So The Tudors, which has never knowingly been near a history book – much like Kylie Minogue has never knowlingly been near a note or Tom Cruise near a vagina – is starting another series, well, soon. It’s unlikely we’ll be tuning in. It will just send us into affronted tizzies, and we’ll end up shaking our David Starkeys at the tellybox, frothing at the mouth.
And not frothing in the mouth in the frothing-at-the-penis manner. Because JRM, despite his penchant for getting his kit off and flashing a bit of pube, is not for us. Far too primordial dwarfish. The other one, that Henry Cavill fella is, however, for us. He can pop himself on a Princess Diana-shaped postcard and send himself, special delivery, any time he likes. Now, even.
But in the meantime, if you do like a bit of JRM with only a bit of crinoline (it probably is crinoline. Remember, historical accuracy has no place in The Tudors) to hide his modesty, then after the jump witchu….