Spoiler alert- if you’re off to see Bridget Jones’s Baby any time soon, then read no further.
If you’re not, or you’ve made the error of spending a tenner on it already, read on.
So, seriously, what the fuck?
I went along to see it with a super good mate.
We’ve both got kids; we’re now in our mid (that’s shorthand for late) thirties.
We are the target audience having been brought up on Generation Bridget and looking round the cinema, 90% of the audience were in the same demographic.
We have all recreated the ‘singing pissed using a hairbrush as a microphone’ moment. Own a pair of ‘Bridget, they’re enormous’ pants. Shagged that person who seemed like a good idea at the time even though you knew deep down it’s NEVER going to be a good idea.
Now, I hadn’t expected to be wowed by a life-changing film, more experience the feeling of putting on a comfy pair of slippers, or a cup of tea when you’re parched.
Familiar and satisfying.
What I hadn’t expected was Bridget Jones to sell out. To give up. To not give a shit about feminism. To become the ultimate ‘where’s my knight in shining armour?’
You’re 43, woman.
Not so much ‘come the fuck on’ as ‘grow the fuck up, Bridget.’
So the story is she shags the hot guy from Grey’s Anatomy at a festival. Then shags Mr Darcy, who’s been off the scene for the best part of a decade, days later.
She finds out she’s pregnant.
She’s described as a ‘geriatric mother’ by gynaecologist/ midwife/ health visitor- Emma Thompson. A situation any of us having had a baby in our mid-thirties will understand, perhaps even find hilarious.
The point I stopped caring/ started muttering at the screen, was when Bridget first kissed Mark Darcy.
Yes, they used to have chemistry when he was boyish and a bit of an odd-ball in the cleverest boy in the class kind of way.
But in his 40s, it was just like watching Bridget get off with a paper-thin-skinned politician, all awkward and sexless.
It's not like this anymore.
More like this.
Mr Dreamy was far hotter and a much better fit; he was fun, ambitious, had something to say on the world that wasn’t patronising or condescending.
But that aside, I just wanted to say to Bridget- don’t go back! If you feel like you didn’t get anything out of the relationship last time, what makes you think it’s going to work again this time? She even described him as homely, or familiar, or something so defeatist you wanted to light a stick of dynamite underneath her.
I’m not saying she shouldn’t be secure or comfortable.
Just don’t settle. Don’t settle for OK. This is the wrong message to be giving to the thousands of women who will watch this.
This is not the ending we wanted.
Just because we’ve grown up on the wonderfully mismatched relationship of Mark and Bridget, doesn’t mean it has to end that way if they’ve grown out of each other or are simply incompatible now.
Bridget- choose the Dr Dreamy.
Or do it on your own.
You can do it, you have amazing friends, a supportive family, and more to the point you are a strong, independent woman.
Don’t let us down.
There is also the matter of her ridiculous labour.
Get a lift in a rickshaw which gets stuck in traffic.
Get carried a mile and a half by Mr Darcy, who half way to the hospital hoiks you over to Dr Dreamy, who turns up out of nowhere on a deserted London street (!) on a motorbike, to carry you.
Don’t either of you carry her! Ring for a fucking ambulance!
‘You weigh a tonne Bridget.’
That is because she is carrying an extra human being inside her you dick rot.
So, a few sweaty pushes later, with Bridget’s vagina daintily covered with a towel (SERIOUSLY- SHE’S EITHER GIVING BIRTH OR HAVING A SWEDISH MASSAGE- MAKE YOUR MIND UP!) her baby is born.
And she marries Mr Darcy.
And Dr Dreamy is there at the wedding as Mark’s new bestie, not at all fucked off that the baby wasn’t his, or for that matter, that the girl he loved is marrying the most boring man after John Major.
And they live happily ever after.
Bridget. Helen Fielding. Emma Thompson.
You have not just let yourselves down.
You’ve let all women down.
I hope you’re pleased with yourselves.