Obama – looking cool as fuck.
My girlfriend is eagle-eyed. And not just any old eagle. Or indeed any old eyes. This is an eagle that’s had its eyes experimented on, reconstructed and augmented by boffins in a secret government lab six-miles underground, using technology harvested from the Roswell space-craft. The eyes cost £6 billion, and can zoom in on an alien tramp scratching his arse, up an intergalactic alley-way, at the opposite end of the universe. In case you missed the subtle allusion: these are some top-notch eyes, people.
Pat: he’ll put his Sharp-est tool in your box.
Oh, and she’s sharp. But not any old sharp. She’s Pat Sharp. You dig? Pat Sharp who’s been turned into Terminator 2, melted down and then used to forge the sharpest sword in the history of the universe, a sword so sharp that even God himself put a big impregnable finger on the end of it to see how sharp it was and went, ‘OW! That’s one mother of a sharp-ass sword.’ Anyway, you get the idea.
We can be watching a movie, and she’ll turn to me and say: ‘That tiny scratch on the main character’s third finger was on his second finger in the previous frame.’
She’s like some sexy Rainman, pointing out plot absurdities, black holes of logic and blink-and-you’ll-miss-them continuity errors that Stephen Hawking himself would struggle to spot.
‘The T-shirt on that extra in the crowd scene was a slightly darker shade of mauve in the previous shot.’
What the fuck! How did she notice that? I’m in awe of her.
But sometimes, just sometimes, she comes out with something that’s so brain-damagedly beautiful – such a delicious, impossible blend of cleverness, stupidity, innocence and cunning – that I just want to mulch her down into a smoothie and drink her into my soul.
Bags packed.
We were talking about Obama’s second term, and she scrunched her face up into a serious little ball of thoughtfulness and asked: ‘So, if Obama had lost would they have evicted him from the White House? Did he have to pack his bag the night before, just in case, like they do in Big Brother?’
BOOM! Amazing, right? She’s like my very own little long-locked, sexual Karl Pilkington, who also cooks a mean sausage casserole.
And now we’re all imagining Davina McCall on the White House lawn, microphone in hand, screeching: ‘Barack, I’m coming to get YOOOOOOOOOO!’