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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Season Six, Episode Twelve – ‘One’

The use of the word ‘one’ in the title obviously conjures up images of that cunt Bono and the awful song he wrote with the shit lyrics ‘One’. Music is a very personal thing for me, in that everything I listen to is amazing and fuck you if you disagree. Never trust someone who says “oh I listen to a bit of everything me” and never trust someone who raves about dubstep.

We kicked off with a woman in Chelsea who wasn’t eating or talking. Surely that was John Terry after he erupted into a crying cunt after missing that infamous penalty kick in the Champions League final 2008. I feel a bit wary looking at human art, it all seems a bit too tribalistic and personal for my rather basic tastes. Give me a picture perfect drawing of a dog wearing a hat with a pair of sunglasses and I’ll be one happy boy. Also people starving themselves for attention – do me a fucking favour. The only thing that Bobby Sands ever accomplished was a few hundred shit jokes for crap amateur comedians like me to use.

Carrie was getting stared at by some old Russian bastard. According to rumours, a few humble fans of this blog disapprove of my sweeping statements where I insult entire countries based on nothing more than hearsay, but I can say for sure that all Russian people do in fact smoke crack, that’s pure and simple. This old dude was an artist, a job title that sits somewhere between ‘professional skateboarder’ and ‘backing singer for Whitney Houston’ in terms of useless vocations.

Miranda and Black Robert were still a couple, but were stagnating like an autumn leaf covered in the cum of a sexual predator. This was despite his natty pink shirt and pizza box combination, and him bringing her a cookie emblazoned with the word’s ‘I love you’. What could have been a tender romantic moment was ruined by Miranda guzzling the cookie out of shame, like the aforementioned sex predator wiping his rapey cock on the innocent autumn leaf. Miranda’s problem was that she couldn’t tell Black Robert that she loved him, as she just wasn’t sure. Like I alluded to in the last episode, if you’re more interested in your ex finding you having sex with a black man than having sex with a black man, perhaps it’s time to go back to the white stuff.

Samantha was experiencing problems – fading eyesight and greying pubic hair, but nothing compared to the misery Charlotte went through, as she fell pregnant, but just as quickly miscarried and lost her baby. Her character has been through a lot of strife, and a lot of misery, and this new setback depressed me even further. The storylines in this episode – worries about love, worries about children, and worries about pubes made me question whether any of us ever actually grow up, or whether life is essentially one big Peter Pan theme park ride.

Carrie vented her spleen over Valentines Day, and surprise surprise she was against it. Cynics of Valentines are such dickheads, always regurgitating the same old spiel about commercialism and how ‘I don’t need one day to be nice to my partner!’ Of course you don’t, but it’s hardly a bad thing is it, to be nice and tell someone just how much they mean to you? Therefore I propose St. Martins day, no, not a celebration of the rather pretentious university (apart from Alex O’Brien although he’s pretentious in his own special way) but rather another day in the calendar to be lovely.

Miranda and Steve’s baby Brady celebrated his first birthday, in a room containing a woman who had recently lost her own baby, a woman coming to terms with aging, a shit columnist embarking on a relationship with a dickhead Russian artist, and a big black doctor with so called ‘caring hands’. Hardly the most auspicious of starts for a new life in the world, let alone a ginger one.

Steve and Miranda ended up in the closet together, and admitted their love for each other after months of fucking other people. Must be easier for Miranda, as she’s had the good sex with the big cock, whereas Steve must be continually wracked with self-doubt as to whether he’s man enough for the job. Although considering the woman who plays Miranda actually prefers the clunge to the cock, it’s not much of a problem. That last bit actually has no relevance to anything, I just realised I haven’t slagged off lesbians recently to complete my collection of every single group of people in the world that I’ve managed to slag off. Speaking of which, people who wear hats indoors – fucking idiots.

We ended with Carrie enjoying a dinner with the Russian bloke, and her asking him some arty questions. I’ve got some questions for most people who ‘do’ art – why do you fucking bother? With the exceptions of my girlfriend, Jackson Pollock and Sonny and Cher, how many people truly make great art? At a push the cartoonists behind the old Hanna and Barbera cartoons, but apart from that fuck all.

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Season Six, Episode Eleven – ‘The Dominoe Effect’

I drank half a beer today, which to me is a momentous occasion. ‘Momentous’, in that I still view alcohol as a complete waste of time, purely because it all tastes the same to me. Vodka the same as beer, sambuca the same as whiskey – all the alcohol in the world can’t wash down that sense of shame at clouding my body with such poison. I wonder how watching Sex And The City would be affected if illegal substances were pouring down my body. Would Carrie appear less dull if she was surrounded by a kaleidoscope of colours and dancing bears? Who knows? And quite frankly, who cares?

Carrie started this episode sporting quite a lot of fake tan which always leaves me uncomfortable. Essex girls are most guilty of slapping the bizarre orange liquid all over their puckered faces, to achieve what I do not know. I’m a moralistic man, and so the notion that people try so hard to look that weird orange colour is offensive, not only to me, but also to a wide range of races, most notably the Oompa-Loompas, a tribe of people usually found in chocolate factories.

Carrie met up with Big for some sort of dinner. Can’t believe how expensive food is these days, who on earth would pay twenty notes for a steak? I could legit feed a family of eight in Somalia for that amount, and still have nineteen quid spare. All they need are 7 p Sainsburys instant noodles and hot water for a tasty nutritious treat, although this being Africa, the lack of water may be a hindrance. Still, they’ll get what they’re given and they’ll like it. Carrie ended up in tears because Big told her that he needed a minor heart operation. Hope the Big guy doesn’t die, he’s the only one in the show who looks good in a suit.

Miranda was walking into her kitchen when she saw Black Robert in her kitchen. I’m saying nothing, except that if I opened the door to my flat and a big burly black geezer was skulking around my kitchen, I’d know for sure my flatmate Antoine was in, probably cooking rice and peas and listening to Fela Kuti. Black Robert was cooking Miranda a romantic meal, although too spicy for my tender tastes. Later on, Stunning Steve looking all American in white t-shirt and ice blue jeans walked into Miranda and Black Robert having sex. “Is it terrible that I took pleasure out of that?”, Miranda asked the girls later on about the situation. If I was getting more pleasure out of that awkward moment than I was when getting fucked by a muscular black Adonis, I’d question whether I was doing it right.

Some blonde woman recommended a Chinese doctor who could help get Charlotte pregnant.  Might sound a bit dodgy, but from all the Chinese people I’ve ever met they’ve only been good at two things – cooking noodles, and looking really pissed off, and I don’t really need any advice on that. As Charlotte entered the hospital, it made me question my own morality, and also curiously my butter preferences. This stems back from an operation I had as a nipper, where afterwards I was given two slices of buttered toast. I wasn’t a huge fan of butter at the time, and so, being the polite little trooper I was, I begged my mum to eat the toast so I didn’t appear rude. She didn’t. I don’t think I’ve ever forgiven her for that.

Samantha was having difficulties of her own, although they weren’t as important as trying to create a family dynasty. Fit Smith was back again, and this time he was trying to hold her hand in the street which she wasn’t keen about. It must be hard for an emotionless, insecure loud-mouth to show affection in public, but if I can imagine it, then surely she can. And to be fair, she did. I was made slightly uncomfortable by her boasting that it was proved she missed Smith because she ‘hadn’t fucked anybody since he had been gone.” I distinctly recall a drunken snog with a stranger a couple of episodes ago. Does kissing not count as cheating? Cheating is such a huge scary word with so many connotations and I don’t really know my own opinions on the matter.

Could have done without Carrie dressing up as a red and white chequered nurse. Could have done without Steve and Miranda almost getting back together. Could have done without Big and Carrie going through an elongated ‘will they, won’t they’ discussion as to whether they’ll get back together. When will people realise that if you’re with someone who always makes life a constant battle then it’s just not worth it? Misery and arguments aren’t badges of honour on which to cling a relationship on, happiness, contentment and great watch based presents are though.

Good episode, made me laugh, cry and ponder the world in ways I never thought were possible. But enough about the last episode I watched of ‘It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia’, this Sex And The City one was utter tripe. By the way, a great pal of mine has made a mock up of a front cover of a possible book adaptation of ‘Mart In The City’ – how money is this? Cheers moneybags.

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Season Six, Episode Ten – ‘Boy, Interrupted’

Topical week for me, moved back to London, got a Blackberry and a bit of a sniffle to complete the triple whammy. Sex And The City has become a poisoned chalice pecking away at my shaven neck forever taunting me that the end might be near, but it’s never near enough to relax. But one day it will be, and on that day the entire world will look in shock and awe as I complete the ultimate tale of redemption.

We started with Carrie meeting her old high school boyfriend after a twenty year gap. It’s weird, some people you meet from your past must be so different, yet if you met someone like Carrie who you used to know things would just stay the same in a very depressing day. “What do you do then?” you’d ask, a little interested but ultimately not caring. “Oh, I just talk and write about sex all day”, they’d reply, with shiny eyes that would soon turn to bemusement when you couldn’t care less. The boyfriend was played by David Duchovny or ‘him off the X-Files’. The X-Files theme tune used to scare me a lot when I was a child, along with racial oppression, and the WWF wrestler ‘Kane’.

Miranda was offered two free front row seats to the basketball by her love interest Black Robert. I’m still wondering whether it’s too controversial to label him as ‘black’ but when the writers make such a big deal out of it like they do with the two gay lads, then what can one do? Speaking of basketball, it’s fucking rubbish, just a load of giants running around for about three hours throwing a ball in the air. Americans slag off soccer, but that’s because they can’t appreciate tactics, just gormless steroid freaks bouncing balls.

Samantha met a character who was played by Geri Halliwell, or as she’s commonly known in the business ‘ginger spice’. When I was eight, my order of preference Spice Girls wise was Baby, Ginger, Posh, Scary and Sporty, and now ‘Scary’ is bang on number one in my list. Isn’t it a bit racist that the black one was called scary? Anyway, Geri’s acting was pretty wooden, if you squinted you could probably make a rockin’ chair out of her she was so bad.

Lame plot ensued with Samantha trying to get into an exclusive pool club. Why pay loads of money to go for a swim when the local friendly YMCA are in every neighbourhood, after all it’s full of young men who do anything they can. Incidentally, how many people have swimming pools in their gardens? Maybe my fierce working class background is blinding me somewhat, but I’ve only ever met one person with a swimming pool in their garden, and they tell me that it’s commonplace. Madness, rich, rich madness.

Carrie’s dilemma centered around whether ‘we had it right in high school’. By this she was debating whether that if we ever really got over the people we met in school, and if everything after that was essentially pointless. I don’t really agree, unless you’re one of the lotharios with facial hair from aged twelve and supreme confidence, who really gets that much action in school? A cheeky finger in the woodwork department, a crafty handjob during biology, a chilling teabagging at break time notwithstanding of course. What really went on apart from playing conkers, and no – that’s not some disgusting sexual act.

Gay Stanford and his hot piece of meat experienced relationship difficulties. Bitchy Gay Anthony, my personal favourite ‘gay’ in Sex And The City let ‘slip’ that Gay Stanford’s boyfriend used to be a gay escort. Nothing wrong with that, better than being a straight mondeo surely? Of course, Gay Stanford being such a divvy green polyester wearing prick proceeded to break up with his fella for something he’d done ten years ago. This blog has a substantial gay audience of at least two, and I imagine they’d be throwing up into their copies of Attitude Magazine at the disgusting actions of Gay Stanford. I can only hope he’ll find happiness when he comes to terms with his own sexuality.

Miranda went to the basketball, and proceeded to get very jealous because Black Ronald was flirting with a hot young blonde cheerleader. Supple, youthful and athletic cheerleader versus permanently miserable, sour faced ginger lawyer? Tough one. Classic female behaviour, getting jealous because he was talking to someone better looking, could she not just have accepted that she’s not the apple of anyone’s eye? Could she not be just friend with the Ebony prince?

Maybe women can’t be friends with men at all. When Carrie’s old boyfriend told her that “I need to be honest with you about something” Carrie wilted like a flower that had just been pissed on by a particularly savage East London art student. What followed was him saying that he was in a mental institution for a month to sort out some issues, which to ‘ol sensitive Carrie was the ‘worst thing someone can say to you’. Not ‘I’ve got AIDS’, or ‘I’m fucking your best friend’, but a cry for help, and an explanation as to why someone might be acting oddly. Genuinely a disturbing scene, but naturally she slept with him soon after, before deserting him to leave him on his own with his insanity.

So we’ve been through slagging people off with mental health issues, racism with insinuating that all black people are interested in is basketball and young white teenagers, and the theft of public identity with Samantha pretending to be someone else purely to lie by a pool. Fuck a dancer calling someone a paki, the real oppression, racism and awful bollocks are in Sex And The City land, and it MUST BE STOPPED!

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Season Six, Episode Nine – ‘A Woman’s Right To Shoes’

I initially thought that this episode was called ‘A Woman’s Right To Fight’, which instantly made me think of women’s boxing, and whether there is anybody in the world who actually enjoys the taste of coriander.

This episode was mainly about consumerism, but not in a ‘it’s killing the world’ way, but more a ‘I really love buying stuff and shoes mean the world to me!’. As the Manic Street Preachers once sang, ‘from feudal serf to spender, this wonderful world of purchase power’. Not that I’m comparing the characters of Sex And The City to the serfs shovelling snow in nineteenth century Russia, I’m sure the serfs were a lot easier to talk to, even if all they did was grunt.

Carrie and Gay Stanford went to a birthday celebrating the birth of a new baby called ‘Bronson’. As they gave the expensive gifts to the woman running the party, they were told that there was a no shoes policy, and they were required to take them off. Nothing more embarrassing than that, entering a room in your glittery golden shoes before slipping them off to reveal a pair of ironic ‘hot’ pink socks that seemed a good idea at the time.

Difficulties occurred when at the end of the night, Carrie couldn’t find her expensive shoes and was promptly sent home with a pair of plimsolls and a miserly smile. Apparently the shoes cost a fair bit, but the fact that she seemed more upset by her footwear going missing than the relationship she had just been in ending didn’t suggest that her morals, or her mind were in the right place.

Miranda was in a more cheerful mood, as she interviewed a charming black sports doctor to see if he was suitable to move into her building. His name was Robert, and he sauntered into the room like O.J Simpson in a courtroom. That last sentence, and the fact that I was initially gonna type his name as ‘Black Robert’ could come across as racist, but it’s purely because I know someone called White Mike, nicknamed that because he really smells of gone off milk.

Flirting with black men is dangerous – I know that first hand. Dozens of women throw themselves at me each day, and sadly a few sometimes catch the blade tucked away in my breast pocket, hidden there to protect me from vampires and people wearing white sheets.

Charlotte and Harry were having slight teething problems with the start of their marriage. The issue was that Harry left his teabags all over the place instead of sticking them straight in the bin. This led to a discussion on ‘teabagging’, but I’d rather not go deep into that debate. Just a little note on tea, people who drink it without milk and sugar – masochists, just bloody masochists.

Following on from the teabags, Harry began to stride around Charlotte’s apartment fully naked, his bald, yet hairy body glistening amidst the smart white decor of the building. This was resolved amicably and nicely, by him agreeing to don a pair of shorts when he sat down on the pure white couch. It was actually nice to see a jaunty storyline resolved without conflict, although I could have done without the liberal glimpses at Harry’s arse.

It was revealed that all of the girls (minus Charlotte) hated children, even Miranda who has one of her own. Completely makes sense, considering most people hate what they really are deep down, and realising that almost everyone associated with this show are screaming brats who tantrum when they don’t get their own way means we have several classic cases of self-delusion.

Carrie especially, with her constant moaning over the shoes, to the extent that she kept chasing down the woman who had the party to try and sort things out. If you pay £250 for some shoes you actually deserve to lose them – think how many Africans you could save for that amount, how many wells you could dig in South America, hell, how many Curly-Wurlies you could shove down your mouth if you had that much cash. It’s a serious amount of lolly.

Everything got resolved though as it inevitably does in this interminable battlefield of a television show. Carrie eventually got a new pair of shoes, Miranda ended up watching her programme about the hot piece of black arse fucking the posh white totty with her ebony pal, Samantha got pesto pasta thrown at her by a small child, and Harry’s arse remained thankfully out of view.

Sometimes I think about what the best way to flirt is. It only came to mind when the doctor gently swabbed Miranda’s chicken pox in a loving fashion. I prefer my idea of romance – sweetly taking my girlfriends carrots away from her as she hates them, reading aloud tender French poetry, and then ignoring everybody for twenty four hours as I try to get over my tragic addition to spearmint polos.

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Season Six, Episode Eight – ‘The Catch’

Sometimes you can take pleasure from the most mundane of things. A well timed sneeze, a satisfying apple, the feeling of Angora wool on soft delicate skin. I pride myself on being able to deal with boredom, to actively enjoy the feeling of having nothing to do, but watching Sex And The City genuinely makes me feel like I should get a corporate job, stick on a Marks And Spencer’s suit and drink coffee instead of having so much free time that I end up watching this show out of nothing more than some grim masochistic urging.

We started with Carrie on a trapeze swinging through the air like Mowgli after he had just been told that Baloo had previously been locked up for enchanting little bears through the forest with honey on his cock. You know what they say about stuff like trapeze walking and sky diving – if at first you don’t succeed… This scene wasn’t helped by Gay Stanford loitering about, his bald head gleaming like a bored housewives eyes at the sight of a fresh piece of meat that her son had bought round.

Samantha struggled to take off her dress. I initially thought it was a lazy pregnancy scare storyline, but don’t wombs crystallise and then eventually smash when a woman hits eighty?

Charlotte and Harry were looking forward to their wedding. Harry – legit bald eagle, but I think the closest he’ll get to a nest post wedding will be when he swoops between Charlotte’s antiquated Jewish legs. One of his pals was introduced, a wise cracker who used a joke every sentence. The problem with people who make jokes constantly is that they are never ever funny. Needless to say, as an unlikeable cretin this guy proceeded to flirt with Carrie, who certainly knows how to pick them.

Miranda was struggling here, as she didn’t want to meet Debbie, Steve’s other half. “He wants us to become friends” Miranda complained somewhat bizarrely. That’s usually what happens when two people who aren’t together have a baby, isn’t it? Everyone involved puts a game face on and tries to pretend that each of them hate each other and that the little child involved is actually a token of hate, rather than a bundle of joy.

It got to the stage that Miranda was hiding under her bed like the cheap whore that she is, instead of grabbing her balls and meeting the better woman. Of course she didn’t, and took a cheap jibe at Debbie’s shoes after she had left. If you have to get through life continually putting out the shortcomings of others, then fair play to you. Must be quite grim, always belittling and looking to score points rather than focusing on positives. Mind, I suppose being a moody ginger cunt you have to get your kicks somewhere.

Carrie had a crisis when she asked ‘when did it stop being fun and start being scary?’ referring to the risks we take in life. Whenever someone complains about being too cautious in life I have to wince a little. It’s human nature to be wary and fret as you go through life, wishing you were like Kid Rock and sippin’ whiskey out the bottle, but instead acting tentative. Why did the cavemen wear furry singlets in hot climates? Because they were scared of the lions laughing at them. Of course, this is all bollocks if you’re one of the Sartre loving dullards who don’t believe in human nature, growing ironic facial hair, and eating caviar off the hairy armpits of girls who study English Literature at University.

To make up for this fear, Carrie had sex with the funny guy, who turned out to be a calamity in the bedroom. As Carrie’s head banged repeatedly against the headboard, she moaned that he had no idea what he was doing – I could only wish he was some kind of secret agent against angry women trying to cause her brain to pop. Seeing her wriggle in bed wasn’t even the bleakest thing in this episode, instead that award went to Gay Stanford’s purple suit with a purple dotty tie. What does this prick work as? I can only guess in something to do with fashion, it would make perfect sense.

The actual wedding was a cluster fuck but eventually they got through unscathed. Weird how the whole ceremony was awarded as much air time as Carrie on a trapeze, I guess whoever played Charlotte hadn’t sucked enough corporate cock in the writing room. It’s quite disconcerting how Carrie seems to be turning into a mix of the Dali Lama and a really shit insurance salesman, with her never ending monologues filled with advice and shit wisdom that she would never impart on her own life.

One last though – Miranda called Charlotte “my very brave friend.” Brave in what regard, for marrying someone who seems to idolise her? Brave is working in a cancer ward, watching little children having their bodies poisoned from the inside. Brave is rushing into a burning building wearing nothing more than a rubber suit and clutching a hose. Brave is reviewing every single episode of Sex And The City, arguably the bravest of all the things you could do in life.

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