Reminding us how much we have missed its particular brand of adrenalin rush, Season Three of True Blood opened with another masterly pre-credit sequence, a heady roller-coaster of action, which culminated in Jessica tenderly kissing the roses Hoyt had left on her doorstep, before dragging in the comatose body of the trucker she’d just drained.
It’s back! And it’s twice as mad!
Bill? Don't tell me you've been kidnapped in order to drive the Season 3 plot?
Picking up, as is its wont, exactly where we left it – poor Sookie looking for Bill in a French restaurant aided only by an arsey policewoman and a pissed-off waitress – we were soon immersed up to our necks in werewolves, horrible biker-type kidnappers, and Eric’s naked butt. Blimey. Once again, True Blood made me spill my cocoa, and I’m sure you can guess at which bit.
Jason had lost his mojo after shooting Eggs, and was counselled in a caring, sharing way by Andy: ‘I want to see a lot less conscience and a lot more cahones’. Jason agreed to start acting like his old self, eg sluttishly, and went lady-hunting with a useless Hoyt, who was pining for Jessica. Jason passed on the brisk lessons he’d learned from Andy, telling Hoyt, ‘There’s going to be a certain amount of pussy overflow you’re going to have to get used to dealing with’. But Jason was the one who couldn’t handle any pussy. His manhood was at the opposite extreme from when it was big and purple as an aubergine, and every time he looked at the young ladies he’d picked up, he saw imaginary bullet holes in their foreheads. Kind of off-putting.
I know what Andrew Stone smells like. Sadly I can’t claim to have been within close sniffing range of the pop sensation. But he showed us what perfume he uses, and it’s Paco Rabanne 1 Million – the same one my dad got for Christmas. So I can confidently say that Andrew Stone smells like my dad, which is possibly a disturbing thought for all concerned.
This little piece of product placement (he uses Elnette hairspray as well, but who the heck doesn’t?) featured in a scene where Andrew was dolling himself up for a date. With a girl. She’d won him in a “meet Andrew Stone” competition, but even with that head start, it seemed that Andrew finds it difficult to relate to the ladies. If only they would all stop thinking he was gay, he might be in with a chance.
Meanwhile, we were introduced to the most bizarre, deluded and disturbing dance act since Ann Widdecombe. Black Lad is “the UK’s pre-eminent dancing horse.” And a big lad, he is too. His owner, Patsy, claims he’s “as sexy as Justin Timberlake,” which might be less disturbing if Black Lad wasn’t quite obviously hung like a horse.
His act involves walking about a bit while co-dancers Rachael and Kaylee, who are human but not particularly good at dancing, gyrate around him dressed as Cheryl Cole. There are also two people who may be children or just very short adults, wearing hats that look like they’ve been nicked from a passing Salvation Army band, who gyrate slightly further away from the horse. It’s not good, frankly, and things get worse when they turn up to a gig at an agricultural show. Black Lad doesn’t enjoy the rain and howling wind which has removed most of the adjacent marquees and practically all of the spectators. A commentator, cosily ensconced in a little caravan sums up the experience. “Oh, that’s disappointing,” he says.
Posted by PLA (more Pineapple-flavoured posts here)