I love Naomi Watts- of course she was the best thing about the film- but i had one of my strongest physical, emotional and intellectual adverse reactions to a film; stronger than when i had to leave the cinema feeling nauseous with Amlie (and then i was in the front row). By half way i was already overwhelmed, in a state of shock, battered and barely coherent. Stop! Stop! Throw in the towel! Jackson wins in round 7 by knockout. For 1/2 hour after, I was literally slumped in my chair in a daze, still reeling + not knowing what had hit me. I may now have to be clamped with eyes held wide open a la Clockwork Orange for the next Jackson masterclass; the prospect of a rematch fills me with abject terror. I know how Frank Bruno felt having to meet Tyson again, or Frazier when pulverised by George Foreman. I'm just a poor sensitive soul; i think a long period of recuperation, quietly knitting, is in order. Or whole days spent caressing the beautiful Tibetan cherry tree i encountered in a park this week. Oh, soft, kind, lovely cherry; beauty to Jackson's beast.

Please call me John- i have a vague recollection that's my name.