Monthly Archives: December 2009

Sex And The City: The Movie

Genuinely too shit to review.

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Season Six, Episode Twenty – ‘An American Girl In Paris’ (Part Deux)

The final episode. The final garrison, the final stretch, the final curtain, the final countdown. Finally I am here, celebrating in my decaying filth that this really is it. I haven’t cured cancer, made an outstanding sandwich or told any funny jokes, but this is my own personal redemption, proof that when I put my mind to something I actually can see it through, a talent that would have been much more useful the last time I tried to integrate myself into the Muslim community by wearing a novelty fake beard, and clutching a battered copy of ‘Spanish Bombs’ by The Clash.

Let’s kick off then, for the final time.

The Paramount logo looms bigger than I’ve seen before, HBO flashes and for the final time I breathe in the tutu, feel the wetness and let myself sink in and feel that sense of shame that has enveloped me all those times before.

Carrie started off meeting Alexander and his ex-wife. Only it was just her and the ex when Alexander never bothered to turn up, bizarrely ringing his ex-wife instead of Carrie to cancel. What a weird relationship they have those two, equal parts joyless and utterly ridiculous. The two women bonded over Alexander’s shortcomings, including his inability to put other people first. After the meet, Alexander informed her that his ex had described Carrie as ‘beautiful, smart and chic’. Clearly a lie, as there aren’t enough mentions of the word ‘cunt’ in that to be an accurate portrayal of Carrie.

Charlotte was busy in New York planning the adoption of her child. Gay Anthony was milling about, his leather jacket swishing one final time. Charlotte actually said the most offensive thing I’ve heard in this show when she told Harry that the problems they were experiencing in finding a child to adopt was okay because “we’re jews, and we’ve been through worse than this.” How incredibly insensitive to all Jewish people the world over. Woody Allen films aren’t *that* bad.

Smith and Samantha were in dire straits. Samantha had lost her sex drive, and not even them both dying their hair blonde could rescue matters. Smith was going to Canada to star in a film, and so Samantha told him that she wouldn’t mind if he had sex while he was there because she didn’t feel up for it. How romantic.

Carrie tried to make herself feel better by scoffing cream cakes and staring at a bulldog. Her mood was not improved when a bolshy little girl poked her tongue out at Carrie, which led to a calamitous series of events ending with Carrie getting dog shit on her Essex girl white stilettos. A warm reminder of my teenage years, girls in big white shoes and complete shit.

Steve and Miranda were having problems with Steve’s somewhat erratic mother. All these problems, can you guess that it was the final episode, what with all the initial misery? Steve’s mum seemed disoriented, referring to baby Brady as Stevie. After a trip to the doctors it was revealed that she had experienced a mild stroke, which had worsened because, as she lived alone nobody was able to pick up on it. A harrowing scene, and a reminder of the horrors some people are unlucky enough to face. Steve asked Miranda if his mum could move in, a proposition Miranda graciously accepted.

Carrie’s mood picked up when she saw that her book had been translated into French, and was subsequently up for sale in French bookshops. As if her disgusting daubings weren’t illegible enough. The staff at the bookshop were delighted to see Carrie, gesticulating wildly, and inviting her to a party they were throwing in her honour. Carrie was amazed and pleased, and promptly asked Alexander if he would go with her. Guess what the answer was? He couldn’t, as he was presenting his exhibition for the first time on the same day as the party.

It turned out that he was wracked with fear that his art would be awful, and that he would be seen as “just an old man with silly light machines”.  He begged Carrie to go with him to the installation, forsaking her own party so that he would feel better. After much disagreement, she accepted, rudely not ringing the party and instead ignoring them. As soon as they got to the gallery, Alexander ignored her, and Carrie had an epiphany when she found her necklace buried deep inside her handbag. I’m trying to make this sound exciting, but it’s not really working is it? Let’s try to add some drama to the proceedings by trying to make it into a John Grisham thriller…

Carrie gasped when she saw the necklace. She knew instantly that what she wasn’t inside the gallery, and that she should go to her party. Wheels crunched on the Parisian streets, as Carrie’s heels click-clacked. A dash across the streets resulted in her and Big missing each other by a mere moment. The tension mounted as she launched herself into the party, only it was finished. Red wine smudges on her once pristine book. And back in New York, Steve’s mentally fragile mother was eating pizza out of a rubbish bin…

Arguments with Alexander ensued. He accidently slapped her, clipping her cheek with the side of his hand. More tension. Despondent, Carrie broke up with him. One more ending to join a list of broken relationships. Carrie was hurt, tearful. She stumbled down into the hotel lobby, only to spot Big, his big brown eyes peering straight into her face. Smiles, tears, tribulations. Fear, love, hate. Bodies moving. Hearts breaking, only to get stronger. Big rushed up the stairs like a cat on crack after Carrie told him about the slap. His face was full of protection, at least until Carrie tripped him over and they collapsed onto the rug in a fit of giggles. Laughter, the finest tonic.

They kissed. A passionate embrace in a determined ‘fuck you’ to the world that had always threatened to keep them apart. But no longer. A beautiful ending to a troubled journey? Let’s see…

On one hand it’s lovely to see that, at least on the outside they are all happy. Carrie has Big, the man she had always wanted. Charlotte and Harry have a new bubbly Chinese baby, the dream child they always wanted. Samantha and Smith have each other, and the new found ability to express their love to one another. And Miranda, forever the cynic has a child, Steve, and Steve’s mum, coupled with the skill and the nous to fully care about someone who isn’t immediately affiliated with her. All well and good, but is it what they all really wanted?

This show started out as a deeply feminist programme, a propaganda tool for millions of unwashed women in dungarees to rise out of their filthy kitchens and pretend that they had something to say for themselves, and don’t get me wrong I’m okay with that. I can relate with the need for a rallying cry for help, all the single ladies saying “yes, I’ve found my voice”, but it didn’t really work out like that did it?

The climax of this show is so different to how it started, which would suggest a positive step, but I’d respectfully disagree. Instead of the burning pride the girls all had in different ways at the start, it has been replaced with more woes and more difficulties for them to deal with. Maybe that’s what life is, one more rubbish step after another, but I’d much rather worry about what mojito I wanted to drink rather than worrying about all the people in my life letting me down.

Miranda has settled for a life in the suburbs, away from her friends, with her husband who she seems to have nothing in common with, a ginger baby, and his ill mother. Charlotte’s life has turned from a burgeoning career within the New York art world, to stay at home mum to an adopted baby with a man whom she had to bend over backwards to get to fully love her. Samantha, forever the spark has turned into a meek spark, dimmed by cancer, and age. And Carrie, forever the idealist has settled for a man she had demonised for years as the bane of her life. She needed the cheater, to stop her from cheating herself. Is that not the most tragic thought you can think of?

Is this progress or regress? The years of feminine pride, of sisters doing it for themselves, four girls against the world descended into a world where all they needed was a man in their lives. Perhaps it’s all true, and it’s certainly not the worst thought in the world, to consider the idea that all you need to make you happy is someone who loves you, and I’d certainly be happy for that to be the case, but I just can’t consider this a happy ending. You know who I blame for all this? FUCKING Stanford.

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Season Six, Episode Nineteen – ‘An American Girl In Paris’ (Part Une)

It’s the penultimate fucking installment of Sex And The City! I can’t believe it, what started after an idle thought between scratching my arse and playing Fifa has almost turned into a completed project. No more will I lay on my bed, thinking about whether it’s time to put the next disc in. I’m quite sad in a way, I fear finishing this will leave me with nothing to apart from examine my eyebrows in the mirror and contemplate where it all went right.

Carrie kicked us off by beginning to pack for her move to Paris. It seems that between the end of the last episode, and the start of this one, that Carrie and Miranda have made up, which leaves me wondering quite why they fell out at all. If you’re not going to make something out of it, then why bother? What was making things interesting was the reintroduction of Big into Carrie’s life yet again. After she was ignoring his calls, he proceeded to wait outside her building in his massive limo to try and woo her back.

It failed. At times like this, I have to think about whether the grass is always greener on the other side. In this instance, I’d have to say yes. Carrie has never seemed remotely at home with Alexander, whereas with Big the sexual frisson that erupts from their conversations is certainly a sight to behold. When she told Big that she was moving to Paris with the Russian, he was surprised, his toned facial muscles belaying a world of hurt, and a forlorn figure. Is this the end of the two of them forever? I’m sure there are a couple of Twilight fans who care a little bit.

Cory told Big to forget her name. Easier done than said.

There was tears as the girls made their farewells. Goodbyes are hard to deal with, whether it’s the gentle kiss as you say goodbye to your girlfriend as she departs your room, or the 1998 number one hit by The Spice Girls. It’s good to see that Carrie is taking her mole with her to France though.

Samantha was experiencing hot flushes as a result of her chemotherapy treatment for her breast cancer. She was asked to stand up and give a presentation at some kind of cancer shindig. The theme was ‘inspirational’, which knowing our Samantha would mean a lot of swearing, and copious amounts of references to anal beads.

Harry and Charlotte are apparently trying to adopt a baby!  Why was I not told about this? Oh yeah, because I would have labelled it as a pretty fucking stupid idea and shot it right down.

Carrie arrived in Paris, attempting to speech the French language well, but sadly it just ended up sounding like a rapist trying to sweet talk a girl into bed. Convoluted. She met Alexander’s daughter, a haughty chain-smoking, closed-minded cunt, so you would have thought they’d have a lot to talk about given how much they had in common, but alas it wasn’t to be. More problems surrounded her, culminating with her falling asleep, alone in a hotel room in a massive dress. Reminds me of my own troubled youth, only with less stockings.

She then literally fell into Dior, spending thousands of pounds on tat she didn’t need, losing her ‘Carrie necklace’ in the process which had sentimental value to her. As if things couldn’t get any worse, she couldn’t get used to the Parisian way of life, walking the streets alone, not being able to appreciate the Gallic flair due to her deeply stupid brain. A phone call with Miranda ensued, with Carrie revealing that she couldn’t stop thinking about Big, which isn’t the most ideal of situations when you’ve moved halfway across the world with a different man.

Samantha’s speech went reasonably well, finishing with a group of terminally ill middle-aged broads proudly display their baldness for all to see. Sure, it sounds like the ideal situation for a young man to find himself in, but not when you’ve just eaten your dinner.

Big met up with Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte in an attempt to construct a plan for him to win Carrie back. He asked them for advice, to find out whether it was a sensible move going to Paris to woo her back when she could be extremely happy with Alexander. The girls told him to go and do it, their hatred for the Russian seeping out like the thrush stains of a dirty, filthy prostitute. A wise move? Perhaps. In that situation I think it’s only fair for your heart to overrule your head,  you only get one life*, and so you should just do whatever feels right, bar sticking your cock in the comfy anus of an eleven year old boy. Because that’s wrong Gary, very wrong.

As he was asking, Alexander presented Carrie with a lovely diamond necklace. Despite the jewellery, she felt trapped, unable to appreciate the moment because of her wandering mind, and her desire for Big. Just what is going to happen friends? She needs an escape, but will one come?

*Unless you’re a div who believes in reincarnation.

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Season Six, Episode Eighteen – ‘Splat’

The Wonder Years. Let’s talk about that little gem of a programme for a little bit before we get into the Sex And The City grind. Great show, had all the components of a beautiful piece of television. The lead character being played by someone called ‘Fred Savage’, a Beatles song as the theme tune, and late sixties/early seventies nostalgia mixed in with the realness of war, unemployment, and the trials and tribulations of growing up as a midget curly-haired boy with the jocks and the cheerleaders.

Alexander – still don’t know whether I like the guy or not. Sure he’s suave, Russian and a fabulous dancer, but he’s also a bit of a humourless tit. He was making plans for his move to Paris, and asked Carrie whether she’d like to go with him to live. Must be a hard decision, on one hand you have to leave your neurotic friends and shitty column and move to one of the most romantic cities on earth, and on the other…

Life was weird for Carrie. She was invited to a party that her Vogue editor was throwing, under the provision that she found her editor a man. Wouldn’t have asked Carrie if I was her, the only friends she has seem to be three haggard warlocks and two gay witches. The aforementioned friends all traipsed round to Alexander’s for a dinner party, which was as awkward as an open-minded, fun-loving music fan at a dubstep gig. Steve asked Alexander if he knew of Billy Joel. Not the best move, especially as it led to Alexander talking about how great Paris is. I’m not so sure. What have they ever given to the world apart from pricks? Thierry Henry, Marie Antoinette, Louis Pasteur – all old boring bastards.

Samantha appeared to have modelled her looks on this episode as Stone Cold Steve Austin dressing up as Cleopatra for Halloween.

Charlotte’s dog was getting a wee bit plump, which turned out to be pregnancy. As if four bitches in Sex And The City wasn’t enough, low and behold three more littles ones. Charlotte was increasingly unhappy about how everyone was getting pregnant except for her. Maybe someone of her age with no job, and an alarming obsession with dressing their puppy in knitted clothes can’t really be trusted  to mother a child. Perhaps God’s will really does exist. I appreciate that this Charlotte story is intended to make her seem more lovely and approachable, but I’m just bored shitless. Give her a child, or an early grave, or preferably both at the same time, such is the tedium she causes every time she’s on the box.

Carrie was worrying about whether to learn French for her impending move to Paris. I have legit been learning French for the last two months or so, and it has gone absolutely disastrously. It has not been helped by having a tutor whose breath smells like sour garlic being smeared all over a car park gang bang, but it’s probably just my own stupidity that is hindering my learning process. Only so many times I can count to 100 in French without wanting to throw myself into the River Seine, forever a victim of my own precociousness.

Carrie went to her editors party with a little bald ogre in tow, and for once it wasn’t the deplorable Stanford. She was shouted out by a raspy voiced slut. I appreciate that I could be talking about 95% of women here, but carry on this story with me. The slut (and Miranda it has to be said) both complained of Alexander and his art buddies being pretentious. The dubbing of creative people with descriptions like that always makes me laugh, the classic insecurity tactic. Admonish someone and label them as pretentious purely because you don’t understand what they do. Of course, if someone is carrying a Rough Trade tote bag and a pair of Reebok classics, they usually are pretentious fuckers.

The raspy voiced slut died, falling out of a window after complaining to everyone that New York was decaying while smoking a cigarette. What followed was genuinely appalling. No-one seemed to care about her death, instead using it as a chance to prove their supposed coolness, and to harbour their crass bitterness. The newspapers were used as paper for dog shit, the funeral was a chance for people to dress up in all their finery and discuss mortgage plans and holidays. That utter bastard Stanford actually bemoaned the fact that he wasn’t at the party where she died.

I guess that’s the difference between people like me and people like Stanford. One of us is a kind man, a visionary, a dreamer, whereas the other is just a sad bastard who never does anything all day but bitch and moan. A year ago, I was the latter, a waste of space living a pointless existence, but now I’m pretty sure I’m here to do something better, something purer.

Miranda and Carrie had an argument about Carrie moving, the cold winter and the snow falling failed to raise a smile between the two of them as they shouted the street scarlet. To some it must have been emotionally affecting, but now I’m not that bothered, too busy listening to ‘Tiny Dancer’, and dreaming of New York City.

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Season Six, Episode Seventeen – ‘The Cold War’

Keep having really interesting dreams about animals. The other night I was a big bear, gamely wading through a jungle, scratching my back against a tree whilst a half-naked boy was trying to find his family. Then there was me as a potato head, amidst the chaos of a talking cowboy doll, and a little spaceman contemplating suicide because he found out he didn’t have any superpowers. I feel sorry for people with no imagination, I really do.

We kicked off with Alexander’s wandering hands touching Carrie up in a restaurant. His arty friends turned up, and they all proceeded to have a good old natter about his upcoming art exhibit, which was to be his first one in six years. All I can say to that, is what kind of lazy bastard takes six years to do anything? The Beatles released about ten classic albums in that time period, ‘we’ won a world war in less time, and Jack The Ripper eliminated half of London’s petulant prostitute problems in ONE SIXTH of that time.  It’s simply not good enough.

Charlotte was showing off her new puppy, the gorgeously cute Elizabeth Taylor. The dog was prancing and wiggling through New York, mincing more than a sensational Spaghetti Bolognese, or perhaps more relevantly, more than Gay Stanford on a day where he doesn’t feel ugly and bald. Charlotte planned to enter Elizabeth Taylor in one of those dog shows. Think Crufts, but with more odious Americans whooping and cheering, like those annoying divs who shout out “GET IN THE HOLE” whenever Tiger Woods swings his golf club.

Miranda was complaining about the move to Brooklyn, bemoaning her lack of internet. Her angry stance softened somewhat when her shitty gossip magazines were delivered to the new place, instantly transporting her into a wonderful world of celebrity cellulite and top ten tips on how to have the perfect piss. Funny how loads of women proclaim themselves to be so secure, so satisfied in their lives, when all they do all day is watch shit programmes like ‘The Hills’, read ‘Heat’, sip vodka through a pink straw and swear constantly, just to justify their mundane boring lives. Do something interesting, learn to play chess, stick playing cards on your wall, or if you’re thinking really outside the box, kill yourselves.

Samantha was getting wiggy with it. By that I mean she was wearing a lot of different wigs. She was concerned when the shitty gossip rags ran a story of Smith being gay because he was snapped in a photograph with Gay Stanford. I have no idea why she would worry so much, the picture looked less like two gay men posing provocatively, and more like the Hollywood hunk Smith putting a tender arm around a terminally ill older gentleman, albeit a dying man wearing a lurid green shirt.

Despite this, she was offended by being called a ‘fag hag’, forever killing the myth that Sex And The City is a gay friendly programme. As if cancer wasn’t bad enough for her, no-one believed she was fucking Smith. To counter this, she had him fuck her in front of a camera, a filmed sex act that was casually sent to the same gossip crap that had originally called him gay. Classy. It’s weird, any other episode involving a dog bleeding from her anus and you’d think I was talking about this scene with Samantha, being brutally arse fucked by Smith, but alas it was Elizabeth Taylor getting her period. This programme is getting weird.

Very weird for Carrie. A lot was going on in her life, most notably her insecurity about her relationship with Alexander. She was concerned that they didn’t have anything in common, and that they weren’t involved enough in each others lives. An interesting dilemma. Before I met my girlfriend I honestly couldn’t have given a shit about art, drawing or stop motion animation, but now I find myself fascinated by all aspects of her life, including art as that is a big part of it. This coming from the most selfish person I know – me! It wasn’t a conscious effort for me to be interested, it just naturally occurred, and I think maybe that’s the test of a relationship. If you need to HAVE to make an effort to talk about anything, then maybe you just shouldn’t try at all.

Big ringing her up constantly didn’t help Carrie either, and nor did Alexander being rude to her friends after she brought them round to see him. To be fair, he had told her not to bother as he was especially busy with his upcoming art ‘thing’, but she ignored him and wheeled them round anyway. How horrible of her, dragging a cancer victim halfway across New York for just a cursory glance at a maverick Russian artist.

We ended with Carrie and the Russian talking properly, for the first time about his own insecurities in his own work, and how sometimes he would look at the art he had already created and think it was pony. I’m paraphrasing of course, but there was a certain beauty, an innate sense that no matter how successful you are, you might always be riddled with the self-doubt, self loathing, and self-love that comes with being one of the most talented and inspirational people of your generation. I should know, I have two gay friends.

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Season Six, Episode Sixteen – ‘Out Of The Frying Pan’

Breakfast. Despite being a huge fan of the breakfast of champions and all the pleasure and moisture that comes with it, I’m not a big breakfast man. They say it’s the most important meal of the day, but I’m unsure of that. Sure, I love a full English – sausage, bacon, fried egg, baked beans, hash browns, round of toast and a heart attack, yet I can’t fall in love with it like I can a cheese and onion sandwich, or a classic roast.

Still on Portuguese subtitles, here’s hoping this time they won’t drive me to distraction.

We started with Alexander taking Carrie all around cultural New York, finishing with a little Korean. Alas it wasn’t the red light district, or a pet shop so the true identity of Korea remained to be seen, but at least he tried. After that, he cooked her a lovely meal in her own apartment. What a kind man, and he became even kinder when he killed a rat in her apartment. Maybe that’s the taste of Korea after all.

The girls licked lollipops in Samantha’s chemo ward. Something slightly sexy about female tongues sensually sucking a sticky shaft, but not when they’re all botoxed fuckholes. Afterwards Alexander told Carrie that a friend of his had suffered breast cancer and had died. While it doesn’t sound laugh out loud funny, it was the way he said it that tickled me. The wide eyes, the dead pan expression, it was like seeing a funny Jack Dee. Honestly, his lack of tact was incredible, although Carrie’s protestations of “please don’t talk about your friend who died” screamed of nastiness.

Charlotte and Harry began to come to terms with the idea that they wouldn’t be able to conceive naturally. The acting is so fucking terrible though, the guy who plays Harry trying to look sad and contemplative reminded me more of my little nephew being caught with his fingers in the biscuit jar, or Peggy Mitchell’s frown in Eastenders. Charlotte was cheered up slightly when she fell in love with a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel dog, who was clad in a Burberry coat. I’m not a dog man, but he was incredibly cute and beautiful. For the last time though, I’m not gay.

Steve and Miranda were plotting to move house. Steve wanted to move to a lovely place in Brooklyn, whereas Miranda wanted to remain in Manhattan. Because I don’t know anything about either of those places, and because I love Steve, I’m going to pretend that Brooklyn is like Essex – regal, glacial and perfect, and like Manhattan is like everywhere else in the world – utter shit. They eventually bought the place, though after some classic Miranda moaning.

In a moment of crisis, Carrie asked if being in denial was a good thing or not. Like everything I suppose, there is a time and a place for such action. At points it almost becomes cathartic to pretend that everything is okay, that she’s not cheating, that he’s not ill, that things will work out for the best. But there does come a point when you’ve got to open yourself up and admit that sitting in a haze of delusion and denial won’t help in the grand scheme of things. Whether it’s admitting who you love, or who you hate, or what you’re scared of and what you want to accomplish. Yeah it’s easy for someone to say it and not do it yourself, but you sometimes need other people to accomplish the stuff you’re capable of before you do it yourself. Like walking through a burning building, or listening to drone music.

Samantha’s cancer storyline continued onwards here. Her hair had started coming out, becoming most apparent when she was giving oral pleasure to her life partner Smith, or as they say in Oxford and Cambridge, ‘sucking him off good and proper’. Smith’s cock drooped and wilted, which led to Samantha believing he wasn’t interested in her anymore. He was. When he returned to their place to find her in the process of shaving her hair off, he proved his desire for her, and his will to help her through her battle, by shaving his own golden locks off, and then moving onto hers.

It was a rare tender moment in this show which often has outrageously low morals and angry moments. In this murky world of decadence and greed, and everyone wanting something for themselves, it was a brave move by the writers to make Smith as loving as possible. Because he has come across as the nicest person in this show, bar none. A man who has everything, and could have the biggest ego in the world, but he doesn’t, instead choosing to be nice, warm and gracious when faced with difficulties. This show really has no role models or heroes, but he is the closest possible person for people to look up to, and try and be like.

Redemption then as the episode came to an end. Samantha discovered who she was again thanks to Smith, a razor and a rather fetching pink wig. Charlotte admitted defeat in her battle to have a child, but gained acceptance and a new dog. Miranda thought of people other than herself for a change, and moved to the utopia that is Brooklyn with the boys, and Carrie got a rat caught in her hair. All in all, an above average episode.

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Season Six, Episode Fifteen – ‘Catch-38’

I’m being forced to watch this episode on YouTube, complete with Portuguese subtitles because I can’t find the right disc at the moment. This isn’t really a problem considering the subtitles were probably the most entertaining part of the show. Damning it all with faint praise perhaps, but better than no praise. Incidentally the title of this episode reminds me of my favourite book of all time , Catch-22, which is a must read for anybody who considers themselves to be a vaguely intelligent person.

Carrie reached a relationship landmark with Alexander when he gave her the keys to his apartment. Big news sure, but I was paying more attention to Carrie’s silk gloves. I love the feel of silk, but I always feel vaguely sick when I see it on hands, especially the gnarled beasts which wrap round Carrie’s fingers.

Samantha heard back from her breast cancer results. Life sure travels fast for people in this show, it seems like only yesterday when she was diagnosed. It was of course the last episode, which baffles me some what. The slow build is completely non-existent, a storyline like this could have been season wide, as opposed to being shunted on at the arse end of this one. Still, I suppose Samantha wouldn’t mind being shunted arse first at the end of something.

The doctor was called Doctor Pinker which made me laugh. Couldn’t have been the same doctor which Gay Stanford uses, as that would be Doctor Brown. The results indicated the successful removal of the lump, but chemotherapy was strongly recommended. Samantha was outraged when the doctor inferred that one of the reasons she may have gotten cancer was because motherless. Cancer is surely a small price to pay for no mini Sam or Samantha’s running about fucking everything that moves.

Miranda and Steve went on a honeymoon, leaving Brady in the shaky hands of Carrie and Charlotte who both offered to look after him. Interestingly Samantha did not offer, which leaves me wondering exactly what she’s got going on in her life not to bother. When in Carrie’s care, the little bastard ran amok in Alexander’s apartment, and Brady was also there.

The honeymoon shot off to a sticky start after an initial bout of lovemaking. This was followed by Miranda being incapable of relaxation, fretting over forgetting her phone charger, and bemoaning the lack of television or internet. Sounds a lot like me whenever I leave Bowski towers, but a little more neurotic. In a bizarre scene, Steve said he wanted to wash Miranda’s hair, with a cheeky nod to the classic film ‘Out Of Africa’, but if it was any classic film it was reminiscent of Bridge On The River Kwai. The end of that film features Major Clipton uttering ‘Madness, madness!!!’, a quote that ran through my mind when Miranda got soap in her eyes. It was that sort of episode.

Alexander revealed that he was a father, and that he couldn’t, and didn’t want any more children. Carrie was initially happy with that, but was concerned that he wouldn’t change his mind in the future. That man really has the hands of a dancer and the wings of an angel. What followed was the most mundane, tedious and dull conversation I’ve ever bore witness to, and I once went to a lecture on 17th century bridal wear. It was so boring that my eyes flickered to an article on tap dancing in Africa. Over two thousand words long, and when I finished the conversation was still going on. Never again please.

Samantha tried to use her media savvy to get a better doctor than Mr Pinker. My sympathy for her keeps eroding slowly but surely. It started with the fur coat she was sporting, and increased when she boasted that she had once blown rock star Mick Jagger backstage once. You know what they say about a rolling stone gathering no moss, or rather in this case, no chemo.

After moaning a lot, and having a conversation with a nun about masturbation, Samantha finally got her new doctor when she told the receptionist she was going out with Smith, who had taken her cancer news with typically fantastic grace, and all-American good looks. Charlotte and Harry banged each other which baby Brady saw. It was hard to tell which was balder, Harry’s head or Charlotte’s attempt at looking concerned.

In the end, we got love, life, and love again. Samantha got her appointment, Miranda finally came to terms with being nice to Steve, Alexander got his accent from Russia, and I get a kick out of having the most wonderful girlfriend in the world.

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