I wrote a sane review of North and South a few weeks back, and now it's time for the ugly truth. Or rather, the gorgeous smouldering truth. That's right I'm talking about you, Richard Armitage! I used to be a normal person, occasionally catching a movie or dvd, my verdict limited to "Yeah, it's ok" or "Nah it's crap". Thanks to you that's all changed. Because of North & South, I'm doomed to watch and rewatch anything where you so much as sneeze or pluck lint off your clothes. Even when you're a bad guy, I'm willing to overlook the cruelty, manslaughter and lies, cos you look hot in leather!
Look what you made me do
And that's not the worst of it. You're like one of those spammy chain emails threatening 5 years bad luck unless forwarded to 10 people in my address book. I've rewatched North & South with my friends and family, desperate to not be alone in my madness. I sit struggling to appearing sane before non-converts. "I swear, it's a serious drama. Conflict and rebellion during the industrial revolution. Such interesting use of colour!" Not drowning in drool or gurgling if I talk whenever you're on screen is harder than it looks. Ughh, I'm recruiting for you! It's like some oestrogen-fueled pyramid scheme with no payoff. Your shows should come with a disclaimer, "The commentaries and man-beauty expressed here are not endorsed by yada yada..."
I've even joined an online forum where similarly hypnotized women analyse and read into every single muscle twitch, eyelid flutter and voice intonation you ever did. I suspect they're always on Armitage alert on the streets of London. If you so much as pick your nose, I'll know. Thanks to the internet, I've seen everything you've been in, done voice work for, and every single happysnap ever taken of you. That includes the bedtime stories you read wearing tight shirts and jeans. That sounded dirty didn't it! But it's your fault! My partner is creeped out by it all. But he puts up with it, John-Standring-your-character-from-Sparkhouse style. It'll pass, he thinks.
Please, no more.
Luckily, my computer skills don't go quite so far to making fan videos. I just drool over other people's talented compilations of your strutting and scowling. Usually to the tunes of whoever is the most marketable teen idol of the hour. See what I've been reduced to? This is the love that dares not maximise the window to full screen just in case someone comes in and sees it. I'll admit it. Maybe confession will lessen my obsession. The other day watching snippets of you from a Brit serial, I found myself yelling at the computer screen, "Get away from him, he's mine!" or "You gotta earn him! You're not worthy!"
That's right. You heard me.
I want to wring you out from my system like dishwater from a smelly sponge. I rue the day I borrowed N&S from my local library. It's a downward spiral, and who knows when it'll end? When I get your Guy of Gisborne action figure? Plus sword and fully-articulated-horse-with-realistic-galloping-action? Don't laugh. You'll be sorry. Right now I'm at an unfamiliar level of Unattainable-Celebrity-Crushitis: I've started writing fan fiction. I know, I'm a lost cause. When the leading male is not you, but some whiny, peach-faced, i-got-picked-last-in-sport runt who can't brood to save his life, and you don't get the girl, I'm. Not. Happy. I'm rewriting that ending, and you will get what you deserve.
Oh, get a room.
Image sources: piecesofalice and artic-fox