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.