The Last Jedi? That’s A Relief

In which Mrs G Unexpectedly Goes Off Star Wars.

Mrs G likes a trip to the talkies, and I am a sucker for celluloid aliens. So we have a regular date. Every time a Star Wars film comes out, I book a couple of tickets. Hang the expense!  Bugger the waistline! I say, and round off the treat with some Maltesers and Twiglets, plus, if we’re feeling saucy, a bucket of Fanta, with two straws. I know how to show a girl a good time.

(Actually, I don’t get the cinema. Why pay a fortune to sit surrounded by a roomful of numpties with loud mobile phones, even more loud mobile children, sweets (rustle rustle), coughs, large hats, short attention spans, and flatulence?  I generally wait for ye olde DVD, and watch at home. Need a wee? Simply hit “pause”. Better than enduring the walk of shame from row G, and missing the best bit, right? At about a fifth of the price.)

But Mrs G likes an outing, and nightclubs are soooo 2016¹. So: the flicks for us. The show begins at 4:15. We take our seats at 4:15. Suckers! A full half hour of insipid advertising, and my God it’s dull. Whatever happened to good ads? You know, Happiness is a Cigar Called Hamlet? Flake? Lynx? No such luck. By the time they’re done, Mrs G’s head is drooping, and the Twiglets are gone, apart from the one I dropped².

At last the film starts. Blue writing fills the screen: “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...” and then DIDDLY-DAH! DA DUM DEE DUM DAD DUM DEE DAAAAH, and yellow writing scrolling up, and ooh, the adrenaline kicks in, and all the Tenalady and Hyundai adverts are fading into the past. This is going to be good.

I have a strategy for watching Star Wars. Suspend your disbelief, and your critical faculties; ignore the plot, characters, denouement, struggle between good and evil, etc etc, as they are basically the same for every episode. Just sit back, and soak up the Dolby whizzbangs, gargantuan spaceships, swordfights and wacky aliens; pass a couple of dopey hours in a Malteser-fuelled haze. All too soon it’s over. Out we go. I’m happy. I haven’t noticed it wasn’t very good.

“What did you think?” I ask innocently. Big mistake.

“Well,” she says. “Well. Not too keen, actually.”

“Why?” Second big mistake.

(I should point out there are big SPOILERS from here on in, but why bother? The entire planet has already seen it twice, and besides, how can you spoil something this predictable?)

She launches in. “When did Luke Skywalker become such a wimp? Why did they spend hours on that stupid island? What was with the interminable space pursuit? They couldn’t catch up? Seriously? Why is the goodies’ ship commanded by a load of old ladies? What were those stupid ice dogs? Where did Snoke come from anyway? Didn’t they kill off the Evil Emperor? Why is Kylo Ren such a big-nosed poutylips? And why do the guns just get bigger and bigger?”

And so on. “You hated it all, then?” I ask.

“No. I quite liked the naughty pilot.”

“Come on,” I insist. “Skywalker turns up at the end and saves the rebels with a Force projection across light-years? Subterfuge, tension, drama, and a tender reunion? Eh? Eh?”

“Ah,” she says. “I was asleep for that bit.”

Uh-huh. Next time, we’re buying the DVD.

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1 - 1983, actually, if we’re quibbling.
2 - I did try and find it, but there are a lot of Twiglets on the floor, and I’m not sure which one is mine. Quite tempted by the popcorn though.

Oh no! It’s Christmas

In which Ubergrumpy goes Christmas shopping. And gets it wrong. Again.

Don’t get me wrong; I like the Festive Season. I like the goodwill-to-all-men stuff¹, and the excuse to put your diet on hold, and ample free booze from the neighbours, and limitless Twiglets, and mistletoe (mmwah! WaHAAY!), and the shiny lights, etc etc.

It’s the shopping I hate.

The problem, you see, is Mrs G. She has three traits which are highly desirable in one’s spouse for most of the year. One: She’s a contented sort of person, and doesn’t want much. Two: She already has at least one of everything anyway. Three: She’s a tasteful person, and prefers things like, oh, underwear, and earrings, to be just so.

Which throws me into a flat spin come the day when I can’t put it off any more, and must start shopping.²

I start in the Debenhams lingerie department, naturally, to take the Annual Walk of Shame. Emboldened by the herd of sheepish-looking blokes in there with me, I ought to be a bit more brazen (“What size Sir? Well, about yours, actually”) but I become mesmerized by all the loopy bits and lacy doodads, and lose the ability to speak. I eventually stumble out of the shop about an hour later, clutching a nice new wallet, for me.

(Actually, here’s a top tip. I am quite tempted to take last year’s pink-and-purple Elastane-and-Lycra four-part lingerie set out of Mrs G’s top secret drawer, and wrap it up again. I don’t think she’d notice. It’s never been worn. She hasn’t even read the manual.)

Several more shops prove equally hopeless. Body Shop? I dunno, but I think Aloe Vera and Ginger may chafe the skin, so I pass. Whittards? She already has eighteen teapots. White Stuff? Rubbish! She likes colourful things. And so on.

Eventually, in desperation, I hit the Winchester Christmas market. If you haven’t been, imagine ninety posh wooden sheds stuck behind a big church, then add half the population of Hartlepool. There’s very tempting stuff on sale, but I can’t get near any of it. Even the queue for the mulled wine is halfway back to Debenhams.

Home again then, and on to the Interwebnet. Hmmm. How about a new wacky corkscrew? “As seen on TV”, it says. Eh? I see my MP on TV most days but I’m not about to wrap him up and put him under the tree, am I? I pass.

But a couple of hours later, I’ve ordered some stuff. Job done? No. Because now, you have to wait for the deliveries. I swear delivery guys hover outside your front door, listening for a flushing sound before whipping out their bloody ‘We tried to deliver but you were out’ cards. So: I emerge from the loo to find three such cards on the doormat. I was only taking a pee. I didn’t even stop to wash my hands, dammit.

I give up. It’s about time we rejected all this distasteful commercial pressure, and returned to the true spirit of Christmas. Mrs G, this year, I give the gift of love, and this post. And a Terry’s Chocolate Orange.

After all, it’s the thought that counts.

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1 - Why just men? Ah ha! I quite like the fact that Christmas is a bit sexist too.
2 - Often known as ‘Christmas Eve’.