I take it all back. I've just finished the Queer As Folk finale, ending the Manchester What Are You Like experiment; more ugly and more joyful than I remembered. Artists, God-given artists, everything they do reflects on everything else: I feel like I get Doctor Who more now; I get this terrifying movie more now. That's how you know you're dealing with a staunch character. All previous whinging about Russell T Davies is now relegated to the crap pile, with apologies to those of you who felt personally attacked. I am an idiot. Especially considering -- that most horrible of habits -- I've been talking Manchester Anglophile all week and getting on my own nerves. Pretentious twat. I've been on voluntary lockdown because I don't want anybody to hear the accent until I get it under control. This is why I don't watch PBS -- and why the Doctor Who recaps can get a little cringy, to be frank. This isn't my diary: there's a point. But we haven't got there yet.
Previously: Steve Baxter revealed that he was the Son of God, and that there was a Third Testament forthcoming. Johnny Tyler made for an adorable masturbating Satan. The news revealed that Frank was infertile and S-E-X-X-Y to boot. Good Cop Chadwick got all in a mess; Fiona was disgusting and best forgotten about; Jude joined Steve's lame version of the Jesus Christ Superstar Traveling Roadshow. Everything blew up.
Things start in a way I always enjoy, and have used on more than one occasion: Jude packing a bag in the quiet morning light. Not only is it evocative -- you hear the zippers, the tiny sighs and grunts of getting your shit together -- but it contrasts beautifully with the tumult outside. Which is bastard crazy. The cops escort her through the crowd, overwhelmed and gone exhausted in five seconds, as they ask her what's happening tomorrow. As she pulls up to the station in her security van it is covered in hands and desperation. Frank gets out with her, and Fiona calls: "You're on every channel. Right now! It's like Big Brother!" Jude's like, "Word. This is insane." Fiona informs her that nobody can get into Manchester: "We're the new Mecca!" They discuss how everyone's making a profit in Manchester, driving up prices and I guess selling t-shirts, as Johnny Tyler calls to Jude through the blockade with a huge creepy smile. "Gotta go," says Jude. "Big Brother's calling." If Fiona were calling me, I'd say, "Sorry, gotta go. I've just died." Johnny marvels to the people around him, to the television cameras, that he went on a date with her. A date! With her! Back at home, Dave bitches at Fiona that she could be in the middle of it. "Christ, we could have made a fortune!" If I were Dave, I'd want my wife to join a cult, too. "Don't take his name in vain," she hisses, but before they even attempt to be interesting, she zeroes back in on the TV. "There he is now!" Dave drinks a beer. I wish a bomb would hit their stupid house.