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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 Three – ‘The Perfect Present’

I think I have only received three decent presents in my entire life. They are, in no particular order, a soft toy elephant, an iPod, and a religious enlightenment so profound that it changed my entire life. Yes, it was a balmy summers day, Nina Simone on the Walkman and my Cuban heels tapping down the highway when I slowed down, from a saunter to a standing position. Needing a cigarette, I stopped a pale man, with tight lips and a t-shirt with the crest of an eagle and the logo ‘The Man, The Legend’ emblazoned along the pec area. “Got a light?” I asked whimsically, the hot summer sun beating along my bronzed back. “Yes I have,” he replied, his eyes locked onto mine. “But maybe not the light you were expecting.” I used to think Scientologists were right proper nutters, but seriously if you open your mind there is some great stuff there.

On a less spiritual note, this episode started with Carrie stating that there are three important events for a single girl (or ‘gal’ if you’re an idiot.) These are having sex for the first time, having good sex for the first time, and seeing your boyfriends apartment for the first time. A more sensible series of events would go: first grey hair, first overdose on cheap meds, first black cock.

Berger’s apartment was pretty nice, tastefully done with brick walls and playing cards on the noticeboard. Carrie wasn’t happy that his ex had done the decorating, which makes sense really – it’d be like wearing a dead mans shoes, yeah it might look really nice, but someone fucking died in them. Berger was a troubled sleeper, and so slept with the sounds of the Brazilian rainforest enveloping his ears, which whilst a bit weird is a lot more sensible than what I do, which is to listen to two year old talk radio in an attempt to drift off every night.

The four girls went to the party of some New York hag who had previously tried to kill herself but was now designing bags. I would say that it smelt of money for old rope, but you have to be careful these days you never know how people tried to end it all. In this case, it was an overdose on cheap pills, which as I stated in the paragraph above shouldn’t be the end of the world, because what’s to follow will bring a world of delights.

I’ve always thought that overdosing is a bit of a pussy way to go out. I’ve often harboured dreams of travelling to The Bronx wearing nothing more than a purple cardigan and my spectacular gold sequined shoes blasting out a bit of Elton John on my boombox. Depending if the gangsters wanted to get to the chorus of ‘Tiny Dancer’, I’d be shot out of there in anything between one and four minutes.

Just a quick fashion update for you all, as I am strongly supported by the fashion glitterati. Carrie dressed in a red dress that made her look like a paedophile Little Red Riding Hood, which I suppose would make Berger the wolf who was actually the one being abused. Miranda wore a pinstriped blazer which made her look like a savage coked up eighties businessman, whilst Samantha sported a cream blazer that looked remarkably like the first stages of herpes. For fans of myself, I was scratching my balls at this point.

Samantha met the fit waiter from the previous episode at the party, as he was waitering there. Waiters move around a lot, perhaps the equivalent to rapists although at least the rapists get something out of their meanderings, waiters just get shouted at a lot. I’m not suggesting that people who are waiters should take up rape, just consider it as a fallback, because let’s be honest, if you’re shit at delivering food and drink to a table there is not a lot else you’re gonna be good at is there?

Charlotte was upset to learn that by converting to Judaism she would be forced to stop celebrating Christmas. I fucking love Christmas. The songs, the adverts, the festive cheer.  The Santa hats, the reindeer’s and the anticipation of stepping out on a bright December morning to purchase gifts for your loved ones. Turkey, mulled wine, Cliff Richard classic, caroling, Jingle All The Way, It’s A Wonderful Life, the chance of snow, chestnuts roasting on an open fire…. How could anyone hate Christmas?

Steve half mentioned to Miranda about the girl he was dating before Miranda told him to shut up, Her name was Debbie. I think we can all picture a Debbie – big tits, but ultimately a bit dim with nothing much to say. Once a month she’d wake you up with a cup of tea and a cheeky venture down south to your cock in a display of spectacular spontaneity, but otherwise she’d be so straight-laced you’d think she was a pair of Doc Martins.

All the episode became irrelevant when disaster happened. As Big ran Carrie up out of nowhere in a head scratching attempt at instigating phone sex, my disc scratched like a So Solid Crew ‘anthem’ and decided to stop working. How am I to know exactly what is going to happen now? What IF that slag who tried to kill herself takes a big black cock right inside her? Oh dear gang, follow me onto the next episode and we’ll try and make light of this.

Stop thinking about meaty,swollen black cocks. I know it’s hard.

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Season Six, Episode One – ‘To Market, To Market’

With a heavy heart, I am now entering into the final stage of my emotional journey. The strong base has been created and is bubbling along nicely, the drinks are being poured and the many followers are awaiting with baited breath the end. No, it’s not another ritual mass suicide like the classic Brian Jonestown massacre, just the first episode of the final season of Sex And The City.

In classic Sex And The City style, we start with Carrie waking up late and then rushing through New York with all the grace of Penelope Pitstop chasing the man who has raped her in a particularly dastardly manner. She finally ended up at Wall Street, home of the corrupt sleazy American bankers in pinstripe suits and slicked back hair that we all know and love.

Carrie was ‘ringing the bell’ and opening the stock exchange for that day. Were they really that desperate for celebrities that day? Was infamous Baseball cheat Pete Rose busy? What about the Oklahoma bomber Timothy McVeigh? Doink the Clown? Jack Tweed? Carrie was happy anyway, she had arranged a date with Berger, presumably not for a burger which would make sense as I see Carrie as more of a hot dog girl – a flaccid piece of dead meat stuck between two pasty rolls.

Miranda literally had shit on her face, stemming from a nappy changing with her bastard ginger baby. Steve, ever a loveable rogue started giggling and horseplay started with her chasing him around her apartment. All was well until she snapped at him for no reason, and told him to leave. Her rationale for this, was that she was in love with him but was too scared to tell him. Hint for all females reading this – if you’ve realised that you belong with someone, don’t kick them out of your place in anger, especially if they’ve just wiped shit off your sweating forehead.

Talking of sweaty wrecks, I’m really liking Harry at the moment. He eats pork even though he’s Jewish. Having half watched The Pianist once, and obviously I’ve watched that nine hour long Holocaust documentary about fifty times, I’ve got a certain affinity towards the Jewish race. I remember, my cousin went to school with me and was in the same year, and he was frequently taunted with the legend : ‘Jew boy’. The irony was of course, that he wasn’t Jewish, but short of pulling his trousers down what could he have done?

Harry saying he can only marry Charlotte if she converts to Judaism interests me greatly. Yeah it’s a slightly outdated tradition in our increasingly non-secular society, but he did promise his dead mum that he’d marry a nice Jewish girl. Should you have to change yourself to be with someone? No, of course not, but if it requires very little effort, then why not? Charlotte’s never bothered with religion, so why not metaphorically mutilate her cock and get it over with?

If my girlfriend asked me to stop supporting Southend and instead dedicate all my time to making pottery using my own soft hands, and obviously I’d tell her to do one, but if she wanted me to start using Biro’s instead of fountain pens, then I’d consider it, if only because the last time I used a fountain pen I also killed a man.

Samantha, let’s mention her in a short pithy paragraph. She was pissed off because her neighbourhood was becoming too corporate, not realising that she’s technically a corporate suit so what business does she have in a meat packing district? As it was, she fucked a city-slicker before he was arrested for giving away inside trade secrets. Here’s one: don’t fuck a hollow fifty-five year old slapper who worries about having a heart attack every time she sucks a cock.

Good and bad news for Charlotte and Miranda respectively. Charlotte, inspired by Elizabeth Taylor who had also converted at one point began to seriously consider making the change herself. Not sure Elizabeth Taylor, a woman best friends with a paedophile would be my first point of inspiration, but it takes different strokes to move the world. The strokes of little boys in Michael Jackson’s case. An emotional Charlotte confided in Harry that she might not be able to have children, and he took it with aplomb and great grace. God he’s a great guy, give him some hair and he’d be an Adonis.

For Miranda though, terrible news. A dinner with Steve in which she intended to tell him she loved him ended in disaster when he told her he was seeing someone else, and actually wasn’t in love with her anymore. Great guy. With that cheerful scene, and also Carrie running into Aidan – now a father, I was beginning to feel a lot happier than I was prior to watching this episode. Steve, and Aidan happy – what more could someone want? Oh, a date of Carrie’s wearing a brown suede blazer, getting vinegar into an eye wound and falling off his chair all whilst getting pecked at by a giant bird? Yeah, I got all that too!

We ended with Carrie and Berger going to watch a film. Interesting that Carrie had asked previously ‘why do we keep investing in relationships?’. It’s simple really, especially for women – why do you buy shoes? Because you don’t want to walk the earth with nothing to show for it but pain, blisters, and something lovely with you at all times.

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Season Five, Episode Three – ‘Luck Be An Old Lady’

I thought the most savage line in popular culture was ‘I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die’ from the Johnny Cash classic ‘Folsom Prison Blues’, or even ‘your mother sucks cocks in hell’, from ‘The Exorcist’, but when Richard told Samantha quite clearly and explicitly that he wanted to give her a pearl necklace something just didn’t sit right with me. After removing the pin which some cheeky scamp had placed in my chair, I soon got over the ‘necklace’, and instead continued on towards paragraph two.

We started with Carrie getting stood up on a blind date, which must really hurt. Someone you actually know cancelling on you is already a painful experience, but when a stranger pops their head into a restaurant, takes a sly look at you, double takes and leaves without even offering you a go on their cock, you know a problem has arisen. Because of this, Carrie worried if she was turning into an old maid, and moaned about how men get older and become bachelors. That’s just the way life works. Men become silver foxes, distinguished, heroic, whereas woman just get older. If you’re lucky you become a milf, if you don’t you become Jade Goody.

Carrie didn’t even have much to moan about, unlike Charlotte who was mortified that it was coming up to her thirty-sixth birthday. The solution was to go to Atlantic City, a mystical place in America which I only really know about due to Empire Records, and that Bruce Springsteen song. A cursory glance at Google reveals that it’s a city in New Jersey, famous for its gambling and board walk, which to me just sounds like a knock off Essex.

The impromptu trip was almost scuppered by Steve rushing back to Miranda’s and telling her he couldn’t look after the baby that weekend because he was scared. I felt a bit bad at this moment, his normally jovial, immaculate face had transformed like a Stretch Armstrong being played with by a parapalegic. His green track jacket said more than words ever could. Christ, this is reading like a thirteen year old girls embarrassingly bad attempt at writing Twilight fan-fiction. The situation was salvaged when Magda, the irrepressible Eastern European nanny helped out. She’d get it.

Samantha and Richard kept bickering, and even Richard giving her a pearl thong couldn’t ease things over – in fact I imagine it made things a whole lot more uncomfortable in a number of ways. I suppose that being in a relationship that has experienced true, legit cheating must be like doing the limbo with a broken back – everyone is whooping and cheering hoping that the injury won’t cause any grief and that happiness will erupt like a rapists cock in the back of someone with downs syndrome, but it’s never gonna happen is it. Most long-winded analogy ever sure, but where would I be without them? About twenty-five words poorer.

I’ve got no real opinions on gambling – like Ryan Adams once sang, “I ain’t never been to Vegas, but I gambled up my life”, but I have got an opinion on Carrie Bradshaw, and that opinion is this: she’s a fucking gobshite. Why would you wanna be pals with her anyway girls? Surely the whole point of having a friend is someone who differentiates from yourself – ie, if you hated black people you’d get someone with a black boyfriend in so the ying and yang is restored, but considering most women just bitch and moan all the time, why would you want to experience what you dish out? That’s not sexism by the way, I just fucking hate women.

This episode just exhibited the sad fake glitz and glamour of America I suppose, although Carrie’s bizarre and disgusting perm strongly reminded me of the last time I set foot in Liverpool. My memories of that visit incidentally are the only things I took out of Liverpool, as everything else was nicked and then set alight to the haunting sounds of Gerry and the Pacemakers. “You’ll never walk alone” they once prophesied – they were right. I assume “you’ll get raped by three scallies carry a portrait of Jimmy Corkhill” was the edgy b-side, no matter how true it might be.

I’ve really got nothing to say about all this. Samantha caught Richard cheating again, and so ended their relationship. Miranda’s self esteem plummeted even further than Richard’s cock in some tight white pussy by being told she had a ‘fat ass’ by a brute of a man in a casino. Whilst that was a sad and pathetic moment (especially Carrie trying to be funny in response) the saddest act was Charlotte dressing like a slag to try and achieve some sort of female empowerment after she felt dowdy. Nothing says progress by letting some trucker ogle over your norks. I should know.

In the end it took a charming black couple to remind everyone that giving up on things is the worst thing you can do, and that true love conquers all blah blah fucking blah. Sometimes I do feel like a quote out of context, and sometimes I do feel that the whole world is conspiring against me. Truth be told, watching this stuff doesn’t help in the slightest. Someone once asked me why I spend so much time watching something I don’t seem to enjoy, and the truth is – I don’t fucking know. Morbid curiosity I guess, the type that makes us wanna watch videos of people being beheaded, or Liverpool playing soccer.

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