Oh, Harry Potter, you sly, precocious rascal. How I thrill to the adventures you have, and hiss whenever Messrs. Malfoy and Snape ooze across the page. Hmph. The third book of the series is less boring than the first two, and somewhat longer. It also includes a word or two that wasn’t in the movie, which makes this the first of the series to qualify as “worth reading”.

It is not really a bad book, but when you’ve just read the previous two books in rapid succession, you’ll notice a certain formula developing. Namely, not enough sex. Not that it’s promised by the garish and childlike cover, or the complete lack of sexual identity among the characters. There was only the mildest hint that Harry even notices chicks, with the allusion to Chang Choi Hoi or whatever her name was, the little Chinese maiden, being somewhat pretty, and causing a lump in Harry’s throat. But Harry’s thirteen in this book. When I was that age, even the smell of a girl’s pencil box caused a lump in my pants. Harry doesn’t even look up her skirt when she’s riding a broom. Why? Because Harry is a homo. He would rather play sports and eat chocolate than whack it to the eight-minute reel of upskirts and keyhole peep-shots that loops permanently through the mind of any normal thirteen year old boy.

I also liked the movie much more than the previous two. I enjoy any movie with Gary Oldman, no matter how bad it is. Even Batman, where Oldman was Worst Commissioner Gorden Evar. In Prisoner of Azkaban, he was on the screen for a grand total of 47 seconds, but I still enjoyed his performance. I still think he could’ve brought a bit more of the Sid and Nancy vibe to the screen, though.

Tell me that wouldn’t have been sweet! Now, though, I’ve got some serious reading to do. In the time it took to lay this book aside and write this here review, I’m already halfway through the Sixth Book of the Year, and looking anxiously forward to the Seventh. Tallyho!