My parents named me after Luke Skywalker, so it's a happy coincidence that I love Star Wars with a ferocity located somewhere between distracting and actually dangerous. If I didn't, the first time someone quipped, "Luke, i am your father" would have been just as tiresome as the billionth; as it stands, I don't mind people making the association, and do nothing to dissuade them from their belief that they've coined a Wildean zinger of bon mottery. But it's not my force-flinging namesake that made the biggest impression on me. No, that dubious honour goes to the great walking carpet himself, Chewbacca. Or, to give him his full and correct title, the Mighty Chewbacca.
I don't remember seeing the Star Wars films for the first time: they've been a constant in my life for as long as I can remember; reliable companions who, unlike the various dogs I grew up with, didn't selfishly abandon me to go and live on farms. I do remember my first set of Star Wars videos, nestled on the shelf between Willow and Labyrinth, the pictures worn to static by overuse at my nan's bungalow in the Peak District.
She once got so tired of the films' rousing score she recommended I broaden my horizons by watching a cartoon about rabbits that she thought I might like. She assumed that a cartoon about rabbits would be suitable for a six-year-old, but she was unaware that Watership Down is the most harrowing experience it's possible to endure without dunking your face in a pan of hot oil. The transformation from human boy to bawling, juddery smudge of snot and tears took about three seconds. My nan heard my wails from the kitchen and dashed in, terrified I'd done myself a horrific mischief with a sharp object, and grumpily switched the video to Return of the Jedi to end the blubbery madness. Star Wars saved me that day, as it has done countless times since.
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I'm sure many people grew up wanting to be like Luke Skywalker, and I can't blame them: he's brave, righteous, prodigiously talented at flying spaceships and he owns a lightsaber. Morally, he's a good egg and a fine role model – if you're able to ignore the fact he snogged his sister. But I have a sister, so I just can't. Many others will have wanted to be like the cheeky, suave, impossibly cool Han – he's a renegade, he gets the girl, and jangling in his pocket are the keys to the coolest conveyance ever conceived by a human brain. Then there's Leia: selfless, handy in a ruckus, by far the most intelligent of the three central characters, and she comes with a horde of subservient Ewoks. And I don't care what the haters say; Ewoks are brilliant, and let that be an end to it.
Yet from his introduction in the Mos Eisley cantina – sitting, listening, oozing cool – Chewie wowed me with wordless heroism. Allusions to him pulling arms out of sockets give him a bristling mystique, and the blood-curdling howl he emits when Luke suggests cuffing him suggests he probably could do so if he chose.
Chewie may be harder than a polar bear's nipples, but there's so much more to him than bopping people, shooting goons and choking the huff out of those unwise enough to irk him. As we gradually get to know the beauty within the beast, what we see is a friend, a warrior, a champion who craves no glory. He didn't get a medal at the end of the first film, while the other three did. Did he woof-whinge about it? No he did not. That's not his style.
He's also the most outwardly emotive character: he barks and gurgles in mourning when Han's sealed out of the bunker on the ice planet of Hoth; he yelps with glee when reunited with him in Jabba's dungeon; and he's not stingy when giving out what really have to be the best hugs ever. Shouldn't we all strive to be more open with our feelings like Chewie? If we each assimilated a few of his traits, wouldn't the world be a better place? Of course it would.
Great as he is, I've always had a nagging suspicion that many of those who chose Han as a role model probably grew up to be solipsistic BMW-driving buffoons who work in banking and are rude to bar staff. Those who chose Luke are doomed to live in woe because he was born with a gift that they will never have. And Princess Leia, generally smashing though she is and through no fault of her own, essentially legitimises the worst kind of nepotism and born-into-power entitlement. Royalty just isn't cool. The altar of Chewie comes with no such quibbles, and it is this one I choose to genuflect before. I endeavour to be more like him every day. He should be a woolly moral template for us all.
And if any further evidence of Chewbacca's excellence is needed – and I honestly don't know how it could be – remember that he's basically a giant dog/bear who flies spaceships and shoots laser guns at clone fascists. If you don't think that's the best thing ever, I really don't know what to make of you.
