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.