Game Of Thrones – Red and White Wedding

So, Game of Thrones, eh?! Bugger me. Better rest your cuppa down on the table for that one.

You could feel it coming though, couldn’t you.

But the thing is, it’s not really my kind of programme. That fantasy stuff is not my cup of tea. The only reason I watch it is cos the wifey is into it. And despite myself, after the first series, I got interested. I like any scene with the dwarf in it. He’s funny. And I like the way him and the ex-prostitute are in love, properly. And I like when the blond chick takes her kit off and does the business, though she doesn’t seem to do that any more since bonky got killed. To be honest, it feels like she and the programme have reneged on our silent understanding. Now she’s “above” that. So, yeah, that pisses me off a bit now that I’m thinking about it. And telling the slave army that none of them are slaves any more but would they like to follow her anyway. Errr… no, actually. I’d quite like to set up a haberdashery shop. Ooh, that’s a good idea, I’ve always fancied having a tea-shop. Oooh, yes me too, I’ve always dreamed of running a B&B by the sea-side. That’s what happens when you free a slave army, missus.

The wife likes that Jamie Lanister fella, Mr. Pretty Boy. I take every opportunity to remind my wife that he now has a stump for an arm, but she is undeterred, especially since she’s seen his arse a couple of episodes ago.

As you can tell I have no fucking idea what is going on in Game of Thrones. And that’s not just me pretending for my blog. I literally have no idea cos I don’t care. I know the characters I like and the rest of it is all bollox. I don’t care who is who’s ally cos it’ll all be different next week or next season.

I know who’s hot, who’s funny, who’s nasty, who’s sneaky, and who’s hot. I got cured of “following the plot” after that “Lost” shite, when I found out they were just making it up as they went along. What are we? Mugs? Well I’m not. You can shove your plot twists up your arse.

It’s A Nice Day For A Red Wedding, yeah.

So there we both are, sitting down to watch the “Red Wedding” episode. There’s plenty of other stuff that happens besides the wedding scenes, but at this stage, the only thing any of us can recall is the actual wedding happenings. Holy shite, that escalated quickly.

One minute that old bastard is making lusty comments at that younger king fella’s pretty wife and the love of his life, who secretly is heavy with child, in front of the assembled throng, “Oooh, I bet it doesn’t jiggle when you take it off,” the next minute a joyous wedding is to be followed by nuptials, and the minute after that the doors close ominously, the music starts and the blood-letting slaughter ensues.

Were you in this compilation somewhere?

Well, I couldn’t watch it. As soon as they started stabbing the younger king’s wife in the stomach, my flashbacks kicked off. I got up to quickly leave the room. The wife asked me where I was off to. I said “Don’t you see what they’re doing here? Don’t you know what this is?” I was incandescent with anger.

“Let me spell it out to you. An old northern warlord with a nearly incomprehensible slur, who loves his wine?? Who are they kidding? A younger king, his forces depleted, due to broken commitments, has arrived at the fortress of his rival desperately hoping for a turn in fortunes so he can form a campaign to contend for the title, against all odds. They might as well have held up a banner saying “Welcome to Old Trafford, Arsene – 2011/12.”

They even had the lecherous, lascivious, old bastard eyeing the flower of our future, wondering what it would look like out of that kit. I’m surprised he didn’t squeeze her muscular thighs and lustily call her “Robin.”

Red Wedding Is Based On An Historical Event.

They say the Red Wedding is based on actual historical events: the Black Dinner of 1440 and the Massacre of Glencoe from 1692. But I’ve read up on them and there not even close to matching the real historical parellel…

Let’s think about it: After some early humiliation in the first half of the event, the situation seemed to be recovered and by the halfway point there were grounds for optimism that a result could yet be had. But the first half gave no inkling of the slaughter that was to follow, the slaughter of the innocents and the young. After some flirtatious back and forth with the promise of nuptials, the doors were ominously slammed shut. The younger king’s bride was stabbed repeatedly in the stomach by Rooney’s free kicks while Young cut in from the left wing twice to bury us, dead-eyed. The young king himself was felled as a young Corporal was taken off the field. Three, then four, then five. Would no one halt the carnage? Six, then seven, then eight. The young king’s mother took a hostage of the old King’s wife and slit her throat as van Persie scored a second goal. Both to no avail. Both token gestures in the end. Nothing would stop the onslaught.

Shots rained in as arrows rain down. Goal after goal was a dagger to the heart or a slit of the throat. The young king stands motionless, parallelized, as events unfold in slow-motion before him, like Szczesny’s feet on Rooney’s free-kick.

8-2 and no one was spared.

At least Fergie talked about showing mercy in the end but his forces still pushed on to score in the 90th minute through Young’s second. And that grey lecher from the north bled them dry of every drop of blood.

A Red wedding indeed. So very subtle. Not.

I remonstrated: “They stole the plot but did they give us a mention in the credits at the end? Like fuck they did, those Manc script-writing bastards on Game of Thrones. We know what you were doing. Taunting us and revelling in our demise. You’re not fooling anyone, you lazy, vindictive Manc shits!”

And don’t you ever touch my fucking dwarf, you Manc wankers.

By the way, next week’s episode is called “Red Sodomizing.” I wonder what that one’s about?