Game of Thrones Premiere – Goddamit those dragons be big

The Mighty Imp thrives on adversity and Incest probably isn’t best

TERRANCE GAVAN – EDITOR, IDIOT SAVANT, CRAP JOURNALIST

Dublin, Ireland: O’Ruari’s Punt and Piddle Pub – I came to Ireland because I heard that it’s best to watch Game of Thrones with people who get castles and things. The Irish do. There are lots of castles in Ireland. And what the hell was the Red Wedding, if not a replay of every Irish Catholic wedding I’ve ever attended.

The world was shocked when The Red Wedding aired. In Ireland they cheered. And the Irish Dail passed a bill soon after barring the carrying of longbows and swords by members of any wedding party from hence to nonce. Good thinking. Now if they could just get moving on a similar bill for Lawn Darts. I’m after losing half my paternal family fer fucks sake. We digress.

I’m not sure O’Ruari’s Punt and Piddle Pub on Kick King Billy Up His Arse Boulevard in downtown Dublin is the quintessential warming place to preview the coming season, but what the hell, I’m in the land of faeries and castles and it’s Sunday night… and Landlord Eamon Coughlin has HBO up and running on a 75 inch Samsung screen above the bar.

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Cersei and Jamie

“Ah, inbreeding ruined the Spaniel,” says a man at the bar. “You don’t think Prince Charles got those ears from hybrid vigor? Do Ya’?”

If I look out the window… It’s raining. But no one gives a fuck, because the place of a sudden has gone all quiet. And it’s Dublin. In April. If it wasn’t raining? Well, fuck off, you get the picture. It’s raining! In Ireland! Now, go and piss off!

The theme music is begun and all heads have turned toward that monstrosity of a screen to watch as ancient animosity churned by the indelicate mind of George RR Martin spills across the wide embellishment. Some of the scenes could be Ireland. But we’re not here for the pretty landscapes. We’re in Ireland, where for 1600 years, all the wars have been happy and all the songs… sad.

We watch to many cheers as the monolithic much-impugned imp, Tyrion Lannister, is rolled out of a case. By a eunuch. Huzzah, roars the pub, half in angst and the rest with relief. Peter Dinklage has survived to begin yet another season. Tyrion, the Imp, the son of the dead Tywin, is a favorite in Ireland. “Look at that wee fucking man… aye, it’s grand to see him back,” says my seatmate at the bar, Conlin Shannon. And ten of us nod at once. Concurring.

Remember that Tyrion is now orphaned. Lord Tywin is dead because his runt of the litter Imp son pointed dear-dead King Joffrey’s gold crossbow at his dear old Da’ while Pa was sitting on the real throne, taking a shit… and Tyrion, the long-suffering brunt of his father’s brusque rejoinders, dispatched dear dad with a bolt out of the blue. Holy shit… Indeed.

This after Tyrion had been found guilty of killing the king at his wedding bash no less. King Joffrey is dead. Tywin is dead. Tyrion is alive. That was not a given, mind. Characters die often in this saga of seven thrones and if Dinklage were to be cast in some uproarious Ricky Gervais vehicle in the off-season? Who knows what might have rolled out of that confining crate on Sunday. A jackal? A cat? A ferret? A toad?

Now, here’s why I like Game of Thrones. My first thought upon seeing the Imp spew forth. Was… okay he’s been in the box. For a long, long time. How did he pee and shit? And true to its roots, the writers saw fit to explain it to us. In grimy detail. Lovely. I won’t spoil it for you.

Meanwhile, to the Starks. I have no idea what the feck is going on there. Sansa is married to the Imp. She’s in hiding. Arya is believed dead, but is not. Their father, Eddard was killed at the behest of Joffrey Baratheon. Now dead. From Wicki: “Their second son, Prince Bran Stark, lawful Lord of Winterfell and heir to the King in the North. A crippled boy, now beyond the Wall at the Cave of the three-eyed raven, accompanied by Meera and Hodor. Publicly believed dead. Their youngest son, Prince Rickon Stark, heir to Winterfell, now a fugitive en route to Last Hearth with the wildling captive, Osha. Publicly believed dead. Eddard’s bastard son by an unknown mother, Jon Snow, called “Lord Snow”, serving in the Night’s Watch as a steward. Formerly infiltrated among the Free Folk. Now back in Castle Black.”

There. I had to cheat. It’s all too confusing. Jon Snow is loved in Ireland too. Because as a Knight’s Watch soldier he, like a lot of Catholic Priests, too a vow of celibacy. He broke those vows. Unlike a lot of Catholic priests he did that without reverting to paedophilia. Win-win in Ireland right there. We digress.

I am now caught up. But you are not.

There are loose ends. Cercei and Jamie Lannister are still carrying on, procreating in familia, which elicits many unfavorable comparisons to the current British monarchical situation from the mainly Catholic clients here at the Punt and Piddle. “Aye, inbreeding ruined the Spaniel,” says Mac O’Hanlon, my man at my left. “You think Prince Charlie got those fecking ears from hybrid vigor… go on now.”

The new King Slayer is a wise old woman. Played by former Avengers co-star Diana Rigg. Her name is Olenna Tyrell and she is sneaky.

Wiki: At his wedding to Margaery Tyrell, Joffrey was assassinated by drinking poisoned wine. His final gesture as he was dying was towards his uncle, Tyrion Lannister. Upon his death, Cersei Lannister ​arrests Tyrion on the grounds of regicide, though the actual orchestrators are Lord Petyr Baelish and Lady Olenna Tyrell.

My good lord look at all of those names. How do we follow it? Why do we follow it?

I am jet-lagged. I have returned home to Lindsay, Ontario. And I have watched it again. Still baffled, buffaloed and gobsmacked.

I am, of course, in the middle of a seminal revisiting of the series. I am currently on episode two of season one.

Stannis Borathion is on the deck of a ship. I have no recollection of this episode. Thus I must go through it all again.

Fecking nightmare.

By the way, because of King Joffrey’s strange coloration as he gasps and spittles in his throes, just before he pegs it… his final episode has been dubbed “The Purple Wedding.”

PS: I believe that Theon Greyjoy is coiled in the reeds. Methinks his psychological damage is a ruse.

You don’t look like a Theon Greyjoy anymore. That’s a name for a lord, but you’re not a lord, are you? You’re just… meat; stinking meat. You reek! Reek! That’s a good name for you.―Ramsay Snow to Theon Greyjoy.

 

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