and eye goo.

4. “He looks like a chubby baker boy.”
Prior to The Slap their was The Sartorial Slap; both courtesy of the gone but not forgotten Millie Mackintosh.
As Chelsea's resident Lothario, I would have expected Spencer to be more well practiced in the correct post-break up etiquette.
Rule #3729- If you've just dumped a girl on a bridge, avoid any outlandish outfits. Her friends will be looking for any opportunity to verbally assassinate you. Blend in guys, blend in.
Pairing a jumper that looks like it's made from an Marks & Spencer's throw with a tan flat cap, Spencer was like a cosy sitting duck.

5. Verbier/ Furby-yeah?
Er, where?
Although the whole series might as well have been set there, no one actually seems to know the exact location of Furby-yeah; the mythical land of cut-out swimsuits, hot tubs and infidelity.
Turns out, it's a ski resort in Switzerland. 
It was in Furby-yeah that we discover that, like pregnant women, Jamie Laing should stay away from hot tubs, as we are still seeing the repercussions of his splashing about in the present series; Phoebe fucking Lettuce.

6. Splouise go splat.
A strong contender for the most awkward break up ever (my own personal experiences not included), rivaled perhaps only by Ziggy and Chanel of Big Brother fame, is the slow, painful demise of Spencer and Louise.
I can only assume that prior to Spencer and Louise's meeting, one of Spencer's pesky friends has grabbed his copy of Breaking Up For Dummies and scrawled words like 'don't' into lines such as “Act respectfully”, as what followed really is a shining example of how not to break up with someone. Especially if you're on a bridge.
Dropping lines like “It's fucking hard to respect you when you allow me to cheat on you” and “You're going to go home after this and cry your fucking eyes out and I hope you do!” Spencer really was asking for the slap that Louise threw at him. Unfortunately, she missed, only for the job to be completed later in the series by Millie.
I have to say, the whole thing would have been much more convincing if Spencer hadn't been grinning like a fucking Cheshire cat throughout.

And there we have it, my Top Awkward-Number of Made In Chelsea Moments. Honorable mentions must go to Gabbalicious, Louise throwing a napkin at Spencer (Why? When there were knives, forks and glasses to hand?), Francis' interns, Millie throwing a drink at Hugo, Millie slapping Spencer and Francis' portrait.
If I'm missing an under-rated Made In Chelsea moment, let me know!