If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history — December 1, 1982 — that the
biopic “Gandhi” had its Royal Premiere at the Odeon Leicester Square in London,
with Yours Truly Dooley® policing the venue, Prince Charles and a visibly bored
Lady Diana in attendance, and a spurned Camilla Bowles getting her drink on in
a tavern ‘round the corner. Directed by some bossy-panted Cecil B. DeMille
wannabe whose name escapes me, the "sweeping" epic was fawned over by film
fussbuckets worldwide, garnering acclaim from the Academy Awards, the Foreign
Press, the Peace Corps, the Corps of Army Engineers, the Museum of Science +
Industry, Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom and an early, offline edition of the
Huffington Boast®. Truth be well told, I would have rather been “sweeping” the station
house toilet than enduring this pretentious prattle. Three tormented hours
watching a world leader who couldn’t see his way to wearing a proper suit and
tie? Not on my watch! Mind you, I'll acknowledge the great one’s nonviolent efforts on
behalf of his people, no matter how ungrateful they were for England’s efforts
to detain and quarter them. I was certainly wowed by the likeness of shriveled,
bespectacled Bollywood actor Mohandas Karamchand Kingsley — pictured here
taking a celebratory turn at the premiere's sepia-toned reception — but alas, I could not get
past the Bohemian get up — the robes and sandals, the hipster glasses, the Bain
de Soleil™, or possibly Copper-honed® tan. As Gandhi trudged across the desert
or into the city square, his emaciated torso draped in swaddling clothing — or
worse, shirtless — I simply could not stop envisioning his nutsack swinging
dangerously to-and-fro beneath the loose-fitting apparel. Bloody hell, Mahatma.
Even if you’re commencing to do bullet-less battle, gird your bloody loins!
