Beloved Throners, come here. Come into the light. Let your Mother of Kittens see your beautiful faces. It’s been too long, but look, you’re as sensual as ever. Your lips are like firm ripe sausages, your skin as soft as a fluffy towel, and your eyes as piercing as a Dornish spear through the back of a skull.
Hello. I am writing this recap from a foetal position on the floor.
The tiles are cold. I would like a pillow to put under my head, but there is no point. I would take little comfort from its softness. What is the point of softness anyway, in such a cruel world? It is but a brief distraction from the unrelenting pain, horror and loss that torments us daily. It is like kindness, empathy and warmth - merely an illusion.
Sam Tarly is dead. Long live Sam Tarly: SEX GOD.
Yes, with Jon Snow absent from our screens this week (and what the hell was that about), the significant dribble from my rampaging libido had to be directed elsewhere. And where better than at Sam Tarly, Defender of Everything Good, Noble and Just and Stick-It-Upperer to Shit Dads Everywhere.
What a spankingly delicious episode of Game of Thrones. I just adored every minute of it. Even now my cheeks are flushed with pleasure, my teeth are sparkling like they’ve just been through a minty fresh car wash, and I just want to run into the wild, spin in circles and sing like Maria Von Trapp on nitrous oxide.
Again, this was a more measured episode, with only a few high stakes moments. But still, it had lots to recommend it. Romance. Tension. Romantic tension. Brutal murder. Returns of the sad and surprising varieties. The Hound’s wang. Of course it didn’t have Jon Snow, and seriously, people I’m getting a bit frustrated by this severe lack of My Beloved and His Abs.
I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman (I really need to get back to the gym), but I have the heart and stomach of a recappespondent, and a recappespondent of Game of Thrones too, and think foul scorn that any prince of Westeros should dare invade the borders of my column; to which rather than dishonour, I myself will take up arms; and with those arms, type.