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Season Six, Episode Seventeen – ‘The Cold War’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Season Six, Episode Fifteen – ‘Catch-38’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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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