At seven weeks and three days, I decide
it’s time for my daughter to watch Star Wars,
the proper one, none of that prequel shite,
it’s not “A New Hope” nor “Episode 4”.
And yes, her eyes widen at the dread sight
of Imperial Cruisers and Dave Prowse,
as mine did on the first viewing when I
had just turned seven, our twelve inch TV
beamed out the network premier that night,
though skinflint, immigrant family
had splashed out on a video. We raced
when the poster signalled the ad break screen
to hit the pause button so that the next
viewing would not be interrupted by
shout outs for Soda stream and Teletext.
Who knows what’s sitting on the landfill site—
perhaps some new build flats, or factories—
where that plastic videotape resides
or where this Blu Ray disc may rest in peace
when she sits down with her great granddaughter
to watch Han Solo’s holographic feats
when me and George Lucas are Bantha fodder.
Niall O'Sullivan
The Mundane Comedy 