Domesticating Sean Bean and Grieving with Karl Urban.

I have come to a realisation. It's not the kind of realisation which imparts a sense of wellbeing or oneness with the universe. Rather, the knowledge chills me to the bone. You see, I have realised that the reason my wife is able to watch football with all the discernment and depth of knowledge normally (and misogynistically) attributed to men is because she watches Lord of the Rings films the way other women supposedly watch football: it’s all about the pumping thighs. And the swords. And all the enormous beards.

She was recently trying to decide which of her two preferred LOTR crushes she’d live with, Sean Bean or Karl Urban. The problem is that she only likes Karl Urban when he’s lamenting the death of his sister (emotional vulnerability + gigantic beard = erotic meltdown), and she couldn’t imagine a domestic scenario involving a constantly grief-ridden Karl Urban; she saw herself coming home to find the flat a mess, the beds unmade, washing up piled in the sink, tear-sodden Kleenex on every surface. Come on, Karl Urban, she would say, pull yourself together.

Sean Bean is, at least superficially, more straightforward. His appeal lies in the ability to embody a sort of righteous wrath; you can see him showcasing this emotion in LOTR, Game of Thrones, Black Death and every other film he’s been in ever – except perhaps Lady Chatterley’s Lover, when he embodied righteous gamekeeping. I tried to point out to my wife that righteous wrath might come with its own unique set of problems, particularly in the enclosed space of a semi-detached house; I suggested that the Bean would invariably end up smiting the soft furnishings left, right and centre. But my wife responded that at least he would be basically functional. I don’t know what exactly she meant by that, but she had a disturbing glint in her eye so I didn't press her on it.

Anyway, stemming from this discussion, I’ve had an idea. I think Sean Bean should volunteer at his local village fete. He’d be the centrepiece of his own stall, enclosed in a plastic cylinder with multiple small holes. Then members of the local community could pay to approach the cylinder, reach through one of the apertures and flick the Bean. Men could see how it felt. Women could do it in public. It would be great. I think I might write to him about it.

A Song of Chips and Gravy

*This image was kindly created for me by my brother-in-law, as I don't have Photoshop. I was only asking for something simple, something deliberately crap, but this actually looks as good as the HBO publicity shots - thus showing up the shittiness of this joke. Thanks, James.

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Another Shaggy Dog Story

This is a true story.

A friend of a friend was asked to dog-sit for her boss' beloved golden retriever. She liked her boss and, more importantly, wanted to impress him. This seemed a prime opportunity for her to showcase those qualities which bosses seem to cherish. She said yes, no problem.

He dropped the dog off at her flat on a cold Tuesday afternoon and gave her some fairly complicated instructions about what to feed it and when and how often it liked to go for walks. He obviously doted on the dog. It was a wrench to leave him for so long. He gave the dog one last tummy rub and thanked the woman once again for helping him out and then he was gone. 

Things went swimmingly for the first couple of days. The dog was very friendly. She enjoyed taking it for walks after work and throwing a stick for it in the local park. 

On the evening of the third night she gave the dog a pat and went up to bed. All was well with the world.

When she came down in the morning, all was considerably less well with the world on account of the fact that the dog was stone dead. 

Hmm. Tricky. How was this lady going to explain to her boss the demise of his beloved pooch? What if he thought it was her fault? What was she going to do?

She needed to find a way - a highly credible way - of explaining the death of the dog to her boss. After some thought, she came up with the idea of taking the dog's body to a vet. The vet would tell her what had killed the dog and she would be exonerated, thus avoiding all the awful consequences which she'd been envisaging for herself, such as unemployment, public decrial, homelessness and becoming the sex slave of a short, angry man from Warrington.

But she didn't own a car and, according to yell.com, the nearest vet was a car journey away. How was she going to get the dog there? After some more thought she put the body into a suitcase. Which was totally fine and normal behaviour on her part.

Then she wheeled the suitcase with the dead dog in it to her nearest Tube station and got on the Piccadilly line. Also normal. Taxis are expensive, and they probably charge extra for dead dogs.

When she got to Bond Street, she got off the train, because that's where the vet's surgery was. She wasn't stupid.    

However, she was finding it pretty hard going by this point. The case was extremely bulky and it turned out that the dead body of an adult golden retriever is very heavy. She'd already had a great deal of trouble getting it on and off the train and onto the escalators. 

So her heart sank when she saw the double-flight of steps leading up to the street. She paused. She lifted the case. It was so heavy that it slipped from her grip and landed on her foot. She winced and swore loudly. 

It was then that the young man approached her. 

'You look like you're having a spot of trouble there. Are you sure I can't help you, give you a hand?'

She looked at him. He had soft brown eyes and a roguish hint of stubble across a chiselled jaw. His body looked pretty good underneath a leather jacket and a navy blue jumper. He didn't smell palpably of urine. If she hadn't been carrying a dead dog at the time, this was exactly the sort of man she would have liked to come over and offer to carry something for her, and then possibly buy her a drink, and maybe accompany her to a quiet country hotel for, like, sex and stuff. 

He smiled. It was a nice smile. 

She forgot why she shouldn't let anyone but her carry the suitcase. She quite forgot that it contained the corpse of her boss' golden retriever.  

'That would be great,' she said, 'as long as you're sure it's not too much trouble.'

'No trouble at all,' he twinkled back at her as he reached down for the handle on the suitcase.

Their hands briefly touched. 

They started up the stairs together. She felt a little lightheaded. The last couple of hours had been so intense - and now this. Well, it never rains but it pours. She did wish the guy would slow down a bit, though. He was actually edging out in front of her, she was falling further and further behind, panting to keep up. 

'Whew! Slow down a bit,' she said, 'I can't keep up.'

But instead of slowing down, he turned back to look at her. She noticed that he was a lot less good-looking from this angle. His chin was weak and he looked shifty, those eyes of his darted around too much. A moment of recognition passed between them. Then he was off, running up the stairs, taking them two at a time, reaching the street and pounding flat-out across the pavement, the suitcase clutched in both arms.

The girl ran after him.

'Hey, no!' she cried. 'Please! Please stop! It's just a dog. IT'S JUST A DOG!'

But he was out of earshot by then, weaving in and out of the traffic on Oxford Street, heading up an alley, passing out of sight. 

She never did find the dog. And no one knows what she told her boss. Or what the guy said when he opened the suitcase.