So another young lady’s slept with Jason, against my advice, and got herself killt. A podgy red-necked bubba hanging outside poor Dawn’s trailer said, ‘We caint afford to lose no more girls.’ To which the assembled True Blood audience cried, ‘But where’s the fun in that?’
The script-writers worked their butts off trying to make Jason interesting this week. Handcuffed in the back of the cop car he got rid of a full vial of vampire blood by downing the whole thing in one, as we had known he would from the moment Lafayette said, ‘Take one drop – two at most.’
This sprang on him a stiffy which, from all accounts, was larger than the Empire State. Under most circumstances in which we’ve so far seen Jason, he would have welcomed such a, well, thing. But being as he was under interrogation by two policemen on suspicion of murder, it was kind of inconvenient. He staggered to the bathroom so he could writhe in drama-school ecstasy and agony, till rescued by the magnificent Tara, who I like more every episode. We discovered via a Tenessee Williams-esque flashback that her mystifying torch for Juvenile Jase has been carried since she was a wee lassie, and Jase saved her from her drunken mother by judicious use of the screen door.
In return, she gave him an alibi; and once they’d been sprung from the sheriff’s office, insisted on seeing what Jason was attempting to cool with a large steak. Her facial expression when he shyly moved the meat from his meat was worth the price of admission. She then drove his enormous member to the hospital, bandying words like ‘priapic’ and phrases like, ‘Do you wanna keep your dick?’ You gotta love her.
The doctor laughingly informed us that Jase’s Johnson looked like ‘eggplant’ – aubergine, British fact fans – which made it all the more cruel that despite the many female pubis that have shimmied across our eye-lines, we weren’t allowed to see this great purple throbbing thing. Still, knowing Jason, even in 3D it would probably have been boring.
There were a few more revelations about Sam this week; but as the main one was that he likes to writhe around in the sheets of recently deceased women, making similar moves to those thrown by Jason when repeatedly bashing his eggplant to try and lower the scaffolding, I think we’ll leave it there.
The proper action this week was Sookie asking Bill to take her to ‘Fang-tasia’, the dodgy vampire nightclub. Sookie’s annoyingly fey grandmother had asked her to use her telepathic gifts to find out who really killed Dawn and thus save Jason, so Sookie’s immediate thought was to check out Fang-tasia even though she can’t hear vampires’ thoughts. This was clearly nothing more than a pathetic excuse to ask Bill out, which he saw through, being 150 years old and having been round the block several thousand times. Wearing a ridiculous summer dress with amply upholstered bosom, she looked, as Bill said, like ‘vampire bait’, and so it proved.
The nightclub was exactly like a goth club off Carnaby Street I frequented as a teenager. There was a raft of rubber, a load of leather, and a sea of sex-crazed humans desperate to shag a vampire. In particular, everyone lusted after the King of the Vampires, a cool dude with a blond bob, surprisingly named Eric, who came onto Sookie by dint of being very old and therefore in charge.
Best line of the series was when Eric summoned Sookie for a little chat over a bottle of A Negative. Bill said, ‘Uh-oh’ and Sookie said, ‘Don’t say “uh-oh”. Vampires aren’t supposed to say “uh-oh.”’
Bill was at pains to prevent Sookie from cheeking Eric, and he kept insisting that the club was much harder and scarier than she thought, but really, Bill, it wasn’t, was it? You should’ve come down Tots in Southend with me and my posse in 1986. We’d have eaten you alive, spiked you through the heart with a white stiletto, and sang ‘Club Tropicana’ over your rotting corpse.
Posted by Qwerty