MAAAATHHHHEWWWWWW!!!!!!!! MAAAATTTHHHEEWWW!!!! Shall I care about the rest of the episode? Am I able to live through the trauma that was this finale of Season 3? I can’t type it. Edith and her editor meet up in Scotland and everyone is all, “what a coincidence…not.” Along the way, she decides to become his mistress. Well, when you’re Edith, I suppose adultery is better than nothing…except oh wait. It’s adultery. Ugh. Edith, you have proven yet again to be the most useless, hapless thing on television this year (except for the now canceled show Do No Harm). Anna and Mosley have a fine time up in Scotland, the former dancing away and the latter getting drunk. O’Brien does not have a fun bone in her body and ends up feuding with the help there. Oh, O’Brien. If you just pulled the broomstick out of your butt, you’d feel a lot better. Mary, super pregnant with a baby, is all like, “Shut up Matthew, I can make the trip to Scotland!” Matthew replies, “ok, crazy pregnant lady.” She goes to Scotland. She feels ill. Matthew, in his worry, refrains from saying I told you so. Mary and Anna quickly return to Downton, where Mary goes into labor. Branson remains behind at Downton when everyone else travels off to the hills and glens of Scotland, mostly because oh, who knows. He’s Branson. He’s lonely. He’s so lonely he goes downstairs to eat at the servant’s table, where some pushy maid decides SHE’s the cure to his sadness. The strumpet kisses him (does she not REALIZE he is still in mourning for his awesome wife) and is promptly fired. Mrs. Hughes takes Branson aside and informs him that he’s a big, rich boy now and cannot eat at the table with the help. He glumly tells her he’s terribly, terribly alone now without Sybil. She makes sympathetic noises, but doesn’t change her stance. Oh, Mrs. Hughes. You’re the best mother figure of both the end of the 19th century AND the beginning of the 20th. The rest of the staff decide to go to a carnival in town. Mrs. Patmore goes with a grocer who asks her out on a date. Is he going to whisk the most adorable cook in existence away to a life of wedded bliss? Nah. Much to our (and Mrs. Patmore’s) relief, it’s clear he just likes the ladies…all the ladies. Jimmy, Alfred, Thomas and the rest of the men of downstairs have a nice little contest against the men of town in a tug of war. Jimmy even wages a bet on the outcome. He’s lucky (I swear, it must be the blond hair) and wins a whole lot of money. Drunk, smug and celebratory he then acts the smarmiest he can. I thought Jimmy couldn’t get any smarmier. I was proven wrong with this episode. He’s such an ass you want to beat him up . . . and then you get your wish when a bunch of townies corner him to do just that. But wait! Here comes Thomas to save the day! Thomas takes on the gang, gets pretty beat up himself and basically saves Jimmy, probably because he just can’t bear to see that pretty face ruined. Jimmy decides a guy who gets the crap beat out of him to save your sorry butt is an ok dude, even if he hit on you when you didn’t want him to. They becomes buddies. Sorry, Alfred. Look’s like next season is going to be no better for you than this one. You really ought to just forget Ivy, marry Daisy and then the two of you can go off and be gullible and earnest together on that farm William’s dad wants to give her. And now… But I…. And….and…. Cars are evil death machines and should be banned for all time. I hate you so much Julian Fellowes. I hate actors who think they’re Broadway stars and refuse to return to the show that made them (and no, now I’m NOT going to see your dumb show Dan Stevens). I REALLY hate cars. And I hate it that I was right about my premonition: no one can ever have a happy relationship in Downton Abbey. No one. That episode before was ALL A LIE. I will finish the episode with an ode to the late, great, beloved Mr. Crawley before I change into a black Think Geek T-shirt and go deep into mourning with my pint of mint chocolate oreo chip ice cream.
