I always had the impression that British reality TV was ever so slightly less crummy than American reality TV. (This despite the fact that they gave a series to Jordan, London’s deadliest press-seeking missile. If you don’t know her, picture your typical Penthouse bimbo, and add an extra ten pounds of silicone, distributed in the customary way. Then make arrangements for her to step out of a limo sans underwear, into a scrum of paparazzi, every couple of weeks.)

Well, turns out that the Brits have, in fact, outpaced us on the race to the bottom. Courtesy of my pal Mary Elizabeth Williams, who writes for Salon, I present to you I’m Hotter Than My Daughter, the BBC’s latest show about moms who favor spandex, stilettos, and enough leopard print to upholster the entire savannah.

Marybeth’s column, linked above, analyzes this thing better than I could, and I’ll send you there for more. But, for what it’s worth, it does seem (from the shortish clips I’ve seen) that the daughters are more mortified than damaged by their moms’ ill-placed competitiveness, and I hope that carries them through into something approaching healthy adulthood. Or, if the show’s enough of a success, at least it’ll cover the therapy bills later on.