The day that fashion died

At the Movies

Sex And The City 2
DIRECTED BY: Michael Patrick King
STARRING: Sarah Jessica Parker, Kim Cattrall, Kristin Davis, Cynthia Nixon
CERT: 15A

A few reasons why I might not be the ideal individual to review Sex And The City 2.
Firstly, I am a man. I really should need to say no more than that but, for those requiring further clarification let me go on – I am not one of the metrosexual variety, though I have travelled on the metro system in Madrid, if that counts. I do not have a feminine side. Trust me, the doctors have checked.

This is not to say I am not in touch with my feelings. I feel great happiness when Liverpool FC are doing well. I feel immense sadness when they are not – which is to say, I am sad most of the time. I feel intense anger whenever I see the faces of John Terry and Gary Neville. And I feel an overwhelming sense of contentment whenever I am eating a steak.
Secondly, I have no interest in expensive fashions or sparkly stuff. As I write, I am wearing a pair of jeans from Dunnes and a t-shirt and runners I bought in Walmart. (Yes, Walmart. The great Satan. I’m such a bad person. Quick, drag me away in union-approved, bio-degradable handcuffs!) That pretty much sums up my entire wardrobe.
The only accessories around the place are a Trilby hat, a Timex watch and a modest bracelet I wear on the rare occasions I dress up,­ all of them gifts from my better half, who thinks I’d look cuter if I toned down the Moses beard and dressed preppy. Whatever that means.
On a related note, I have a severe allergy to shopping. It has taken my wife an unusually long time to realise this and she still looks at me funny when ­ at the mere mention of going to the shop ­ my face swells up, I start to choke and foam at the mouth and roll around on the floor keening like a widowed cat in heat.
I wouldn’t be big into interiors either. I have no idea who was responsible for lovingly handcrafting our couch, but it’s really, really comfortable, or if the same individual was the one who upholstered my recliner, my prized possession, even now that the dog has taken a chunk out of the back. I suppose curtains are important ­ you don’t want the neighbours gawking in at you, unless you like that kind of thing. And as for that apparent sacred cow, I have long believed that every closet is a walk-in closet if you try hard enough.
Another reason I really should not have exposed myself to this film, is that I was greatly traumatised by the first Sex and The City movie. Two years down the road, I’m still working through all of that with my therapist. My total loss of faith in humanity is proving to be a particularly tough issue.
However, the children have to be fed and I do need to save up for a new shirt from Pennies. So here we are.
The new film opens with an elaborate and seemingly endless gay wedding, which concludes with a deeply disturbing song and dance routine by Liza Minnelli. God help us all and save us from the cliché monster.
The ladies are in attendance of course, with all of their glittery baggage. Carrie (Parker) is not so blissfully wed now, whining about Big (Chris Noth) and how he’s no fun anymore. Miranda (Nixon) is having a hard time with her big, bad, sexist boss. Charlotte (Davis) can’t handle being a mammy, especially when the evil kids ruin the designer gear she wears while cooking and Samantha (Cattrall) is still cradle-snatching, only now she’s on the verge of the menopause and cracking up more than usual.
Still, nothing a girls’ vacation can’t solve and a wealthy Sheikh duly obliges by whisking them off on an all-expenses paid trip to Abu Dhabi,­ world-renowned hot spot for free-spirited, independent and sexually liberated women with incurable addictions to obscene Western consumerism.
The ensuing clash of cultures would be funny if it wasn’t so shamelessly grotesque, so wilfully arrogant and obnoxious. When the standard attire of the local ladies becomes the butt of a joke about botox, you know you’re not in the most intellectual company. And when these twittering twerps become the liberators of Middle Eastern Muslim women, you start to wonder if someone dropped some heavy duty hallucinogenic Smarties in your popcorn.
By the end, ­ and it takes a long, long time to arrive, the only thing you will long for more than death itself, is to see these hideous cackling infidels taken out to the public square and flogged.
But what am I saying? This is all just a bit of fluff, a fun night out for the girls and all that. As I said, I know nothing of this strange, strange universe that ladies inhabit.
Meanwhile back in reality, the World Cup starts next week.
Everything will be alright, lads. Everything will be alright.