the baggy trousered misanthropist

missives issued from the lair

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When I were a lass, film premieres didn’t really exist.

I’m kind of glad they didn’t, too. I can’t help but feel the lure of the original three Star Wars films, which has remained constant throughout my life, was augmented by the inflexibility of the stories and the character roles. They existed within the films, and my job was to recreate them as faithfully as possible within the constraints of a deep pile bedroom carpet.

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If the photos of vaguely familiar but ultimately unknown faces pressing into the cold, unforgiving plastic shoulder of a Storm Trooper littering today’s papers evoke a sense of fierce jealousy in you, that’s fine, although I have to say, I doubt you found as much enjoyment ‘playing’ with your replica ships and figures as I did in ensuring mine were in the correct order and the right width apart for the medal ceremony rehearsal.

But for me, the accessibility dilutes the joy.

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Call me weird, but the thrill of discovering Kylo Ren’s backstory and development is tempered by his proximity to a buffet, even if he is waving his homemade lightsaber.
 
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And it’s hard enough trying to recreate Alderaan using a handful of leftover oasis foam and builder’s sand without having to worry about whose turn it is to do the vacuuming on the Death Star.
 
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This would have traumatised me for life. That stole thing is PURE WOOKIE!
 
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Oh come on. You’re having a laugh now.
 
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Thankfully, there’s an exception to every rule. And, in the case of anything remotely Star Wars related, that exception will always be Carrie Fisher.

Altogether now!

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