Monthly Archives: November 2009

Season Six, Episode Fourteen – ‘The Ick Factor’

There are a few things in my life that I have tried and failed at. The memorable banjo lessons of 2003, the heartbreaking Urdu practising of 2007, my current attempts to master ‘I Want You Back’ on my bass. This all seems prophetic to me considering how near I am to the finishing line of Sex And The City, and though I’m taking massive amounts of time between the episodes, it seems that no matter how hard I try this actually will be a project I will finish.

We began this episode with Steve and Miranda. Steve was clad in a checked shirt with curly hair, a look that would not be out-of-place in certain gory and cliquey parts of East London. As they were watching a charming old couple argue, Miranda proposed to Steve amidst a sea of cheap beers. Not the way I would have done it, but then Miranda didn’t have any chocolate factories, hard nipples and a mouth full of Essex bravado to fall back on.

Alexander, the exotic Russian artist, and Carrie, the neurotic American martyr continued their relationship. Alexander played Carrie a song he wrote for her, which Carrie couldn’t get used to. She described it as ‘ick’, an expression I last encountered when reading Sweet Valley High. I felt it was disgusting behaviour by Carrie, she forever moans about a lack of romance in her life, and then when a diminutive Eastern European plays her a song, with a title in French despite her being American, she scrunched her nose up in disgust.

The romance didn’t stop with just songs. Alexander also read Carrie a poem, which to an uncultured slob like Carrie must be pure torture. To prove her intelligence, she proceeded to read out a segment from ‘Vogue’, a magazine we have all established is purely for students, and out of work middle-aged photographers. “Just cos he means it doesn’t mean it’s okay” Miranda said when Carrie was telling her all about it. Fuck me, what is the world coming to when a little bit of romance and charm is seen as a bad thing? I read to my girlfriend all the time, and no-one can tell me that the football gossip page from BBC Sport isn’t the most riveting and loving words ever penned by man.

With Alexander offering expensive dresses, opera and McDonald’s, Harry decided to get his head in the game, and be more romantic to Charlotte. As his bald head almost perfectly reflected the moon on a balmy, yet clear night, he took Charlotte to a candle lit restaurant to prove that it wasn’t just “the foreign guys” who could be tender and romantic. This culminated in a French meal, which ended unfortunately with both of them experiencing severe diarrhoea on their return home. For once the shit coming out of the arse of one of the characters was worse than the utter rubbish coming out of their mouths usually.

Steve and Miranda had their wedding in a garden. With the marrow, the strawberries and the foul-smelling diggers they decided the best way to enter wedlock would be to avoid churches and pews, by embracing weeds and foliage. This is one of my gripes with Sex And The City, everything is really hurried and rushed, like the wank you’re dying to finish because you can hear footsteps outside your door approaching the handle. There is no subtlety, no poise and definitely no lubrication. Weddings, illnesses and even Big Mac meals, tossed aside meekly like a cum ridden penis after one tug too many.

And that was the cheerful part of the episode. After going to a plastic surgeon because she wanted a boob job, Samantha was found to have a cancerous lump in her breast, which she revealed via a very hurried monologue to Carrie in the back of a taxi en route to Miranda’s wedding. Cancer is a tough subject for this show to broach considering its complete lack of tastefulness and awareness for other potentially sensitive issues. Although Samantha is arguably being the most unlikable character, at least from a moral standpoint, she is also the most interesting in terms of wondering exactly what happened to her in life to make her into the emotionless person she’s portrayed as in the show.

The “c” word is one that stirs up an unbelievable range of emotions in people, and for all my flaws and all my slurs of pretty much everyone, and everything, it’s not a subject I feel that comfortable joking about. I’m not trying to make myself seem brilliant, or up my own arse or anything like that, because it clearly isn’t a badge of honour to be proud of not making jokes about stuff, but considering my complete lack of sensitivity regarding most issues, it’s an important point for me to make.

There is clearly nothing about cancer that is amusing, nothing funny about the ones we love being eaten away from the inside and turning from healthy, happy people to gaunt shadows of the people they once were. I mean fuck, I’ve never seen anyone ill, and in an ideal world I never will, but the shadows of the end frequently lurk in the back of my mind, a constant reminder to myself to appreciate what I have today before tomorrow finishes it all.

So no, no gags about cancer in this respect, and for once no mentions of Samantha’s extremely annoying personality. I remember a quote I read when Jade Goody died, which said “no-one deserves cancer but not everyone deserves sympathy.” I agreed with that at the time, having not been a fan of Goody at all, but looking back now it all seems a little bit crass and disgusting, and leaves me a bit ashamed of myself. Of course there will be times when humour is needed, and that will be addressed in due course.

Let’s end this review on a positive note shall we? Have I told you the joke about the brick wall? I won’t bother – you won’t get over it.

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Season Six, Episode Thirteen – ‘Let There Be Light’

Having a sore throat has to be one of the worst things in the world. Sure, terminal illnesses, fractured limbs and broken hearts all hurt a lot, but that nagging feeling of wanting to cough but knowing it will hurt like hell is one I do not enjoy. We can cure cancer (to an extent), walk on the moon, make great records like ‘Superstition’, but no-one can heal my coughing ailment. Where is the love? Where is the justice?

Carrie starts this episode searching for the perfect man. Waste of time, we established ages ago on here that you don’t ‘search’ for the perfect someone, they just drop into your lap like a sensationally hot crumpet. The old Russian dude Alexander sent Carrie a letter asking her out on a date, which she dutifully accepted. On said date they looked remarkably awkward together, like the woman who had acid thrown into her face co-habiting with the boy whose skin fell off. Just disastrous really.

The girls went to a shop to try out scents. Something I’m actually interested in, smelling good is the key to life. I’m sure everyone is extremely interested in my top five scents which in no particular order involve; old spice, baby spice, “brut”, sweat, and Frank Bruno. The last two smell remarkably similar, but one doesn’t turn you into a mentally ill person.

Carrie was worried whether Alexander was too old for her. Tough decision really, they say you’re only as old as the person you feel, but if you’re squeezing the balls of a man nearing sixty when you’re in your thirties then it might make things a touch uncomfortable. I’m not really bothered about the issue, but if I am like Bernie Ecclestone when I get to his age, then it’ll have been a very successful life. Short arse billionaire surrounded by glamorous beautiful babies. I can deal with that.

Miranda and Steve couldn’t deal with seeing the lovelorn Black Robert in the elevator. Poor guy, I have sympathy for him because the situation was so horrible, but equally he doesn’t have to stick his breadbasket in Miranda’s dough so he can be happy with that to some extent. I lost some of my empathy with him at one stage when he sported a ghastly orange velour track suit. I had to bite my lip in sexual frustration when the golden haze of the garments lingered on his ebony skin, and a bead of sweat trickled down his strong African-American forehead, but I managed to compose myself and get on with the rest of the episode.

Gay Anthony made a new cameo, clad in black leather jacket and David Beckham esque curtains from the good old days of 1997 and chipping Neil Sullivan from the halfway line. No real relevance to talking about Gay Anthony, he just really reminds me of a young me.

Carrie went to a waxing place and got her clunge waxed by a charming Russian broad who taught her some Russian. I got my eyebrows plucked the other day so can now fully emphasise with all women on pain, from period pains to pregnancy, I went through it all in that torturous twenty minutes. On a completely unrelated note, I only read the other day that the guy who played Alexander is one of the most well-regarded and famous ballet dancers ever, so well done for him for that. Can’t be that good if he was reduced to appearing in this show though, where did all his pirouettes get him in the end? Inside of Sarah Jessica Parker, which proves to me once and for all that dancing is a profession solely for girls who aren’t good enough to be hairdressers, and men with no cocks.

Quick point about sexual inadequacy. Miranda told Steve that she had told Robert that “no man had ever been in that deep.” Not the greatest thing to say to your boyfriend is it? Steve’s heartbroken face said more than words ever could. Forever sex with Miranda would be tainted, not that it wouldn’t be already of course, although from now on there would be insecurity to go with the deep disgust every time his New York penis ejaculated over her pale and forlorn face.

Carrie was also insecure that Alexander had banged loads of broads in the seventies. Catch-22 situation that isn’t it, you don’t want to know anything about who was with your partner before you, but you just have to know. But then some things just shouldn’t be known, like Samantha going off to fuck that old dickhead Richard again right under the nose of Fit Smith. Why can’t women just keep their legs closed for fucks sake? Who thinks like that, that it’d be alright to do a thing like that? Her crocodile tears at the end made me feel worse. Just why do women merk off the hero and go for the bastard time after time?

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