I Hate: Shrek

 I hate Shrek. No, really, I hate it. And not in an ‘I hate carrots’ kind of way, but in a full blown, screaming-as-you-pull-your-suitcases-out-the-door, ‘I hate you and your mother and that tattoo of your ex’s face that you have on the inside of your thigh’ way. But the thing is (as I’m sure you’ll know) the only way to get to that kind of hatred is to really fall in love first.
  I was eleven when Shrek came out in the cinema. My brother, my parents and I went to see it, and within 90 minutes it had become my favourite movie ever. It was cool, because, c’mon, he’s a massive, sarcastic, Scottish ogre, and it was good fun too (hell, I didn’t know that the talking donkey liked to spend his money on transvestite prostitutes). Frankly, it was a beautifully self-encapsulated semi-satirical masterpiece, or, as I put it back then; one fucking funny film.
  The thing is, like most things in life, Shrek was ruined for me by the secondary education system. I’m sure my school had other DVDs; I saw them hidden behind big books on the top shelf; but, when it came to the end of term and the teachers got too bored and jaded to teach us anymore, they would play one film over and over and over again. My film. Shrek. Now I can’t tell you the seven times table, pick out the Noble Gases or recite one of Shakespeare’s sonnets, but I can remember, word for word, the first fifty-five minutes of that film (the length of one lesson). And I’ll tell you what: it’s just not funny anymore. The sequels, well, they were just salt in the wound. It broke my heart. So, now, I hate Shrek.

Bill Knowles