Political Correctness Gone Right

Bristol City Council in correct decision shocker

This film is Shane Meadows's finest work to date. The notoriously inept Bristol City Council got it right; teenagers should see it, it's a powerful film, and cannily released on St. George's Day, it may coincide with a British National Party turnout in the local elections. Suffice to say it is unlikely BNP members will be off to their local art house cinema to see this. It is more important that their children see it.

http://warpfilms.com
http://www.thisisenglandmovie.co.uk

Greetings from the new bottom of the same lake

Here we are at our new blog address. Note the address bar- there you are. You can change your bookmarks accordingly. Good on you.

Our dedicated team of police divers have copied all the previous posts over to this new blog address. This means that if you want to read some old posts from this blog ("brimful of coruscating prose, wry asides, and many occurrences of the words 'fuck' and 'fucking'" - The Salisbury Review) you won't have to go to the old blog.

See you at the bottom of the lake.

Breakfast Lieutenant aka. Bad Club

Click here for
"Now That's What I Call Deeply Harrowing! Volume. 1"
-an Amazon DVD list

Anton Maiof showed me how to play the IMDB Game. The rules are as follows:
Open IMDB. Only quiz master may see it. Choose and click on a film from Top Ten. Players have to guess, based on the film, a recommended film on that page. Winner stays on.

Legend has it that in the course of playing this game, Anton and friends were led from Abel Ferrara's Bad Lieutenant to John Hughes's The Breakfast Club in only four recommendations. What happened next was explosive. It emerged that the two films had almost the same running time, of 96 and 97 minutes respectively. This meant that the two films could be shown concurrently, with the very real possibility that Emilio Estevez's pot-fuelled back-flips would coincide with Harvey Keitel sobbing, moaning and calling Jesus Christ a 'rat fuck'. Plans are under way to show the films together in a split screen format at the Cube Cinema in Bristol.


Funtimefunbreaktime

Guy N. Smith versus Garth Marenghi

The following quotes are from the works of Guy N. Smith and Garth Marenghi. Distinguish the parody from the parodied.

1 ) "Gordon would you … take me away from here? Take me with you, where there aren’t such things as wolves, Black Dogs and people cutting their heads off with saws".

2) "But what chance did they stand against this army of attacking pheasants?"

3) "She stared in horror as the blood poured from her open wound. Why had she opened that sarcophagus?? The sand turned a crimson red, the colour of blood. Her blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. And bits of piss and shit. This was the worst day of her life."

4) "Why shouldn't a child's corpse turn into a pike? No reason at all...Maybe he was a fish and hadn't realised it up until now".

5) "It was his first taste of human flesh and he wondered why he had ever bothered with hares and sheep before".

6) "Something was pouring from his mouth. He examined his sleeve. Blood!? Blood. Crimson copper-smelling blood, his blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. And bits of sick."

7) "This doomed girl had not only risen from her deathbed but she had turned into a nymphomaniac".

8) "He did something that caused the elephant to go berserk and the potato vendor to burn to death".

9) "Mike stared in disbelief as his hands fell off. From them protruded millions of maggots. Maggots!? Maggots. Maggots. Maggots. Maggots. Maggots. Maggots. All over the post office floor, in Leytonstone."

10) "He whisked off her shoes and panties in one movement, wild like an enraged shark, his bulky totem beating a seductive rhythm. Mary's body felt like it was burning, even though the room was properly air-conditioned. They tried all the positions: on top, doggy, and normal. Exhausted, they collapsed on to the recently extended sofa bed. Then, a hellbeast ate them."

11) "Nothing else mattered...Not even the giant crabs."

12) "'No way! No way on God's Green Land can a crab be bigger than a Renault Estate! Can it…!?!"



1) Guy N. Smith - Werewolf By Moonlight
2) Guy N. Smith - Carnivore
3) Garth Marenghi - title unknown
4) Guy N. Smith - The Undead
5) Guy N. Smith - Werewolf By Moonlight
6) Garth Marenghi - Slicer
7) Guy N. Smith - The Ressurected
8) Guy N. Smith - The Dark One
9) Garth Marenghi - title unknown
10) Garth Marenghi - Juggers
11) Guy N. Smith - Night Of The Crabs
12) Garth Marenghi - Crab!!

Like Garth Marenghi and Dean Learner, Guy N. Smith is a tireless campaigner for the re-introduction of the death penalty.

Burning witches brings people together

New anti-discrimination laws dismissed in favour of world peace

Religious groups yesterday celebrated a new era of pluralism and tolerance after the House of Lords rejected new measures that would have outlawed the discrimination and harassment of gays.

Antique hatchets were buried and ancient rivalries dismissed as hitherto warring factions united against the common enemy of men who muck around with each other’s cocks. “The future of inter-faith religious tolerance and world peace lies in demonising queers” said Sheila Moustache, a Christian church group organiser.

Derek Fenton, a guest-house owner from Dorset expressed his relief at the axing of legislation that would have banned him from turning away monstrous shirt-lifters. “This is a triumph for tolerance, respect and common sense. My wife and I were unable to sleep knowing that the poo-thieves in the room next door might be ejaculating, deep, deep, into each other’s rectums. Decent folk have had enough of these minorities banging on about their ‘rights’. What about our rights? I cannot get that disgusting image out of my head, no matter what I do. I’m not even religious, and I still think they should be shot and then burned in hell”. Mr. Fenton was joined by fellow devout non-homosexual Abdul Rahman, a community leader who recently urged fellow Muslims to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Jewish Zionists to campaign to shut down a house belonging to two men who lived together in it. The two men have since moved away from the area. “It’s amazing what can be achieved with respectful and sensitive inter-faith dialogue” said John Curry, a white supremacist Neo-Nazi convicted of a series of pub bombings in the early 90’s.

Dr.Ismail Haniyeh, the Prime Minister of the Palestinian National Authority, oversaw a jubilant and light-hearted joint press conference in Gaza City alongside Israeli Premier Ehud Olmert and American Paleo-Conservative commentator Pat Buchanan. “This is a momentous occasion” laughed Dr. Haniyeh. “Once we’ve turfed out all the buggers, there will be plenty of room in the Holy Land for Jews AND Muslims.” “And after that,” Buchanan joined in, “we can set to work on the Atheists. Once they’re gone, we can concentrate all our energies on space travel, and going to the Moon, and Mars, and other places in space”.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thought For the Day

The liberal elite cannot hide the fact that paedophiles are disguising themselves as Muslim women in veils in order to get access to children by working as classroom assistants. TRUST NO-ONE.

Neutral pig's head island

“Those who say that fiction isn’t relevant any more should read Houllebecq – he is in a class of his own”
- Literary Review

That’s what’s written on the cover of the paperback edition of Michel Houellebecq’s ‘The Possibility Of An Island’. The Post-Modernists argue that fiction isn’t relevant anymore, and the book world is listening fearfully. Brandishing Houllebecq, it lands a confident counter-strike…

No, of course the book world isn’t fucking listening; it’s a non-issue cooked up by a reanimated corpse-journalist, rotting but somehow still walking, who very likely hasn’t read the book, instead cobbling a review together by cribbing the press release, posing a few straw men and hitting the word count with a handful of desperate cliches. If blogging really is a public challenge to print journalism, and this is the standard we are up against, then it’s a pushover. In 1946 Orwell wrote ‘Confessions of a Book Reviewer’:

In the morning, blear-eyed, surly and unshaven, he will gaze for an hour or two at a blank sheet of paper until the menacing finger of the clock frightens him into action. Then suddenly he will snap into it. All the stale old phrases—“a book that no one should miss”, “something memorable on every page”, “of special value are the chapters dealing with, etc etc”—will jump into their places like iron filings obeying the magnet, and the review will end up at exactly the right length and with just about three minutes to go.

After sixty years of journalism little has changed. Indeed, it has probably got worse. Orwell, after all, is dead.

Avoid

“Quintessentially English”

“Achingly beautiful”

“…on acid”

“…on crack”

The decline of the pig’s head in butcher’s shop windows

In the past, when people were fully aware that what they were buying was a dead animal, the customer would check out the eyes for signs of decay. Milky? Sour complexion? Then it’s been hanging around too long. The trained consumer looked for signs of a healthy animal. At least, healthy until it was slaughtered. Nowadays, the consumer’s reaction to a disembodied pig’s head would be along the lines of “fucking hell! That’s a fucking pig’s head. Jesus, that’s revolting”, and they would promptly leave. The public want their food free range, organic, humanely reared and slaughtered, but they certainly don’t want anything resembling a dead animal.

Not Partisan

According to http://www.wordcounter.com/cgi-bin/politicalresult.cgi, this blog is, amazingly, politically neutral.

Damp food, bright lights, dead eyes

The Organ, responsible for my favourite pop record of last year, have called it a day after five years, one album and a handful of EPs. They have admirably chosen to keep their reasons to themselves. A punishing schedule may have played a part in their disintegration; touring provides the musician with the classic bi-polar experience. In sympathy, I’m taking this opportunity to publish an excerpt from my last tour diary. It was nice to know you, ladies.

A snow-bound drive from Brugge to Toulouse. A service station. Damp food; bright lights, dead eyes. A notice guaranteeing a thrirty-minute toilet hygiene inspection. Above the cubicle, gaps in the styrofoam celing panels. Cameras, probably. You turn and your leg brushes against the bowl. You take part of it back to the van with you and leave part of yourself there. Now you know why the French shit in holes in the ground. The less contact the better. In/out as quickly as possible. Extract yourself from the dance before it tries to hold your hand.

A Holiday Inn south of Paris. Prison windows groan over a Legoland interzone. You open the door to your rabbit hutch and the rolling guff of a thousand lonely cigarettes swoops down your throat like a decaying pigeon searching madly for a quiet place to die. The bird surfs the slipstream of fruit-scented mustard gas; like hopeless medieval physicians pitching a poultice against a plague, the cleaning staff spray something into the air to combat the stench but for some reason choose to leave all the windows closed and turn up the radiators. Inside the apricot sweat-box the despair hangs in mid-air, blinking in the half-light. Nowhere to hide in the metal door, veneer walls and plastic curtains, it seeps quietly into the pores of its new friend. Pubic hairs on the carpet, semen grease-film on the T.V. remote, suicide-prevention half-windows. Push your face too deep into the pillow and last night’s smoker shares the bed with you. Switch off the metal wall heater and it will switch itself back on at 3 a.m. Baked lizards thrashing in the sheets. Wake up paddling in a diseased lung. The sweat beads can’t get past the plastic curtains. The cloud regroups in mid-air and you have made your contribution to a thriving, multiplying mass grave. You have become part of the room. You have made it that bit worse for the next guy.

love, love, love

All Tomorrow's Parents

You'd have to be in a coma not to be feverishly aware that Britain is sick with feral adults who breed feral children to become feral adults. The Tories choose to point this out to us with reference to Victorian morality and homosexuals. I thought Cameron was paying public relations gurus to show the Tories how to aim away from their own feet. Steady... steady.. and jerk goes the knee!

***

All Tomorrow's Parties festival at Minehead this past weekend had a running theme: your parents' band is better than yours. Thurston Moore curated the line up, consisting chiefly of bands signed to his Ecstatic Peace label. Many of them were boring. The weekend was rescued by the indie rock elder statesmen: Sonic Youth, Dinosaur Jr, The Melvins, Gang of Four, and The Stooges. It shouldn't have needed to be.

Too many noise guitar bands were hiding behind noise instead of using it. I don't want to see an experiment, I want a carefully prepared demonstration. I want you to crack my skull open. I want this

terrorists/hot women

The correct response to a terrorist attack in London

The United Kingdom has an estimated population of 60 million. Of these, 14 million people live in the London metropolitan area. 60 percent of these are aged between 18 and 60.

Roughly half of these are women. According to Gaussian distribution, 50 percent will be judged as average looking, 30 percent as above or below average, 10 percent will be a bit rough, and 10 percent will be pretty hot. This means that approximately 420,000 women in London are by any reasonable measure, pretty hot. This gives us a city the size of Bristol entirely populated by hot women. Who's winning now, terrorists? Hah.


n.b the term 'men' may be substituted for 'women'

Current listening: 'Asceticists' - Whitehouse

"I'm a terrible babysitter. i've got your child in the shower" - early draft lyric for 'Bad Babysitter' by Princess Superstar

It is fatal to look hungry. It makes people want to kick you

Weather
The weather this week: cramped, dismal and Russian. It serves to remind one of why the English are quite so wretched.

Boring man
Last week I met a very boring man. I was trapped in his company for about an hour, perhaps longer. It was enough time for me to appreciate a distinction between the boring and the merely dull. Dull people are without merit. They lack qualities. Boring people are different; they actively engage you in conversation, and suck you into their tedious world of anecdotes and solipsistic pomposity. They are wasting your time. They are standing too fucking close. If you insult them they don't notice, which is enraging. You want to kill them but they will not die. They simply will not die. My friend was mugged and the boring man immediately told her in great detail of the time one of his friends was mugged, as though as it were a competition. Boring people are intensely competitive. Likewise, intensely competitive people are boring. Sometimes the world is simple, but that doesn't make it any easier.

Eva Green
I had Bond Girl Eva Green tipped for stardom after five minutes of dirty old Bertolluci's bi-curious arthouse skinflick The Dreamers.

Cigarettes
There are two types of cigarette and they are both Class A Cigarettes. The first is your standard filter-tipped wincer at around £5.50 a pack. Camel, Marlboro and Lucky Strike are favoured by the young and trendy, who think that Rothmans are a bit working-class. The second type is smoked by older people who are in the know. This cigarette is longer, cheaper, comes in packs of 25 and has an aristocratic name, such as Mayfair and Regal. Those attracted to an elitist, clubroom, invitation-only aesthetic may enjoy the smooth taste of John Player Special. The packaging is often exquisitely gaudy, with gold trim and bevelled edges. Some of these brands are menthol flavoured. All these cigarettes taste and smell disgusting and no-one would smoke them if they weren't highly addictive. They are sprayed with chemicals so that each cigarette burns itself out, ensuring you light another if you forget to smoke continuously. Remember, they are both Class A cigarettes made from a careful blend of only the very finest Virginian and Domestic tobbacos. I have a Craven 'A' tin from the 1920's. On the inside lid reads the legend 'These cigarettes are specially formulated to prevent sore throats'. The fact that companies are no longer allowed to lie to us so brazenly means people think that they might now be telling the truth. Let them lie to us again; let them weave colourful webs of ludicrous deceit; then it will be obvious that they aren't to be trusted.

like, one day I was in Lidl innit

Penetrating social commentary, wryly minimalist video

"yeah
a/b
(indecipherable)
volume 1
alright then

let me tell you about a little trip I had, innit
like, one day I was in Lidl innit
and this is how it went
check it
one day I went to Lidl
I went to shoplift in Lidl
then I got caught in Lidl
now I don't go back to Lidl
one day I went to Asda
I went to shoplift in Asda
then I got caught in Asda
now I don't go back to Asda"

I am also enjoying this immensely