Why Stacey Solomon & Joe Swash’s new TV doc will make Gen Z question having kids

Last weekend my niece was celebrating a friend’s 18th at a house party in Glasgow.

I was of course excitedly digging for juicy insights into the world of modern teenage hedonism.

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“It was a girls-only sleepover. We just watched films and ordered pizza,”, she said as she proudly modelled her new oodie — an oversized hoodie that looks like it could survive a polar expedition and a breakup.

Twenty years ago, we’d spend the day in Topshop deliberating over denim minis and diamante belts, then head back into town later that night to go clubbing in strappy stilettos, ending with a 3am kebab at a taxi rank. 

“That sounds like a lot of effort,” she said, already halfway back into TikTok. Effort?

But it wasn’t. It was life.

And this is the great generational divide: between those raised on the dopamine hit of discomfort, and those raised in an oodie.

Nowhere is this existential chasm more perfectly illustrated than in the new BBC show Stacey Solomon and Joe Swash: Family Diaries: Please Send Help (working title, probably).

A series that could, quite genuinely, end Britain’s birth rate.

Stacey, for all intents and purposes, is Britain’s Martha Stewart — if Martha did DIY candle-making in a thatched Essex mansion and hadn’t (yet) been to prison.

Though ironically, in episode one, Joe jokes Stacey is his prison. But if anyone’s serving time, it’s her.

Five kids (six if you count Joe, which you absolutely should), a home fragrance brand to launch, a pool to skim, nappies to forget, and no time off for good behaviour.

In the first episode, Stacey is excitedly prepping for her fragrance launch meeting — the culmination of her empire-building journey from £100k-a-year TV darling to £9.7million domestic goddess.

A woman so productive she makes Marie Kondo look like a hoarder.

Naturally, her big moment is hijacked by crying children and a missing husband.

“Joe was supposed to come,” she says to camera.

“But he’s been delayed indefinitely, it seems.”

A phrase usually reserved for cancelled flights and political careers.

Joe eventually arrives — five hours late, claiming it was “traffic.”

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Stacey’s face delivers a whole Shakespearean monologue in one micro-expression.

Her savage associate, corrects him: “Five hours is not 20 minutes.”

But time, like nappies, is just another thing Joe forgets.

Stacey later explains that Joe “wallowed in self-pity” when he felt hard done by.

Which must make their pool the deepest emotional lagoon in Essex.

Still, he makes her laugh, which apparently forgives all. 

Message to all men: make a woman laugh and you can get away with murder — or at least avoid doing the school run.

Meanwhile, Leighton, one of Stacey’s brood, doesn’t do chores, so doesn’t get spending money.

He’s learning consequences. A valuable lesson, unless you’re Joe — in which case, the chore is you.

This show isn’t just a family docuseries.

It’s a psychological thriller in lounge wear.

Less Spare.... more Spare Me!

Prince Harry — once the self-declared anti-bullying bard of Montecito, is now awkwardly starring in a production titled ‘You’ve Got Hate Mail’.

 Yes, it seems the Duke who cried ‘palace persecution’ now finds himself accused of, well… persecuting. 

The twist? It’s not the royal firm but the royal formerly-known-as working royal, now allegedly making life miserable for others. 

Dr Sophie Chandauka, a respected executive and Sentebale chair, has resigned following a fairly uncharitable fallout with the Prince — and a social media blitzkrieg courtesy of the ever-zealous “Sussex Squad.”

The Sussex Squad is part fan club, part digital militia.

Once content with tweeting heart emojis at Meghan’s dress choices, they’ve now pivoted into full-time palace-proxy warriors.

After Dr Chandauka voicced concerns over Netflix cameras being sneaked into charity events like overzealous wedding guests, she was swiftly labelled a traitor to the crown of California. 

Death threats? Naturally. She’s since quit social media — presumably to protect her mental health, a cause close to Harry’s heart. 

Unless, of course, it involves his own pet project.

Which brings us neatly to the other elephant in the Sentebale marquee: the Prince allegedly trying to shoehorn his streaming overlords into a charity gala like it’s a red-carpet prequel to The Crown: Live Aid Edition.

Altruism, but make it content.

And so, the monarchy’s battered image limps on — dragged by feuds that play out not behind palace doors, but in Netflix dailies and Twitter threads.

In the end, it’s less Spare, more Spare Me.

A high-stakes drama where the villain is domestic labour, and the hero is a woman with a label printer.

For Gen Z viewers, this is less family goals and more “contraception core.”

No wonder pop star Chappell Roan went viral for saying she “doesn’t know anyone her age who has children and is happy.” 

After watching Stacey juggle crying kids and gluing centrepieces to her table while Joe plays hide-and-seek with responsibility, it’s hard to argue.

Effort vs reward. That’s the eternal equation.

For some people, fulfilment comes through hard work. For others, it’s an oodie.

Stacey puts the effort into having a family and a Kardashian-worthy business empire. 

Hopefully she yields a big enough reward to merit having a baby on her hip, and Joe in time-out.