The use of the word ‘one’ in the title obviously conjures up images of that cunt Bono and the awful song he wrote with the shit lyrics ‘One’. Music is a very personal thing for me, in that everything I listen to is amazing and fuck you if you disagree. Never trust someone who says “oh I listen to a bit of everything me” and never trust someone who raves about dubstep.
We kicked off with a woman in Chelsea who wasn’t eating or talking. Surely that was John Terry after he erupted into a crying cunt after missing that infamous penalty kick in the Champions League final 2008. I feel a bit wary looking at human art, it all seems a bit too tribalistic and personal for my rather basic tastes. Give me a picture perfect drawing of a dog wearing a hat with a pair of sunglasses and I’ll be one happy boy. Also people starving themselves for attention – do me a fucking favour. The only thing that Bobby Sands ever accomplished was a few hundred shit jokes for crap amateur comedians like me to use.
Miranda and Black Robert were still a couple, but were stagnating like an autumn leaf covered in the cum of a sexual predator. This was despite his natty pink shirt and pizza box combination, and him bringing her a cookie emblazoned with the word’s ‘I love you’. What could have been a tender romantic moment was ruined by Miranda guzzling the cookie out of shame, like the aforementioned sex predator wiping his rapey cock on the innocent autumn leaf. Miranda’s problem was that she couldn’t tell Black Robert that she loved him, as she just wasn’t sure. Like I alluded to in the last episode, if you’re more interested in your ex finding you having sex with a black man than having sex with a black man, perhaps it’s time to go back to the white stuff.
Samantha was experiencing problems – fading eyesight and greying pubic hair, but nothing compared to the misery Charlotte went through, as she fell pregnant, but just as quickly miscarried and lost her baby. Her character has been through a lot of strife, and a lot of misery, and this new setback depressed me even further. The storylines in this episode – worries about love, worries about children, and worries about pubes made me question whether any of us ever actually grow up, or whether life is essentially one big Peter Pan theme park ride.
Carrie vented her spleen over Valentines Day, and surprise surprise she was against it. Cynics of Valentines are such dickheads, always regurgitating the same old spiel about commercialism and how ‘I don’t need one day to be nice to my partner!’ Of course you don’t, but it’s hardly a bad thing is it, to be nice and tell someone just how much they mean to you? Therefore I propose St. Martins day, no, not a celebration of the rather pretentious university (apart from Alex O’Brien although he’s pretentious in his own special way) but rather another day in the calendar to be lovely.
Miranda and Steve’s baby Brady celebrated his first birthday, in a room containing a woman who had recently lost her own baby, a woman coming to terms with aging, a shit columnist embarking on a relationship with a dickhead Russian artist, and a big black doctor with so called ‘caring hands’. Hardly the most auspicious of starts for a new life in the world, let alone a ginger one.
Steve and Miranda ended up in the closet together, and admitted their love for each other after months of fucking other people. Must be easier for Miranda, as she’s had the good sex with the big cock, whereas Steve must be continually wracked with self-doubt as to whether he’s man enough for the job. Although considering the woman who plays Miranda actually prefers the clunge to the cock, it’s not much of a problem. That last bit actually has no relevance to anything, I just realised I haven’t slagged off lesbians recently to complete my collection of every single group of people in the world that I’ve managed to slag off. Speaking of which, people who wear hats indoors – fucking idiots.
We ended with Carrie enjoying a dinner with the Russian bloke, and her asking him some arty questions. I’ve got some questions for most people who ‘do’ art – why do you fucking bother? With the exceptions of my girlfriend, Jackson Pollock and Sonny and Cher, how many people truly make great art? At a push the cartoonists behind the old Hanna and Barbera cartoons, but apart from that fuck all.