Category Archives: 3rd Season

Season Three, Episode Eighteen – ‘Cock a Doodle Do!’

Series three then, over and out. I was going to talk about the highs and lows, the jubilation and the despair, but I’m in a good mood following Jenson Button’s forth Formula One victory of the season, and Phil Mitchell’s return to alcoholism in Eastenders. Whoever said that laughing at people is wrong, was clearly a mug.

We started this episode with Carrie being awoken by the sound of cocks, and not for the first time I imagine. This time though, it was the crowing of roosters which had been left outside her apartment. Samantha was having similar problems, as she kept being woken up by the transsexuals who loitered outside her place in the early hours of the morning. For once, I knew exactly how she was feeling – some of the grotesque creatures who appear at my university wearing all sorts of ridiculous clothing really get to me, especially when I’m stuck in a lift with ten idiots sporting cowboy hats, ironic t-shirts, and hair straighteners.

Charlotte spends the majority of time pining for Trey, and I can’t see much wrong with that. I don’t have a problem with people missing someone they’re not with any more, as long as you don’t bore everyone with your woe, a healthy degree of obsession can be pretty good. It all worked out for Charlotte anyway, as Trey came storming down to her place, and finally gave her the fucking she deserved. Whether or not this means that they’re back together or not is beyond me – in Sex And The City land two people having decent sex usually ends up with a lot of regret and misery.

Miranda worried if she was stuck in a rut, especially when she rang up her local Chinese takeaway and the girl on the other line giggled as she finished Miranda’s order before Miranda could finish. Pretty embarrassing that – personally I’ve stopped eating Chinese food, because it reminds me a little bit too much of women. Too expensive, too unhealthy and a little bit too greasy. My feelings of nausea soon turned to unbridled joy as Carrie and Miranda strolling down a road suddenly saw Aidan and… STEVE sitting around chatting with each other, stroking their dogs and enjoying the sunshine.

The feeling of amazement went up a notch when out of nowhere two beautiful ladies came and sat next to Aidan and Steve, and Miranda and Carrie realised that the two men had moved on – and moved on in spectacular fashion. I’m a big fan of awkward moments, and looking at those two ghastly creatures wondering what to do was a picture. My face almost exploded with the gleeful smile I had. I even overlooked Steve’s Hawaiian shirt, such was my fantastic mood. Probably my favourite moment of the show so far.

This made Carrie have a small crisis, and made her think whether it was true that she obsessed over men so much. “It’s so much easier for men to move on” a slapper said, and my good mood evaporated. What a load of bollocks, yet another myth perpetrated by women to make men seem emotionless and empty. And then something reMARTable happened. Her thinking continued, and eventually she struck gold. “What if everything isn’t the mans fault?” she said. “Maybe the problem is us!” About fucking time! At the end of the last episode I had a small moan about how women were selfish idiots, but maybe I was wrong all along! Maybe the penny finally dropped!

…Or maybe not, as Big rang up Carrie and arranged a lunch date. Some people just never learn do they? Good on Miranda for once, she protested to Carrie that it was a bad mistake, and whilst I felt like disagreeing with her for the sake of it, I had to give her that point. Something that Carrie failed to do, as her and Miranda became embroiled in an argument where Miranda was reminded about how she got rid of Steve because she can’t deal with imperfections in people. Which for a ginger lawyer, is one of the most hypocritical things I can think of. Like a fit Scouser. I struggled to pick a side to see who was right, it’s like supporting the Israelis and the Palestinians – either way you’re gonna get bombed. Perhaps a fight to the death between the two of them, with the winner getting written out of the show would have been best.

After the argument Miranda couldn’t stop thinking about Steve. Hopefully that’s a lesson to all women who let go great guys just because they can’t deal with being someone who isn’t like someone else – ie, an unemotional arsehole. You can’t treat someone like utter rubbish and expect that you’ll feel alright about it when you find out that they’ve moved on and you haven’t can you? You’ll just pine and worry, and go to phone them about five times a day, never actually making the call. I’m genuinely glad Miranda realised that, and whilst Steve deserves better, their reconciliation over a Chinese meal was at least a little bit nice.

As for Carrie and Big, they ended up getting very wet. Damp. Moist and shivering as they both fell into a lake after a botched attempted kiss by the Big man. As they dried off in his bedroom, one of them – can’t remember which as dickheads all look the same to me, remarked that their relationship was a good idea in theory, but it just didn’t work. I know what they mean, but sometimes you’re surprised. I was on the Tube yesterday, and two events really stood out. Firstly, I was sat opposite a bald man and his girlfriend, and due to the heat of the day his forehead was bristling with sweat. His missus lovingly wiped the sweat from his bulbous forehead with a napkin, and they looked very loving. On my way back from work (on the Picadilly line to Covent Garden fact fans) I saw a middle aged couple looking absolutely miserable. They had just come back from holiday, suitcases on their knees and complete miserableness on their worn out faces. Where had the love gone? No relevance, but things like that really depress me. As does racism. And Liverpool.

The season ended with all the girls having a party on a roof somewhere enjoying themselves. I wish I could say the same for me, but I’ve just realised that I’ve only got one Granny Smith apple left, and that my friends is a disaster. Still though, I’ve got three more seasons of this fantastic show to get through! Woooooooooo! Sorry for the extended review today – this was the longest episode of the show so far in more ways than one, and you have no idea how much I’m praying that there are no hour long special editions of the show, as that might be too much for even me to take. As a reward, have a random YouTube video of a baby elephant, and thanks for reading this rubbish.



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Season Three, Episode Seventeen – ‘What Goes Around Comes Around’

I’m halfway through this voyage now, and I’m beginning to worry about whether it’s all worth it. Sure, it’s an entertaining read, sometimes inspirational, sometimes romantic, sometimes heartbreaking – but what am I getting out of this? Catharsis? Maybe, but not enough to warrant watching another forty-six episodes of this muck. I dunno, my huge ego will probably get in the way and ensure I finish this project – however sloppily.

This is the penultimate episode of Season Three anyway, and it’s been a disappointing one. Mainly due to the lack of Steve – I really miss his hair. I even miss Gay Stanford who hasn’t been in this either recently. The Charlotte and Trey saga rumbles on though, as Charlotte eventually grew tired of Trey’s laziness in the bedroom, by macking off with the ‘hunky’ gardener in the er, garden…

All would have been well, only they were caught by one of Trey’s pals, and his broken and disappointed face when he found out was awful. It was quite a sad break-up actually, especially when Trey suggested they have effectively ‘separate lives’ but that they still stayed together. Only a broken man would suggest something like that, a broken man who can’t get it up. Still though, the end of ANOTHER relationship in this show – how many is that now? Perhaps further proof that women should shut their legs before making important decisions.

I was sufficiently cheered up however, when Carrie got mugged for everything, including the designer shoes she was wearing. It was a magnificent scene – a real good defeating evil scenario. I know most muggers are idiots, but this guy was a real Robin Hood figure. It’s probable that my blind hatred for Carrie made me feel like this, but I can’t help feel that Carrie really got her just desserts. I suppose the proof is in the pudding on that one.

Still though, when something bad happens for someone, something good happens for another, though to my dismay the good thing happened for Miranda. Just when I thought the stench of bacon couldn’t get any more extreme due to someone cooking it in the kitchen, she managed to get a date with the policeman who was helping Carrie out with her mugging dilemma. Miranda deciding what to wear before the date reminded me a lot of battered wives who put loads of make-up on to hide the damage dished out by their husbands. It doesn’t matter how much you dress yourself up, if you don’t sort out the real problem – being beaten up on a regular basis, or having flaming red hair, everything you do is purely cosmetic, and won’t help you inside.

Trouble for Miranda is, she has no confidence at all, and feels inferior when going out with such a good looking guy. To counter this, she drinks a lot during their time together, and after one night of awkward sex he leaves her a note with the number of the nearest Alcoholics Anonymous place. Awkward sex was also on Samantha’s mind, as she ended up ripping the virginity of a student away in a haze of teenage hormones and fumbling. Her problem was that he ended up obsessing over her after the deed had been done, to the point where he was screaming down her door telling her he loved her. The kid was clearly mentally unstable, and I felt a little uncomfortable watching a show that celebrated laughing at spastics – what kind of person would love Samantha? Come on.

Things went from bad to worse for Carrie as she found out that Big and Natasha had broken up, and their marriage had dissipated. She set out to meet Natasha to explain herself, and eventually managed to find out where Natasha was having lunch. What followed was pretty sickening, and a sad indictment of womankind everywhere. I hate idiots who ruin lives, and think that just because they flutter their eyelashes and sadly say ‘I’m sorry’ that everything will be alright. What a bunch of tits, of course that isn’t enough! Especially when you’re chatting to a woman whose marriage you have broken up, whose tooth you have knocked out, and whose lunch you have ruined. Thankfully Natasha saw through Carrie’s disgusting façade, and told her what’s what.

I seem to type this a lot, but where are the morals here? Carrie has cheated on Aidan, ending a perfectly lovely relationship by fucking Big, whilst destroying his and Natasha’s marriage. Miranda ended a perfectly lovely relationship with Steve, because she couldn’t come to terms with being with someone who actually had a personality, and so destroyed his lovely curly brain with her poisonous words. Charlotte seems to have ended a marriage by getting off with a gardener, which isn’t the worst thing in the world because the marriage was a shambles, but surely she could have waited until it was over, and Samantha, fucking Samantha is perhaps the worse because she only ever puts herself first, never caring about the needs of anyone else.

Lads, would you really want to get involved with any of these? It’s not as if any of them are that fit are they? Certainly their looks don’t make up for their acidic and obnoxious personalities. And girls, are these four idiots still your heroes, still the women you want to be like? Yeah, they might wear nice shoes, but that’s not really enough is it? I’ve learnt that the four women in this show aren’t the strong, independent role models they are portrayed as, but rather they’re the lowest of the low, dirty has-beens who could never quite come to terms with that fact that it’s them that are the problem, rather than everyone else…

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Season Three, Episode Sixteen – ‘Frenemies’

Prior to this episode, I had only heard the term ‘frenemies’ in the film ‘Mean Girls’ which is comfortably in my top ten films with the word ‘Mean’ in the title, just after ‘Mean Machine’ and before ‘Black Girls Get Mean 4’ which actually improves with every viewing.

This is an episode about friends, and also about enemies. Hence ‘frenemies’. It’s also about me and the cool bottle of Volvic I supped whilst watching it, hence me feeling refreshed and energised. ‘Refreshed and energised’ were two adjectives that couldn’t be used for somebody who Miranda was supposed to go on a first date with. That’s because he died during the day, leaving Miranda cross legged and depressed in a dress from ‘Barney’s.’ Now, I don’t care who you are, but if someone would rather die – of a heart attack no less, than go on a date with you, then perhaps it’s time to consider your own life, and certainly your own personality.

Carrie also dies here, but on stage, and unfortunately metaphorically – not at all like Tommy Cooper. For some reason she was offered a job teaching women on how and where to meet men. Wouldn’t that be like getting Princess Diana to teach you about car crashes? Sure they could give you first hand experience, but ultimately you’ll end up feeling crushed in the Paris Nights. Possibly the worst analogy I’ve ever given, but you get the gist. You’re lucky – the first attempted metaphor involved Freddy Mercury and AIDS….

Carrie is like the supply teacher you had at school who still thought they were hip because they’d heard of the Arctic Monkeys and shopped at Topshop rather than Dorothy Perkins. “I’m not an expert on men” she said during her lecture. “I just write about them”. What a dim cunt – the one thing she does of anything approaching substance – her shitty column, and she doesn’t even know what she’s talking about. Actually, her column question today was a right good one. “Are we getting wiser, or just older?” I don’t know the answer to be honest. I mean, in the last year I’ve read some Kafka, I’ve watched some foreign films (mostly German and involving tits) and I’ve managed to learn how to draw a cube, but then I’ve become a big fan of Miley Cyrus and The Jonas Brothers. Tough one.

Charlotte and Trey finally get their engines going, but it takes a long time. Too much time really, I lost interest in this storyline about four episodes ago, although Trey wanking himself off into a frenzy was certainly memorable. Charlotte sticks to her morals and her statement that “Sex is something special” by wearing a nice ‘sexy’ outfit and stripping off in front of Trey whilst fingering herself as gently and skilfully as a nan caressing their knitting needles with their broken hands, and failing hearts. Actually, Charlotte developed a personality before that bit, when she asked a bunch of her old prim and proper pals whether they ever “just wanted to be pounded hard and just fucked?” Great stuff.

Samantha has a small plot where she meets someone who is just like her, and gets along with her gloriously, until her new friend sucks some poor guy off in the middle of a restaurant. She realises that yeah, she might be a bit of a slut, but she also has a small bit of self-respect. Can’t see the point with Samantha any more – every episode I’ve seen has shown her as a complete slag, with no real heart to speak of. What next my friends, what next – a cancer scare where we really get to know the real Samantha? No, the scriptwriters would never sink that low. They just wouldn’t.

Oh, Miranda went out with someone Carrie used to be with who was initially nice, but turned out to be an ‘asshole’. People like that are weird – I’m a pretty good judge of character, but sometimes a few pricks slip under the radar, and the next thing you know you’re stuck sitting on a coach with someone who is only interested in vintage fashion, and animal rights for two hours. Luckily, my sensational conversational skills and warm smile usually get me through, but it does make you think – how well do you really know someone? One day everything is great, and the next thing you know they’ve been away for a week fucking a member of the Royal Family. Odd that.

Ultimately though, what can you do? The day I stop believing in people is the day I just give up. You can’t live a life of thinking that everyone is a waste of space, because then what’s the point of conversing at all? You might as well pack it all in and exterminate yourself. Actually, the exterminating becomes a more tantalising and beautiful option day by day, especially when at the end of this episode you see a woman sliding up to a man, dirty cigarette in hand asking him for a ‘light’. I’m against man on woman violence, so were that to ever happen to me I wouldn’t knock them out, but I would probably try and get a drunk Essex slag to knock the other girl out. Because, after all -What’s the difference between an Essex girl and an Essex boy? An Essex girl has a higher sperm count.

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Season Three, Episode Fifteen – ‘Hot Child In The City’

Does it ever hit you that you’re getting on a little bit? I’m only nineteen, but I find it very scary when I think that I left secondary school three years ago, then I left primary school eight years ago, and that I took my first sniff of cocaine fifteen years ago. These things really catch up on you, they really do.

I say all this, because this episode centres on being a child again. Carrie meets a guy who owns a comic book shop. Despite my geeky tendencies of liking professional wrestling, I’ve never quite ‘got’ comic books. Sure, stereotypes are usually a bad thing, but can anyone think of someone even remotely cool who reads that sort of nonsense? You never find someone who laughs at themselves for reading it, instead all you get when you gently rip the piss out of a comic book enthusiast is a stream of excuses. “Hey man, it’s not a comic! It’s a graphic novel!” Or, “hey man! These stories tell of doom man! And they’re so complicated man!!!!” Yeah right, I suppose Bananaman represented the Apartheid struggle in South Africa during the 20th century, and Superman is a reflection on man’s inhumanity to man? Bollocks.

Anyway, this guy lives with his mum in a lovely house overlooking Central Park. Is that a problem? I dunno really. Samantha has difficulties with it, but you have to remember that most people her age would be in nursing homes, so you can see why she’d find it a struggle to come to terms with. Samantha has her own problems in this episode though, as she organises the party of a thirteen year old girl who acts like she’s thirty.

It does make me a little bit sad to see little girls acting like they’re all old and experienced. I’ve often wondered at what age do women stop trying to look older, and start trying to look younger? I reckon at about twenty-one, which when you think about it is pretty grim. Imagine spending the majority of your life chasing old times? I blame Heat Magazine, and racism. Can’t understand why the thirteen year olds don’t go around scrumping for apples, or watching Hannah Montana, or braiding each others hair, instead of chatting about sex and worrying about boys. Embrace youth, although not literally, or you’ll end up like these rogues…

Charlotte is still having issues with Trey, mostly concerning his cock and the lack of an erection. After an unsuccessful counselling section with a bearded idiot, Charlotte was shocked to wake up in the middle of the night to find Trey furiously wanking whilst looking at a copy of ‘Juggs’. Although I prefer ‘Black Babes Monthly’ I can understand why he would choose that particular magazine. A slight happy ending for them, as Charlotte cut out loads of pictures of her head and stuck them on the images of the massive tits. I’m pretty sure Freud would have a field day with that sort of behaviour, had he not been a dead, useless cunt. I was gonna call him a cock, but I’d be psycho-analysed by the psychology brigade.

Despite Carrie telling Comic Book Guy that “I’m not the kind of girl that has sex on the first date” they do end up sharing some meat together – the meat being a couple of boxes of KFC, washed down with some very strong weed. I’ve never smoked weed, but then I’ve never smoked a regular cigarette, or even imbibed alcohol. I’m not saying that fact makes me a hero, but it definitely makes my soul a lot purer than the rest of you. Alas, the relationship couldn’t continue after his mother kept constantly interfering, and Carrie returned to her apartment with a few ounces of skunk, and a sense of shame.

I’ll leave you with two very disturbing parts of this particular episode. Firstly, Miranda wore braces here. Just when you think that life can’t sink any lower, and that you can’t find someone more grotesque and disgusting, that happens. Honestly, what can they do now? Make her come out with a Scouse accent next? It’s like the writers of this show deliberately made her character just to wind me up about everything. I thought Carrie would be the one I really disliked, and sure – I loathe the curly cunt, but Miranda is another level. And no, I won’t let her freak me.

The second disturbing bit that made me especially uncomfortable about the ignorance and stupidity of teenage girls, was when one of the thirteen year olds said that “I’ve been giving blow jobs since I was twelve, it’s the only way to get guys to like you.” How upsetting is that? Everybody knows that the real way to get a guy to like you is to let him stick it up the wrong’en. Honestly, some people have no idea about anything.

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Season Three, Episode Fourteen – ‘Sex And Another City’

Apparently 80% of Americans don’t own a passport, but when you consider that 56.4% of statistics are made up on the spot, how do I know what to believe?

As it is, this episode revolves around the girls going to LA because Carrie has managed to pull some strings and snaffled some tickets to a film première of some sorts. The only real pulling of anything substantial occurred when Carrie had a bikini wax, and ended up as bald as Gay Stanford. Allegedly waxing is very painful, but I can’t help feel that women – who love a good moan about anything, make it sound ten times worse than it actually is. And hey, if it really is that painful then surely it makes up for the emotional damage they inflict on men every day?

Let’s talk about Miranda anyway – surely the most annoying character in television history. I’d have everything waxed if it meant she wasn’t kicking around stinking up my television any more. You name it – legs, balls, glorious head – anything, absolutely anything. Her latest piece of idiocy happened when she caught up with an old pal of hers in LA. They had been friends in LA and she had remembered him as a cynical tubby fella, but when she saw him she saw that he had lost loads of weight and gained a sunny outlook on life. Here’s my problem:

People who consider themselves liberal usually tend to be the most small minded of people around. Cynics in general are a miserable bunch, and are always talking about how they wouldn’t like to associate with a certain type of person – those who read certain tabloid newspapers, those who wear certain items of clothing, those who don’t work etc. I appreciate that this is a bit of an extreme comparison, but is that any different to someone saying they wouldn’t want to hang around with a black person? Sure, most people are idiots, but those who don’t live their lives reading The Guardian and eating  weird vegetables aren’t likely to turn their noses up at those that do. However, the ‘liberal’ idiots who fancy themselves as open minded are much more likely to dismiss the regular folk that make this country great.

Just because someone reads The Sun (and only the sports pages) it doesn’t mean they’re any less intelligent than you! The Guardian is just a tabloid posing as a broadsheet for students and old paedos who spend their entire adult lives sat in corporate coffee shops skim-reading 1950’s beatnik novels in a desperate attempt to reclaim their former glory.

I’ve lost my point – was there ever one? I still agree with my statement above even when it turns out that this guy isn’t as happy as he made out. I can respect why people don’t like LA – but for people who live in New York it’s a bit stupid to dismiss it. I’ve never been to either, but they come across as very similar – misplaced arrogance, the obsession with looking good, and loads of crime. The difference is, people in LA tend to be more confident – lying around in the sun all day, whereas New Yorkers are all really boring and walk around art gallery’s stroking their chins whilst snorting coke off the backs of Asian dwarves.

Two quick points – I can’t stress enough how much I hate smoking, and I can’t get across just how much this programme genuinely disgusts me. I was away for the weekend, and almost began to miss it, but as soon as it starts, as soon as I see Carrie in that ballet outfit, with her nipples looking like a toddler’s finger painting, it gets me down, it really does.

This was further proved when Miranda had the sheer audacity to say “Who cares what you look like?” How could anyone be so fucking dim? The fact she then followed up that pearl of bollocks with the phrase “no self respecting New Yorker would do something like that” was enough to make me throw up my Brazil nuts. This whole show is about how you look, and where you’re looked at – there are no hidden meanings, nothing deep, nothing enlightening. It’s twenty-five minutes a week of stating the obvious. You can’t even call it escapism – because a) nothing really exciting happens, and b) it’s so miserable and repetitive you can’t feel good about yourself watching it. If you want to learn about heartbreak, read some Keats or have a danger wank – you’ll feel a lot better than this garbage. Sorry, ‘rubbish.’

Hugh Hefner made an appearance in this episode, and surprise surprise Samantha sauntered over to him and practically fellated him there and then. I’ve never really got the whole glamour model/Playboy thing. The thought of staring at some complete strangers tits and naked body is one that leaves me a little cold emotionally. If there is no emotional attachment, then what’s the point? If all you’re interested in is the baps, make yourself a bacon roll, or if you’re Jewish, a Christ Killer sandwich.

Charlotte compared her relationship with Trey to a bag. I suggest all four of the sluts in this show are like Ugg boots – ludicrously expensive, far too warm, and worn out and filthy by continual use. The only highlight of this episode I can give is a cameo from Vince Vaughan back when he was lithe and kicking. The coup de grace was Carrie ending the episode wearing a pink bumbag – I felt as knocked out as Ricky Hatton, and twice as depressed.


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Season Three, Episode Thirteen – ‘Escape From New York’

A couple of quick things before we crack on with dissecting this episode. All idiots who say “you’ve got swine flu!” after someone coughs or sneezes really needs to shut up. One type of person worse than someone who isn’t funny trying to make jokes, and that’s fools who read ‘Vice Magazine’ specifically the obnoxious and abhorrent ‘do’s and don’ts’ lists. Yeah sure, wearing a golden sweater with a neckerchief and a pair of auburn skinny jeans might have been daring twenty years ago, but now it just makes you look like an absolute dick. I find that the people who care so much about fashion tend to be the most insecure out of everyone – and perhaps they need to remember that the more you concentrate on aesthetics, the more you slip away from reality.

Reality is quickly catching up with Carrie however, as she ponders whether that the gloomy New York weather which is “dreary, grey and miserable” could be words that describe her. I’d say yes – add the adjectives pathetic, tedious and fucking disgusting and you’re close to an accurate description. Her column is in discussions for a potential film, and so to make a break she headed off to L.A to discuss the film offer with the H0llywood executives. I’ve often thought that America could be the place for me – Route 66, The Grand Canyon, The Wild West, the racist red neck southerners who think that ‘God Hates Fags’. Which is why when I eventually hit the States, hopefully this summer it’ll be amazing. I’ll need a new passport first of course. And a sense of adventure…

Charlotte stays home with her new husband ‘Trey’ instead of going with the girlies to L.A. Her problems with Trey are ongoing – he just can’t get it up. It definitely looks like she has married a dud, but I suppose that’s what you get when you substitute love for routine eh? ‘Impotent’ though, great word – probably the third finest word I’ve heard today, the top two being ‘Pyrrhic’ and ‘Moist.’ Her fears are realised when she finds out that his erectile dysfunction is not a physical problem, but rather an emotional one, and so she begins to feel the waves of self doubt. “Does he find me attractive? Should I let him put it in there?”

Miranda isn’t put anywhere though, as she has one of the worst episodes of her life. Firstly there is no room for her at the hotel – which is fair enough. In a party town like Los Angeles, the last thing you need is a pyrrhic, unmoist sour faced ginger bitch who makes any man within a ten mile radius immediately impotent. “It’s so great to talk to a smart funny woman,” she was told by a man, shortly before he made his excuses and went off to chase a girl with a fantastic rack. I don’t quite know what to think about that to be honest – the thought of any sexual contact with someone I felt no emotional attachment with leaves me a little cold, but given the choice between crap banter about lawyers with someone called Miranda, and a big titted Essex slut, I know what I’m gonna choose. Actually I don’t – hepititis, or boredom? Tough choice.

Samantha met a dildo model. ‘Dildo’ – add that to my list of least favourite words. What a ghastly word, along with ‘fanny’ and ‘Shoreditch.’ He was a nice enough guy, but he was bald and has a moustache – not quite Charles Bronson, more like a dopey cunt. Adding to his sexual prowess in the bedroom, he was also bang into poetry. I’ve always hated poetry, stemming from me heckling Simon Armitage and Carol Anne Duffy at a poetry conference in 2006. I’ve heard that Carol Anne Duffy is in the running to be the new poet laureate – haven’t people realised by now that you can’t entrust a lesbian with any power? I dunno if I’m joking or not – I’ve only met one lesbian in my life, and my balls haven’t quite been the same since.

Carrie’s film doesn’t really come to fruition. After meeting an executive played by Sarah Michelle Geller (I’ve never seen an episode of Buffy, although I enjoyed one particular scene in ‘Cruel Intentions’) and a bizarre encounter with the actor Matthew  McConaughey she decided that living her private life out on the big screen wouldn’t be such a good idea. Whilst it’s nice to see that at least she’s learning a little bit about not putting everything out there, I still think that killing herself would help – perhaps that’ll be my treat at the end of this season. Actually, saying that she did ask “can you escape your past?” Josef Mengele managed it, and one could argue this his actions were no worse than Carrie’s. I mean, torturing and exterminating loads of people in a concentration camp, or boring me silly for twenty five minutes a day? Yeah, that’s what I thought.

And that’s it really. Not really got much to say – one of the worst episodes I’ve seen, but then all of them have been dreadful. People ask me why I carry on doing this, despite my apparent hatred for the show. Well, it’s a personal matter – and it involves someone who is probably reading this with an arched eyebrow, whilst clutching a cool can of diet coke. Unless they’ve finally given it up. Maybe I should give up?

No updates this weekend as I’m off for some extreme soccer action, and hence will be without the internet for a lot of it. I’m not the sort of knob who uses the internet when I’m out and about. Oh, you’re in a pub are you? Thanks for updating your Facebook with that little fact, how about actually enjoying yourself and socialising rather than telling the virtual world what you’re up to?

Why did the zero get told off? Because it was noughty.

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Season Three, Episode Twelve – ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’

I wrote down ‘omelette’ on my notes, and I’m only including this because I don’t like going straight into a review. I prefer to let the first paragraph breathe without the confines of having to talk about the show, or me trying to compare one of them to a historical period. I mean, you could just about stretch to saying that Carrie is like Stalin – both curly haired, bushy moustached and nauseating, but that’d be ridiculous. Plus Stalin looked amazing in fur.

Miranda doesn’t look amazing in anything unfortunately, especially during a speed dating session, as she was desperately searching for someone to take to Charlotte’s wedding. Imagine the disappointment at going to one of those speed dates, and you end up with her. Just the thought of her bores me. Sometimes I wonder whether my thoughts on Miranda and my constant slagging her off is like the kid at primary school calling a girl names when he really likes her, but then I remember that I’m straight. Also, that I dislike liars, which I was reminded of when Miranda pretended she was a stewardess to liven things up. At the risk of a High Fidelity ‘top five dream jobs’ occurring, I just want you all to know that being a stewardess is currently 346th in my ideal jobs list, one below ‘Iceman.’

Speaking of top fives, a bearded Scotsman in this episode made me think of my top five Scots. How could I pick a mere five from such a disgusting, illiterate race? Maybe Begbie in ‘Trainspotting’ at a push, but isn’t Robert Carlyle from Sheffield or some northern backwater like that? I’m joking of course, I’ve got nothing against Scotland – it’s the scousers I hate. Calm down. I mentioned the Scots guy anyway, because Samantha ended up gobbling up his haggis, and I don’t think there will be any other references to her in this episode.

Carrie is torn about telling Aidan all the stuff about her and Big. Some pathetic slag piped up with a comment that Men lie about this stuff all the time!” Well, it doesn’t make it right does it? If you can’t be with someone for a month without cheating on them, then you don’t deserve a minute of anyone’s time. “Honesty is overrated,” opined Carrie. Just when you think that the rampant egotist couldn’t come out with such a stupid statement, that happens. Oh, but there’s more – “in a relationship is honesty the best policy?” she said, almost pleading with herself that what she was doing was right.

No offence to anyone who is in a relationship that has had cheating involved, be it you’ve cheated on someone, or you’re still with someone who you know has strayed away in the past, but firstly – you’re all cunts. Secondly, arguably you’re not in a relationship at all really are you? I define a relationship as a connection between two people who only care for each other in a romantic way. What the people who stay together despite all the playing away, and all the dodgy dealings have, isn’t a relationship, it’s an utter sham.

Much like Charlotte’s upcoming wedding to whoever this person is. Can’t even remember his name, Earl? Trey? She despairs when she finds out that he’s terrible in bed, when she sleeps with him for the first time, the night before the wedding. Is it really the end of the world? It could be worse anyway – he could be scouse. Although she eventually married him despite a lot of doubt, the way this show is going she’ll probably end up with a small, Jewish bald cunt who takes his clothes off all the time – thus completely challenging her preconceptions of the perfect man. Nah, what am I talking about – that’d never happen.

Every single time Carrie saw Aidan in this episode without telling him about Big, I lost a little bit more faith in the human race. I’m hardly the most moral person in the world, I mean I’d rather be famous than righteous or holy any day, but I like to think I’m above all the lies and deceit. The trouble is, by having morals, and by always striving to do the right thing (despite the bitterness) it means that even if other people are idiots, or friends are difficult, that you can’t quite get the girl you want to be exclusive with you, you just have to suck it up and hope for a better future.

Eventually though, she did tell him and his gorgeous puppy dog face was a picture, as his features crumpled into a blur of disappointment and misery. Fair play to him though, despite a few tears and a long walk he didn’t take her back, instead informing Carrie that “he needed to be alone for a while.” It was quite a sad ending to be honest, and even the sight of Gay Stanford’s shining bald head failed to make me break into a smile. If you’ll all excuse me, I’ve got a fifty nine part documentary on The Holocaust to get through, and a mini pack of Rich Tea biscuits.

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