Invictus

Wake sometime before noon but find well-being sprawled across wall, throat feeling like poster for Sex and the City 2 and neck as stiff as Gibson sex organ during screening of Triumph of the Will. Decide only antidote is pilgrimage to family home to indulge in food-binge-based remedy. Lie prone in manner of whimpering fawn on parents' sofa until return of monster-truck-psyiched father. Venture out into wilds of Leyton to procure Chinese food and copy of recent Eastwood Mandela rugby essay Invictus on BluRay. Feel as if national disappointment regarding World footballing event should not deter self from maintaining interest in cultural festival, and decide South African setting of Eastwood sport film applicable to cause.

Throughout duration of film find self slipping into semi coma. Uncertain whether inducement caused by stomach overload or Mandela monotony: Mandela lines seemingly all gleaned from Book of Proverbs. Eastwood portrayal of admittedly massively important and influential political monument Mandela as filtered through Morgan Freeman portrayal is given cumbersome burden of near Godliness. Mandela not God. Mandela certainly hulking humanitarian force, but Mandela in no way exhibited as human in film. Would be suspicious that Eastwood simply using waxwork of Mandela from famed London museum had not waxwork uncanny similarity to God character from Bruce/Evan Almighty Freeman.

Wonder why Matt Damon, whenever not engaged in slow motion rugby skirmishes, has arms crossed. Damon trying to hide something? Damon fearful of acting against Freeman when Freeman speaking only in Biblical verse? Damon worried that image of Damon on poster so heavily photoshopped that Damon looks almost as glossed as samples from Dulux Summer catalogue/David Cameron propaganda thinktank? Damon concerned about Springbok's climactic match against New Zealand's All Blacks apropos latter team's suggestive name? Damon most probably left with nothing to do as Eastwood preoccupied with making entire poem-based film as inoffensive as possible.

Reach end of film and feel as if self has scored two hour try (or touchdown as Marky Mark Wahlberg/Warren Beatty would say). Disappointed not to hear dulcit tones of Eastwood's vocal experiments as with end credits of Grand Torino. As it resulted, "in the fell clutch of circumstance / [self]  ha[s] not winced nor cried out loud." Impossible are such affectations when film made in laboratory so sterilised with moral conviction that self feels pangs of racism if ever on verge of making textual-analysis-based-indictment of Eastwood-Victorian-poem-based-Rugby-World-Cup-Mandela-Freeman-Damon-'drama'. Not utterly disappointed, but...

Leave childhood home minutes later to catch underground tube train back to Southwark home. Touchdown around 10.30pm feeling as if self has been tackled in small lift by Jonah Lomu, who is not entirely all black. Watch a few episodes of season seven of South Park and toss and turn self into a state of feverish unconsciousness. Dream of meeting girls in Greenwich.