I’ve just finished watching The Obsession on Netflix. An excruciatingly bad remake of a classic but I was intrigued non the less.
I can look back over my life and see it all now as clear as day. The good, the bad and the downright ugly. The ones I wanted and couldn’t have and the ones I had plenty of and inwardly screamed with the boredom. Sex, that thing that drives us to reproduce and causes mayhem and madness on the way. It’s part of life. But I’m older now and wiser and thankfully would rather fucking knit than feel droopy bollocks slapping my arse for hours at a time until the viagra kicks in.
So I watched the programme and the albeit attractive but silly middle aged man fuck his son’s future wife and I thought how stupid it all seemed. All the illicit rendezvous’ spammed up with the occasional bit of Playboy magazine style bondage. All so passionate and serious and completely ridiculous. I just couldn’t wait for them to be caught. And of course they were.
It was the only bit of the series that captured the pathos and stupidity of sex as an overriding need above a thinking brain and a modicum of morality. A middle aged naked man sat holding his son’s bloody head in the central stairwell of an apartment block. Unflattering, cruel and tragic.
On the other hand My Wife, My Abuser had me sobbing. What an absolute legend of a man to put up with all he did and then allow it to be shown to the world. His wife should be in Rampton for life
and not be allowed near her children again.
That guy though, I bet there are hundreds of us that would marry him tomorrow. I wish him and his three daughters the absolute fucking world.