Brokeback Mountain Shmokeback Shmountain. No, I haven’t seen the damn gay cowboy movie yet.

Don’t get me wrong, I think it is interesting. So interesting, in fact, I’ve read all about it. I’ve heard all about it. I’ve practically eaten, slept and drunk all about it. I’ve read and re-read the book, pored over (approximately) 1,300 articles, analysed Annie Proulx’s reaction to the film, watched the awards and swayed to the soundtrack.

I’ve read the real Brokeback stories on the film’s official website and listened to the personal reviews of all of my mates who seem to have already seen it. I would have bought the action figures -“ complete with denim and spit and detachable wives -“ if there were any to buy.

In short, I’ve totally overdosed on Brokeback before it’s even opened.

It’s not the first time this has happened. I didn’t see Pulp Fiction until its last cinema days, by which time I’d memorised the scenes on the soundtrack. I was the last kid in my class -“ probably the last kid in the world -“ to see ET.

By the time I saw it, everyone had discussed it to hell and back, I knew which of my peers had cried, and which had held their tears back stoically.

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