ITV 4 seem to have submitted their Sunday afternoons to the showing of cosy, undemanding hangover-friendly films in which men are men and rogues are loveable.
As a result, I seem to have submitted my Sunday afternoons to the watching of cosy, undemanding hangover-friendly films in which men are men and rogues are loveable.
And they always seem to be watched with tea, biscuits and, increasingly, blueberries.
Life can be wonderful sometimes. So long as you train yourself to take joy in that which will give you a heart attack, life can be wonderful.
So it was in these circumstances that I watched Field of Dreams the other week, and it was in these circumstances that I watched Smokey and the Bandit.
Despite never having seen it before, I knew enough about this film to be able to say in the opening moments to she who matters most: “wait 'til you see how manly the main guy is in this.”
Burt Reynolds. Would you just look at that moustache. And he's called Bandit. Not The Bandit. Just Bandit. Like Madonna. One word. Or Morrissey.
It's his handle. He's a trucker. But he hasn't got the coolest handle in the film. That honour would have to be bestowed upon Gravedigger.
My handle would be Lord Gloom.
Anyway, Bandit's been tasked with illegally shipping crates of beer on an 1800 mile round-trip in 22 hours or so.
As elevator pitches go, I struggle to think of any manlier.
Oh, you may try, but I can guarantee that any you might care to mention might feature men – spitting, raping, fighting men – but this one features a gent.
Yes, Bandit's piss might taste like freedom itself, but he's polite, deferential, witty, gentle and dedicated.
A true role model, or just another of my many regrettable man-crushes?
Hot on his heels is hysterical racist and increasingly unhinged Sherrif Buford T. Justice.
That's actually his name.
My god, what a world, that has such people in it.
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