I love Sharpe

by

SharpeI love Sharpe. We all know The Sopranos, The Wire, 24 and so on are the inanely hip, gripping series for our generation. But I really must say that nothing in my world beats a night in watching Sean Bean rage through the arid fields of Portugal or France in his beautiful emerald green uniform slaying the rotten Frenchies. Every episode there is a new wench, her milky white bosom surging out of her corset, her delicate curls framing her so very English face. Then there is the never-ending thrill of class related conflicts. Sharpe, being raised from the ranks is an officer – but not a gentleman. This leads to many a duel with snotty officers who haven’t even had a whiff of the black powder upon the field of battle or so much glanced a French eagle standard, let alone capture one at the battle of Talevera like Sharpe did. I have sadly finished my Sharpe box set and am now battling through the lonely evenings without the company of that swarthy Yorkshire man and his chosen men. Woe is indeed me.

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