Archive for June, 2009

Unnecessary sequels part 3

June 30, 2009

Everyone likes a good chuckle. That’s why my third and final unnecessary sequel is a sequel to the “wip-woawingly funny” (Jonathan Ross) book, The Diary of Anne Frank. I’ve named the sequel ‘The Diary of Anne Frank 2: The Diary of Hank Frank’. The diary referred to in the title is actually written by Anne’s second cousin Hank, because I think Anne died in the first one, you see. I’m not entirely sure ’bout that because my wife never watched all of the BBC teleplay about it, so she doesn’t know how it ended. I’ve also stayed true to the original source material by writing it in the form of a ‘book’, which is what people downloaded before there were any films with explosions and boobs in.

Anyway, this is Banjo Fett’s final ‘Unnecessary sequel’ so ENJOY IT.

The Diary of Anne Frank 2: The Diary of Hank Frank

Tuesday, 12 June 1942

Watched Top Gear. Fish for tea. Nazis knocked again but I pretended to be out.

Sunday, 17 June 1942

Went to the roller-disco. Was full of Nazis. Bit annoying really as they kept roller-skating really fast and bumping into other people.

Wednesday, 20 June 1942

Heard Public Enemy for the first time today. Man, Chuck D’s lyrics really speak to me, even though I’m white Jewish. Oy vey, I wish I could channel my anger constructively like Chuck D does.

Tuesday 3 July 1942

Had French toast for breakfast. The Nazis call it Gypsy toast and kill people for eating it. Bastards.

Thursday 5 July 1942

Really enjoying the current series of Last of the Summer Wine. I wish it was real. I’d be Compo. I give it eight out of ten.

Saturday 7 July 1942

Started learning the trombone. Relieves the boredom when I’m hiding from the Nazis in the attic.

Sunday 8 July 1942

When I said ‘hiding from the Nazis in the attic’, I meant that I hide in the attic, not the Nazis. There’s no Nazis in my attic.

Monday 16 July 1942

Found some Nazis hiding in my attic.


The End


June 26, 2009

I weep for Michael Jackson. He is dead. As a youth I watched Moonwalker and was inspired and entertained and awed. I remember nothing about the film or how I felt about it. But I was inspired and entertained etc. So here is my tribute to the proud regent of pop, in the form of a tiny truncated review.

It is a tragic fact that most children do not know what a young dog looks like. 97% of infants believe that they look like mice. This is an unacceptable statistic. Such were the thoughts of Michael Jackson when reading an article on the subject in National Geographic in the early 1990s. Most people would shed a solitary dewdrop from their eye at this point and get on with their lives. But Michael Jackson was not like most people. He was a philanthropist and a transformer. He was a sort of real-life Messiah. And so, putting down the pathos-inspiring thinkpiece, he turned himself into a talking speedboat and set off to rectify the situation, followed by a camera crew.

Upon hitting dry land Michael Jackson mutated into a fast, fashionable car and raced up the high street with urgency of Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. “Children” he shouted in a cool robotic voice, “children, which of you would like to come and see some puppies?” The response was enthusiastic. History was made. History was made. The children saw some small dogs and cheered. Michael then recorded some music so unbelievably groundbreaking that no-one even recognised that it was music. In fact the music was so incredible and influential that everyone forgot about the puppies and the children and just boogied on down to the wild new sound. The film ends with Michael Jackson dying, being resurrected in the form of a missile, then dying again. Which is, uncannily, exactly what happened in reality.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

June 24, 2009

Tinkering with a cold war-era soup vending machine beneath the severe strip lights of my local bus terminal, I discovered a sweet portal to a magical realm. It was a wondrous place, where humans talked to each other from great distances on little rectangles and where films could be beamed directly into their eyeballs via a powerful blue ray (well, I assume that is what their curious phrase ‘Blu-Ray’ referred to). In this fantastical domain, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince had already been released. So I watched it. Here is my review

The title initially earmarked for this film was ‘Hogwarts Academy 6: Muggles on Parade’. It is not hard to see why. Obviously J. K. Rowling and her movie-making familiars have realised that if any film franchise holds the key to longevity it is the Police Academy series. So it is that young Daniel Radcliffe pouts and thrusts like old Steve Guttenberg but with added warlock juice. Similarly, Emma Thomson’s character has been reimagined – out are the jam-jar glasses and self-effacement, and in is a brazen, commanding ’tude and an adamantine cleavage. Dumbledore’s grinning, dribbling face after he gets a forceful dunking ’twixt those monumental edifices is a real treat. Such is his confused titillation that he summons a Swedish Short-Snout to bear him away to the icy fjords of Scandinavia, wherein he might cool his revived libido. Spicy.

Apart from this departure, the film, thankfully does what all of the other Harry Potter films have done. Hermione crumples her face up like an old packet of crisps and clips her vowels like Sweeney Todd clipped hair. Ron is a dappled stutterlump who, like Harry, says ‘mate’ too much. Why is this? I know if I were a teenage wizard I would say things like “Troubalicious”, “fuggle” and “It’s cauldron time, babes”. I certainly wouldn’t talk like all of the other jabbering, flap-mouthed muggles who call themselves the British public. It’s highly vexing.

Potter fans will also be excited to learn that in this film we find out what happened to Voldemort’s nose (SPOILER ALERT: it got bitten off by a horse). There are other exciting twists and reveals too. Harry, it transpires, was not born of mortal woman, but was instead grown from a turnip seed in a dirty old meadow (this explains his magical powers); Ron and Hermione get it on (this sequence will probably upset and disturb most viewers who aren’t Larry Clark); and, finally, sadly, the talking hat dies after being chewed to pieces by jingoistic moths.

In conclusion, this film pushed all of the right buttons. It weaved its delightful spell round my enchanted imagination and transported me to a magical world of adventure and fun. Just as I had hoped it would.

Cracked Actor

June 18, 2009

I am mildly obsessed with the teachings of Professor David Bowie. Why therefore I have not seen the 70s documentary, Cracked Actor, I have no idea. It is morbidly shabby of me. At some point I will see it. Yea: verily. Here is my review of what I hope/imagine it is all about (incidentally my current favourite Bowie tune is ‘Big Brother’ on Diamond Dogs, though I am also very partial at the moment to ‘Panic in Detroit’ on Aladdin Sane and ‘Because you’re young’ on Scary Monsters and Super-Freaks).

Bowie is well and truly waggled off his stump, as they say in cricket. Installed in his limousine capsule like a cocktail stick in the barrel of a futuristic sex-rifle, he clicks and gobbles into a mysterious latticed cube, which transmits his observations up (or down) to the silent, iris-less beings whom we can never know about. He is a fruitsome rock mantis.

His manager is a pony-tailed ball called Fat Rudy. He is a sort of ambassador on behalf of the human race to Planet Bowie. He is also an unsavoury pock-marked pervert, I imagine. Bowie says “Where are my seeds, Fat Rudy?”. Fat Rudy replies “In sub-zero storage m’lord”. “Why do people cry, Fat Rudy?” “Because we do not have your strength and your opal-esque eyes, m’lord”. “Very good Fat Rudy. Now bring me a bowl of rice pudding sprinkled with cocaine”.

Bowie is choosing his costume for the concert that is to take place that evening. He has narrowed it down to a formica kimono and clown-shoes or an 8-year-old’s pyjama bottoms and cardboard-box-based sports jerkin. He opts for the former. Atop his celestial forehead he wears a ginger tempest, upon which tiny sentient beings in miniature galleons are thrown about ferociously.

It is now the concert, and the Thin White Duke is hurtling through his set. ‘Diamond Dogs’: ‘…with your ten-inch stump and your silicone hump’. Ooooo! Then ‘The Bewlay Brothers’: ‘…I’m starvin’ for me grayyy-veee’. Music! If the muse whispers to cockney cyborgs and bashful vampires then this is what she says. The audience haemorrhage and flop all over the barriers and the floor. They are in the grip of a powerful space-disease that plunged into the earth within a hypodermic comet, and the symptoms are monstrous to behold. But they get their money’s worth.

The conclusion of the film comprises grainy footage of a person that may or may not be Bowie scampering about in a suburban garden and engaging in elaborate pratfalls while dressed like Nosferatu. He slinks into a greenhouse and starts pretending to recite incantations over some tomatoes. Upon exiting he runs towards the house. In the windows we see the terrified faces of its residents as they face the unthinkable inevitability of a glam-rock house invasion. The door is locked, but the cat flap is open. Bowie contorts himself like a gelatine python and shimmies through. We hear the screams and weeping of the family within and strange, exciting synthesiser noises. The film ends. I shout “yeah!”, high-five myself and think about starting my own glam krautrock science-fiction band with the lads from my local table-tennis club. 10 out of 10

Fever Pitch

June 14, 2009

Football, or soccer to use the American spelling, was invented by the devil with the sole intention of tormenting me personally. The same is true of people who talk about football, books about football and films about football. Nick Hornby wrote a novel called Fever Pitch about this abominable pastime, which, to add insult to injury was then turned into a film. Sometimes I imagine what it would be like to interview Mr Hornby and to see how he might go about trying to exonerate himself. Invariably, I always imagine that during the interview both Hornby and I speak in verse (with extra servings of enjambment). Here is one hypothetical encounter:

A.R.: Is the film called Fever Pitch

Because the experience of watching it

Is like having malaria?

N.H.: No,

It is called Fever Pitch

Because it is exciting

And because I did

A pun

On football pitch


A.R.: What is it


N.H.: It is about a man

Who loves football

More than life itself.

A.R.: Why?

N.H.: I didn’t think

About that.

A.R.: Do you love


More than life itself?

N.H.: Sometimes

A.R.: Is that because

Your life is


And obscene?

N.H.: No. I live a very

Fulfilled life,

Thank you.

A.R.: Prove it.

N.H.: I can’t

A.R.: What else

Happens in

Fever Pitch?

N.H.: The man

Lets his dog

Starve to death


He is watching

A football game


A.R.: What else?

N.H.: His team loses

So he shouts

At his mum


A.R.: Then what happens?

N.H.: His team wins

So he exclaims ‘Heil Hitler!’


A.R.: Then what?

N.H.: He finds

A magical football

Shirt that enables him

To play like George

Best. He is Headhunted

by Manchester United.

Much humour

And drama

Arises therefrom.

A.R.: Really?

N.H.: No. I

Made up that last bit

To make the film

Sound more interesting

Than it actually is.

High School Musical

June 12, 2009

I have written words to the effect that Mamma Mia is an abomination. But I would consentingly watch it twenty times over before being exposed to five minutes of High School Musical. Thankfully, however, I don’t have to watch either and I continue to take full advantage of that liberty. Here is my review of the latter:

What must they think? The Seraphim and Cherubim, the Grays and Romulins, and all other-worldly spectators who peer through the glory-hole of reality onto this mortal scene – what must they all make of it? We all know what it is like to pluck a fat, bobbled cauliflower from the pantry and to peel back its sensual, leafy blouse only to discover a hideous tentacled slug doing its filth within. Is that how the angels and aliens feel when they watch us? More specifically, is that how they feel when they watch High School Musical?

These hairless, cartwheeling shiny-shanks; these jiggling, gartered flop-straps; these gawping, ginghamed goggle-faces: can there be anyone whose soul doesn’t prolapse at the sight of them? What in the name of Bob Hope are they talking about? Why the ceaseless recantation of the motto ‘I’m saving myself for someone special’. What does it signify? One can only assume they mean what Aunty Gertrude means when she tells Uncle Ignatius that she’s saving him some steak and kidney pie in the fridge. Well don’t save me any: I’ve had me supper thanks, and I’m not sure that pie were terribly fresh in the first place.

Now what are they doing? Who is that gummy tadpole sneering at? ‘Who does he think he is?’ the viewer reasonably asks. The gummy tadpole strikes up an idiotic tap-dance. The viewer suspects that the clippety-cloppetying of the boy’s insolent hooves actually contains a morse-code response to his question. He is correct, it spells out: ‘I am the unnatural offspring of Siegfried, Roy and a mountain lion. I quest unrelentingly for the nadir of all human achievement. You may despise me, but not half as much as I and my kind despise the people who enjoy the films we make’. The viewer’s pen hovers above the notepad whereupon he decodes the tap-signals. Is he sure he heard what he heard? Could he have translated it correctly?

Let us not forget that this atrocity is brought to us by the people who brought us Mickey Mouse: that obscene, dungareed rat, with its pederastic eyes, slobbering mouth and rancid paws; and Donald Duck: that monstrous Caligula, that grunting mallard with its empty, staring death’s head; and Disneyland: that awful abattoir echoing with the screams and cries of the lost and mistreated. High School Musical is simply the latest, deadliest mutation of the virus. Stay indoors. Buy a biohazard suit.


June 10, 2009

Can you believe that I’ve never seen Rambo? I mean fervently, passionately, yessah-I-feel-the-sperit-ly believe it? Well you should, because it’s true. I have seen Demolition Man many many times however. Here is my review of Rambo.

Rambo’s head is imperfectly formed. It immediately evokes the kind of elaborate gargoyles sculpted out of pork that one sees in the windows of those gothic-themed butcher-shops that seem to be popping up everywhere these days. And like those pork gargoyles, it possesses a dark, bristled beauty. His eyes are soft-boiled eggs wherein sits the yolk of a warrior’s worldview – all too quick to melt into yellow teardrops at the first forkburst of dishonour. Beneath those swift, darting ova droop enormous, capacious eyebags, that act as a receptacle for the hot monsoon rain. Rambo’s snout is pugged out, snubbed up, semi-skyward. If you can see a man’s soul in his nose, Rambo has the soul of a child’s crude drawing of a deformed goblin. But those soulful nostrils have snuckered more of life than your nose or my nose could ever dream of. His mouth is a disgrace. It’s a shabby shout-spout from whence issue the groans of a full metal fuckmaster. Rambo’s head is imperfectly formed, but show me the man who would not decapitate himself for half a chance to inhabit that xy-est of all human crusts.

Rambo’s gun fumps and fuddles up and down the rice paddies. The natives call it ‘Chil-wa’: ‘the spitting death’. He slumps it over a ledge-like abdominal muscle and gropes the trigger like an unwanted lover. Cunk-cunk, it declaims. Cunkity-cunk. Hey you, indigenous personage, choose your lifestyle and choose it quick. The spitting death is coming and he’s awful partisan. There are commies in this forest and there are cougars too. I like cougars. I ain’t so keen on commies. The whole damn forest gotta burn regardless. This is the last will and testament of Rambo’s gun.

Rambo’s mind sometimes wonders what it would be like to be a flying squirrel. To feel the altitudinous jungle breezes stroking his wingy under-flaps as he cascades from the canopy to the sub-canopy. To partake of bulbous, gynaecological berries freely, letting the juice trickle down his whiskers and drip into the gasping chasm that opens beneath his flight. To laugh and hold paws with his flying squirrel friends: Binky, Scissorwhiskers and Honkgrurst. Then his mind remembers whose mind it is, calls itself a stinking squirrel pussy and shoots itself in the id.

I really didn’t know what to make of this film. It was pretty confusing.

The Core

June 10, 2009

Terrestrial TV in Britain is an infamously sorry affair, comprised almost entirely of programs in which ugly people tell uglier people that they are too stupid to buy a house by themselves. Imagine my delight, then, when I discovered that ‘The Core’ was on TV the other night. What a rare treat! Unfortunately I missed the entire film as I was spying on an estate agent trying to sell a house across the road. The will to watch the film was there, however, and that alone qualifies me to review it.

It is humbling to acknowledge that, in spite of all our technological advancements and in spite of all of our mastery over organic and robotic life, we are still no closer to discovering what lies at the centre of the earth. Some theorists have posited that it is a garlicky butter-based filling, like those we find inside chicken kievs. Others have hypothesised that a smaller world is tucked within our world in a Russian-doll fashion. The leading explanation is that the earth is filled with air, waiting until the day some hapless prannock stumbles over the earth’s valve and it can be released, sending the planetzipping all over the solar system like a deflating beach ball. It is a frightening prospect. But, speculate as we might, we will probably never know the answer to this most mysterious of scientific riddles.

The makers of The Core have a theorem nevertheless. According to this whimsical, vaunting pump-piece, the centre of the earth is a big red temperamental blob of volcanic fury. And it is mighty peeved. The film begins by following various simpering and snickering sad cases around the globe one temperate spring morning as they go about their business. But this is not a regular spring morning. No sir, today the peeved blob has plans of its own. The oceans boil with seismic flatulence. Geysers spew and spurt. Dogs and their khaki short-wearing owners tumble like peas into fissures that appear spontaneously beneath their paws and feet. Some of the sad cases perish in the first wave of the disturbances, but, it being early in the film, and emotional attachment being a gradual process for most viewers, they are not missed much. The survivors snuffle unwieldy snotballs of misery for ten minutes then spend the rest of the film skedaddling about without much dramatic purpose. Meanwhile, the governments of the world assemble a troupe of experts to descend into the centre of the earth and assuage the crazed blob, which they do with minimal hindrance, and the film ends thereupon.

Entertainment is all very well. We all like to cackle until our blubbersome bodies shudder revoltingly. But when entertainment starts getting ideas above its station and misleading the public – who as we all know will accept anything that comes in a sugary sheathe with smiling faces all over it – about scientific matters then it is no longer entertainment. It is lie-tertainment. It is a dirty knapsack of deceit, and it should be thrown out as if ’twere a soiled sofa cushion. I recommend that instead of taking your children to see this film you take them down to your local natural history museum and learn about science in a controlled environment.

Unnecessary sequels, part 2

June 9, 2009

Banjo Fett here. As you know, I’m bound by my contract (inked in Vimto) to entertain you with imaginary tales of media products that shouldn’t exist. Well I’ve had an idea for another. Huzzah, I hear you cry, as you close your web browser and leave the house. Huzzah indeed, for this time I’ve written an unnecessary sequel to everyone’s favourite male pregnancy comedy: Junior.

I’ve had some criticism insinuating that my last unnecessary sequel, Das Boot 2: Entschuldigung Herr Hitler, is just a juvenile male fantasy with two-dimensional characters and a cliched plot. And that’s why I decided to do an Arnold Schwarzenegger film this time. Here it is.

BLACK SCREEN. CAPTION: Earth 2050. FADE IN. A lone car races down a dusty highway, kicking up a shit-storm of dust in its wake. But it’s a different dusty highway from the one in Unnecessary sequels, part 1. It’s more dystopian than that one, which was more iconic, like in Westerns. The car is fitted with chainsaw-rockets and turbo-boosters. You can see them all sticking out of the car, is what I meant to say. CUT!

Inside the car, Danny the Penguin is driving like a bloody mentalist. He’s got a big cigar in his disgusting mouth. Did I mention that Danny the Penguin is a mutant? Well he is. Like in Judge Dredd comics. He keeps looking round all anxious and sweaty.

In the back seat, Arnie lies back, a grimace of pain EMBOSSED on his chops. He’s also up the stick, like in Junior 1. “DANNY!!” he cries, “Ze baby, it is coming!”

“I know that, waaaaak!” says Danny the Penguin, “We’re not gonna make it, waaaak!” MEGACUT.

Outside, about nine biker cyber-pimps from the future are racing down the highway on dystopian bikes from the future. Motorbikes, not push-bikes. Dystopian push-bikes from the future would be shit. DISSOLVE.

The lead biker is swinging a big chain, like a lasso. He’s also whoopin’ and a-hollerin’ like a Billy Ray Cyrus fan at a line-dancing contest. “I’m gonna break your achey-breaky face, Arnie!” – see what I mean about Billy Ray Cyrus? Unbelieveable. Anyway, CUT!

Back inside the car, Danny the Penguin throws a pump-action shotgun to the pregnant Arnie, who grabs it out of the air in slow-motion, even though his lady-bump is killing him. CLICK-CLACK. Arnie leans out of the window and starts pumping the shottie, unloading shells in the direction of the CYBERBIKERSUPERPIMPJUNKYSCUM. “Consider this a divorce,” he says, followed by “I eat cyberbikersuperpimpjunkyscum for breakfast. And right now I am very hungry. Oooh, he’s kicking!” – at this point he doubles over and starts clutching his bun in the oven. CUT.

Two or three bad guys have fallen off their bikes in slow-motion and rolled into ditches. But the main bugger is still laughing and pointing at Arnie. The bikers all rev their throttles even more. VROOM! And CUT, I says.

So then Danny the Penguin goes: “Oh sweet baby Jesa in a manger, they’re gaining on us Captain, I mean Arnie, waaak!” To which Arnie turns round and makes that slightly mad face he makes about a hundred times in Total Recall and says: “Use ze chainsaw rockets!”

Danny the Penguin doesn’t look too sure, but there’s no way he’d disobey the Mussells from Brussells. “Sure thing, Dolph, I mean Captain, I mean Arnie, waaak!” he yelps. He takes out a CD from the glove compartment – it’s ‘I’m Too Sexy’ by Right Said Fred, which I don’t need to link to because it’s already stored in your braincells, ready to play at any moment. Like now. Anyway, he puts the CD into the CD player and the digital readout flashes up ‘Initiate chainsaw rocket sequence?’ Danny the Penguin presses ‘play’ and the readout flashes up ‘Commencing chainsaw rocket bombardment!’ and then there’s some clanking and clunking. CUT.

The back of the car is moving about like in James Bond. A bit opens up AND THEN these proud, phallic chainsaw rockets ease out of the back of the car. It’s like watching a Transformer get a stiffy. CUT.

The evil scrotebags are leaning forward on their bikes and revving the throttles like they were pheasant’s necks. CUT.

The chainsaw rockets, which basically look like normal rockets, but with chainsaw blades running from end to end, launch in pairs, three at a time but in groups of four. There’s a chainsaw-rocket-cam viewpoint like in Robin Hood when he puts a camera on his arrows. But in this film the chainsaw rocket is flying towards the main scroteface and revving up: “NnNNNnNGGGG, NnNNnNNGGG!!” That was me being a chainsaw. Then the Scrotey McScroteburger makes a Macauley Culkin face like when he puts aftershave on in Home Alone, and the chainsaw rocket hits him right in the mush. BLAM!

So the upshot is, there’s a massive explosion, all the biker bumbag scrotes are dead, Danny the Penguin screeches the car to a halt with a handbrake turn, which makes Arnie fall backwards onto the back seat, the baby shoots out of his mangina with a ‘POP!’ and goes flying through the window, towards the explosion in slow motion.

JUST AT THAT POINT Emma Thompson appears, walking out of the explosion like the terminator cop in Terminator 2: Judgment Day. She stops suddenly, sees the baby, turns her arm into a long, liquid metal baseball glove and catches the baby. Arnie laughs, Danny the Penguin cries, the audience cheers, then Emma Thompson and Arnie run towards each other and have a hug and a kiss. And they look at the baby. Then Arnie says, “Hasta la vista… baby.”

THE END. What? It’s a short film. Not everything has to be bloody Lord of the Rings, you know.


June 8, 2009

Harvey Milk was a controversial figure. He was also a humanitarian and an ambassador of hope. He was an activist, a politician, and an icon. His legacy affects us all.

As a child growing up in rural Idaho, Harvey spent his time propelling marbles with one or the other powerful forefinger. When he wasn’t engaged in this timeless pursuit, he played local games such as ‘Stringy-pig-egg-string’ and ‘Tie your momma to a pig’. Occasionally however he would drape himself like a bony rug across the colonial facade that fronted his grandfather’s rustic pile. It was here that his history-making discovery was made. Gazing at the imposing panorama that presented itself to his eye, he suddenly noticed an unusual and unexpected thing happening just south of his Grandfather’s favourite cow, Mrs Lee. From out of Mrs Lee’s meaty underlumps issued a brilliant white sap. ‘Maw’ he yelled ‘sump’n’s comin’ outta Mrs Lee’s danglers’. Maw ran outside and screamed. Paw ran outside and spat. Grampaw ran outside, ran inside, then ran back outside again. By this stage Harvey had scooped some of Mrs Lee’s unanticipated dewdrops into an improvised goblet and was tasting them, tentatively. From this day forth he was a pariah wherever he went. But, just as it is to Eve’s unpopular gustatory experiment with the Edenic Granny Smith that we owe our knowledge of good and evil, so it is to Harvey that we are indebted for our knowledge of that pale duke of beverages to which he gave his surname.

Harvey sported his milk moustache with pride. Few understood what it was or what it meant, and those who did were either scandalised or compelled to sport their own. He invented and patented a kind of mechanical glass snood for extracting milk from cows’ udders that he named ‘The Suckle-Master’, and soon dairy farms were springing up all over America. But it couldn’t last. It was only a matter of time before the cordial faction was busting in on the milk crowd, pushing them around and getting all up in their faces. Cynical politicians and demented religious types were quick to capitalise on the outrage, as is their wont, and passed harsh, wankerish laws.

This film is an inspiration to anyone who ever enjoyed a cool glass of cowjuice on a summer evening, or wanted to do so, but was too afraid. After seeing ‘Milk’ I immediately went out and quaffed a quart of fresh, creamy milk. Let me tell you friends, it was delicious. There are some who would say I am an impressionable innocent who has been brainwashed by a piece of immoral propaganda. They are subnormal clown-folk, and to them I say: milk was Harvey’s gift to the world. His work for gay rights was good too. So take your cordial and your moralising, ye bigots, and flee the dairy. The cows are coming and their righteous hooves shall trample you like the used Suckle-Masters you indisputably are.