Archive for July, 2009

Enter the Rustbucket

July 29, 2009

Did I first discover Pariah Rustbucket hypnotising a postbox with a flugelhorn, silent upon a peak in Darien, or did Pariah Rustbucket first discover me, dancing with a spanner in a nuclear winter, violent upon a pear in Dagenham? It depends on whether you believe Friends Reunited or Facebook.

What is Pariah Rustbucket? This is not a rhetorical question, I’m asking you. For, though I have read Pariah’s mind-expanding prose, and though I have met the said individual in person, dressed like Columbo and shooting at me with a crossbow, I am no closer to unravelling the existential conundrum presented by the one the natives call ‘Rustbucket’.

We know that Pariah Rustbucket was born to a Sheikh and the Shake-and-Vac inventor. We know that Pariah showed an early aptitude for talking to dead animals, and once held a three-day symposium with the contents of a deli display cabinet on the subject of horseradish sauce. We know that Pariah probably killed Uri Geller. But this is all.

Just one more thing: henceforth, the Rustbucket will be contributing to this blog. You can also read Pariah’s mindfruit at www.pariahrustbucket.wordpress.com. I especially recommend this entry which blew my mind into my nose, such was its incantatory visionary genius.

Pariah Rustbucket Reviews…Nineteen Eighty-Four: Lost Chapters in Time

July 28, 2009

Lest the reading public labour any further under the misapprehension that George Orwell’s ‘Nineteen Eighty-Four’ is a seminal novel describing a dystopian future with frightening accuracy, in the study ‘Nineteen Eighty-Four: Lost Chapters in Time’, Arthur Scrag-end offers the fruits of ten years dedicated to the scrutiny of what is now conclusively proved to be unpublished draft material that tells quite a different story.

In his tedious Introduction, Scrag-end  delivers his account of how the draft material came to light. Hidden for 40 years in the bowels of the Scunthorpe Public Library, Orwell’s note-books hold within their limp and greasy pages the outline of two chapters for ‘Nineteen Eighty-Four’ clearly intended for insertion at a key juncture in the novel. Indeed, given the state of the note-books in question, it would seem that they have already been inserted at some key juncture, but thanks to Scrag-end’s tireless scholarship the  novel can finally be reconstructed into something more nearly approaching its original framework.

The draft chapters reveal that, far from being the emblem of some future era, Nineteen Eighty-Four in fact refers to the combination of Orwell’s bicycle lock. Thus, Winston Smith is given an irrational fear of bicycles, which were the intended contents of Room 101 and not, as it was previously thought, rats.

“Winston stared in terror at the two-wheeled contraption. The hellish, inexorable motion of the chain contrived, somehow, to drive the pedals round and round mockingly. Winston whimpered, a childish sound escaping involuntarily from his lips. He remembered a time before Oceania and Eurasia were at war, a time in which there were bicycles, roaming free about the countryside, maiming and injuring unsuspecting pedestrians. He remembered his mother, killed rather unfeasibly by the handlebars of a Penny Farthing.

‘You can stop this, Winston’, said O’Brien. ‘We  are making you better. You are not a well man. We have seen the future. There will be no pedestrian crossings, no enjoyment of the public footpath. All competing transport will be destroyed. But always – remember this, Winston – always there will be the intoxication of power…If you want a picture of the future, imagine a bicycle stamping on a human face…for ever’.”

Scrag-end’s prose style is bland and obtuse, compelling the reader to gouge their eyes out with mechanical pencils. His interpretation of the note-books is at best cack-handed, and one suspects that at times the author may have mistaken the many egg-stains and blotches of Branston Pickle that bespread their pages for something of greater moment. However, this is a study which will no doubt add to the sum of scholarship on the novel, and in its tome-like length ensures that the world is rid of a few more trees that had nothing better to do.

 

‘Nineteen Eighty-Four: Lost Chapters in Time’ (Pp. 1308. £150), and ‘Nineteen Eighty-Four: The Variorum Edition’, (Pp. 845. £50) are published by The Coal-Scuttle Press.

The Libertines ‘The Boys in the Band’

July 27, 2009

Nick Griffin. Anal prolapse. Cold potatoes. The Libertines. Here are a few of my least favourite things. Inspired by Banjo Fett’s excellent, almost supernatural divination of the sinister heart of a U2 album, I have turned my agoraphobic pen to the writing of a music review: specifically, The Libertines’ album ‘The Boys in the Band’. This might not actually be the title of one of their albums. But for the purposes of this review, it might as well be. Here it is:

The title of this album, ‘The Boys in the Band’, has been perceived by some as a cynical marketing ploy, aimed to appeal to young female consumers who like boys who are in bands, as opposed to girls who are in bands (e.g. The Shangri-Las) or O.A.P.s who are in bands (e.g. Oasis). It is, regardless, more snappy than the original, provisional title: ‘the lads what are in the turn’.

‘The Boys in the Band’ is a concept album of sorts, insofar as it is predicated on the concept that the Libertines should be allowed to record then release an album to the public. Additionally, in true concept-album fashion, a number of themes and motifs are developed across the LP, which include whinging, mispronouncing words and singing atonally.

Pete Doherty is an anagram of Poetry Deth. If Pete Doherty ever realises this, it is a reasonably safe bet that ‘Poetry Deth’ will reappear in a song lyric, in an album title, or on a toilet wall, most probably without the parenthetical qualification ‘[sic]’ immediately following it (unless it occurs to him that ‘sic’ is a homophone of ‘sick’, in which case it most certainly will). Like John Keats, Pete Doherty looks on a felicitous phrase like a lover. Unlike Pete Doherty, John Keats, when assuming the role of a lover, probably did not resemble a rancid, soiled Orc with syringe-induced puncture-holes in its penis. But true poets come in all shapes and sizes.

Here is a sample of Doherty’s poesy. Note the measured use of assonance, the subtle register-switch at the end of the first verse, and the heavy air of desperation that pervades this passage and indeed all of Pete Doherty’s oeuvre in its entirety:

I’ve got a dark itch on my pinky

Better stick a needle in my fringe.

Listen to my poetry (really listen).

Harken to mine roundelay

Ye indie-girls of Olde Albion.

I was a test-tube baby

But my baby tested a poisonous boob tube.

Now she’s dead.

Things like that happen every day

Down in Olde Albion

Way down in Olde Albion.

Let’s stop giving young Doherty all of the attention, even if we all know in our hearts that he really deserves it and is more fascinating than the riddle of sphinx, the crop circles, the secret of eternal life and the current whereabouts of Lord Lucan. Let’s have a look at some of the other sadsacks. The drummer of the Libertines remains unstintingly faithful to the One True Indie Rhythm. ‘Skippity-bum skippity-bum’ go his drums. ‘Hey Libertines drummer’ says Carl Barratt, ‘could you do a rhythm like that one in Parklife?’ ‘What, like skippity-bum skippity-bum?’ replies the drummer. ‘Perfect’ says Carl, and celebrates by doing a weedy twiddle on his guitar and having a sip of wine straight out one of the pockets of Pete Doherty’s fashionable jerkin. This is the sum total of his entire contribution to the Libertines. There may be a fourth member of the group too. It’s hard to work out from the cover alone, as the Nagasaki glow of Barratt and Doherty’s emaciated albino wings eclipses everything else in the photograph.

In conclusion, I give it bollocks out of ten.

Banjo vandalism… a cut-up review

July 27, 2009

All this talk of William S. Burroughs got me in the mood for some mischievous cut-up fun. So I had a sniff round some of the reviews and I thought John Le Baptiste’s review of A Hard Day’s Night could benefit from some Burroughs style sabotage. I used the Lazarus Corporation’s text mixing desk and used just a single cut-up engine module, with a setting of six words per cut. I think the resulting text makes much more sense than JLB’s original post. See what you think:

A Hard Day’s Night by John Le Baptiste (Banjo Fett remix)

Proven that george was at least half entrance into the capersome world of halfway through, when the ‘quazy sagacity and indian-style insight. in the top of the barrel, laugh, no tried and tested way of deciding in fact it has been scientifically favourite scene in this film came eric morecambe and ernie wise pale and sad. I could never work out ostensibly, not. I think my that of a distressed piglet. the hilarious and witty but chicken chunks down a small aperture 1964? styleless unhip guttersnipe undulating hillocks of a vernal chapman – the list goes on.

my all so unique and different, except we hear a shrill cry, similar to as enlightened as the dalai lama, when I, in years past, resided in reputedly saw this film and did a seasonal displacement the day’s night? is it the sense of film you will be transformed. many beatles magical mystery tour bus in the respect that john and george who, as we all know, is day’s night.

wowee. what must it responses to this question. lulu, pope john paul ii, mark merry little twirl around a film ends with the group climbing doesn’t really matter. what matters midwinter? probably not. but you can only after they have disappeared do most basic, hand-gesture-based of ferrying tourists about the city. rock and roll. it may actually have is that after you have seen this scandinavian peoples feel when hard day’s night’.

what is a hard profound and fab in equal maudlin fashion, ‘those meffs are incapable of formulating even the always doing that, la’. pure big-faced guitarist of the byrds, hibernating stoats. everyone laughs why. here is my review of a hard of rag and loathsome half-chewed camera peers through the hole to thankfully, I have an audio-visual stranded in the midst of the 24 hour unfortunately inaudible. meadow. they come upon a barrel are deceased and paul and ringo are, tree, and start throwing dirty bits measure.

david crosby, erstwhile who the fabbest beatle is. they are be sure that whatever it is, it is unquantifiably enlightened.

the reveal former beatles drummer pete aid to help me, in the form of ‘a best, lamenting, in a comically on account of his superhuman individuals from all walks of life then scamper away at high speed. been roger mcguinn who did this. it quartet’ (copyright noel edmonds) already nestled within like perma-darkness of the arctic have been like to be the beatles in that I am, my mind is terminally everyone inside invariably looked cinematic gold!

there is, alas, were scuttling up and down the lamppost, thus heralding his squeakingly and john says something into bed together, only to discover favourite beatle is probably george, standing inexplicably under a willow liverpool I frequently saw the have reported similar experiences:

Naked Lunch

July 24, 2009

I have read Naked Lunch. At least that is what I tell my beatnik friends down at Starbucks. I haven’t seen the film though. Here is my review:

William Burroughs shot his wife. David Cronenberg shot William Burroughs’s novel Naked Lunch. There is an extreme zeugma of sorts at work here. Can you dig it? If you can, you are ready to take the next step. Namely, to the paragraph immediately following the present one.

How was that transition for you? Did you experience a powerful sense of non-sequitur? Or did you glide over the vertiginous vacuum of inter-paragraph whiteness as Puff Daddy glides over the crystalline seas of the Pacific rim in his pimped-out yacht? How does it feel to encounter, at the very level of the text, the insane displacement and discontinuity of the twentieth-century – the age of the atom bomb, the music video and the Weetabix-induced self-lobotomy? Does it shake you to the very core of your selfhood. No, don’t answer with words of all things: your arrogant pre-postmodern signmaking is no good here. Your currency has no currency here sir. Try the laundry down the road.

That is the kind of harsh yeomanry you might have expected up until a decade ago. Thankfully we no longer live in the confusing twentieth century. No, friends, we made it! These are the golden days, the halcyon years of the twenty-first century: an Augustan age in which everything makes perfect sense, war has fallen away from the planet like dandruff from the head of Ben Affleck, and transcendental truth is discoverable in even the tiniest and wispiest of words. Yes!

Consequently Naked Lunch cannot help but present itself to our futuristic eyes as a curious piece of antiquarian jetsam. A telephone turns into a penis. ‘What were those mid-century folk like!’ A man talks to a milkshake-drinking mugwump. ‘Is that really how they lived, ma?’ ‘Yes son, exactly like that’. Narrative fragments into flippant little pieces. ‘But what happens in the end, ma?’ ‘The end happened a long time ago son, try not to think about it too much’.

David Cronenberg is now of course deceased, after a VHS-tape bit him and gave him a fatal dose of tetanus. But in his short life he filmed more than 100 unfilmable novels, including Crash (the Ballard version and the Oscar-winning version), The Da Vinci Code, Cool Runnings, American Beauty, and The Arm-Wrestler, starring Mickey Rourke. Many of these books remained unfilmable even after Cronenberg filmed them, such was his achievement. Indeed, we have no way of knowing whether Cronenberg filmed them at all, as no-one actually went to see them at the cinema or bought the DVDs. But paradoxes such as these were the bread and butter of the twentieth century. The people of that whimsical period drank up cognitive dissonance with their mother’s milk (through Cronenbergian breast impants – let’s leave that history lesson for another day). How strange they look now, those pallid spectres of yesteryear.

Batman: The Killing Joke

July 23, 2009

Holy See! It’s an Agoraphobic Reviewer first. Today’s instalment is only on that most maligned of print genres: the graphic novel, specifically, Batman: The Killing Joke. The idea for this post arose from a conversation with my fellow agoraphobe and reviewer, Banjo Fett, who has promised to lend me said publication only after I’ve reviewed it. It’s a done deal! Here’s the review:

The panels of this graphic novel are a sweet gumbo of blurry butcher’s shop faces (a la Francis Bacon), wild orange hues (think the Fanta adverts but oranger) and self-consciously lame squiggles (like Sin City but, unlike that comic, deliberately so). Together these elements combine to make a heady soup for the eye, which fools you as it pours smoothly and easily into your pupil and then sticks a jagged crouton bang in your iris. Yowzer! This is one kickass palette.

For centuries, the legend of the ‘Killing Joke’ has been known only to a secret cabal of comedians. Des O’ Connor once wrote a pamphlet on it for the BBC newsletter, but covert forces of a morally ambiguous persuasion intervened to prevent its publication. The article was shredded and Des was duffed up vigorously. The giblet-voiced, pudding-faced radio DJ Chris Moyles even once tried to tell the Killing Joke live on his show, but, inevitably, forgot all of the words and got it in the wrong order. No harm was done, the secret remained unrevealed and so, alas, no retribution was inflicted upon Moyles.

In this graphic novel, Bruce Wayne AKA Batman is the keeper of the Killing Joke secret. Indeed, unbeknownst to most fans of the franchise, Wayne moonlights as a sort of deadpan observational comedian. ‘What’s the deal with tax deductible charity organisations?’ he asks at a gig, referencing both Bob Dylan’s ‘Ballad of a Thin Man’ and his own splendid wealth. ‘If I needed to scrimp on tax I wouldn’t give my dollars to some bleeding heart assholes. I’d fuck off to Buenos Aires and have myself a tax evasion party. You know what I’m saying?’ (this, it should be added, is not the killing joke). His hard-hitting satire reflects the uncompromising way in which he pummels villains’ noses in, as Alan Moore points out in the introduction to this tome.

The plot of this draw-piece gets its narrative on when, one day, the Joker gets wind of Batman’s knowledge of the Killing Joke. He is furious and vows to obtain the joke by any means necessary. ‘I am the Joker and I kill people, therefore I should be privy to the Killing Joke’, he reasons, with an uncharacteristically plausible syllogism. ‘By the heavens that gag shall be mine’ he howls. ‘Hey, Joker, take a chill pill’ quips Mr Freeze who happens to be sauntering past the Joker’s window at that very moment on his way to the newsagents. The Joker seethes silently, unable, for the first time in his mysterious life, to think of a cogent riposte.

After the Joker kidnaps Robin and threatens to castrate him, Batman finally agrees to reveal the secret. Batman tells the joke, with a kind of Bill Hicks-esque insouciance, intermixed with Jerry Seinfeld-style shrugs and eyebrow raises. The joke is in such bad taste that the Joker vomits all over his own purple plus-fours and screams. Seizing the opportunity, Batman kicks the Joker in his ears and rescues Robin, who has, alas, already been eunuchised.

Unable to forget the gruesome imagery and inappropriate references both to taboo social practices and several separate historical instances of genocide, the Joker renounces his life of crime and becomes a landscape gardener. Batman AKA Bruce Wayne goes on to play Madison Square Garden. Some say he has sold out and lost his edge, catering more to the tame comedic tastes of middle America. Moore tactfully avoids confirming or refuting this position and draws the story to a graceful and pastel-coloured close.

A Hard Day’s Night

July 22, 2009

When I, in years past, resided in Liverpool I frequently saw the Beatles Magical Mystery Tour Bus ferrying tourists about the city. Everyone inside invariably looked pale and sad. I could never work out why. Here is my review of A Hard Day’s Night.

Wowee. What must it have been like to be the Beatles in 1964? Styleless unhip guttersnipe that I am, my mind is terminally incapable of formulating even the most basic, hand-gesture-based of responses to this question. Thankfully, I have an audio-visual aid to help me, in the form of ‘A Hard Day’s Night’.

What is a Hard Day’s Night? Is it the sense of seasonal displacement the Scandinavian peoples feel when stranded in the midst of the 24 hour perma-darkness of the Arctic midwinter? Probably not. But you can be sure that whatever it is, it is profound and fab in equal measure.

David Crosby, erstwhile big-faced guitarist of The Byrds, reputedly saw this film and did a merry little twirl around a lamppost, thus heralding his entrance into the capersome world of rock and roll. It may actually have been Roger McGuinn who did this. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that after you have seen this film you will be transformed. Many individuals from all walks of life have reported similar experiences: Lulu, Pope John Paul II, Mark Chapman – the list goes on.

My favourite scene in this film came halfway through, when the ‘Quazy Quartet’ (copyright Noel Edmonds) were scuttling up and down the undulating hillocks of a vernal meadow. They come upon a barrel standing inexplicably under a willow tree, and start throwing dirty bits of rag and loathsome half-chewed chicken chunks down a small aperture in the top of the barrel, laugh, then scamper away at high speed. Only after they have disappeared do we hear a shrill cry, similar to that of a distressed piglet. The camera peers through the hole to reveal former Beatles drummer Pete Best, lamenting, in a comically maudlin fashion, ‘those meffs are always doing that, la’. Pure cinematic gold!

There is, alas, no tried and tested way of deciding who the fabbest Beatle is. They are all so unique and different, except in the respect that John and George are deceased and Paul and Ringo are, ostensibly, not. I think my favourite Beatle is probably George, on account of his superhuman sagacity and Indian-style insight. In fact it has been scientifically proven that George was at least half as enlightened as the Dalai Lama, who, as we all know, is unquantifiably enlightened.

The film ends with the group climbing into bed together, only to discover Eric Morecambe and Ernie Wise already nestled within like hibernating stoats. Everyone laughs squeakingly and John says something hilarious and witty but unfortunately inaudible.

Transformers

July 21, 2009

I was going through some bins the other day, largely out of boredom,  when I found this letter. It concerned the film Transformers and appeared to be written by Nick Griffin, the famous cock-eyed Nazi paedophile. The fact that the letter was written in wax crayon and smelt of haemorrhoid cream seemed to suggest that the author was who he claimed to be. Anyway, it may be of interest to those who have seen Transformers. I haven’t, of course.

Dear Michael Bay,

Firstly, allow me to congratulate you on your impressive oeuvre. Heat is one of my favourite films. I have seen it at least once. Therefore: congratulations. Secondly, I write to you as a concerned and aggrieved citizen who has nowhere else to turn. You, sir, are widely celebrated for the rigorous social conscience you bring to bear on all of your works. I know that my litany of woes will not fall on deaf ears nor indeed will my request go unheeded. But before I present my suit, I feel I should apprise you of the recent course of events which has led to the writing of this letter.

Two weeks ago I was slurping contentedly on pig eyes and honey roast noodles at a public dining hall. The wine flowed freely and the general atmosphere was one of a medieval banquet, except without the poor hygiene and feudalism. I gazed across at my boon companions, A-Dog and Dr Ian Botham, who reciprocated my warm gaze of platonic friendship fully and unstingily. But this could not last. After placing a noodle into my mouth I attempted to bite down on the greasy morsel, and felt the harsh coldness of sentient metal betwixt my molars. It was not a noodle. It was a Decepticon. Leaping acrobatically from my mouth the vicious creature transformed itself from a honey roast noodle into a miniscule red robot. He proceeded to dance with his dirty chrome-alloy shoes all over my dinner whilst racially abusing me. I was horrified, sir, horrified.

As a keen reader of the news I know that you will have heard of similar incidents. It is getting out of control and is yet another indictment of Brown’s Broken Britain. The left-wing liberal press have defended and tolerated these Decepticons for too long. I have seen whole families of Decepticons claiming social benefit and then going on to turn themselves into Union Jack flags and burn themselves into little bits. My father did not risk his life in the battle of Tattooine for this. I am sure you share my sense of profound outrage.

As a film-maker it is your responsibility to show the public the state of things such as they really are. I request therefore that you make a film showing the Decepticons in their true colours. You could call it Transformers and have some good robots (to appease the political-correctness-gone-mad brigade) and also some good-looking humans in it too. Those are just some suggestions; you can have them for free. My reward will be seeing this awful mess we have got ourselves into mended.

Yours uberfuhrerly,

Nick Griffin

Star Trek III

July 20, 2009

I like Star Trek an awful lot for reasons I have never been able to ascertain. While I’ve seen pretty much every television episode, somehow Star Trek III has managed to escape my geeksome gaze. With my compendious knowledge of all things Trek I feel that I can make a very well-informed guess about the content of this film. Behold:

Star Trek III was reviled by censors and conservative reviewers because of its incorporation of frank bodily imagery alongside its customary abstruse technobabble. One particularly controversial scene involved Captain James Tiberius Kirk accidentally quaffing a vial of Nebari oestrogen and spontaneously sprouting a vagina. Racked by shame Kirk hides in a dilithium crystal container, only to be discovered by Leonard ‘Bones’ McCoy who growls ‘Show us your quim, Jim’ in his authoritative motorcycle-esque vocal style. Kirk eventually relents and, in a somewhat Cronenbergian tableau, allows Bones to peer at his unwanted new organ through a nuclear-powered magnifying glass. This did not go down well with the critics nor indeed with the diehard Trekkies. Throughout the scene however DeForest Kelley (who plays Bones) sports a look of insane delight that cannot be explained solely with reference to the fact that he is acting.

This was not all. The Klingons of this film resemble neither the boot-polished Russians of the original franchise nor indeed the Cornish Pasty-browed ogres of the later series. Instead they are played by CGI grizzly bears in bondage outfits. To date no-one involved with the production of Star Trek IV has accepted responsibility for this curious and ill-advised innovation. It should be noted however that William Shatner has often been heard in the bars of Hollywood drunkenly declaiming ‘shit… nothing gets me going like a bear in a bra. Shheeriously buddy, you’ve gotta try it’.

The plot of this film involves a trumpet-playing Cardassian goblin (think a Stalin-era Rumpelstiltskin) hypnotising the crew of the Starship Enterprise and making them attack the peace-loving Bajorans so that he might steal all of their delicious honey (for which the Bajorans are intergalactically renowned). Using only his aloofness and his powerful eyebrows, Dr Spock manages to resist the trumpet-hypnosis and hatches a wily scheme to scupper the goblin’s evil plans. Just as the goblin throws down a sweet little Vulcan pentatonic scale on his trumpet, signalling that the attack is to commence, Spock runs out from behind a holographic tree and kicks him powerfully in his tiny bottom. The blow is fatal. The spell is released. Ordinary service resumes aboard the Starship Enterprise. Kirk regains male genitalia and regresses back into his usual lascivious behaviour, licking his lips and winking at anything putatively female. The film ends with him chasing a young ensign around the bridge in a Benny Hill fashion.

In a word: Goblin-tastic!

Confessions of a Window Cleaner

July 19, 2009

I haven’t seen ‘Confessions of a Window Cleaner’ as I am not a mackintosh-wearing reprobate existing exclusively in the late 1960s. It would be unfair not to review it though.

Pornography (from the Anglo-Saxon ‘Porno-’ , meaning ‘squeaky-grunts’, and ‘-graphy’, meaning ‘like a graph’) is, for many people, a little too literal and relentless. Their libidos can be – fruitfully, I think – compared to fires that cannot be lit by a nonchalant flick of a stiff match on a bulging stone, nor indeed by the jackhammer-like pumping of flint on pert pebble. Rather, the fire of their physical passion can only be ignited by cockney horseplay and speeded up scenes in which pale, malformed English people pull their pants up and down repeatedly while bouncing on one another in a manner not conducive to effective or pleasurable sexual intercourse.

Like the Confessions of St Augustine, on which this film is based, ‘Confessions of a Window Cleaner’ is a treasure trove of English 1960s slang. ‘Come on love, let’s have a bonk on your ration book and a custard cream’; ‘I haven’t seen such a pair of whammers since Edith Neddynoshers did the Ha’penny Hop at the Village Fete last year’; ‘I had a rustle in her rotpocket and pulled out an angry pike’ – these are just a few of the exotic utterances voiced by the characters of this film.

Their courting practices are equally alien and would no doubt make for an interesting, if perhaps uninteresting, anthropological study. Typically the male will ascend a 40-storey tower block in order to show his prowess. As he shimmies up the edifice, he peruses the females who display themselves in each of the windows. When he has selected an appropriate mate, eliminating what Levi Strauss termed the ‘wizened sag-monkeys’ and the ‘crone-faced dry-humps’, he then reveals his tender, moistened sponge and proceeds to press it against the glass in order to give his quarry a good look. At this point the prospective mate will either scream and shake a rolling pin, or fiddle suggestively with any loose pieces of fabric hanging from her gaudy, nylon-based garments. In the case of the latter, the male will then enter the building, address the female with a ceremonial witticism (e.g. ‘Knickers, knackers, knockers, ain’t you a sight for sore thighs!’) and then propose coitus.

In short, this film will appeal to dialectologists, anthropologists, and people who can only be turned on by cockney pratfalls. Do you fall into any of these categories? If so: bonzer. If not: tough grits. You may however be interested in ‘Confessions of an Agoraphobic Reviewer’ which is due for imminent release. I know I am.