Season Six, Episode Twelve – ‘One’

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.

Carrie was getting stared at by some old Russian bastard. According to rumours, a few humble fans of this blog disapprove of my sweeping statements where I insult entire countries based on nothing more than hearsay, but I can say for sure that all Russian people do in fact smoke crack, that’s pure and simple. This old dude was an artist, a job title that sits somewhere between ‘professional skateboarder’ and ‘backing singer for Whitney Houston’ in terms of useless vocations.

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.

Season Six, Episode Eleven – ‘The Dominoe Effect’

I drank half a beer today, which to me is a momentous occasion. ‘Momentous’, in that I still view alcohol as a complete waste of time, purely because it all tastes the same to me. Vodka the same as beer, sambuca the same as whiskey – all the alcohol in the world can’t wash down that sense of shame at clouding my body with such poison. I wonder how watching Sex And The City would be affected if illegal substances were pouring down my body. Would Carrie appear less dull if she was surrounded by a kaleidoscope of colours and dancing bears? Who knows? And quite frankly, who cares?

Carrie started this episode sporting quite a lot of fake tan which always leaves me uncomfortable. Essex girls are most guilty of slapping the bizarre orange liquid all over their puckered faces, to achieve what I do not know. I’m a moralistic man, and so the notion that people try so hard to look that weird orange colour is offensive, not only to me, but also to a wide range of races, most notably the Oompa-Loompas, a tribe of people usually found in chocolate factories.

Carrie met up with Big for some sort of dinner. Can’t believe how expensive food is these days, who on earth would pay twenty notes for a steak? I could legit feed a family of eight in Somalia for that amount, and still have nineteen quid spare. All they need are 7 p Sainsburys instant noodles and hot water for a tasty nutritious treat, although this being Africa, the lack of water may be a hindrance. Still, they’ll get what they’re given and they’ll like it. Carrie ended up in tears because Big told her that he needed a minor heart operation. Hope the Big guy doesn’t die, he’s the only one in the show who looks good in a suit.

Miranda was walking into her kitchen when she saw Black Robert in her kitchen. I’m saying nothing, except that if I opened the door to my flat and a big burly black geezer was skulking around my kitchen, I’d know for sure my flatmate Antoine was in, probably cooking rice and peas and listening to Fela Kuti. Black Robert was cooking Miranda a romantic meal, although too spicy for my tender tastes. Later on, Stunning Steve looking all American in white t-shirt and ice blue jeans walked into Miranda and Black Robert having sex. “Is it terrible that I took pleasure out of that?”, Miranda asked the girls later on about the situation. If I was getting more pleasure out of that awkward moment than I was when getting fucked by a muscular black Adonis, I’d question whether I was doing it right.

Some blonde woman recommended a Chinese doctor who could help get Charlotte pregnant.  Might sound a bit dodgy, but from all the Chinese people I’ve ever met they’ve only been good at two things – cooking noodles, and looking really pissed off, and I don’t really need any advice on that. As Charlotte entered the hospital, it made me question my own morality, and also curiously my butter preferences. This stems back from an operation I had as a nipper, where afterwards I was given two slices of buttered toast. I wasn’t a huge fan of butter at the time, and so, being the polite little trooper I was, I begged my mum to eat the toast so I didn’t appear rude. She didn’t. I don’t think I’ve ever forgiven her for that.

Samantha was having difficulties of her own, although they weren’t as important as trying to create a family dynasty. Fit Smith was back again, and this time he was trying to hold her hand in the street which she wasn’t keen about. It must be hard for an emotionless, insecure loud-mouth to show affection in public, but if I can imagine it, then surely she can. And to be fair, she did. I was made slightly uncomfortable by her boasting that it was proved she missed Smith because she ‘hadn’t fucked anybody since he had been gone.” I distinctly recall a drunken snog with a stranger a couple of episodes ago. Does kissing not count as cheating? Cheating is such a huge scary word with so many connotations and I don’t really know my own opinions on the matter.

Could have done without Carrie dressing up as a red and white chequered nurse. Could have done without Steve and Miranda almost getting back together. Could have done without Big and Carrie going through an elongated ‘will they, won’t they’ discussion as to whether they’ll get back together. When will people realise that if you’re with someone who always makes life a constant battle then it’s just not worth it? Misery and arguments aren’t badges of honour on which to cling a relationship on, happiness, contentment and great watch based presents are though.

Good episode, made me laugh, cry and ponder the world in ways I never thought were possible. But enough about the last episode I watched of ‘It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia’, this Sex And The City one was utter tripe. By the way, a great pal of mine has made a mock up of a front cover of a possible book adaptation of ‘Mart In The City’ – how money is this? Cheers moneybags.

Season Six, Episode Ten – ‘Boy, Interrupted’

Topical week for me, moved back to London, got a Blackberry and a bit of a sniffle to complete the triple whammy. Sex And The City has become a poisoned chalice pecking away at my shaven neck forever taunting me that the end might be near, but it’s never near enough to relax. But one day it will be, and on that day the entire world will look in shock and awe as I complete the ultimate tale of redemption.

We started with Carrie meeting her old high school boyfriend after a twenty year gap. It’s weird, some people you meet from your past must be so different, yet if you met someone like Carrie who you used to know things would just stay the same in a very depressing day. “What do you do then?” you’d ask, a little interested but ultimately not caring. “Oh, I just talk and write about sex all day”, they’d reply, with shiny eyes that would soon turn to bemusement when you couldn’t care less. The boyfriend was played by David Duchovny or ‘him off the X-Files’. The X-Files theme tune used to scare me a lot when I was a child, along with racial oppression, and the WWF wrestler ‘Kane’.

Miranda was offered two free front row seats to the basketball by her love interest Black Robert. I’m still wondering whether it’s too controversial to label him as ‘black’ but when the writers make such a big deal out of it like they do with the two gay lads, then what can one do? Speaking of basketball, it’s fucking rubbish, just a load of giants running around for about three hours throwing a ball in the air. Americans slag off soccer, but that’s because they can’t appreciate tactics, just gormless steroid freaks bouncing balls.

Samantha met a character who was played by Geri Halliwell, or as she’s commonly known in the business ‘ginger spice’. When I was eight, my order of preference Spice Girls wise was Baby, Ginger, Posh, Scary and Sporty, and now ‘Scary’ is bang on number one in my list. Isn’t it a bit racist that the black one was called scary? Anyway, Geri’s acting was pretty wooden, if you squinted you could probably make a rockin’ chair out of her she was so bad.

Lame plot ensued with Samantha trying to get into an exclusive pool club. Why pay loads of money to go for a swim when the local friendly YMCA are in every neighbourhood, after all it’s full of young men who do anything they can. Incidentally, how many people have swimming pools in their gardens? Maybe my fierce working class background is blinding me somewhat, but I’ve only ever met one person with a swimming pool in their garden, and they tell me that it’s commonplace. Madness, rich, rich madness.

Carrie’s dilemma centered around whether ‘we had it right in high school’. By this she was debating whether that if we ever really got over the people we met in school, and if everything after that was essentially pointless. I don’t really agree, unless you’re one of the lotharios with facial hair from aged twelve and supreme confidence, who really gets that much action in school? A cheeky finger in the woodwork department, a crafty handjob during biology, a chilling teabagging at break time notwithstanding of course. What really went on apart from playing conkers, and no – that’s not some disgusting sexual act.

Gay Stanford and his hot piece of meat experienced relationship difficulties. Bitchy Gay Anthony, my personal favourite ‘gay’ in Sex And The City let ‘slip’ that Gay Stanford’s boyfriend used to be a gay escort. Nothing wrong with that, better than being a straight mondeo surely? Of course, Gay Stanford being such a divvy green polyester wearing prick proceeded to break up with his fella for something he’d done ten years ago. This blog has a substantial gay audience of at least two, and I imagine they’d be throwing up into their copies of Attitude Magazine at the disgusting actions of Gay Stanford. I can only hope he’ll find happiness when he comes to terms with his own sexuality.

Miranda went to the basketball, and proceeded to get very jealous because Black Ronald was flirting with a hot young blonde cheerleader. Supple, youthful and athletic cheerleader versus permanently miserable, sour faced ginger lawyer? Tough one. Classic female behaviour, getting jealous because he was talking to someone better looking, could she not just have accepted that she’s not the apple of anyone’s eye? Could she not be just friend with the Ebony prince?

Maybe women can’t be friends with men at all. When Carrie’s old boyfriend told her that “I need to be honest with you about something” Carrie wilted like a flower that had just been pissed on by a particularly savage East London art student. What followed was him saying that he was in a mental institution for a month to sort out some issues, which to ‘ol sensitive Carrie was the ‘worst thing someone can say to you’. Not ‘I’ve got AIDS’, or ‘I’m fucking your best friend’, but a cry for help, and an explanation as to why someone might be acting oddly. Genuinely a disturbing scene, but naturally she slept with him soon after, before deserting him to leave him on his own with his insanity.

So we’ve been through slagging people off with mental health issues, racism with insinuating that all black people are interested in is basketball and young white teenagers, and the theft of public identity with Samantha pretending to be someone else purely to lie by a pool. Fuck a dancer calling someone a paki, the real oppression, racism and awful bollocks are in Sex And The City land, and it MUST BE STOPPED!