I remember the first time I saw the trailer for Skins. I was 17-years-old with a mouth full of braces, and awkward limbs that never knew where to place themselves. During my evening routine of watching another compelling episode of Hollyoaks, the TV suddenly launched into a slow-motion, strobe-lit fantasy—flashes of hot bodies in neon lingerie dry humped their way across the screen as spaced-out, pill-glazed eyes urged me to join them in what looked like the house party to end all house parties, all set to the delirious beat of Gossip's "Standing in the Way of Control".
I'd never seen anything quite like it. I'd watched The OC and Gilmore Girls just like everyone else, and while they were shows aimed at teens, they were rich, American teens who never had a hair out of place and were usually portrayed by actors in their twenties with piercing bone structure. Skins wasn't like that. The characters had acne, wore the same shit H&M clothes as you, and said stuff like "safe, yeah?" It was exaggerated and far-fetched for sure, but beneath all its surrealism lay genuine storylines that most British teenagers could relate to—losing your virginity, eating disorders, divorce, struggling with coursework—in a way that didn't feel overtly moralizing. In other words, it was like our lives, only interesting enough to be on telly.
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