So... The Cannes Festival started tonight, The Da Vinci Code is about to hit the entire planet, and I'm already sick of it.
It's so unfair that, having only just escaped Tom Cruise, we now find ourselves at Tom Hanks' mercy... The thing is, I'm probably going to go see it. I'm weak that way. And let's face it, it's not like I'm overbusy these days.
But how many unsubtitled Uzbek films will I then have to watch to make up for that? And I can't really use the obscure 'French' movie thing these days: there are no aloof pseudo intellectuals left to smoke and talk about death and sex, they're all busy trying to break some code about Jesus having sex before his death.
By the way. People, people, people. What is this thing about taking "Da Vinci Code" tours? Do you really think that the truth is going to leap at you from the Rose Line in Saint-Sulpice? Do you? Do you? Has it never occurred to you that it hadn't even fully occurred to Dan Brown? Who wrote the book? Has it never? Has it never? (Funnily enough, that doesn't sound half as snappy as "Do you? Do you?") Let's be serious for a second, now shall we.
And that stance of mine - good lord, I'm actually taking a stance - has nothing to do with the heated debate that's been featured in almost every news edition for the past week, between those who want to believe and, well, those who want to believe.
Once a year, we all believe that an initially pagan fat man in red does indeed manage to climb down chimney conduits to deposit presents that, again, we believe we deserve. You'd think that once that little feat is achieved, we could suspend our disbelief for a couple more pages and go along with a novel.
Hold on. I'm contradicting myself here, aren't I? Bugger.