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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