Truly madly
Am in heaven with the return of Mad Men last night. Loved how the BBC continuity person instructed us to get ourselves a stiff drink before it started. Ever obedient, I mixed one of my new concoctions, a kir royale made with Prosecco chilled in the freezer, therefore pouring with perfect slush puppy consistency (as with all good things, its invention was pure fluke). Of course in Mad Men you’d have your six-year-old child get your cocktail for you. Anyway, on it came, as fabulous and provocative as I remembered. GASPED as Betty smoked through her pregnancy (and didn’t wear a seat-belt – did they even have them then?); SCOWLED as Don told Peggy a copywriter is not an artist but a problem solver (I used to be an agency copywriter, so that hurt); GASPED again when Roger enjoyed his first brandy of the day at 10.30am. And on it went thrilling and delighting and outraging generally. We are blessed.
I motored through this series on DVD, and was consequently afflicted with a longing for Jon Hamm/Don Draper that threatened to derail my daily life. So I Googled him, watched an interview … and was cured! Idols and actors have feet of clay – Don looks like the class nerd when he laughs. Fact. (My friend, a 54 year old who should know better, has just become the Daddy of twins and the first, indeed the only, plan he laid for their future was to teach them to mix and serve cocktails. We debated the age this should happen and agreed that they should be at least six, or it was obscene. After six it’s merely distasteful.)
Yes, Don/Jon is all style and no substance, I suspected as much x