I could just about cope with him. But then, when I rotated gloopily to check out the scene, who did I see next? Let’s just say that when your archenemy’s trapped you in a place of certain death, and you’ve survived heroically against all the odds, the last thing you want to see, when you escape at last, is that same archenemy glaring down at you with an expression of annoyed distaste.1 Not only that—you’re weak, look like a jellyfish, and smell of clam chowder. In such circumstances the wind kind of goes out of your sense of triumph.
