True Shit

Get off your horse and.....and.....well......just fuck off, will you!


While waiting to get the barbecue going, I'm sitting in the garden with my laptop, trying to get on the inside of a nice bottle of vino blanc and pondering one of my pet hates.
I've come outside not only to enjoy the glorious weather but also to escape the Devil's Lantern because it's Saturday afternoon and Saturday afternoons mean only two things..........sport and westerns!

Now sport I like. There is nothing wrong with sport on the box, particularly at the moment, what with the rugby world cup in full swing. I love sport of most kinds and listening to it on the wireless outside is, anyway, more exciting. No, what really gets up my goat, almost as much as fucking musicals, is westerns! I bloody hate them!

This, of course, is further evidence than I am not a real man but some kind of woman trapped in the body of Qausimodo's uglier, older brother. As I've mentioned before, I'm crap at DIY, I'm useless with and have absolutely no interest whatsoever in cars and I find talking about football in the pub incredibly boring (even though I like football). On the other hand, I love cooking, I occasionally blub at sad films, I like flowers and I have a respectable pair of tits!

Like most girlies as well, I just find little or no entertainment in bloody westerns. They're all the same. Take the characters. There's always a guy in a black hat and his gang of nasties, a guy in a white hat who stands alone against the world and either a feisty, bosomatic woman bar owner or a shy, Laura Ashley print-frocked, wallflower-type girl. Bit parts invariably include a town drunk, a crooked railroad boss and the odd cute kid desperately looking for a new daddy. Everyone apparently has 24-hour access to Sketchley's and Nicky Clarke, there's always a saloon with little swing doors, drinks have to be slid along the bar and some git is always playing a honky tonk number on the piano but he has orders to stop abruptly when one of the baddies moseys in.
Then we come to the plots. Boiled down, they basically involve the guy in the white hat triumphing over the guy in the black hat, getting the girl and then riding off into the sunset, leaving a trail of dead nasties in his wake, townsfolk who are once again happy and safe and enough spent bullets to melt down and make a lifesize model of the Empire State Building.
The heroes never, ever have any bad points while the baddies never, ever have and good points. Men are men and the horses are scared.

I think my hatred for the genre is exemplified by that neo-Nazi twat who was John Wayne. What a git! A draft-dodging, shambling pile of glycogen who was able to play fewer characters than either Sean Connery or Champion the Wonder Horse.
Nope, it's the garden for me on Saturday afternoons, or the pub if it's raining. Westerns can definitely go to Grantham.