My complete despair at Party Animals has lead me unable to write about it, so please welcome guest writer Ancient Geek with thier summary....The final gripping episode began with a strangely muffled resume of shots from last week’s extravaganza, which may have been partly due to the fact that Nigel, my cat, had knocked the remote control off the arm of the settee and all the batteries fell out. Before we knew where we were, in fact, in less than the time it took for Scott to tell Danny to “go and stuff some envelopes”, Scott was doing some stuffing of his own. Poshmaterialised outside his hotel room door and they then established an all time world personal best record for getting one’s kit off. Better than Woody Allen in “Bananas” by several seconds. Scott has strangely white shoulders. Disturbingly (at least for my febrilemind) Scott and Posh talked about “hanging out”. Considering that at that moment everything literally WAS hanging out, I found it difficult to restrain the blandishments of the double entendre fairy thereafter, and when Scott said, “I want to see you properly” for some reason I found this sufficiently funny to make me snork into my glass of red wine.
Meanwhile, back in Westminster, Kirsty was still making haddock eyes at the chiselled Adrian (as we now discover he is called, or at least those of us who weren’t paying attention last week) whenever she spots him in the corridors of power. It’s not hard to spot him. You get plenty of advance warning, because his wonderfully improbable chin comes round the corner ten minutes before the rest of him. In another office, some anonymous Labour whippy type character was advising Danny to ditch Jo Porter with the immortal line “you don’t want to go down with her”. Nor ON her, breathed the double entendre fairy in my ear, sending another fine spray of Californian red over the now-recumbent Nigel.
Cut to a ghastly street in Sedley, with Labour supporters shutting the door on Posh. She would have been more successful with a stack of copies of "The Watchtower". Posh discussed the qualities of an ideal husband with the grim harridan who has been appointed her bodyguard. Posh chose honesty, while Grim Gloria chose having her husband not fart against her leg in bed. Ungrateful cow, he’s trying to warm you up! Anyway, that passes for entertainment in Sedley. By now, tears of mirth were beginning to form behind my specs.
There then followed a confusing (at least to me) mishmash. Kirsty said sorry to Danny for sleeping with Scott. Scott meanwhile was up in Sedley, with Barbie at his side, putting stripe after stripe of orange highlighter through lists of people (presumably those who would be first against a wall when the revolution comes?) and being asked by Barbie what he made of the new Mosque (a hat? A brooch?). Back at the Houses of Parliament, Mr Fat PervyOld Guard Tory was looking at the feelthy pictures of Posh and Mr Tory-Bastard engaging in a doorstep fumble of the type that David Seaman would have been proud to acknowledge, and wondering how to cause maximum damage with them to Mr Tory-Bastard. Considering they were about as erotic as a bowl of cold custard, he’s got a job on his hands – or not, as it turns out. The press are obviously easily shocked by pictures of fully clothed people administering pecks on the cheek.
Next morning, Kirsty is checking her email, and as predicted, there is one from Adrian, who must have somehow managed to get back into Burtons window in time to avoid turning into a pumpkin. But, instead of the expected “thanks for the shag, fancy a job?”, his email tells her that she’s already enjoyed the only challenging position he can offer her is one she's already experienced the night before. Undeterred, she seeks him out and tells him she didn't think much of his performance which apparently lasted three minutes (sounds quite impressive to me). Predictably, he takes it on the chin.
Scott and Posh are still engaged in post coital small talk, this time on a park bench. Gloria the Grim has noticed how they were at the disco. The finches come up again, in some highly symbolic dialogue which was frankly lost on me. It's all going to get rough in the last week, but Scott promises that he'll warn her if he's going to push her nuclear button. No change there then. Rumours aboud about Mr T-B shagging someone from the Spectator. Thankfully for the contents of my digestive system, it turns out NOT to be Boris Johnson. I don't know how they ever get the Spectator published on time. There must be a little guy in the basement churning them out on a duplicator while listening to muffled thuds and screams of ecstasy from locked offices, and dust falling in a fine rain from the ceiling.
Jo Porter's ex has told all to the papers, and Danny rescues her once again from the bottom of a bottle of scotch, takes her back to his place where Kirsty seems to be also living (I was losing it a bit at this point) and cooks them all a meal. They then argue over whether to watch Cry Freedom or Strictly Come Dancing. If Cry Freedom has Desmond Tutu in it, they could have had both. Who cares, anyway?
Predictably the feelthy photos of Posh arrive in the camp of Reg Buggins, just in time to coincide with the arrival of Danny, who leaks them to the press, as Scott is too wimpy to do it. Cue predictable face off in the alley between the two bros.
The press are baying for statements from Posh. The day of the count arrives. Buggins wins by 3 votes. The BNP save their deposit but the chicken only polls 383. Unwisely, Mr Tory-Bastard has scheduled a debate against Jo Porter before the resounding clang of shit hitting fan over his affair, and she develops the oratory of Pitt the Younger in a complete personality transplant while he's forced to sit there looking like someone who's rabbit has just died and he can't sell the hutch.
And that's it really. All over bar the sweeping up. Touching little scene at the end with the two brothers asking each other if they were "OK". I think we, the viewing public, already knew the answer to that one.
My thanks once again to Ancient Geek for his hard work and to Hamer Shawcross for forwarding the work to me. Labels: Ancient Geek, BBC, Hamer Shawcross, Party Animals
And for what she does not have in acting ability she makes up for in being fit, I give you Clemencey...
