Man Torture

I thought my Achilles heel had been discovered by the Elster. Greys Anatomy was bad, and I figured there could be nothing worse than being forced to sit and suffer through this this whiny dross. Until now. I knew it was coming. She had been to see it not once, not twice, but thrice at the local multiplex. My mother loved it, her mother loved it, all her mates loved it, and it was all I heard about for weeks. Not only was the best of CD bought, but she actually bought the soundtrack of the movie, sung badly by the cast. To top it all, just in time for Christmas, the DVD has been unleashed. No longer can you hide from it by avoiding the cinema, or faking illness, as it now resides in houses throughout the land. Two words, my friends, that should send a tingle of fear sprinting down your spine.

Mama Mia!

I knew it was coming. And I new she would pick a time when I was at my weakest. After a heavy session around Otley, I skulked downstairs, and settled into my hangover chair, to be met by a sound, that to me resembled a cat being strangled with barbed wire. But I was wrong. It was Meryl Streep, in dungarees murdering an Abba song. The movie continued to play out, as a fluid, that was once my brain, began to seep out of my ears. Julie Walters and some American bint sang a song under a bathroom door, to Mrs Streep, as I began to wonder how long the bleach under the sink would take to kill me if I drank it all. Of course the Elster could see straight into my soul, and told me stop spoiling the film for her. I tried to work out how the Hell she knew what I was thinking, when a noise froze my blood. It was surely the sound of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, breaking free form the pits of Hell, signalling the end of times. I cowered under a pillow, as I prepared to meet my maker. "For the last time stop it!" snarled the Elster, as the realisation dawned upon me that it was not the rapture, but Pierce Brosnan, warbling away for all he was worth. I slipped into a coma at this point, only coming around several hours later, vaguely aware that Streep had married Brosnan, and now in possession of a pathological fear of anything Swedish. The next time anybody tells you the world would be a better place if women were in charge, refer them to this movie. From what I can now gather, the female population of the planet think anything can be sorted out by cackling loudly, and then belting out an Abba tune. I shiver just thinking about it.

But the tale doesn't end there. I fully admit, that now and again I can sit through a musical. Hell, I think the Sound of Music is great. Nuns and Nazis? What more do you want? But this is different. I spread the information as quickly as I could. The first pair I warned were Crespo and the Right Honourable Shouty. Crepo seemed to take in my warning, but I got a shock when the Shoutster said the words I thought I would never hear a squad member say. "I liked it" he piped up, and even admitted going to the cinema to see it! I told him he should be ashamed of himself, and he should have his testicles confiscated. For the rest of you, at the first sign of anybody putting the disc in the DVD player, I suggest evasive action. If like me, this proves to be impossible, I prescribe lashings of lager, followed by a viewing of the Great Escape, to regain your equilibrium.