Confessions of a space addict.

"This first trilogy is really about the father, the struggles of a father, or a man, basically, to find himself, and at the same time fall into a trap of wanting certain powers, making a pact with the devil and basically spending the rest of his life regretting it." – George Lucas, April 2005.

The year was 1977, I was five. It was 28 years ago, in a galaxy far, far away.

Actually, the place was America. Fort Collins, Colorado. Not that unlike Tatooine. Times were different – Jimmy Carter was president, George Lucas still had a neck. It was the year that I saw Star Wars, a film that would completely screw up my life.

I thought I was already an experienced movie-goer by this time. That I was hip, ready for anything. This after all was my third-ever film, and Casey's Shadow and Pete's Dragon had surely prepared me for the highs and lows of the big screen. I was wrong. I wasn't prepared for this.

I'm certain that I'd have turned out to become something safe and steady like an accounts director or policy analyst, had I not stepped into that darkened movie theatre on that fateful day – and been utterly petrified by the sight of an enormous steel creature in black, choking a man to death by merely raising his hand.

The trouble was, the fear was addictive.

With his menacing metallic breathing and haunting baratone drawl, Darth Vader defined for me there and then what the archetypal scary bastard would look like. Who could forget that terrfying statement the Dark Lord later made, ushering in an age of gloom to the galaxy, and a death-knell to all things good and rebellious:

"This... is CNN."

No, but really. Back in 1977, nobody could have told me that I'd spend nearly three decades locked in the hold of this double-trilogy monster, like an X-Wing fighter pulled hopelessly into the Death Star's tractor beam.

My father's generation had the Vietnam War. Mine had Star Wars. Our torment has lasted so much longer.

So, come May 19 or thereabouts, as I step out of that darkened theatre for the sixth time – this time a little more certain than I was the first time that Vader wouldn't soon jump out at me from behind the toilet door – spare a thought for me and many like me.

Our Wars may be over, but our years of therapy are just beginning.

poor baby...no worries. the last of your worries will soon be over, so he promises...