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The clothes, the clever repartee, the down and dirty sexiness of the girls and their endless stream of men now seems like a distant era - like Harold Wilson's Sixties Britain.
But, at last, after contractual conflict which seemed set to scupper their reunion, they're back, the whole palpitating, heaving, fornicating four of them.
Journalists sometimes ask which of them would do it for me.
The honest answer is all four of them, but it's too dangerous to admit that.
There's the sweet one - great marriage material.
The lawyerly red-head - sexy and motherly. Or the voracious man-eating vamp, ankles behind her ears.
But if I had to choose just one, it would have to be the eponymous Carrie Bradshaw.
George Galloway and Sex In The City: two problematic tastes that taste more than problematic together!
For a while I genuinely believed Galloway was more sinned against than sinning - most of that feeling evaporated during his stint on Celebrity Big Brother, but this is just too icky to be anything other than the FINAL STRAW. |
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