Sorry, you’re not getting your Christmas present this year. Yes, I know what you want: one of those columns where I avoid TV altogether and just rant madly about myself for 800 words. Well, tough. It’s been one of the crappest, most hateful years of my life and, though I’m not holding you all totally responsible, I do think you must bear your share of the blame. You have not adored me enough. You have not showered me with sufficient — indeed, any — gifts. You have not bought nearly enough copies of Coward on the Beach or How to Be Right as perfect Christmas presents for all your friends. So all I’m going to do for the rest of this column is talk about TV. TV TV TV boring TV. Until you’re sick of it.
By TV, I mean the last-ever episode of The Sopranos (E4, can’t remember when). If you haven’t seen it yet — I’m not sure when it’ll be on Channel 4 — skip the par beginning ‘Here’s where I give the end away…’
Vanity Fair once called The Sopranos ‘perhaps the greatest pop culture masterpiece of its day’, and I’m sure this is true.
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