We’re well past the shark-jumping point (the second half of the fourth season through the most of the fifth and sixth are all pretty weak compared with the early stuff), but still there are minor treats along the way (let’s try and forget Hamlet, the IRA subplot and the rubbish new Italians).
Here we have Miguel Alvarez unravelling in solitary, and engaging in a bit of Bobby Sands-style interior design. Keen on the umbers, siennas and russets, that lad.

































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