Right then, you mugs!
‘ere’s a thing:
Now wot ‘ave we got there, then?
We’ve got Bana!
We’ve got The Young Pope himself, all gussied up in shiny Sauron metal!
We’ve got our new Arthur ‘imself, ol’ Charlie Hunnam, restoring the English-Aussie ratio back up to a healthier level:
We’ve got strange women lying in ponds! Probably lobbing scimitars!
We’ve got LittleCarcettiFinger, doin’ a Katniss!
We’ve only got Djimon bloody Hounsou!
Aaaand you know what? Just to top the whole bleeding thing off, we’ve got Richard Spencer and a bunch of his cockwomble mates, showing off their favourite dance move, all shined up and chromed like a bunch of polished bellends!
Can’t say I blame ‘em, really, all that extra protection. What with all the Nazi punchin’ goin’ on these days.
And of course, it’s the Mockney don himself, Guy Ritchie bringin’ us all this.
You remember ‘im.
‘e likes makin’ movies where the camera goes swoosh a lot and every character seems vaguely and archly amused at finding themselves in one of his stories. Sometimes it steps juuuuuuuust to the right side of, ‘Alright, mate, that’ll work just fine.’ Other times—well, best not mention the other times, really.
As for this new Arthur? Where will he fall in relation to that line?
I sure as hell ain’t got a fuckin’ clue.