Monthly Archives: August 2009

Season Five, Episode Seven – ‘The Big Journey’

I’ve been thinking a lot about the death of Oasis recently. Sure, they’re my favourite band of all time, and they perfectly encapsulate the fierce working class spirit I try to represent but the end has been so pantomime, so sleazy that I honestly have wondered if this has all been engineered by one of the goons who write Sex And The City. Noel Gallagher quitting, then talking about how great it feels is classic Carrie, fucking things up for everyone else when your ego finally takes over. Liam, increasingly shambolic, but always entertaining is Samantha, only his ‘cancer’ is having to put up with Noel all his life.

This episode features trains a lot, which reminded me of one of my favourite films of all time ‘Brief Encounter’, a classic British black and white romp about two people who meet at a railway station. Alas, this is Sex And The City, and so whilst ‘Brief Encounter’ was full of subtlety and romance, Sex And The City is chocker block full of obvious innuendo, saggy tits, and a lack of love.

Carrie was off to San Francisco on a book tour, a tour which co-incidentally happened to stop by where Big lived. The big news was that Carrie was desperate for sex, so much so that I imagine her leg was cocking like the dirty dog she is. “Sex is not an animal urge” argued Charlotte when Carrie was moaning about the damp seeping through her underwear. To be fair to Carrie, at her age she should be concerned at anything involving liquid ‘down there’, it could be nappy time at any moment.

Charlotte was experiencing her own animal urges, mostly involving Bald Harry. I like Bald Harry – yeah he’s bald, but he’s charismatic, a straight shooter… and he also sweats profusely, like a black man in rural England. Bald Harry was trying to snare Charlotte into bed, and by god did he achieve it. He told her that he fantasised about her lips, and being female her knees buckled, and she embraced him passionately.

The trouble was, Charlotte was convinced that she didn’t like him ‘in that way’, and was confused as to why the sex was so good. “I don’t want to date him, he’s not very attractive” she told Gay Anthony, who just sat there encouraging her to just keep it about sex. That was quite a difficult scene to watch really, for a show that almost begs its audience to keep an open mind and to look for the good in everyone (yeah, bullshit I know) you then have the most straight-laced and actually nicest character slagging someone down just cos he’s bald and hairy. Disgraceful behaviour.

Talking of bald and hairy, 50 year old Samantha was attempting to flirt with some middle aged balding guys on the train she was taking with Carrie to the book signing. They were just honest, beer drinking sports loving guys who loved their wives, and so they couldn’t give a shit about what the old wreck was trying to offer. It makes me sad really watching her cavort and twirl in an attempt to make a limp dick stand to attention. I just hope when I’m her age I’m not upset because some piece of crumpet wouldn’t let me attach my clarinet to their tender lips. I don’t really have to hope that actually, because thinking about it, were I to be any woodwind instrument, I’d be dead.

Some form of romance occurred when Mr Big turned up to Carrie’s amateur and rubbish book signing to surprise her. Was she finally going to get the sex she wanted? Actually, not immediately, as he had actually read her shit excuse for a book and was feeling genuinely hurt and sorry for how he’d acted. You know how much backbone and inner strength someone has when they stick to their guns, but Carrie legit told him that none of it really mattered, purely because she wanted to mount him like, er… a Mountie. Is that all it takes to make up for years of disappointment and anguish? Really? A hearty cock inside you and all is forgiven? A huge, throbbing cock ebbing deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper? AND deeper?

I dunno, it just all seems a little bit too easy. If I’d been raped by someone, and then one day I was feeling really peckish for a moorish chocolate biscuit, and then the rapist offered me a veritable smorgasbord of McVities favourites, then would it be a hard decision for me to forgive the rapist and munch my biccies? Cos after all, sex and biscuits are very similar – they only really work at the right temperature, it can crumble into nothingness at the slightest hint of moisture, and anything involving the word ‘ginger’ just doesn’t work, especially when teamed with ‘nuts’.

Either way, truly terrible episode and only Mr Big being a nice guy made it worthwhile in any way whatsoever. Trying to create a list of things that are less worthwhile that Sex And The City, but I can only come up with racism, bigots, and the Muslim faith.

Deep.

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Season Five, Episode Six – ‘Critical Condition’

Just seen that there is a new series of X-Factor on the box, this is depressing news as I can remember talking about X-Factor very early on in this journey which means it has taken me far longer than I originally anticipated. I’ve never sniffed glue, but I reckon watching all these episodes is a lot like it. I mean, you can’t do it every single day because you will just end up with a blocked nose, a sense of shame and your nose glued to a moist plastic bag.

Anyway, this episode – utter garbage. Whilst this show is usually terrible in every way, there are often many things for me to get annoyed about, be it all the girls acting like idiots, or Gay Stanfords increasingly disturbing taste in blazers, but I’m just feeling empty at the moment. Carrie was feeling empty and worried as well, due to her book being reviewed in an up scale New York newspaper. She felt a touch better when someone recognised her in the toilets of a restaurant, but it transpired that the woman she saw had dated Aidan after Carrie, and the disapproving look she shot Carrie sent Carrie shivering. None of this makes any sense does it?

I’ve been thinking about Aidan a lot recently. Actually, that’s a lie – I haven’t.

Miranda’s child wouldn’t stop crying, and Miranda was unsure as to why. A little bit of the old anger came back at this point. Imagine if you’re a baby, a ginger baby sure, but still a baby and you’re lying in your crib when your mum walks in the room, and it’s Miranda. Her jowly, forever miserable face peering over you like a severely pinched nipple as she joylessly shakes you about a little bit. I always knew she’d be a terrible mother, and this episode showed me no difference to my initial prediction.

Miranda also made friends with some of the other mothers in her building, after ignoring them for some time. Since this is Sex And The City, the television equivalent of the Guardian newspaper, the woman who finally helped Miranda stop her bastard crying was yet another jive talking, street walkin’ black woman. The stereotypes in this show are just ghastly, as if the two gays – Stanford and Anthony weren’t bad enough in putting back perceptions of gay people twenty five years, we are also treated to every black person in the world acting like they’ve just come a Spike Jonze film. What ever happened to strongĀ  African-American role models on telly? Bring back Bill Cosby.

Charlotte was in the final negotiations for her divorce with Trey, and so needed a lawyer to set the ball rolling. After initially seeing a thick haired, granite chinned good looking lawyer, she realised she needed someone a bit less beautiful for her mind to be fully on the case, and not on the cock. Enter a small, bald motherfucker called Harry Goldenblatt, who I labelled as a ‘bald eagle’ on my notes. Seriously, the guy is bald. Apparently all the time I’ve been calling Trey’s mum as ‘Bonnie’ I’ve been sorely mistaken, I received an email the other day informing me it was ‘Bunny’ which makes me feel a bit sick.

In the end, Trey came to the rescue and decided to give Charlotte everything she wanted, which ultimately was the apartment she had been living in for some time. Just a shame Trey’s pathetic limp dick couldn’t give Charlotte the child she dearly craved, but then I suppose nobody is perfect, apart from David Beckham.

I’ll be honest friends, I’m struggling to fill this review up with anything. Nothing is happening here! Carrie got her book review which was mainly positive, but also said that she saw men as disposable. How could she disagree with that? Every man in her life has gone away in the end, and unlike the Nine Inch Nails song it doesn’t seem to have made her hurt. Here’s my review of her book: ‘if you like this book, you’re a cunt. If you enjoy it, you’re a cunt. Actually, chances are, if you can read this, you’re a cunt.’ And they say word smiths are dead.

What more to say pals, what more to say. Samantha took back a vibrator to a shop, and found it that it was actually a back massager.She then proceeded to give advice to women on which was the best back massager to stick up their crown jewels. I think this has genuinely been the worse episode of this I’ve ever watched, which frustrates me somewhat because it’s not even as if it’s offensive, it’s just so desperately boring.To reward the faithful readers, I’m gonna treat you all to the end of this review. Byeeeeeeeeee!

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Season Five, Episode Five – ‘Plus One is the Loneliest Number’

I’m thinking of labelling this whole ordeal as ‘my struggle as a guy through the world of evil women’, but I don’t know if that’s a bit too Bernard Manning for my liking.

I don’t really understand the title of this episode, surely ‘plus one’ means any number that isn’t once, implying that every single number apart from one is the loneliest number? What a breathtaking statement to make, I bet the writers of this once patted themselves on the back a bit harder than usual, sipping on their cappuccinos, wearing their ironic socks, and sniffing the finest Colombian since Faustino Asprilla.

Apparently, the launch night for Carrie’s book is the biggest night of her life. Makes sense when you consider she’s what, fifty odd, unmarried and doesn’t have any children. Adding to that the fact that (I assume) she’s never washed a soapy dog in the bath, and all you’re left with is a smoky husk of a life which probably would peak with the launch night of a collection of articles moaning about the aforementioned shit life. Who even has a book launch? If I ever get a book deal I’m gonna have a fascinating party involving me, a television and some pineapple n cheese on sticks.

Miranda was back at work after looking after her little boy for about three months – must have been really tough for her to leave at home, the way she was flirting with an ex lover on the phone. Good to see she’s got her priorities straight, straight back into the saddle whilst her son sits at home sobbing. She neglected to tell the ex lover that she had a child at first, until guilt got the better of her. After she eventually told him, he took it well and even went back to her apartment, but fucking her amidst the squeaky toys and the screaming child was a bit too much to him. Meanwhile, in a coffin deep in Neverland, a dead pop star weeped at a missed episode.

Charlotte finally fucked someone other than herself by hooking up with some jock named ‘Justin’. Her neighbours didn’t like it, and we even got another cameo from Bonnie expressing her disapproval. Samantha had more problems, due to a botched chemical peel which made her look grossly disfigured. Cosmetic surgery makes me feel a little bit sad, it just makes me think of glum women who think that fixing their wonky nose will make everything better. But it never does, does it?

Carrie also met someone new, in ‘Burger’, played by the amazing Ron Livingstone of ‘Office Space’ fame. Because of my good mood following on from seeing him, how about a top 3 burgers? In no order, a Big Mac, the ‘Good Burger’ from Kenan and Kel, and Gerhard Berger the former Formula One driver. They went on an ideal ‘date that isn’t a date’, culminating by eating Mcdonalds on a bench on a blissful summer afternoon. I’m not taking the piss, I can’t think of better dates than that, I really can’t. Ended a bit depressingly for them though, as he informed Carrie that he has a girlfriend after she asked him to go to the book launch. Hate it when that happens, I was once in a remedial maths class when a friend of mine was flirting with a girl. As soon as she mentioned that she has a boyfriend his eyes just died, his shoulders slumped and the magic was gone.

Just a thought, is Gay Stanford a positive role model for homosexuals the world over? Let’s think about it, he’s bald, wears really awful clothes, and is too afraid to ask the true love of his life out, in Gay Anthony. I don’t want to blow my own horn (or rather my cock in this instance) but surely I’m a better gay icon for everyone out there? Yeah I’m straight, but I dress better than he does, I have a full head of glorious hair, and I too hate men.

Bit of an anti-climatic episode truth be told, saved only for Carrie’s editor at Vogue revealing that she’s seeing a guy who is seeing someone else, and then eventually running scared from him when she sees him out and about. If that doesn’t make sense, don’t worry – I’ve got no idea what the fucks going on either. Actually, another positive moment was Burger coming back to see Carrie at her gathering. He looked resplendent in a red v-neck jumper teamed with a classic suit jacket, complete with designer stubble.

The ending of these episodes rarely storm to a climax, like say a particularly good episode of Eastenders, they just kind of ebb away. Take this ending for example, another black stereotype is used when a bubbly, streetwise black woman driving a limo cheerfully buys Carrie a hot dog when she finds out that Carrie has written a book. Now, this clearly implies that all black people care about is meat, which is totally untrue. They’re also mad keen on basketball.

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Season Five, Episode Four – ‘Cover Girl’

Things I don’t want to see when I’m feeling a bit peaky at eleven o’ clock at night: a gone off oyster, Jo Brand attempting stand up comedy, and especially a mock up of Carrie Bradshaw nude, walking down a street in New York. Obviously she wasn’t literally walking, this wasn’t a Harry Potter picture frame, although Carrie does go spectacularly well with a broomstick.

Quick question for everyone to consider, if you were reading a column called ‘Sex And The City’, would you infer that the column was about sex? Of course you would, but not Carrie. Writers are notorious for thinking that everything they write is either a) a self reflective yarn, or b) a post modern classic, when in reality 99% of the stuff that anyone writes is monotonous bullshit that sends most folk to sleep. Just to confirm, the column is called ‘Sex And The City’, it’s about sex, not relationships. God knows we’d all like to read ‘kisses and cuddles on a soft winters day….in the city’, but those damn newspaper editors haven’t commissioned it yet.

Samantha decided to do the PR for Carrie and to sort out a decent cover photo. Seemed like a bad idea from the start – trying to convince the general public that someone like Carrie deserves any sort of attention is similar to the sort of spin that Alastair Campbell spun out on a seemingly daily basis in the nineties that everything was rosy, and that New Labour was the way forward. And look where that fucking got us. Carrie and Samantha fell out over the latter sucking a delivery boy off in her office, which to me was a little bit odd.

The two of them arguing was like two Jewish lads arguing over who has the best penis – it doesn’t matter, they’re both deformed. Why should Carrie feel so put out, it wasn’t like Samantha was blowing the guy off in the middle of the street – an office is a sanctuary, a saucy, sexy sanctuary in this case. Saying that, it can be annoying when you see people you know doing things they really shouldn’t. I’ll never forget the day I saw my mate Vikram strap on a bulky oversized vest before jetting off to Israel for some explosion and buses get together he was attending. We used to call him ‘mad Vikram’, a nickname which seems a touch cruel looking back, but I’m sure he couldn’t give a shit seeing as he’s now presumably in heaven, getting attended to by one of the young lithe virgins he was promised by Allah.

I also like how a so called confident and streetwise girl like Carrie can get offended by a blowjob… it’s almost like she’s not how she seems. Hmmmm.

Miranda spent this episode fretting about her weight, which shows that the ‘fat ass’ insult she received in Atlantic City really got to her. So much for girl power. She met a fellow weight struggler in one of the meetings, and they got on so well that they shared a glazed doughnut before sharing a special kind of moment. All was well until, after quite literally eating her out, he kissed her with a face full of her particular brand of ‘woman’. At least he was dripping with cum rather than shame, although I bet that shame lies deep inside of him, along with the doughnuts and cakes.

As if those two having sex wasn’t bad enough, Gay Stanford made another appearance, trying to help Carrie out with her front cover. Even he is happy, having met a dancer called Marcus, who I’m still unsure of as to whether he’s human, or dancer. I’m pleased he’s found love, but that’s still no excuse for the garish and hideous green shirt. He looked like an emaciated, bald croissant. And a ‘sun’ yellow tie? Get to fuck.

Just to include Charlotte, I’m going to talk at length about her. I think I was taken in too much by her initial beauty. The admiration was short lives however, as it was revealed just how much of a boring drone she is. She’s turned out to be just the same as everybody else, if not worse. Marry someone for cash and prestige, constantly feeling threatened and fretting about how she’s perceived by everyone else, in many ways she is the actual representation of women in real life. Thinking about it, if you combined her entire personality with Samantha’s sluttiness, Carrie’s greed and ignorance, and of course Miranda’s ginger hair then you have the sort of person who actually enjoys Sex And The City. Isn’t that a depressing thought?

As is usual with this shit excuse for entertainment, the ending was as gluttonous and sickening as usual. Carrie and Samantha made up, and all was well because they both admitted that they ‘judged’ each other occasionally. Is that all it takes these days to solve a dispute? Admit what you did was wrong but don’t actually apologise for it?Maybe it’s all okay if you appear on the front of a book wearing what appears to be the puffy shirt from Seinfeld, teamed with an eighties council estate perm and an empty, haunted look in your eyes that says ‘no matter what I do in my life I’ll never, ever be loved by anyone’.

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Season Five, Episode Three – ‘Luck Be An Old Lady’

I thought the most savage line in popular culture was ‘I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die’ from the Johnny Cash classic ‘Folsom Prison Blues’, or even ‘your mother sucks cocks in hell’, from ‘The Exorcist’, but when Richard told Samantha quite clearly and explicitly that he wanted to give her a pearl necklace something just didn’t sit right with me. After removing the pin which some cheeky scamp had placed in my chair, I soon got over the ‘necklace’, and instead continued on towards paragraph two.

We started with Carrie getting stood up on a blind date, which must really hurt. Someone you actually know cancelling on you is already a painful experience, but when a stranger pops their head into a restaurant, takes a sly look at you, double takes and leaves without even offering you a go on their cock, you know a problem has arisen. Because of this, Carrie worried if she was turning into an old maid, and moaned about how men get older and become bachelors. That’s just the way life works. Men become silver foxes, distinguished, heroic, whereas woman just get older. If you’re lucky you become a milf, if you don’t you become Jade Goody.

Carrie didn’t even have much to moan about, unlike Charlotte who was mortified that it was coming up to her thirty-sixth birthday. The solution was to go to Atlantic City, a mystical place in America which I only really know about due to Empire Records, and that Bruce Springsteen song. A cursory glance at Google reveals that it’s a city in New Jersey, famous for its gambling and board walk, which to me just sounds like a knock off Essex.

The impromptu trip was almost scuppered by Steve rushing back to Miranda’s and telling her he couldn’t look after the baby that weekend because he was scared. I felt a bit bad at this moment, his normally jovial, immaculate face had transformed like a Stretch Armstrong being played with by a parapalegic. His green track jacket said more than words ever could. Christ, this is reading like a thirteen year old girls embarrassingly bad attempt at writing Twilight fan-fiction. The situation was salvaged when Magda, the irrepressible Eastern European nanny helped out. She’d get it.

Samantha and Richard kept bickering, and even Richard giving her a pearl thong couldn’t ease things over – in fact I imagine it made things a whole lot more uncomfortable in a number of ways. I suppose that being in a relationship that has experienced true, legit cheating must be like doing the limbo with a broken back – everyone is whooping and cheering hoping that the injury won’t cause any grief and that happiness will erupt like a rapists cock in the back of someone with downs syndrome, but it’s never gonna happen is it. Most long-winded analogy ever sure, but where would I be without them? About twenty-five words poorer.

I’ve got no real opinions on gambling – like Ryan Adams once sang, “I ain’t never been to Vegas, but I gambled up my life”, but I have got an opinion on Carrie Bradshaw, and that opinion is this: she’s a fucking gobshite. Why would you wanna be pals with her anyway girls? Surely the whole point of having a friend is someone who differentiates from yourself – ie, if you hated black people you’d get someone with a black boyfriend in so the ying and yang is restored, but considering most women just bitch and moan all the time, why would you want to experience what you dish out? That’s not sexism by the way, I just fucking hate women.

This episode just exhibited the sad fake glitz and glamour of America I suppose, although Carrie’s bizarre and disgusting perm strongly reminded me of the last time I set foot in Liverpool. My memories of that visit incidentally are the only things I took out of Liverpool, as everything else was nicked and then set alight to the haunting sounds of Gerry and the Pacemakers. “You’ll never walk alone” they once prophesied – they were right. I assume “you’ll get raped by three scallies carry a portrait of Jimmy Corkhill” was the edgy b-side, no matter how true it might be.

I’ve really got nothing to say about all this. Samantha caught Richard cheating again, and so ended their relationship. Miranda’s self esteem plummeted even further than Richard’s cock in some tight white pussy by being told she had a ‘fat ass’ by a brute of a man in a casino. Whilst that was a sad and pathetic moment (especially Carrie trying to be funny in response) the saddest act was Charlotte dressing like a slag to try and achieve some sort of female empowerment after she felt dowdy. Nothing says progress by letting some trucker ogle over your norks. I should know.

In the end it took a charming black couple to remind everyone that giving up on things is the worst thing you can do, and that true love conquers all blah blah fucking blah. Sometimes I do feel like a quote out of context, and sometimes I do feel that the whole world is conspiring against me. Truth be told, watching this stuff doesn’t help in the slightest. Someone once asked me why I spend so much time watching something I don’t seem to enjoy, and the truth is – I don’t fucking know. Morbid curiosity I guess, the type that makes us wanna watch videos of people being beheaded, or Liverpool playing soccer.

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Season Five, Episode Two – ‘Unoriginal Sin’

I’ve just been packing all my stuff into boxes as I’m moving house, and I stumbled across some of the earlier Sex And The City discs that I had previously discarded as they had been watched. And didn’t the damnedest thing happen… A small river of tears formed in my perfectly clear green eyes, my heart puckered like an unmemorable blowjob, and my hands shook like Muhammad Ali at a disco. Actually, none of the above was true – except for the packing, but didn’t it make me seem like I’ve had a heart all along?

As much as I struggled to write a coherent opening paragraph, Carrie was having more serious problems, in that she was struggling to write anything at all. It makes sense to me, I’m well aware of how tough it is to spew out bullshit on the same subject each and every day. Still though, very pleasing to see that Carrie was finally coming to the conclusion that she’s single, old and irrelevant, although her old ignorance could never really die when she said that “the worst thing about not being in a relationship is when your job is about being in a relationship”. Everyone knows that’s complete bollocks – the worst part is not being able to show off to less fortunate people that you’ve got a girlfriend and they haven’t.

Samantha knew what side her bread was buttered when she took back Richard after he told her that he was ‘scared’, and that he loved her. His words must have made her feel like a protective and homely womb, but when you consider that her age any type of womb would be a tough rugged, cracked and broken that’s not the safest analogy to hide behind, or rather in. The rekindled relationship also showcased Carrie’s hypocrisy quite incredibly, as she was very disappointed in Samantha taking him back, when she had spent so much time in convincing Aidan to give her another chance.

Steve wanted to get Brady baptised, and Miranda being the tough ‘intelligent’ bitch that she prides herself in being, moaned about it. She’s one of those annoying liberal idiots with no imagination who hide under Science when their lack of faith is challenged. What do you call someone winning an argument against a liberal? A racist. I’m glad the conversation happened though, as it revealed quite possibly the most selfish and disturbing lines I’ve ever seen in a television show. After Steve had asked her opinions on the baptising because his mum really wanted it to happen, Miranda replied “why should I go through some stupid ceremony just to make your mother happy.” Allow me a new paragraph to explain this ridiculousness.

I just think that the sentence perfectly embodies everything that is wrong with people these days. Such a blind disregard for anybodies feelings but themselves. Just think of the pure greed and selfishness somebody must have deep within their soul to even think of a statement like that. How dare someone’s MOTHER want their grandchild to be baptised? What kind of person would want that? Er, anyone who has faith and is normal you muggy ginger bitch. The whole thing reminded me of a dark video my very special friend was telling me about earlier, which involved a lady taking an octopus out of her clunge, which pushed ‘dog’s can’t look up’ to #2 in my list of ‘animal related things I can’t quite believe’.

Hypocrisy and greed is just rife in this show though. Carrie and Charlotte spend a great deal of this episode sitting down outside and marking men outside as to whether they would sleep with them or not. How incredibly sexist, if men had been grading women on their tits and their arses all the single ladies would be up in arms – and definitely not putting a ring on it. Positive discrimination is a pretty weird thing – remember that Diet Coke advert with all the women perving over that guy in a lift? What if that’d been three geeky bearded guys wolf whistling at a buxom lass licking the coke from her soft, tender lips, her necklace dripping down towards… sorry, be right back…

Carrie got a book deal after she met with two fawning female published who read her column religiously. And then the sycophantic cunts revealed that they were both single – did they not stop and put two and two together? Mind you, that’s publishers for you, lonely ghouls who masturbate forlornly in their king size beds, listening to Katie Price dictate her latest classic whilst wishing they had someone who loved them as much as they pretended to love themselves. That said, if any of you moguls are out there and want to turn this into a storming best-seller, do feel free to get in touch, and to leave a massage.

I did notice that all of the girls claimed to be Carrie’s best friend, which to me is like saying that the Titanic is your favourite ship – it just doesn’t make sense. Considering that this was one of the most boring episodes I’ve seen in a while, I’m going to give you the treat you’ve all been waiting for – random samples from the notes I made whilst watching this. ‘I think I’d be good as a preacher…’, ‘Cher – ‘Believe’ genuinely one of the greatest songs ever written’, ‘Brady’s head at the christening – as wet as Samantha’s pussy in a building full of desperation’, ‘how can Charlotte say she loved Trey when she married him for trinkets and power?’

All a load of bollocks, I’m off to imagine the girl in my own personal diet coke advert. I’ll be back soon.

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Season Five, Episode One – ‘Anchors Away’

A lot of people I have met in my life claim that I have some kind of weird speech impediment, and if that is true then I pronounce the title of this episode as ‘Wankers Awry’, which when you think about it has a certain kind of poetic enchantment to it. This is series five then, a shortened truncated season because half the cast members went off having babies. I think Sarah Jessica Parker had one with Matthew Broderick – it must really annoy Sarah Jessica Parker, that it took Broderick a mere ninety minutes to successfully create one of the most charismatic film characters of all time in ‘Ferris Bueller’, whereas it’s taken Parker about sixty episodes to show any emotion at all.

We started with Richard leaving a multitude of ‘sorry’ messages to make up for the fact that the last time Samantha saw him he was eating out down town. That’s a humorous euphemism for him literally licking the damp pussy of a squalid slut whilst he was supposed to be with Samantha. An awkward moment occurred when the girls tried to discuss Dicky’s sordid behaviour, but they were around Miranda’s new bastard child, and so they were all embarrassed to talk about sex, instead using the code word of ‘sushi’, which makes sense when you consider the scent of a particular slice of slag.

The girls also discussed whether it was true that each of us only get two great loves in our lives. To me, this was very bad news. As many readers will be aware, my voracious attitude towards ‘Mr Freeze’ ice poles has taken an increasingly unhealthy turn, with me putting away literally two or three a week. This, in addition to my love for someone else at the moment means that it looks very likely that I’m experiencing both great loves at the same time. The problem of course is that what if they both slip away into nothing but synthetic blue food colouring mixed with a little bit of spunk?

It was ‘Fleet Week’ in New York, which meant that all the US Marine sailors took a break from killing innocent Iraqi men and women on the rough seas of the Middle East, and instead hit the streets of the Big Apple to party it up like Michael Alig on a really dodgy bender. I suppose that the American Military have to unwind somehow, but flirting with Carrie Bradshaw whilst she was wearing a ghastly thick woolly jumper which would have made even a badly dressed elderly grandmother blush with embarrassment isn’t the way I would have relaxed.

Miranda was having a calamitous episode, firstly by throwing a paddy about Steve coming over to, shock of all shocks, hang out with his only child, and also because she couldn’t focus on her friends whilst she was with Brady. I really could have done without Brady suckling on Miranda’s nipple like ET wolfing down a ’99 ice cream. I’m not one of those pathetic loser zealots who have a go at women for breastfeeding in public, but honestly – it looked like the ugly duckling being raped by a cherry lollipop.

The term ‘manthrax’ was used by Carrie, which made me remember a humorous prank I’ve always wanted to play on someone. Essentially, I’ve always thought it’d be really funny to shove some salt or sugar into an envelope, and post it to a pal (or an enemy, it doesn’t really matter) along with a note to read when they opened it, which would simply say ‘Congratulations! (the exclamation mark is important), you have successfully caught anthrax! Mind you, I also think it’d be amazing to turn up at Michael Barrymore’s one night, get into his swimming pool, stick a bunch of cocaine up me hooter and wait for him to wake up in the morning. Would be proper epic.

This episode was just depressing though, and smelt of awkwardness and South East London on a sweltering afternoon. Samantha tried to wage a hate campaign against Richard, by throwing drinks over him and putting up leaflets around the city with a picture of his face and the word ‘cheater’. Poor. She could have at least pretended to chop his balls off like in Hard Candy, or even done a Fred and Rose West and raped and murdered him. Carrie incidentally met an old woman who looked a bit like a young Rose West, and realised that the sad lonely figure she was sat next to was a vision of her future if she kept being miserable. I always thought a lame and dumb Black Beauty would be what an old Carrie would look like to be honest.

I’ve written on my notes ‘have to fuck do you??? fuck off you old tired and worn out sluts looking for a piece of meat at their age. Hopeless, where are the fucking mavericks?’, which leads me to assume that I was either really pissed off when I watched this, or I really wanted a steak and Top Gun on telly. Either way, that’s a pretty good evening for me, although I also wrote down that ‘god I’m lonely, not even Gay Anthony is cheering me up’, which seriously suggests I was one bad hit away from suicide.

In the end though, this boat episode went down like a sinking ship. Or perhaps the sinking ships were Samantha’s tits when she gave a little flash in front of the sailor. I suppose that’d make Charlotte’s impromptu show of her right tit a rubber duck. And Gay Stanford is still an annoying bald cunt.

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