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.