It is all good, man.
…Or is it?
Not for Jimmy McGill!!!
No, his brother Chuck – just like last October’s wild night out in Laos with what I thought was a Thai woman named Helen – is actually one hell of a devious little bald man.
If you’ve been watching the Netflix original series, Better Call Saul then you’ll know that things took a bit of a turn for the worse for the perpetually thin lipped smarm harbinger and affable, potato headed clothes horse, Jimmy McGill as the season two finale concluded in dramatic fashion.
First off, it’s hard to believe that Netflix actually released these episodes one by one, thereby forcing you to consume each episode individually… on a once weekly basis and spread out your enjoyment over a period of time. Eurgh.
I mean, what is this, 1996? Hang on a minute, let me just write that down in my filo-fax. The VCR’s on the blink so I best catch it live after checking tele-text for the lottery numbers. It’s bullshit. It’s utter bullshit.
From this, all the way to the show’s opening credits awash with their sickly, colour saturated bukkake which times out just too soon – These are just some of the things that make this programme a grubby little homage to 90s television, or as we would’ve called it back then – ‘The Boob Toob’, from the Latin: Mibrainus-Erodenae.
That’s right, cut this show to bits and you’d think it’d bleed confetti and Culture Club album artwork. For all its eccentric colour though, at its heart is a devastating noir exploration of character which follows former cop Mike Ehrmantraut as he falls deeper into the rabbit hole of organised crime and all to the beautiful and baron backdrop of the Albuquerque sunset.
In the foreground however, seeing the cheeky, little so-and-so Jimmy McGill have his morals tugged and torn to bits like a delicate family quilt is actually pretty ruddy sad. I think the focus really ought to be the transformation of a once superlatively vacuous rock star become one of the most dangerous and mentally unstable lawyers on the planet; Chuck McGill.
Personally, I think that ‘allergy to electro-magnetism’ he keeps harping on about is neither that, nor severe mental anxiety. I think that’s David St. Hubbins desperately trying to break free after being so violently repressed, probably after a coke binge brought about by Shark Sandwiches’ wretched reviews.
Anyway, all of this did get me thinking a lot about how we perceive ourselves and who we actually appear to be. It’s almost as though you could know someone for several years, a lifetime even… And then they go and change on a whim. And I mean sure, it’s easy to point out where I went wrong: Yes there was Helen, yes there were others, but it’d gone wrong long before all that bollocks.
Anyway, following some unrelated circumstances and my slightly skewed interpretation of the law (specifically kidnapping a minor) I am currently looking for legal representation. So if you are able to offer such a service, please get in touch at Royston_Is_Innocent@Yahoo.com