Em, you know the Royals aren’t the underdogs, right?

I’m largely ambivalent about the Royal Family as a collection of human beings, but none-the-less wish them every health and happiness. I just wish they’d pursue health and happiness on their own time and (if I can be excused an Americanism) dime. Part of me can’t believe that we still have things like royal families in this supposedly more enlightened age. I guess privilege is a hard thing to give up, for its flag-waving worshippers as much as those weaned on it.

Despite this ambivalence my last two posts have been reasonably brutal, very childish and none-too-subtle send-ups of the monarchy and Harry’s wedding, shot through with a cold, caustic, all-consuming anger. I’ve been thinking about this, and I’m certain that my anger is a reaction to the Royals being cast in the twin roles of saviours and victims, in the newspapers and on social media respectively. For the Royals are clearly poor, noble souls who shouldn’t have to put up with mean-spirited criticisms and name-calling from us proles when all they’re trying to do is inspire us with their diamond-studded benevolence.

Again, I don’t hate any of the Royals individually, but I do hate political, social and economic systems that encourage the veneration of inherited wealth at the expense of compassion. I also hate viral posts like the one below, one of scores I came across in the run up to Harry’s big day:

This sort of thing acts as kerosene upon my anger and indignation.

In a nutshell, the man above would rather help finance a Royal wedding than continue to support free healthcare provisions for Kelly-Anne’s children. He doesn’t elaborate too much on Kelly-Anne’s socio-economic position, but I’d wager she’s a stand-in for poor single mothers everywhere. We all know the short-hand. We’re all used to hearing the beat of that particular drum. Beat, beat, beat, down upon the heads of the poorest and most vulnerable among us.

Michael’s a military man, so I can understand why he would be ready to praise (what he perceives as) Prince Harry’s valour; why he’d want to gravitate towards people who’d endured some of the same extraordinary life experiences. The sharp end of the military must give soldiers such a powerful sense of symbiosis that once it’s taken away it must make society appear in contrast a dark, lonely, incomprehensible place.

In any case, whether the Prince’s presence in Afghanistan was part of a risky PR stunt orchestrated by Clarence House to raise the Royals’ profile among serving soldiers and those who support them, or whether it stemmed from Harry’s genuine desire to break with modern tradition and serve on the front line, there’s no doubt that it takes great reserves of bravery to enter a combat zone. I certainly don’t possess such bravery, and have no desire ever to acquire it, for reasons of not wanting my bollocks shot off.

But to suggest that Prince Harry’s brief stint in Afghanistan somehow makes him a better, braver, more worthy human being, not just more worthy than Kelly-Anne, but more worthy than all those actively serving in the military (after all, why isn’t our tax money paying for their weddings?) is elite-scented jingoism at its finest.

How many times has it been implied that while the dynastic millionaires deserve our sympathy and support for having been born into the thankless ranks of privilege, the disadvantaged have only themselves to blame for squandering their opportunities and not making the most out of life? This sort of deeply conservative thinking presupposes a level-playing field, something that has never existed in our societies, and perhaps never will, certainly as long as this deeply unsettling world-view persists.

Whether it sprouts from naïve aspiration or deluded arrogance, a lot of middle-and-low-income royalists profess a greater kinship with the 1%  than those suffering a rung or two below them on the socio-economic ladder. The reality is that the vast majority of people – those who weren’t birthed on to an ever-unfolding red carpet of privilege – are only ever one bad day away from losing everything.

The newspapers’ propaganda doesn’t help. They promulgate a yin and yang view which sees the elite venerated and the poor condemned. The tabloids, which claim to serve the interests of the working classes, are usually owned by billionaires and staffed by the affluent middle-classes, a cross-class collusion that keeps the ‘lower’ classes at each other’s throats.

Bluntly, the Royal Family neither needs nor deserves our protection from criticism. And it certainly doesn’t need – or deserve – our money.

However we feel about ourselves, or the Harrys and Elizabeths and Kelly-Annes of this world, we must never forget the direction in which our sympathy and compassion should always travel: everywhere.

But especially sideways.

And down.

An Interview with Queen Elizabeth II

Name? The Queen

Occupation? Being queen

What’s that like? It’s a lot like not being the Queen, except with hundreds of millions in inherited wealth and a strong sense of class superiority over everyone else in the country.

What brings you the greatest joy? Eating swans. Who’s going to fucking stop me?

What would be the title of your autobiography? I’m on the Money.

What’s the best advice you’ve ever been given? “Make it look like an accident.”

Prince Phillip is famous for his gaffes, usually involving race. What’s been your favourite one? When he shot our African gardener.

[silence]

It’s okay. He wasn’t hurt. He was absolutely fine. Well, he staved his finger a little, but it didn’t stop him from going out shooting the next day.

Moving on… If you had a tattoo, where would it be? [puzzled look] I do have a tattoo. It’s at Edinburgh castle.

Some would say that your answer to the previous question reeks of privilege. Some should be more mindful of the ‘dark forces’ I keep telling everyone about.

[PHILLIP SHOUTS FROM THE OTHER ROOM] ‘You mean the Indian Army?’

Do fuck off, Phillip!

Who do you miss most? Definitely Camilla. She’s always standing just a little bit too far away when the blunderbuss goes off.

What makes you smile? Nothing. Literally nothing. [thinks] Cows? I guess cows are alright.

Why don’t you smile more often? If you had to sit on a balcony each and every year watching as Joe Pasquale brings the cast of Casualty on stage to sing the hits of Abba dressed as air hostesses, you wouldn’t be smiling either. That, and I’m a 90-year-old woman. Most of my energy goes into not pishing myself. One careless twitch of the lips could turn me into Noel’s gunge tank.

Plus, smiling’s been selectively bred out of my genetic line over the last few hundred years. I can’t tell you how much it’s saved Princess Anne on botox. 

What charity do you support? The ‘Keeping Prince Andrew Out of Jail’ charity.

What is your greatest indulgence? Everything, bitches.

What’s your greatest regret? Fergie turning down those complimentary tickets I gave her for a weekend in Paris.

What is on your bucket list? [shakes head] One calls it a Diamante Treasure Chest list.

There’s that elitist vibe again… So what do you want to do before you die? Find another host body.

What???? I mean… em…visit the pyramids.

What are the last three items on your credit card statement? A Faberge Eggcup; professional hit-man; Canada.

What’s your favourite TV show? Game of Thrones. One loves to remember the good old days.

What’s on your nightstand? A knight. What else would one put there?

You can hear yourself, right? Next question: Dark chocolate or milk chocolate?

[PHILLIP SHOUTS FROM THE OTHER ROOM] William’s wedding was definitely better!

Fuck off, Phillip!

What is one thing people would be surprised to learn about you? That I’m definitely *not* an ancient reptile from a distant planet who has come here along with hundreds of my kind to enslave the human race, breed them and eventually devour them like a pile of chicken drumsticks at one of Fergie’s barbecues.

Did you kill Diana? Ye… [wags finger] Nice try, fucko.

Any other fun facts you’d like to share? One’s real name is actually Queeny McQueen Face.

Dogs or cats? Well, one of them is subservient, and the other is cold and aloof. How can one choose between one’s favourite qualities? We’ll call it a tie.

What’s the hardest part about being a mum? Interviewing people for the position of chief nanny interviewer.

Last phone call you made? Elton John, to ask if he had one more ‘Candle in the Wind’ in him.

How do you feel about the controversy with Rolf Harris? Oh disgusting. Disgusting. I don’t know how he can live with himself.

It’s horrible, isn’t it? Of course! It was the worse portrait I’ve ever seen.

No… erm, not the… Not the painting he did of you. The… you know? [blank face] Oh, the thing with the kids? [shrugs] Meh. Yeah. I guess that was kind of bad?

Any plans to retire? [laughs, but without moving her face] When I die I’m going to make sure the staff carry my corpse around and pretend I’m still alive, like ‘Weekend at Bernies’, so that jug-eared cunt of a son of mine never gets the throne.

What’s your strongest feature? My right arm. I do so much waving I’m basically Popeye. It’s left Poor Philip’s cock looking like a crushed Flump.

Who’s your biggest celebrity crush?

[PHILLIP SHOUTS FROM THE OTHER ROOM] Diana!

Fuck off, Phillip!

What do you think when people call you and your extended family a bunch of spongers? We bring in about £55 billion pounds in tourism every year. [scratches head] Or is it £5.68? I have absolutely no concept of money. What I do know is that people will travel thousands and thousands of miles just to stand outside my expensive house waiting for a glimpse of my gloved hand at the window. I’m the Windsor’s Wacko Jacko, Sha-mone! [grabs crotch] Hee hee!

Maybe if the French hadn’t guillotined their Royal Family they’d get more tourists in Paris. Actually, I’ll give the French that. They’re awesome at helping to assassinate Royals…

What did you think of Harry’s wedding? I… eh. I… um. [Queen yanks an axe out from her jacket, spins around, and hurls it at the wall, embedding it in a promo poster for ‘Suits’] It was lovely.

Finally, are you sure you aren’t a shape-shifting reptile? I mean, it makes sense. Elizabeth = Lizard. Camilla = Chameleon. Princess Anne = Princess Anaconda. Don’t be ridiculous. [The Queen’s eye pops out of its socket, and she catches it with her lizard tongue] You should probably just ignore that.  

**DISCLAIMER – IT’S POSSIBLE THAT NONE OF THIS HAPPENED**

Rainbow: A Work of True Evil

If you’re a person of a certain age – and by that I mean somewhere around the precipice of middle age – then there’s no doubt you’ll remember Rainbow: the bright, colourful, quasi-educational TV show for young ‘uns that ran – in some form or another – from the late 1970s to the early 1990s.

The star of the show is Geoffrey, an adult man who lives with a menagerie of bizarre and terrifying creatures in a house decorated to look like a children’s nursery. His bunk-mates are Bungle, a seven-foot ursine version of Norman Bates, who spends the day naked but always insists upon pyjamas for bed; George, a sexually-precocious, passive-aggressive pink hippo, whose smug, sleepy drawl suggests that whomever he’s speaking to is both the butt of a private joke, and the intended recipient of twelve sleeping tablets and a sore arse later that evening; and Zippy, the kind of puzzling ‘whatever’ that even Gonzo would shun for being too freakish.

And Gonzo has a nose like a big blue cock!

Seriously, though, how exactly did Geoffrey come to live with these creatures? Did he abduct them? Did he create them with a needle and thread, a bucket of DNA and a set of jump leads? Doesn’t he have a wife, or an ex-wife or something? A family? Someone in his life to raise an eyebrow at his incredibly creepy lifestyle that appears to be a strange blend of Dr Moreau, Hugh Hefner and Jimmy Savile?

Doesn’t the gas man at least come round now and again to read the meter?

“Hello, sir, I’m just here to check your meter to make sure that… AARRGGHH! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT THING? THE THING WITH THE ZIP FACE?!! OH HELP ME! OH GOD HELP ME! PLEASE DON’T HURT ME, I WON’T TELL, I PROMISE I WON’T! THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU! THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!”

I’d be very interested to see how Geoffrey fills out his census.

“I live with a depressed bear, a pansexual hippo and a creature who crawled out of Tobe Hooper’s darkest nightmares, honest I do, I’m not fucking mental or anything. PS: sorry I wrote this in blood, I ran out of pens.”

Occasionally Geoffrey’s friends Rod, Jane and Freddy come round to sing songs about abstract things like the concept of sharing, something they’re all too familiar with, given that Jane fucked both Rod and Freddy in real life and let’s be honest probably fucked Geoffrey and Bungle, too. Jane practically invented the whole ‘furries’ thing.

Now let’s talk Zippy. What the fuck is he? Was he born with that zip across his mouth, or was he cruelly disfigured in the course of some vile experiment? I’m imagining an origin story along the lines of ‘The Human Centizippy’, in which the poor creature is forced to spend long, hideous weeks with his mouth secured by zip to Big Bird’s quaking bumhole. Perhaps as Mopatop sobs into Zippy’s back-end through a wet strap of velcro.

However it was that Zippy’s zip came to be, why would any sane and compassionate man ever use it to silence him? “Hey, Geoffrey, why not just break a chair over Zippy’s head or shoot him in the shoulder if he starts mouthing off, you total psycho?” And if somebody did do that to Zippy – if some sick, pseudo-Nazi surgeon added a zip to his face without his consent – why would you compound his misery by continuing to call him Zippy? Surely you’d change his name at the earliest opportunity, call him James or Timothy or Geoffrey Junior or something?

If I adopted a mute kid who’d been rendered paraplegic following a hit and run incident, I wouldn’t greet him each morning with a cheery: “Hey Chairy, what do you want for breakfast?” before wheeling him down a hill for not answering quickly enough.

Never mind just changing his name: we have one of the greatest healthcare systems in the world. And it’s free! Why has Geoffrey never referred Zippy to the hospital for surgery? That, I’m sure, is what any one of us would do if Zippy were ever to land in our care. We’d help him. We’d fix his face and accompany him on his journey to reclaim his dignity. We probably wouldn’t look at him and say: “Cool zip you’ve got stitched through your face there, Zippy. That’ll be great for the times when I want you to shut the fuck up.”

The only scenario that makes sense is that the world of Rainbow exists only inside the mind of Geoffrey, who in reality is an unemployed alcoholic and heavy drug-user. He sits all day long in a dowdy, ply-panelled bedsit, with lank, greasy hair and no teeth, waiting for his social workers Rod, Jane and Freddy to come visit him. He rubs his arms raw and rocks back and forth crying in the corner, arguing with himself and alternating between his own voice and his dead mother’s harsh, disapproving tone: “Naughty Geoffrey, going to zip you up. Don’t zip me up momma, don’t zip ol’ Geoffrey up. Oh, I’m gonna zip you up, Geoffrey, no son of mine be lisping like some soft pink hippo. Gonna speak proper, gonna be a man or momma gonna skin you like a bear and zip you up, zip you right up in the mouth. OH NO, MOMMA, DON’T ZIP OL’ GEOFFREY UP, I LOVES YOU MORE’N THE RAINBOW, MOMMA! MORE’N THE RAINBOW! OH SON MOMMA GONNA ZIP YOU UP, ZIP YOU UP REAL TIGHT AND LEAVE YOU HANGING FROM THE CEILING, TILL YOU TURN GOOD AND BLUE AND LET THE RATS NIBBLE ON YOUR DEAD TOES.”

We know a song about that, don’t we, children?

15 Things I’d Rather Do Than Watch the Royal Wedding

The populace being distracted from the actions of a terrible, war-mongering female prime minister by pomp and ceremony. Thank God we live in such drastically different times.

1) Eat a curry made from dead syphilitic rats, Gordon Brown’s pubic dandruff and Anne Widdecombe’s freshly heaved vomit

2) Become the public face of a nationwide campaign to raise money for Gary Glitter’s legal team

3) Get trapped in a lift with an angry Katie Hopkins for six days with Bhangra music playing in a constant loop

4) Collect all of my children’s bogies, compact them into the shape of a giant yellow medicine ball, and then eat it up like a giant Babybell

5) Get ‘Big Mo Sucks the Dick’ tattooed on my back and then go on a naked cycling tour of Iran

6) Have someone rub my skin off with a cheese-grater and then push me into a giant vat of warm tramps’ piss

7) Attend the next Old Firm game in the Rangers end, dressed as Gerry Adams

8) Resurrect Margaret Thatcher, and then watch her walk away without killing her

9) Spend a busy month attending six children’s funerals a day

10) Black up, and run through the London subway system with a rucksack on my back shouting ‘Where’s your God now?’

11) Breed a flock of tiny, genetically-modified Jamie Olivers and then invite them into my home, to care for them until my death, which I’m not allowed to do anything to hasten

12) Attempt to trim my toe-nails using a chainsaw while sitting on top of a washing-machine on spin-cycle that’s on the back of a lorry driving across a crocodile-infested minefield as angry basketball players throw nests of wasps at my head

13) Sit on the top-deck of an open-top bus with my hand masking-taped to disgraced producer Jonathan King’s engorged cock as we drive down a cobbled street for half a day

14) Smear my scrotum with tuna and have a hungry tiger lick my balls

15) Watch Mrs Brown’s Boys

The Hell of Work: The Toy Shop

I once worked night-shift in a toy-shop in the weeks leading up to Christmas. 7pm to 7am. My job was to help unbox the day’s deliveries and re-stock the shelves. I suppose you could say that my hard graft was indirectly responsible for putting happy smiles onto the faces of thousands of local children. Aw! Sounds pretty magical, right? You’re probably imagining me and my twilight workforce moving in blissful synchronous, singing a jolly song as we form a human chain, passing parcels of dolls and dinosaurs along it, hoisting them up onto the shelves and high-fiving as we go, the whole happy endeavour overseen by a kindly old man sat behind an antique desk who’s busy scrutinising each and every toy for imperfections so that little Jeannie and little Harry won’t be disappointed come Christmas morn.

You’d be imagining it all wrong, though. Because working in a toy-shop at Christmas time is about as magical as being tied up and force-fed corned beef by a maniacal clown in an underground car-park.

It’s about as merry as weaponised AIDS being crop-dusted over you while you’re sunbathing, and only half as joyful as taking a cricket bat to the stomach, and then being stabbed in the face with pencils by fifty angry dwarfs as soon as you double-over, and then hit with the cricket bat again as soon as you straighten up, and on and on and on, until the dwarfs grow weary of their little game and decide to set fire to you instead.

And then being shat on by a pigeon.

Instead of imagining mirth and magic, try imagining a group of tired, miserable men – many of them with substance abuse problems and severe personality disorders (and that was just me) – desperately trying to reach the end of their shift without succumbing to the desire to leap head-first from the top-shelf of the board-game aisle down onto the cold floor below whereupon they’d swiftly be entombed by falling Cluedo boxes.

Imagine a group of guys muttering to themselves like lobotomised Lurches up and down the cold, deserted aisles as thousands of eerie plastic smiles beam out at them – only managing to preserve a faint sliver of sanity by occasionally stopping to boot a musical dog in the face just to hear it scream.

Of course, these days I’m a soppy, genetically-invested father of two, and would probably really enjoy a yuletide stint at the toy shop… although my colleagues most definitely wouldn’t: “You know who would love THIS toy, right? My kids! And do you know who would love THIS toy over here? THAT’S RIGHT, MY KIDS!”

You’ve probably intuited from the pronouns I’ve used thus far that everyone on the night-shift was male. These days my boss wouldn’t have hesitated to re-boot the shift with an all-female cast, but back then, in the late twenty-tens, it was XY all the way, baby. We may have had a woefully gender-imbalanced workforce, but at least we were ever-so-slightly ethnically diverse. There was one black Nigerian man among the crew, which certainly helped break the facial monotony of our miserable Caucasian countenances.

On my first shift I realised with horror that my fellow whiteys were referring to this man as ‘Teeth’, a nickname I surmised he’d been given on account of that offensive supposition that a black person can blend into total darkness and only have their position betrayed by their blindingly white smile.

The guys weren’t just referring to him as Teeth; they were calling him it to his face.

Hey Teeth!” they’d say.

Gimme a hand shifting some of these boxes, eh, Teeth?”

Whit time is it, Teeth?”

I knew what time it was: horrible racism time!

‘Teeth’ himself didn’t seem phased by the racist moniker he’d had forced upon him by his co-workers. He never once reacted. He just accepted it, as if they were calling him nothing less innocuous than ‘mate’ or ‘pal’.

I went home at the end of that shift the next morning and agonised over what I’d borne silent witness to. By doing nothing, wasn’t I a racist, too? Or at the very least a shameless coward. I tried to come up with alternative explanations. Most of these guys had been working together for weeks. Maybe they’d bonded at the coal face and developed a friendly, no-holds-barred way of dealing with each other. Maybe context was king, and I’d misunderstood the dynamic. After all, I’ve said some hellish and horrendous things to my friends over the years, and had it back in spades. What if it was all just banter?

But what if it wasn’t? Or what if the white guys assumed they were trading harmless banter, but were really hurting this guy and he didn’t feel empowered enough to speak up?

The second shift began. I wondered what I should do. Call the guys out? Report them? I knew one thing for certain: I couldn’t just stand by and watch a man being marginalised and demeaned. Not this time. Not again. I had to do something. But first, I had to show the guy he had an ally; that not everyone on the night-shift was an unbridled monster.

We talked for a while as we sliced open boxes together: about life, love, childhood. I liked him. He seemed a nice guy, which only served to make me feel more guilty about my cowardice the night before, even though his agreeableness as a person was irrelevant to the injustice at hand. Even an asshole deserved my support.

I stretched out a hand for him to shake. ‘My name’s Jamie. I’m not going to call you ‘Teeth’ like all of the other guys around here, I don’t think that’s very nice at all, and I just want you to know I’m not on board with it. What’s your real name?

‘Latif,’ he said.

~~~

Have you ever wished for the ground to open up and swallow you whole? I quickly realised that the only racial abuse Latif had been exposed to in the workplace… had come from me. I’d bent over backwards to avoid being labelled a racist, and in the process inadvertently back-flipped onto a big fat crash-mat of racism. I was the closest thing the toy-shop had to its very own resident Klansman.

I sloped off down the aisle, and gazed up longingly at a stack of Cluedos that was teetering on the edge of the top shelf. Thinking that was maybe a bit of an extreme reaction, I decided instead to track down a musical dog and kick it in the face.

Ho ho ho.

READ MORE HELL:

The Hell of Work: The Airport

The Hell of Work: The Call Centre

Avengers: Infinity War – Spoiler-filled Review

When a patch-eyed Samuel L Jackson snuck his way into Iron Man’s end credits to introduce Tony Stark to the Avengers Initiative, we had little idea, a decade or so later, we’d be slap-bang in the middle of a Marvel renaissance: nineteen movies and ten TV series – and counting.

Avengers Infinity War is the culmination of everything the Marvel Cinematic Universe has been building towards over its first ten years: the creation of the biggest, loudest, brightest, most jam-packed-with-superheroes superhero movie ever made.

Mission accomplished.

Infinity War is good, or at least it’s a good way to spend a few fun, forgettable hours smiling goofily, chuckling heartily, gasping loudly and revelling in the multi-million-pound whizz-bang-a-boom spectacle of it all. It’s a movie of what-ifs and thrilling fan service, the chance to watch your favourite kooks and crooks come together to trade punches and wise-cracks amid savage battles, dying stars and falling planets.

As a Scotsman raised on big budget American movies featuring fights in exotic locations like LA and New York, it was a genuine joy for me to see Edinburgh up on the big screen, and witness a kung-fu ass-kicking unfolding in Waverley train station. PS: thanks for the deep-fried kebab gag, you bastards. It took about twenty years for the English to stop banging on about deep-fried Mars Bars. You’ve just re-set the clock…

The sheer wealth of characters in Infinity War is both a blessing and a curse: a curse because there isn’t time to provide any one character – save for Thanos – with anything but the most cursory of character development; a blessing because being able to flick between characters – or groups of characters – every ten or fifteen minutes allows the movie to feel much shorter than its titanic run-time. Kudos to Drax, who made me guffaw like a loon each time he opened his mouth.

Every good superhero story needs a good villain – something not every Marvel movie has managed to get right – but in Thanos the MCU has found arguably its greatest baddie. Physically, Thanos is imposing and powerful, even before he starts loading up his gauntlet with gemstones. Indeed, in the opening minutes of Infinity War he gives the Hulk such a decisive battering that Bruce Banner spends the remainder of the movie suffering from Hulk-related performance anxiety. The phrase ‘We have a Hulk’ is usually a pre-victory rallying cry. Infinity War establishes from the outset that even the mighty Hulk is but a greenfly buzzing around Thanos’ head. The only thing that can defeat Thanos is teamwork, something that doesn’t always come naturally to the assemblage of lone wolves who find themselves united in opposition to the big purple space-fister.

As well as being the MCU’s mightiest and best villain, Thanos is also its most rounded and sympathetic. He’s much more complex than your usual twisted genius or big angry entity who just wants to destroy everything for the sake of ticking the right boxes on the ‘So You Think You’re Evil?’ checklist.

Thanos is plagued by guilt over the demise of his once-mighty people, who Easter Island-ed themselves out of existence through complacency, decadence and overpopulation. Despite his ego and cold narcissism he appears to be capable of feeling shame, fear, pain and even – just maybe – love.

Although Thanos seeks ultimate power over time, space, reality and the universe, he only wants to wield it insofar as it aids him in his mission to arbitrarily half the total inhabitants of the universe, thereby breaking the curse that killed his own people, and giving the gift of survival to every species in existence. In his own calmly-crazy, genocidal mind he thinks he’s the good guy, which only serves to make him more dangerous.

Psychological shading not-with-standing, this is still a popcorn movie, so even during Thanos’ most affecting, introspective moments you’re forced to fill in the emotional gaps yourself by bringing your own experience of those feelings and dynamics to bear. The love Thanos professes for Gamora (feelings that will undoubtedly spill over into and propel the sequel) and the weight of his sacrifice, feel rather too thinly-sketched, contrived and convenient to have much of a genuine emotional impact. Plus, in a franchise where resurrection is more common than the cold, what weight can any death really have?

This issue with low-stakes – common to all MCU properties – also diminishes the impact of the ending. While it’s certainly bold and refreshing to see the villain win for a change, this is only part one of the story, and anyone who genuinely believes that the heroes who frittered out of existence like so much burnt toast in the wind at the end of Infinity War won’t be ‘reassembled’ in the second installment must have missed the last eighteen movies, or else have never encountered a cliffhanger before. Save your tears, people (although if Tom Holland made you shed them, fair enough; his farewell was heartwrenchingly conveyed). It’s all going to be okay. You might not get Vision back, but I’m sure you’ll be able to soldier on.

The ending would have been immeasurably bolder had Infinity War been the MCU’s final movie: if Thanos had been allowed his victory, and left at peace to watch an eternity of bittersweet sunsets, like a Professor Soran who’d made it to the Nexus, or an ultra-conservative group who’d managed to pull off the conspiracy behind Channel 4’s Utopia.

Or bolder still if this hadn’t been the final movie, but the consequences couldn’t be undone, and every subsequent movie in the series became like a superhero version of The Leftovers, dealing with grief and heartache and loss, forcing a generation of children to contemplate the injustice and futility at the core of existence. But this is Disney – and existential angst doesn’t sell very well.

As it stands, it’s possible to see the ending as a sort-of meta-commentary on the MCU itself. Perhaps we, the audience – the consumers – are Thanos, and each of the previous eighteen movie instalments are a different infinity stone for our gauntlet. Now that our gauntlet is full, we’ve succeeded in winking out half of the world’s superheroes. We’re bloody sick of them. Do we even want them to come back?

Here’s to part two, and to a multitude of explosions, jokes and fist-fights.

I’ll be there.