There are two Britains I know. One is the carefully curated image – stately homes, quiet literary discussions over red wine, men in velvet blazers. The other is the reality: a nation fueled by affordable meal deals, perpetually damp socks, and a baffling acceptance of broken dryers. Somewhere in between those two worlds lies the truth, and increasingly, that truth involves…Take That.
For Americans, Take That exists as a cultural footnote. Most recognize Robbie Williams from a quirky film role, but the band itself never achieved mainstream recognition across the Atlantic. This means a significant piece of British pop culture has simply been missed, a foundational element of their national identity remaining largely unknown.
My introduction to this missing piece wasn’t gentle. It was the uncensored music video for “Do What U Like.” I approached it with a degree of confidence – British boy band, Robbie Williams’ rebellious streak, a nation deeply devoted. My editor warned of a surprise, but after witnessing the public reaction to certain films, I considered myself unflappable.
I expected something charmingly dated, perhaps coordinated dance moves or a strategically placed wind machine. Maybe even a little pelvic thrusting. I was, to put it mildly, unprepared. The video began with motorcycle outfits and crosses, a strange blend of Mad Max and Catholic iconography. Leather, fringe, religious symbols, and…capri pants. The image of those hairless calves was unexpectedly striking.
There was something undeniably endearing about these men, dressed as dystopian priests ready to lead a Zumba class. I found myself thinking, “Wait, they’re all incredibly cute. I understand the teenage posters now.” The initial vibe was confusing, athletic, and strangely…moist.
The video quickly descended into a texture-forward experience. Whipped cream. Jelly – or as I learned, “jelly,” not Jell-O. Women applying these substances to the band members with the focused intensity of a sports massage therapist. Why? Because, as the song proclaims, you can “Do What U Like.” It felt like a testament to free will, a playful exploration of possibility.
I imagined the band being asked, “If you could do anything at all, what would it be?” Their harmonic response, I pictured, was a unanimous declaration: “Jelly wrestle with my bros!” The choreography was a spectacle deserving of academic study. One member beamed with every utterance of “energy,” as if he’d invented the concept itself. Another specialized in expressive hand dancing, amplified by aggressively fringed sleeves. I hoped they would kiss.
Then there was the man in what appeared to be a chainmail thong over leather capri jeggings, performing ballet leaps and backflips. Before Benson Boone, there was Take That. I found myself wondering if backflips were even possible on a desert-coated floor. The plot, if one could be discerned, revolved around the sacramental power of jelly. Was this an alternate universe where the body of Christ was jelly, and the blood was whipped cream?
Around the halfway mark, the camera operator discovered the zoom function and refused to let it go. We zoomed in, zoomed out, zoomed into places we didn’t need to see. I began to feel motion sick. There were also…a lot of shots of crotches, covered in jelly. Was this the shocking element I’d been warned about? The video escalated from “mildly unhinged” to “Oh my god, I’m watching this on my work computer, am I breaking a law?”
Suddenly, a naked, jelly-covered bum appeared. Then, all of them. Fully naked, covered in jelly, lying in a group, simply…existing. This was an angle of the male form reserved for French painters and the privacy of one’s own trousers. I wrote, in all caps: “WHIPPED CREAM BUMS!!!!!” No amount of exclamation points could capture my surprise. I laughed, perhaps bordering on a sob. A woman was even mopping up the mess, a practical touch I appreciated.
Turns out, this low-budget video was shot in 1991, co-directed by a former BBC Radio 1 DJ. A woman directed this? I loved that. Was this the feminine gaze? A feminist reversal of the male gaze? Where was this visionary now? She paved the way for others. I learned the official premise was simply the band “cavorting with women while smearing jelly on themselves.” “Cavorting” felt like an understatement for the full-scale dessert chaos unfolding on screen.
Unsurprisingly, it was banned from daytime television. But unsurprisingly for Britain, it aired late at night, because this is a nation that believes there’s a correct time for jelly-based nudity. This was early Take That, before the polish and ballads, before Gary Barlow became a national institution. Just a group of chaotic young men embracing a woman’s vision. She saw the David in the marble and, with unwavering bravery, simply requested: “More jelly,” forever altering the course of British pop culture.
Do I understand the cultural phenomenon that was Take That now? No. But I had fun, I laughed, I gasped. Do I understand Britain better? Also no. But I now recognize a specific, uniquely British flavor of pop culture that exists outside the American gaze, a world where boy bands can be equal parts Catholic Mad Max, dessert-themed performance art, and full-frontal chaos. It’s a privilege to be let in on their secrets. And I will never look at jelly the same way again.
