Banjo Chutney and John Le Baptiste go to Hollywood

January 20, 2013 by

So you all know, of course, that Banjo Chutney and I went to Hollywood to make a film? Well we did. And what’s more, we collaborated on a story about it, which you can read here:

‘Our Trip to Hollywood’ by Banjo Chutney and John Le Baptiste

When we awoke in our twin-bed hotel room, the air conditioning said ‘ming’. The big cars were honking and the maids were speaking in a secret language. Banjo said it was called Spanish.

We put our tiny white penises and tiny white bottoms into our tiny white underpants. And we did so shamefully. For was not the sin of Adam upon us?

Then we got a callback from the agent saying that the meeting was scheduled for 11. He said that the producer was excited about the project. That made us happy, but then we realised we would only have 45 minutes for breakfast, so that made us worried.

All of the waitresses in the breakfast diner were curling their mouths upwards at the ends and presenting their teeth. They called us y’all and wanted to be our friends.

I had biscuits and gravy. When I peeled back the sickly sauce there was a sad-looking spongiform beneath it. So it ate it and tried not to cry. Banjo ordered a sausage. Its legs were still attached.

After vomiting in the alley behind the diner for half an hour, Banjo and I caught a taxi to the studio. Our eyes were bleary and our knees were trembling but Banjo opened The Braveness matchbox and let The Braveness crawl around on the car seat for a while. It fed on a discarded crumb from a child’s food-unit then it did a little happy click. Then it got back inside the matchbox. We felt a lot Braver after that.

The taxi driver was humped, boweeviled, jerry-cocked, through with all that shit, he said. We shrugged and he said ain’t that the truth.

The taxi pulled away and the driver said shall I careen all over the road or career? Banjo said could he Kareem and the driver shot a finger-pistol full of respect-bullets our way.

We pulled up in front of a monolithic temple of success. It was where the big boys make their big boy pretend pictures. I got out and sucked the free air but Banjo just doubled over in a pool of whimper-fear. I took out a slice of marble cake I’d stowed in my cardigan and he came round enough to fall onto the pavement.

We hallooed the rentacop at the gate and showed our labels on our shirts, proving we were who we said we were. Tough times, he said. Damn if it ain’t.

The cobwebby forest of shame was all around us. We sure felt puny. I pulled a floral kerchief with a flourish, aiming to look emboldened as a cabinet. No, hissed Banjo. These types are wise to us. But I parped regardless. For clarity.

Banjo bucked back, the smell of wickedness in his nostrils. His hooves hammered as he twisted in his hackamore. Whoa boy, I said. Whoopsy daisy, said Banjo.

For two days we rode in silence through the pine-whiny glades. We’d stop now and then to share a cereal bar or take off our hats and dust the flies from our maws.

On the third day we came to a grove called ‘reception’, where a woman brought us coffee, hot and black and steaming from a plastic thermos. Don’t you be fooling none, said Banjo. I ain’t fooling none, I told him.

Could I have been fooling none?

Soon the hot, black coffee was snarling in our stomachs and we were on our way to see the Wizard of Oz. That’s what the receptionist said. I didn’t understand the reference. We walked down the hall of fame. Signed pictures of all of the greats were there. There was Philip Hardcastle, Steiner and Moobuck and, best of all, Old Blind Manhandle: The Talking Hobo. Banjo saluted as we walked past and Old Blind Manhandle saluted back, sort of.

At last we reached our journey’s end. It was the office of the producer. He offered us a Fillet o’ Fish. He confirmed that the o’ stood for ‘of’. You’ve got balls son, he said, pointing at my shoulder. He took Banjo by the cheeks and said, Welcome Home, Son. Banjo looked at my eyes, but my eyes looked away.

Excuse me, sir, said Banjo. We’re here to make a picture. And not just any kind of picture. Not the kind of picture, for instance, that you might find on a porcelain saucer. A picture of a smiling Jack Russell, for instance, on a porcelain saucer. No sir, not that kind of picture.

The producer tried to speak but Banjo caught his words using his special Bluegrass Claw. No sir, said Banjo, we want to make a moving picture. You can call it a filmic yarn if that helps you to understand it better. What kind of moving picture you ask? (The producer hadn’t asked, because his words were still spinning in Bluegrass Claw purgatory, like the souls of a trillion Anabaptists.) What kind of moving picture you ask, said Banjo.

It’s a simple story about a little boy who wanted to be a human, summarised Banjo. It’s a silent musical. It’s an inert action film. It’s a heartwarming horror. It’s got thrills, chills, banjo fills, and none of the above.

Did you boys write it, said the taxi driver, who had followed us into the office. Yes, I said, we wrote it together.

How? said the taxi driver.

I don’t know, but we did, I said.

The taxi driver sent for his lawyers, who brought round some contracts, which we ‘signed’ using short tubes of ink. The studio gave it the green light, and we went into production the next day.

So I guess by now you’re probably wondering when you can see the film that Banjo and I wrote. Well, the chances are, you’ve already seen it. For, here it is.



January 19, 2013 by

Martyr: noun – a person who is killed because of their religious beliefs.

But not if you’re in this film. ‘Martyr’ means ‘pretty woman wearing pants and vest who gets punched in the kidneys repeatedly’. Or does it? Sickened by the (alleged – I haven’t seen it) misogyny of this film, I turned to the wisdom of internet reviews for an insight into the true artistic meaning of slapping a woman about in a darkened room.

User JSh0k writes on IMDB that “…Martyr’s [sic] is definitely a dish best served cold” by which I assume he means that watching the kidney-punching is like eating a big bowl of ice-cream.

He (I’m assuming he’s a ‘he’, although ‘he’ may well be a ‘she’) also says that Martyrs “…will hopefully astound you with it’s gutsy originality” but that it is similar to “movies like Nacho Cerda’s Aftermath”. Hmm, I’m confused.

He does clarify things by arguing that Martyrs “….is guaranteed to divide audiences everywhere.” Divide them into sadists and non-sadists, presumably.

At least IMDB user Onderhond can add some meaning to the dismemberment: “…limbs are flying enjoyment to be found.” Right. “Don’t watch Martyrs to get a little horror kick, or to indulge in silly gorefests.” I won’t, then.

Still, I don’t quite know what all the slapping, punching, knifing, pissing and impalement means. I get that it’s ‘tough to watch’, ‘uncomfortable’ and ‘not for the faint-hearted’, but what’s underneath all of that?

In a last bid to unearth some sense I turn to the late William Burroughs. Using the Lazarus Corporation‘s fine Text Mixing Desk, I throw together some of the key points from the most avid internet reviews, and I paste the results below. I think you’ll find they render the film obsolete.

Not that I’ve seen it.

Lazarus Corporation Text Mixing Desk says: “Torture scenes watch this film is harsh. you wear an honour watched that! like the easily badge to say movie women have physical stabbed in the street to answer her warped kidnapping get a little horror gorefests. young girl girl captured wants laugier digs deeper into the forgotten. don’t watch martyrs story of horror and torture, I honour badge film there’s no genre ‘popcorn’ flying the capacity laugh harrowing extremely violent desires the enjoyment to be found. violence unfeeling squirm and accept the monster wrangled, the tension simply serve a human mind. the physically sick schizophrenic horribly monickered martyrs to and torture of a ‘torture-porn’ are emotionally exorcism bleak, depressive to be slasher gory, but you won’t people literally get kick, or joy, limbs are rather that idea behind martyrs truly is a ordeal to end must-see is not futile nor characters to indulge in silly and wear an understanding cold and inevitable extremely graphic presentation is cold, the her.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why some people like the film Martyrs.

Battlestar Galactica: The Complete Series

January 13, 2013 by

Frak you, agoraphobia, I got me a home cinema! And the first thing I shall review is Battlestar Galactica on blu-ray laser discs.

Battletar Galactica is known for its sexy robots (called cyclons), rugged ladies (mostly cyclons) and shonky toasters (flying cyclons).

But did you know it was originally going to be called Battle-scarred Galacti-cops? And then Baffle-stumps Galactiballs? But the producers ultimately settled on ‘Battlestar Galactica’.

I don’t know why.

Set aboard the giant space-museum Galactica, the story focuses on interplanetary wrongness, which some dirty robots have done. Some of the dirty robots are really people, only they don’t know it. And there’s some war going on, but that’s on a different planet, I think. And some other people are running away from the robots.

Basically, it’s like the Kris Kristoffersen film Convoy, but in space.

Anyway, our hero is Commander Adamski (really a cyclon), played by a young Charles Bukowski. To accurately portray the rufty-tufty space-cop, Bukowski would wrap 158 elastic bands round his head before he went to bed every night, so that in the morning he would have the grizzled, spodgy-fleshed, lump-like depth of character needed to convey the psychological wear-and-tear of a ‘been there, seen that’ kind of man like Commander Adamski.

Commander Adamski

The commander struts the bridge like some cocky space chimp atop a shamelessly spacious spaceship-shaped tree.

The series poses many existential questions. What prize holdeth the stars for a man like this? What fortune may he seek, out in the cold, whiny fruitlessness of vacuous space? How does our grit-faced herald of the outer realm lead his champions to victory? And at what cost?

What’s an ‘FTL’?

Anyway, it all looks smashing. Except that whenever Adamski is on-screen, his craggy, pocked, moon-like landscape of a face absorbs all the pixels, making everything else blurry. The other thing is this smug, bossy woman keeps telling him what to do, and you’re like “Shut your face, he’s Captain Adamski!”

Also, this disc box includes some behind-the-scenes footage, and interviews with Commander Adamski and the cyclons. I haven’t watched them. I mainly just fast-forward to the bits with the sexy lady cyclon and the wizard.

Exit Through the Gift Shop

January 4, 2013 by

This is a poem about that Banksy film, Exit Through the Gift Shop. I’ve never seen it. Come to mention it, who knows whether it really exists?

Banksy used red paint to create an authentic plum juice effect when creating the artwork for ‘Exit Through the Gift Shop’

Exit Through the Plum Aisle, after William Carlos Williams


The others asked me

If I eat.

Sure, I eat some.

I said.

So they I gave me a plum

To eat

So I ate it some.

It was a streetplum.

That’s what the others told me



The others filmed me

While the squirty sap

Sat on my chin

Where it had dropped from my grin

And then it plummeted

Onto the flat gum

On the pavement

From the fat plum

In my mouth.


Then the police turned up

And said we couldn’t do that there.

I tried to get them to chase me some

But they just waggled their sticks

A bit

And called us scum.

Plum-eating scum.


Pretty soon

My plum-eating

Gained notoriety.

I ate plums all over the world

As a gesture of solidarity

To people and stuff.

But only streetplums

You understand.


Later I looked up ‘streetplum’

On Wikipedia.

It transpires that there’s no such thing

As a streetplum.

It was a hoax.

I ate a hoax plum.

Lots of ’em.

The value of my work plummeted

I became a plumber.

A real plumber

Not a hoax plumber.

I don’t eat plums so much anymore.

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

December 21, 2012 by
Strumpet! You have ruined Christmas!

Strumpet! You have ruined Christmas!

What is not to like about the Radio Times? Who could not fall for its knowing philistinism and insightful church-newsletter-esque platitudes? Who could fail to admire Barry Norman’s ability to review the same twenty films over and over again week after week (truly a reviewer after the AR’s own heart)? Who could not hang on pointy, serrated tenterhooks as Alison Graham describes, in real time, each micro-second of the cognitive process of first anticipating, then watching, then reflecting on a children’s film, e.g.

“At first I was sceptical about Pirates of the Caribbean as my aunt once told me that pirates were dirty people who stole things and also I knew someone who went to the Pirates of the Caribbean theme-ride in America and the man who operated the ride was really rude to her and it spoilt the whole trip. But when Johnny Depp turned to Keira Knightly and said ‘Arrr’ [the sound that pirates make – RT ed.] with a cheeky but charming smile on his acceptably greasy face, my preconceptions began to vanish.”

Truly, the Radio Times is a Cahiers du Cinema for short, fat English people who find the Empire Strikes Back challenging. You know: people like you and me.

Anyway, while reading the Christmas edition of said periodical this morning, I encountered a review of a festive film with the pleasingly tabloid-esque title ‘I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus’. Using only the review, I have attempted to imagine what the film might be about.

I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus

“Mother, you have defiled the marriage bed with your lewdness. Out strumpet! See how you grapple and grunt with your swarthy, hirsute lover beneath the palling face of Tinkytoes, the Christmas Tree Fairy. Look away, Tinkytoes, look away! See how the branches of that melancholy fir shed their spines with shame! Out jezebel, out! You have cuckolded my sire madam. Now his horns vie in size with those of your desperate, murder-eyed lover’s reindeer.

What care I how they do things in Lapland, mother! You are standing on an English hearth and an Englishman addresseth you (that is, I, your son, Marmaduke De Lancey Butterbury III, Marquis of Hamsbury, aged 8 and three quarters). What is this you say? “He’s not swarthy, that’s just the soot from the chimney, down which he slithered like a vile bat so that he might grasp at your bosom this Michaelmas Eve”? A pox, mother, a pox. I’ve never heard such villainy.

How shall my father greet his fellow lords? He shall be excluded from the hunt, mother. No more shall he follow on the heels of reynard and spear him through the eye with the ancestral Butterbury sword, watching the hot red life spill out of his furry eye-hole, bellowing at the forest gods, all the while cheered on by his fellows. A cuckold lead the hunt madam? They’d never allow it! Nay madam. He’s contaminated now. Contaminated by your sinful rubbings! Yea, it is true, as you point out, that Herne the Hunter sported a hearty head of horns. But then his wife wasn’t a vile drop-bloomers now was she, so it hardly applies.

Out, doxy, out! I too am besmeared by your offence. For did I not come via the same gates at which your dark, desperate paramour now hammers with his meaty cudgel? Is ‘Strumpet’s Son’ not branded into my pale marquis’s forehead? “Can anything make this go away,” asks your grim, bushy suitor? Yes. Get me a Scuba-Batman playkit with removable Batspeedoes by 6am tomorrow. Then we can talk.”

Celebrity Perfume: Christmas Round-Up

December 8, 2012 by

Christmas approacheth. Have you bought a gift for your sweetheart? No? Then why not bestow a celebrity perfume upon your best gal/gentleman lover this year? Here is a a festive guide to help you:

What Santa Claus really looks like

What Santa Claus really looks like

Angry Urine by Robbie Coltrane.

Want to smell like the Big Man o’ Glasgow? Simply rub yourself in chicken fat and the sweat of a dead hominid. Or buy Angry Urine pour homme by Robbie Coltrane. For best results, coat entire surface area of body with Angry Urine pour homme by Robbie Coltrane using a Robbie Coltrane own-brand baster, deep fry body for 4 hours then sprinkle with special brew.

Pussy Magnet by Bagpuss.

Although many celebrities are happy to put their name to a scent, few actually bother to brew it up themselves. Instead, they employ big-beaked perfumiers to devise a hot cologne that reflects their public persona in some symbolically suggestive way. Thus it is that Michael Barrymore’s perfume smells of chlorine, Jamie Oliver’s smells of packed lunch and George Osbourne’s smells of baby’s blood. Not so ‘Pussy Magnet by Bagpuss’. Eschewing the help of a perfumier, Bagpuss secretes a fragrant squirt from the sweet glands in his tight woollen anus, which is then siphoned into bottles by the Clangers. It smells of mothballs and delight. I would passionately love anything that was sprayed with ‘Pussy Magnet by Bagpuss’ – even an inexplicable monstrosity such as you.

Hitlerdaddy by Sylvia Plath.

This fragrance has the oppressive odour of an overbearing patriarch. I hate you Hitlerdaddy, with your biscuit bootheel and your krystallnacht kisses. Plus you stink.

Achieve by every X Factor winner ever

Achieve smells like water and air.

Melodique by Dog the Bounty Hunter

Surprisingly, this cologne’s aroma resembles neither a wet border collie nor justice nor sexual frustration. Instead, it evokes a fleeting memory of peaches and autumn leaves on a twilit veranda, with a topnote of regret. Enchanting.

Teen Angel

November 19, 2012 by

When I was a tiny brute, I’m pretty sure there used to be a program on TV called Teen Angel, starring Jason Priestley as a comely corpse on a mission from God. Sounds improbable, I admit. Here’s a little poem about it:


Teen Angel


For I have stood on the yawning chasm

Between midnight and sun-up,

While the witches widdershinned about the arcade

And hexed Pac-Man

Causing his yellow balls to atrophy

And Pac-Girl to run into the spermatazoic sleeves

Of that creep from Bubble Bobble

(What do you think he spun them bubbles outta, bub?).

Now Pac-Man heaves his blighted sack about the mazes of

2-bit lonesomeness

Playing tag with my saggy-sheeted brethren.


I’m a ghost too,


But instead of rocking the damp eiderdown

I got this authentic-looking pleather jacket

And a pompadour.

And instead of chasing yellow balls around mazes,

I do God’s work and pout.

Sometimes the two coincide:

God works in mysterious ways.


You might know me as the Disney James Dean.

Or you might know me as Teen Angel,

The pubic poltergeist.

But you can call me

Spooky Bagthorpe,

I guess.


September 13, 2012 by

Problem solved

The flawed and deeply unjust British legal system needs no introduction. Suffice to say that I am required by the courts to complete no fewer than 16 “gay dates” (or “gates” as I call them) with that goblin When Hearts Turn Blue, for fouling on his lawn and deflowering his formerly virginal Yorkshire terrier Margaret.

I need not explain to the moral and goodhearted readers of the Agoraphobic Reviewer the craven injustice in this ruling, from which the only crumb of comfort to be gleaned is that I shall be holding my “no win, no fee” solicitors to their worthless word.

A clause of Lord Justice Bumbody’s sentencing states that WHTB may call in these “gates” at a moment’s notice. Thus it came to pass that on Tuesday gone, he called me via his usual intermediary (his great aunt) summoning me to the St Shrubbery Moving Picture House and Hall of Ill-repute with the intention of watching the latest summer blockbuster, Vertigo.

I am blessed with the gift of excellent foresight (I once had the sense to grow limbs and a penis a mere eight months before I was called upon to be born) and – though I had not foreseen this particular call – within a flash it was clear that I would be requested to pen a review of the new flick for the AR. Thanks to this almost superhuman prescience  I was able to imagine the entire content of the film in as few as 7 seconds. It is this vision that I hereby lay before you, as told to WHTB’s great aunt, who thoughtfully transcribed it on her portable typewriter, seeing fit to remove the majority of the swears.

Vertigo is a very singular film about a very singular man. So singular, in fact, is he, that he is in want of a wife. A girlfriend we cannot say, for he seems to have one of those – and a fine one at that – though her role seems to be that of the compound noun in its purest sense, to whit a friend who is a girl. She may very well be his social worker or carer, it is hard to understand her clipped and clean American accent, so different is it from the theatrical Noo Yoik drawl and Vegas bawl that the Shakespearean greats of television have accustomed us to.

Vertigo is a misleading title, referring obliquely as it does to the principal character’s fear of the words “verb to go”. The fact that the aforementioned girlfriend has vertiginous pink passion blancmanges is purely a diverting coincidence – or perhaps one of the many tricks deployed by director Alfred Hitchcock to throw the viewer off the scent that the picture makes no sense.  Still, who cares when with a pair of baby’s dinners like that in supporting roles the film is a shoe-in for an award.

Having established that the name is inappropriate, it is worth noting that a more fitting title would be I Tried To Wash Your Hair a Little – A Rapey Tale.  The story follows the exploits of Rowdy Roddy Peeper James Stewart as he scurries about generally disregarding society’s norms. This too is all by-the-by since, as WHTB remarked mid-film, one is incapable of listening to Stewart act his acting without hearing him say “It’s in Bill’s house and Fred’s house”. This is of a course a reference to a line in Stewart’s most famous work, the blue movie Jimmy Stewie Puts His Penis In People’s Houses and the only other film WHTB has ever seen. Indeed he insisted we re-watch this movie the other night in place of Vertigo which, of course, I have still not seen but which I hereby give two vertiginous funbags.

Vertigo has already been reviewed on the Agoraphobic Reviewer by editor in chief, John Le Baptiste. But to distract you from this, here is trad-jazz classic Tubthumping (on the theme of vertigo), as performed by its original writer, to play us out…


September 4, 2012 by

Accepting then that the face-huggers embody: that is, fembody, male fears re: the re-integration of the phallo-cervical matrix – to wit, the atavistic retreat of the male and female genitals into an androgynous pre-natal state – and, moreover, that the product of this reunion of penis and vagina is not the genial, inert and asexual Sakishantu-type (translation: Mr Womb) popularised by the lyrics of the Geisha-Rock movement – but rather a voracious scuttling pair of labia wielding a retractable cock – accepting this, then, we can begin to read Alien as a cousin germain of the Succubus of European myth, Circe in The Odyssey and The Witch from Simon and The Witch. Of course, the casting of a female in the role of Ripley reminds us that the fear of the arachnoid pussy-penis is not an exclusively male fear. Yet it is women who go scuttling around and making unreasonable sexual demands of men so they have no right to complain.

Take for instance it should be added yesterday my wife of thirty-seven years leaped at me pelvis-first and attempted to form a tight seal around my mouth with her pudendum, evidently with the hope of using me as a host for her young. I endeavoured to struggle but years of scholarly seclusion have atrophied my body. Plus the musculature of her legs is unusually well-developed (it was this lower-body strength that allowed her to launch herself from the settee pelvis-first) so she encountered little difficulty in neutralising my arms and affixing herself to my mouth. “Phase 1 is initiated” she said. “Beginning the seeding process.” This continued for roughly 12 hours. I couldn’t be sure of course because my NHS spectacles had been dislodged from my upper facial area by a high-impact vaginal collision so I couldn’t check my watch.

A few days later my wife of thirty-seven years noted with irritation and disappointment that “the seed appeared not to have taken hold”. Shortly after she attempted once again to latch her pelvis on to my face. This time I was ready, however. I ducked, quick as a biscuit, causing her to sail through the living room, across the threshold of the hall and off to some point that I was subsequently unable to ascertain. I then locked the door and phoned the authorities. Thankfully, they picked her up before she could cause any real damage, and I was able to go back to writing earnest critical explications of films intended for children.

Bill Paxton ruminates about the phallo-cervical matrix in Aliens.

The Olympics

July 24, 2012 by

God I love films and TV shows about sport. Here’s a review of the first of an exciting trilogy of dystopian fantasy films, called ‘The Olympics’:

Geoffrey Capes: Uber-Olympian

From the lotus-leafed valleys of the East they came. And from the canyons and frontiers of the West, they came too. And from the boiling plains of the South they also came. All four winds brought them here – the spear-lords, the Fosbury floppers, the velocipede operators, the swinging folk – all came to the ancient burgh of Londinium to do battle.

Ultimately only one man, or woman, would be left amid a field of underachieving cadavers. Some would die of dehydration. Some would perish between the pincers of the long-jump sandpit scorpions. Most would be executed by the Metropolitan Police, on suspicion of possessing firearms. Or for not doing their best. Or for sport.

The hero of The Olympics is a handsome peasant girl by the name of Catnip Humblepudding. Young Catnip has only one dream (‘money for old rope’ said Dr Fritz Jungun, the child psychoanalyst, as he took his fee from Catnip’s mother and browsed EBay for some vintage double-braid). Yes, young Catnip Humblepudding has only one dream. And that is to be worthy of the flag that adorns biscuit wrappers, tubs of butter, certain brands of male grooming product, the rotting bunting that hangs menacingly outside council estate pubs and bottles of Fairy Liquid. Yes, the Union Jack. That symbol of resilience. That image of a proud people.

That flag, that can also be found on tins of baked beans, cartons of minced cow, birth control items, the swimming trunks of the obese, in the small white claws of classical music fans, on the upper arms of people who live in prison, in the fading memory banks of Tim Henman, on cans of lager, hairspray bottles, pencil cases, cigarette lighters, wet towels, dry towels and the stiffened towels that holiday makers forget to take home from Spanish holiday resorts. Yes, that flag, which forgives all sins, accepts all colours, creeds and persuasions, and which stands between the good people of Britain and the horror of everywhere else. That majestic flag, in which will come considerately giftwrapped the collateral damage of tomorrow.

Yes, young Catnip Humblepudding has only one dream, and that is to be worthy of the Union Jack.

While Catnip goes about her athletic business, the camera pans outward to take in the audience. From a gilt–edged spectator’s box, the doughty emperor of Londinium looks down upon the games with a piercing stare reminiscent of Big Brother. Not the iron-moustached tyrant of George Orwell’s Nineteen-Eighty-Four, it should be added. Rather, your actual big brother circa his 15th birthday. Your fifteen-year old brother: the big-boned pustuloid who named his goldfish ‘Madame Speaker’ and claimed that girls were frivolous, while sweatily gripping Aunt Penelope’s copy of Frumpy Diversions and tugging agitatedly at his velcro fly (after the last entanglement, Mother wouldn’t allow a metal zipper within five metres of Boris’s johnson) in a manner that suggested otherwise. Emperor Boris looks down upon the carnage like a fat unlovely boy and sees that it is good.

In the course of The Olympics, Catnip finds herself assailed on all sides by the meaty boys and girls from other, hostile nation states. While performing the decathlon, she hides in a tree. Thankfully, some respite comes when her attackers are eaten by angry metal bees, which emerge from beneath the hurdles humming and ringing like apine mobile phones.  “There is a call for you on line 1” the bees almost seem to say, “And it’s Death!”

At the end of the film, Catnip has triumphed over all of the opposition and stands triumphantly, brandishing her medal in the sunlight. But wait! None of it was real! It was all a simulation. Or a dream. That’s it! A wild feverish dream in the brain of an over-worked junior advertising executive. ‘Heck!’ he exclaims as he leaps from his bed, ‘how are we going to sell certain brands of male grooming product now!’

In conclusion, this film celebrates all that is great about being British: to wit, state-sanctioned murder, biscuits and dreams with no basis in reality. I love it. 10 out of 10.