Monthly Archives: September 2009

Season Six, Episode Nine – ‘A Woman’s Right To Shoes’

I initially thought that this episode was called ‘A Woman’s Right To Fight’, which instantly made me think of women’s boxing, and whether there is anybody in the world who actually enjoys the taste of coriander.

This episode was mainly about consumerism, but not in a ‘it’s killing the world’ way, but more a ‘I really love buying stuff and shoes mean the world to me!’. As the Manic Street Preachers once sang, ‘from feudal serf to spender, this wonderful world of purchase power’. Not that I’m comparing the characters of Sex And The City to the serfs shovelling snow in nineteenth century Russia, I’m sure the serfs were a lot easier to talk to, even if all they did was grunt.

Carrie and Gay Stanford went to a birthday celebrating the birth of a new baby called ‘Bronson’. As they gave the expensive gifts to the woman running the party, they were told that there was a no shoes policy, and they were required to take them off. Nothing more embarrassing than that, entering a room in your glittery golden shoes before slipping them off to reveal a pair of ironic ‘hot’ pink socks that seemed a good idea at the time.

Difficulties occurred when at the end of the night, Carrie couldn’t find her expensive shoes and was promptly sent home with a pair of plimsolls and a miserly smile. Apparently the shoes cost a fair bit, but the fact that she seemed more upset by her footwear going missing than the relationship she had just been in ending didn’t suggest that her morals, or her mind were in the right place.

Miranda was in a more cheerful mood, as she interviewed a charming black sports doctor to see if he was suitable to move into her building. His name was Robert, and he sauntered into the room like O.J Simpson in a courtroom. That last sentence, and the fact that I was initially gonna type his name as ‘Black Robert’ could come across as racist, but it’s purely because I know someone called White Mike, nicknamed that because he really smells of gone off milk.

Flirting with black men is dangerous – I know that first hand. Dozens of women throw themselves at me each day, and sadly a few sometimes catch the blade tucked away in my breast pocket, hidden there to protect me from vampires and people wearing white sheets.

Charlotte and Harry were having slight teething problems with the start of their marriage. The issue was that Harry left his teabags all over the place instead of sticking them straight in the bin. This led to a discussion on ‘teabagging’, but I’d rather not go deep into that debate. Just a little note on tea, people who drink it without milk and sugar – masochists, just bloody masochists.

Following on from the teabags, Harry began to stride around Charlotte’s apartment fully naked, his bald, yet hairy body glistening amidst the smart white decor of the building. This was resolved amicably and nicely, by him agreeing to don a pair of shorts when he sat down on the pure white couch. It was actually nice to see a jaunty storyline resolved without conflict, although I could have done without the liberal glimpses at Harry’s arse.

It was revealed that all of the girls (minus Charlotte) hated children, even Miranda who has one of her own. Completely makes sense, considering most people hate what they really are deep down, and realising that almost everyone associated with this show are screaming brats who tantrum when they don’t get their own way means we have several classic cases of self-delusion.

Carrie especially, with her constant moaning over the shoes, to the extent that she kept chasing down the woman who had the party to try and sort things out. If you pay £250 for some shoes you actually deserve to lose them – think how many Africans you could save for that amount, how many wells you could dig in South America, hell, how many Curly-Wurlies you could shove down your mouth if you had that much cash. It’s a serious amount of lolly.

Everything got resolved though as it inevitably does in this interminable battlefield of a television show. Carrie eventually got a new pair of shoes, Miranda ended up watching her programme about the hot piece of black arse fucking the posh white totty with her ebony pal, Samantha got pesto pasta thrown at her by a small child, and Harry’s arse remained thankfully out of view.

Sometimes I think about what the best way to flirt is. It only came to mind when the doctor gently swabbed Miranda’s chicken pox in a loving fashion. I prefer my idea of romance – sweetly taking my girlfriends carrots away from her as she hates them, reading aloud tender French poetry, and then ignoring everybody for twenty four hours as I try to get over my tragic addition to spearmint polos.

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Season Six, Episode Eight – ‘The Catch’

Sometimes you can take pleasure from the most mundane of things. A well timed sneeze, a satisfying apple, the feeling of Angora wool on soft delicate skin. I pride myself on being able to deal with boredom, to actively enjoy the feeling of having nothing to do, but watching Sex And The City genuinely makes me feel like I should get a corporate job, stick on a Marks And Spencer’s suit and drink coffee instead of having so much free time that I end up watching this show out of nothing more than some grim masochistic urging.

We started with Carrie on a trapeze swinging through the air like Mowgli after he had just been told that Baloo had previously been locked up for enchanting little bears through the forest with honey on his cock. You know what they say about stuff like trapeze walking and sky diving – if at first you don’t succeed… This scene wasn’t helped by Gay Stanford loitering about, his bald head gleaming like a bored housewives eyes at the sight of a fresh piece of meat that her son had bought round.

Samantha struggled to take off her dress. I initially thought it was a lazy pregnancy scare storyline, but don’t wombs crystallise and then eventually smash when a woman hits eighty?

Charlotte and Harry were looking forward to their wedding. Harry – legit bald eagle, but I think the closest he’ll get to a nest post wedding will be when he swoops between Charlotte’s antiquated Jewish legs. One of his pals was introduced, a wise cracker who used a joke every sentence. The problem with people who make jokes constantly is that they are never ever funny. Needless to say, as an unlikeable cretin this guy proceeded to flirt with Carrie, who certainly knows how to pick them.

Miranda was struggling here, as she didn’t want to meet Debbie, Steve’s other half. “He wants us to become friends” Miranda complained somewhat bizarrely. That’s usually what happens when two people who aren’t together have a baby, isn’t it? Everyone involved puts a game face on and tries to pretend that each of them hate each other and that the little child involved is actually a token of hate, rather than a bundle of joy.

It got to the stage that Miranda was hiding under her bed like the cheap whore that she is, instead of grabbing her balls and meeting the better woman. Of course she didn’t, and took a cheap jibe at Debbie’s shoes after she had left. If you have to get through life continually putting out the shortcomings of others, then fair play to you. Must be quite grim, always belittling and looking to score points rather than focusing on positives. Mind, I suppose being a moody ginger cunt you have to get your kicks somewhere.

Carrie had a crisis when she asked ‘when did it stop being fun and start being scary?’ referring to the risks we take in life. Whenever someone complains about being too cautious in life I have to wince a little. It’s human nature to be wary and fret as you go through life, wishing you were like Kid Rock and sippin’ whiskey out the bottle, but instead acting tentative. Why did the cavemen wear furry singlets in hot climates? Because they were scared of the lions laughing at them. Of course, this is all bollocks if you’re one of the Sartre loving dullards who don’t believe in human nature, growing ironic facial hair, and eating caviar off the hairy armpits of girls who study English Literature at University.

To make up for this fear, Carrie had sex with the funny guy, who turned out to be a calamity in the bedroom. As Carrie’s head banged repeatedly against the headboard, she moaned that he had no idea what he was doing – I could only wish he was some kind of secret agent against angry women trying to cause her brain to pop. Seeing her wriggle in bed wasn’t even the bleakest thing in this episode, instead that award went to Gay Stanford’s purple suit with a purple dotty tie. What does this prick work as? I can only guess in something to do with fashion, it would make perfect sense.

The actual wedding was a cluster fuck but eventually they got through unscathed. Weird how the whole ceremony was awarded as much air time as Carrie on a trapeze, I guess whoever played Charlotte hadn’t sucked enough corporate cock in the writing room. It’s quite disconcerting how Carrie seems to be turning into a mix of the Dali Lama and a really shit insurance salesman, with her never ending monologues filled with advice and shit wisdom that she would never impart on her own life.

One last though – Miranda called Charlotte “my very brave friend.” Brave in what regard, for marrying someone who seems to idolise her? Brave is working in a cancer ward, watching little children having their bodies poisoned from the inside. Brave is rushing into a burning building wearing nothing more than a rubber suit and clutching a hose. Brave is reviewing every single episode of Sex And The City, arguably the bravest of all the things you could do in life.

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Season Six, Episode Seven – ‘The Post-It Always Sticks Twice’

It’s been a tragic couple of days what with the deaths of boxer Darren Sutherland, actor Patrick Swayze and celebrity chef Keith Floyd. The death of Sutherland has been swept under the cover due to the more pronounced fame of Swayze and Floyd, but his is a life that should be remembered for good reasons – an Olympic bronze medal in Beijing, a promising start to his professional career and a seemingly level head, which makes his death by hanging all the more bizarre and upsetting.

This episode started with a differing of emotions. Charlotte was bubbly and ecstatic following her engagement to Harry, whilst Carrie was forlorn and miserable after her break up with Berger. The post it note he had left her was causing her particular trouble as she struggled to come to terms with the idea that he hadn’t ended things face to face. I’m struggling to understand her trauma – would she have rather had a massive argument ending in nothing but tears and recriminations? She’s a female, how could I be so stupid.

To make up for the feeling of discontent, all of the girls decided to go to a new nightclub that had opened called ‘Bed’. The theme of the club was unsurprisingly that it was full of beds that people sat on instead of walking around. As if the lazy cunts who go to those sort of places haven’t done enough sitting around on their arses all day. If ever I opened a nightclub it would be called ‘No Whites, No Blacks – No Unity’. I figure this way that I would entice both the unsavoury right wing element of this country, along with the boring wishy-washy liberals in the hope that they would either embrace each other, or hopefully end each others lives.

Prior to the nightclub Samantha had set Smith up to go on a popular television show. As they were discussing it, he called her his girlfriend, a statement which made her uncomfortable, as if she had just sat on a particularly prickly porcupine. Although I understand that the first time a relationship is made official can be a troublesome time, is it not a really depressing thought that you can get to her age and still feel funny about it all?

Miranda was also experiencing difficulties, but her self esteem had a boost when she managed to fit in her pair of skinny jeans that had previously laid dormant for twenty years. I can’t help but feel that however good she thought she looked looking in the mirror, the effect was ruined somewhat by her looking like she’d just shit herself as she tottered down the road due to the tightness. It ruined the sex appeal for me, but I’m sure there are plenty of weirdos out there beating themselves off.

In the actual club Carrie spied some of Berger’s friends, and promptly sauntered over towards them with all the grace of a young Fred Astaire. The Fred Astaire period where he couldn’t walk very well and was slurring and spitting like a madman. Let’s change the comparison to Shane McGowan, or any charming heroin addict. Amid the bluster the conversation turned to her and Berger’s break up, and she charmingly told his pals that he was terrible in bed. Yet another example of women thinking between their legs, rather than with their tits.

Doesn’t Sarah Jessica Parker look like she has really bad breath?

Carrie was affronted when one of Berger’s mates suggested that the reason Berger used the post it was that women turn all ‘psycho bitch’ when a relationship ends. Carrie’s ridiculous over long  monologue only went to prove the point that women do in fact turn all psycho bitch. I honestly don’t know what the scriptwriters were thinking. Instead of sipping de caff, eating lentils and reading Vogue, maybe they could have come up with a reason as to why Carrie flying off the handle proved that women weren’t emotionally volatile volcanoes? If she reacts like this to an innocuous statement, what IF someone should break up with her in person? Cheating fucking cunt.

As the club didn’t work in making anybody feel better, the girls all decided to go and smoke some weed instead. What an inspiration to us all. As I’ve touched on in other entries, I’ve never ‘done’ drugs’, but I do love the smell of marijuana, or as nobody apart from the characters of Skins calls it, ‘spliff’. I’d never take it of course, as I’m already lazy enough, and don’t need the side effects of talking even more shit than I already do.

Pretty sad ending to the episode. Carrie got arrested for smoking the ganja, which wasn’t even overturned when she showed the policeman the post it that Berger had left her. As if that wasn’t a depressing ending, Samantha then kissed some random bloke because Smith had said he wasn’t seeing anyone special on the television show – a sentence which Samantha had told him to say. As Miranda’s jeans popped, my heart fluttered at the same time, an incident which wasn’t to do with the amount of red meat I digest, but instead me seeing a fuck off spider in the corner of my twinkling eyes and not knowing what the hell to do.

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Season Six, Episode Five – ‘Hop, Skip And A Week’

It’s getting pretty nippy now, the autumnal chill is beginning to sweep through me and cocooning me within its gentle bosom. To be honest, I’m loving it. I was striding through Charing Cross station the other day, and was delighted to find a conker hidden amidst the debris of the homeless and empty plastic bottles that usually make up most London Underground stations. Conkers, coats and cold weather are a perfect tonic to the harsh sunlight, and those three are perhaps the perfect threesome, with only the thought of me, a black me, and an asian me potentially rivalling that.

Samantha is beginning to resemble a turkey, one about to be cooked that’s sitting on a basting tray waiting to be moulded into something that doesn’t resemble a dead bird.

We started with Carrie implying that nothing good happens in New York until after nine at night. What about all the rapes and muggings that happen to innocent Japanese tourists all throughout the day? She was observing this because she had been summoned to jury duty which starts early on in the day. As she stood there wearing a pinstriped suit cut into dungarees, I couldn’t help but notice the Starbucks coffee cup clutched into her wiry hand so tightly that it was quite similar to the way an emaciated Ethiopian father hoists their dead child into the air. Don’t hate me, but I’ve sort of jumped onto the Starbucks bandwagon – not for the coffee, but the mango and passion fruit frappucinno. I’m turning into a right dickhead aren’t I?

Miranda spent this episode fretting about leaving her boy behind every time she went for work, and even the work wasn’t going well as she kept being late due to the guilt at leaving Brady. She got into work and was bollocked by her bosses, so to smooth things she over she bought her dead mother into the conversation. That last sentence sounded absolutely disgusting if you have a filthy mind. She was torn between her immoral job, and her bastard child. If only she hadn’t ostracised Steve, maybe she would have had someone else to confide in rather than a sixty year old Czech babysitter.

Charlotte joined the ‘Synogogue Sisterhood Society’ which to me just sounds like a bizarre idea for a club. Do all the women just stand around moaning about their men? “My man hasn’t got a foreskin!!” one moans. “My man won’t wear flannel blue pyjamas for some reason!”. Mad stuff. The old ladies there set Charlotte up on a series of dates which were all unsuccessful. She realised that she missed Harry, which makes perfect sense considering how perfect Harry is.

Samantha got Smith, the hunky model she was seeing on a massive poster campaign advertising vodka nude. Making an ex-alcoholic advertise one of the more potent drinks, what a sensible and sensitive idea. Actually, for all my slagging off of Samantha, she did make a very good point when she said that a relationship can be described as good by whether you smile or frown when thinking or talking about the person you’re with. Whilst it hardly comes across as the worlds biggest revelation, it’s very nice to have something that is pure black and white for once, rather than the shady thoughts that surround this show.

Carrie and Berger was where the real entertainment was in this episode. They were so awkward throughout, constantly bickering and arguing. It makes me sad, because the only arguments I have with people are about obscure football matches. Carrie did use the one argument technique I hate the most, when she simply repeated Berger when he asked her ‘When did you stop being on my side?” Neither person can win when it gets repeated, especially when abusive partners use it. “Why do you keep raping me?” the abused asks. Why do you keep raping ME?” the abuser replies, and probably rapes them again. What lesson have we learnt here? Don’t answer back, and try not to rape people.

“What am I, some kind of horrible job he wants to get away from?” asked Carrie after Big suggested they take some time apart. He was very clever when he said that actually, as he said it in a taxi – meaning he was making her pay for her cruelty in more ways than one. What kind of job would Carrie be? Probably the meaningless office job, 9-5 for a company you barely know the name of. Probably 99% of people reading this have one of those jobs. To those people I can only urge you to do something worthwhile with your time – build houses, make inventions, or most importantly review episodes of television programmes that you hate.

Big rang Carrie again and cast more doubt in her mind. After the conversation with him she decided to go and track Berger down to talk things through, but she decided against it. Berger eventually came back with pink carnations and a metaphorical pick-up truck. All seemed well, he seemed to want to get back with her, until Carrie awoke to find he had left her with a note saying simply “I’m sorry, I just can’t.” The message was classic Berger – subtle and incredible. R.I.P to that man, perhaps the closest this show had to a representation of me.

This being Sex And The City the episode couldn’t be full of doom and gloom, and so it was left to Harry to rescue it, by asking Charlotte to marry him after they spied each other at a Jewish singles event. Quite touching? Possibly, but only if you’ve ever been sexually abused in your life.

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Season Four, Episode Five – ‘Lights, Camera, Relationship’

Just burnt my hand sticking some hot and golden croissants into the oven, so I’m not in the best of moods right now.

The theme tune is beginning to make me feel like I have a connection with Anne Frank. Every time she heard the clip-clop of boots on stairwell she thought it was the end for her. Similarly for me, every time I hear the horrible theme, and every time I see Carrie stumbling around New York in that ridiculous tutu I think I’m done for. I’ve always had a slight dislike for Anne Frank mainly due to everyone saying that there was this hot little trooper who was fit through years of hide and seek. I saw the front of her book – she’s not even fit! Margot is where it’s at.

An interesting observation into the mind of Carrie Bradshaw, as her test of a relationship was not meeting the parents, or the first double orgasm, but the first trip to Prada. I am not a person hugely interested in fashion, but I would never shop at somewhere which sounds like an Ikea sofa. Berger was taken by a burgundy shirt but was put off by the price tag, a scene which is exactly as boring as it sounds.

Samantha and the hot blonde model were still hanging out. He was in a play about farms and so he asked her to come along and see it. Obviously, with her personality it took some cajoling to get her to go, but eventually she did with the promise of sex. One track mind, all women. After going to see it, and realising that her blonde boy was nude for most of it, she decided to promote the play herself to try and garner it some publicity. Again, I have to apologise for the dullness of this.

Miranda couldn’t move on without Steve, which makes perfect sense as Steve is a very likeable guy. Can I just say now how fucking boring this all is? They watched sports together, and then Miranda went round Steve’s place where he was making cupcakes. She thought they were for their childs school friends, but actually it was for his new girlfriend. Typing plot points like that down just make me feel proper gloomy and that I’m wasting my life, but then I remember that life’s what you make of it – if I wanna sit in and watch Sex And The City, I will. Alternatively, I could stick my cock in an open fire and watch my very manhood erode before my golden eyes. Just depends if Gay Stanford is in the episode I’m about to watch.

Carrie bought Berger the red shirt. I wondered how someone so talentless could afford all those clothes, before she flaunted a massive cheque for her book in front of Berger, who had been dropped by his publishing company. Can’t believe some fool, probably a double denim wearing idiot who eats soya beans and reads crap books like ‘The Road’, whilst wearing burgundy slacks and loafers.

Not even a Gay Anthony comeback could cheer me up, as he hung around with Charlotte who was trying to get over Harry. I’ve been thinking about famous Jewish writers recently. Take Dostoyevsky for example – constantly revered as a classic writer, but in reality he’s just a neurotic Jew like Woody Allen but without any of the humour, but more of the moaning. Not that I even like Woody Allen you understand, my favourite neurotic Jew is Larry David.

The second page of my notes was just full of venom, and for the sake of filling up space here are a few tidbits from them: ‘Are men threatened by female power? Not as much as women are threatened by their friends wearing better shoes than them’. ‘Berger driving a motorbike with Carrie on the bike – one can only hope for a well placed rifleman to take one of them out – this is New York, it can’t be that much of a burden.’ ‘Sanctamonious bullshit makes me feel ill’.

I’m going to cut this review short by simply asking if you’ve heard the joke about the cow. Oh, you haven’t? I can’t tell you, you’ll just milk it.

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Season Six, Episode Four – ‘Pick A Little, Take A Little’

I’m still not too sure as to what’s going on in Sex And The City world. After the disc splitting in the last episode a lot of changes could have happened which I’m just not aware of. For all I know, Samantha could have become the first black man to walk on the moon, Charlotte might have turned into a piece of fruit, Miranda could have re-enacted the entire Cold War using nothing but her nipples and some sellotape, whereas – perhaps most unrealistically of all, Carrie could have turned into a fully functional human being as opposed to the half horse-half skeleton creature she is at the moment. There is a reason most women relate to Carrie the most, and it isn’t because you’re all well rounded humans.

This episode started with Samantha doing some house work which was instantly a bit odd, until it cut to that blonde waiter attempting to rape her as part of a sexual fantasy. I don’t reckon it’s too much to suggest that this one scene has set women’s rights back about one hundred years. If she was still alive I bet ‘ol Emily Pankhurst would be getting ready to throw herself in front of Carrie such is the injustice of this storyline. Because Carrie looks a bit like a horse… get it?

A much better scene followed, with Berger telling Miranda that a guy she had been out with who had turned down the opportunity to come up to her apartment at the end of the date  was simply ‘just not that into you’. He’s right, so scarily right it hurts. No sane man on earth would refuse a bit of New York lawyer clunge, even if that clunge belonged to someone as grim as Miranda. Berger continued his explanation by saying that men don’t play games, which is also true. The only males who play games are scrawny shy lads who think that by being aloof and mysterious that it makes them more alluring. Bollocks innit? I can’t believe how common I sound in this paragraph, but surely everyone would agree that the only way to behave around someone you like is to simply be honest? Subtle honesty though, if the dress is hideous, just say it’s nice if asked. Anything for an easy life.

Oh, Carrie wore leather trousers here, which means one of two things: she’s a gay 1980’s popstar, or she’s even more of a fashion graveyard than I initially gave her credit for.

Despite the trousers, Berger told Carrie that he loved her, and she replied with the same sentiments. To reward her for this, he gave her a copy of his book for her to read. I’ve often felt that I’ve got a great novel in me, I’m just forever struggling with the title. I’ve narrowed it down to either ‘Pegasus Explorer: The Mart Hines Story’, or ‘In Hinesight – The Mart Hines Story’. Deciding to focus on one interesting topic is pretty difficult, so I just settled on telling the tale of the most interesting person I know – me.

Berger felt bad after Carrie told him that he had written women wrong in his book by saying that they wore scrunchies in their hair. I’ve got a mate who overreacts at the littlest things, let alone your book being criticised. He’s the sort of person who would make you a cup of tea without asking you if you wanted one, and then flip if you made a bad comment about it. Seriously, once he made me one and I said – in a jaunty manner, that the tea was a little bit too sweet for me. Not like those tossers who say ‘no thanks I’m sweet enough!’ when asked if they want sugar in their tea, just like a normal person. Anyway, after this innocuous comment, he proceeded to pick the cup up, pour the golden nectar down the sink, and then he legit smashed the cup up against the wall.

He blames this temper and emotional frailty on being sexually abused as a child, but I think he brought it all on himself. What kind of five year old wears a pair of speedos during a modelling session with their uncle?

With Carrie asking if there were times when women should just shut the fuck up I thought that progress was finally being made, but Samantha shattered all my dreams. She continued her tremendous record of being an appalling role model for women ( an example being fucking people for money, or to feel wanted, or for success) by this time leaving the hot blonde waiter in a bar, because he had the nerve to confide in her that he was a member of Alcoholics Anonymous. What class, what sensitivity. Sure, they made it up in the end, and we found out that his real name was Jerry Jerrod, but really, what a crass thing to do to someone.

Yet, incredibly that wasn’t the harshest thing that happened in this episode. immediately after, Charlotte – who to be fair had made a tremendous Jewish spread for Harry, snapped after he chose to watch baseball instead of pay his full attention towards her as they were having a ‘shabbos’ whatever the hell that is. After badgering him that she wanted them to get married, Harry suggested, jokingly, that a big game was on. In anger, Charlotte yelled at him “DO YOU KNOW HOW LUCKY YOU ARE TO HAVE ME? DO YOU KNOW HOW WE LOOK? DO YOU KNOW WHAT PEOPLE THINK WHEN THEY SEE US TOGETHER?”. She was incandescent with rage for no real reason at all. Harry, stunned left her apartment, but not before telling Charlotte that he had already bought a ring. What a killer of a moment, only saved by me deciding to use ‘good shabbos’ as a meaning of something good from now on.

We ended with Carrie and Berger making up over the scrunchie incident. Seriously, I’m sure everyone else reading this feels the same – I’m all for scrunchie based humour, but there’s a time and a place eh?

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Season Six, Episode Three – ‘The Perfect Present’

I think I have only received three decent presents in my entire life. They are, in no particular order, a soft toy elephant, an iPod, and a religious enlightenment so profound that it changed my entire life. Yes, it was a balmy summers day, Nina Simone on the Walkman and my Cuban heels tapping down the highway when I slowed down, from a saunter to a standing position. Needing a cigarette, I stopped a pale man, with tight lips and a t-shirt with the crest of an eagle and the logo ‘The Man, The Legend’ emblazoned along the pec area. “Got a light?” I asked whimsically, the hot summer sun beating along my bronzed back. “Yes I have,” he replied, his eyes locked onto mine. “But maybe not the light you were expecting.” I used to think Scientologists were right proper nutters, but seriously if you open your mind there is some great stuff there.

On a less spiritual note, this episode started with Carrie stating that there are three important events for a single girl (or ‘gal’ if you’re an idiot.) These are having sex for the first time, having good sex for the first time, and seeing your boyfriends apartment for the first time. A more sensible series of events would go: first grey hair, first overdose on cheap meds, first black cock.

Berger’s apartment was pretty nice, tastefully done with brick walls and playing cards on the noticeboard. Carrie wasn’t happy that his ex had done the decorating, which makes sense really – it’d be like wearing a dead mans shoes, yeah it might look really nice, but someone fucking died in them. Berger was a troubled sleeper, and so slept with the sounds of the Brazilian rainforest enveloping his ears, which whilst a bit weird is a lot more sensible than what I do, which is to listen to two year old talk radio in an attempt to drift off every night.

The four girls went to the party of some New York hag who had previously tried to kill herself but was now designing bags. I would say that it smelt of money for old rope, but you have to be careful these days you never know how people tried to end it all. In this case, it was an overdose on cheap pills, which as I stated in the paragraph above shouldn’t be the end of the world, because what’s to follow will bring a world of delights.

I’ve always thought that overdosing is a bit of a pussy way to go out. I’ve often harboured dreams of travelling to The Bronx wearing nothing more than a purple cardigan and my spectacular gold sequined shoes blasting out a bit of Elton John on my boombox. Depending if the gangsters wanted to get to the chorus of ‘Tiny Dancer’, I’d be shot out of there in anything between one and four minutes.

Just a quick fashion update for you all, as I am strongly supported by the fashion glitterati. Carrie dressed in a red dress that made her look like a paedophile Little Red Riding Hood, which I suppose would make Berger the wolf who was actually the one being abused. Miranda wore a pinstriped blazer which made her look like a savage coked up eighties businessman, whilst Samantha sported a cream blazer that looked remarkably like the first stages of herpes. For fans of myself, I was scratching my balls at this point.

Samantha met the fit waiter from the previous episode at the party, as he was waitering there. Waiters move around a lot, perhaps the equivalent to rapists although at least the rapists get something out of their meanderings, waiters just get shouted at a lot. I’m not suggesting that people who are waiters should take up rape, just consider it as a fallback, because let’s be honest, if you’re shit at delivering food and drink to a table there is not a lot else you’re gonna be good at is there?

Charlotte was upset to learn that by converting to Judaism she would be forced to stop celebrating Christmas. I fucking love Christmas. The songs, the adverts, the festive cheer.  The Santa hats, the reindeer’s and the anticipation of stepping out on a bright December morning to purchase gifts for your loved ones. Turkey, mulled wine, Cliff Richard classic, caroling, Jingle All The Way, It’s A Wonderful Life, the chance of snow, chestnuts roasting on an open fire…. How could anyone hate Christmas?

Steve half mentioned to Miranda about the girl he was dating before Miranda told him to shut up, Her name was Debbie. I think we can all picture a Debbie – big tits, but ultimately a bit dim with nothing much to say. Once a month she’d wake you up with a cup of tea and a cheeky venture down south to your cock in a display of spectacular spontaneity, but otherwise she’d be so straight-laced you’d think she was a pair of Doc Martins.

All the episode became irrelevant when disaster happened. As Big ran Carrie up out of nowhere in a head scratching attempt at instigating phone sex, my disc scratched like a So Solid Crew ‘anthem’ and decided to stop working. How am I to know exactly what is going to happen now? What IF that slag who tried to kill herself takes a big black cock right inside her? Oh dear gang, follow me onto the next episode and we’ll try and make light of this.

Stop thinking about meaty,swollen black cocks. I know it’s hard.

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