SPOILER ALERT – if you watch Line of Duty and haven’t seen the latest episode… READ NO FURTHER on pain of… well, finding out what happens.
So, Line of Duty, I have always HATED Steve Arnott. Hated him, officious, puckered little snooping jobsworth with a huge sense of his own importance and a bug up about bent coppers while being SO close to the wrong side of the line because he thinks anything goes in the fight to snuff out corruption. Also he was a total jerk about Fleming being ambitious, and then veeeeeeeery smug for someone who only got promoted because his boss is a sexist dinosaur who cares more that he can’t have a pint with Fleming than that Arnott did the horizontal tango with a witness.
But now he might be dead.
So I take it all back.
Kudos to Jed Mercurio for pulling off the holy grail of twists: the one where you don’t see it coming at all and then kick yourself black and blue because OF COURSE the wimpy, emasculated husband played by a suspiciously heavy-hitting actor is actually a serial killer… haven’t I been watching these shows for years, how do they still trick me, how!?
Can he have a better nom de guerre than balaclava man now please?
Reading A.A.Gill’s book Pour Me when you’re trying your hand at writing… is like Fight Club. You show up, you ask pretty please can someone punch me repeatedly in the stomach, and when A.A.Gill obliges you, you love every tooth-rattling second of it.
The experience goes something like this:
How did he do that?… Ok, how did he do THAT?… Now, that’s just ridiculous, how did he DO that?!
This man could slay with a four word sentence. Not even four big words, not even the fanciest synonyms for the four words he’s picked. And yet… KOed. Every. Single. Time. Everything about it is cohesive, there is not one single extraneous syllable, and the tone matches the subject matter to perfection. The jokes are wry, and often have a kickback second meaning to them that you only notice when you’ve put the bastard book down… so the damn thing haunts you like a literary poltergeist. The Peeves of aspiring writers; throwing red pens at the back of your head, snickering that you’ll never reach high enough to brush the soles of Gills’ boots, because of course you won’t. Why are you even here? Oh yeah, to get sucker-punched in the kidneys by jealousy of this man’s outrageous talent, and love it. Which reminds me; I’m off, skull singing and eyes bugging, to read some more.