Thursday, October 26, 2017

goat finger.

Day 26 of the whole, sordid 31 days of "the 'orrah" and I'll be honest I'm as bored as you are.

Luckily there's only 5 days left.

And I'm busy for 2 of them.

Be interesting to see how that works out.

Ta paidia tou Diavolou (AKA Island Of Death, Killing Daylight, Holiday on the Buses. 1975).
Dir: Nico Mastorakis.
Cast: Bob Behling, Jane Ryall, Jessica Dublin, Gerard Gonalons, Billy Goat,  Janice McConnel and Nikos Tsachiridis.


“Please, I believe in God.”
“I’m sorry friend, but he doesn’t believe in you.”


Trendy (in a kind of pikey way) young things Christopher (pube haired Behling whom you may have seen in Cujo - the film that is not the actual dog tho' who knows?) and human hamster Celia (the chub of faced yet curved of arse Ryall) have arrived on the quaint Greek island of Mykonos (which I'm assuming is Greek for death) looking for fun, sun, a nice cream bun and various places to have 'the sex'.

They must be British then.

Booking into a cheap looking, crap wallpapered boarding house, Christopher changes out of his thin, beige socks and Jesus sandals before taking in a few of the local sights and then taking Celia up the bum.

In a phone box.

Whilst calling his mum.

If this wasn't enough (and frankly the sight of Christopher's skinny man buttocks thrusting vigorously against the dirty glass did it for me) it turns out that he's also an out and out puritanical nutter, madder than a bag of spanners and liable to hurl insults at ginger people in the street for no other reason than he thinks they're morally corrupt.

Which is nice.


lens flare, trouser flare, flared hair lip.




Feeling a wee bit peckish after the phone box fumble, Chris and Celia head back to the guest house for a bite to eat only to come across (not in that way, well not yet) the owners wife rutting with someone other than her hubby in the shed, her ample arse pushed against the grimy windows leaving a mark not unlike the shape of an obese butterfly on the glass.

Obviously upset by the sight of such an obese backside Chris angrily declares "Bitch! She's a bloody fat bitch, If she was my wife I'd kill her!" before heading into the dinning room for a quick cheese and crisp sandwich, a can of Tizer and the chance of insulting a quiet gay couple at the bar before retiring to bed.

It's like being on holiday with your dad.

The next morning poor Christopher wakes with an erection so stiff and bloated that not even your mum could satisfy it and, after unsuccessfully trying to prod Celia awake decides to go out into town to find someone willing to have some no strings sex with him so early in the morning.

After what seems like, ooh minutes of searching kerazy Chris stumbles across a cute white goat happily munching grass in a deserted field, there eyes meet and it's lust at first sight.

Aw sweet.

Next thing you know our man is happily humping away at his fluffy friend with all the facial ticks and grimaces of somewhere suffering a severe stroke.

In glorious technicolour of course.

Lying in each others arms (legs? paws? hooves?) the lovers gaze longingly at each other before Chris pulls out a big fuck off knife and slits the goats throat.

Cleaning his dick on the grass he happily heads back to Celia and a spot of lunch.

And who says that the English abroad aren't civilized?

How your dad used to wake
you up on Christmas morning.



Scoffing their delicious bacon, sausage and eggs at a local café our dingbat duo start to indulge in a little bit of saucy banter with one Monsieur Jean-Paul Boff, a local French painter (but not polisher) before asking him to join them in a dirty threesome.

Being French he obviously agrees.

After a quick bout of filthy fondling the couple head home but not before arranging to meet the by now sweat covered Monsieur Boff the next morning for some more saucy fun.

Morning can't come soon enough for the couple, tho' unfortunately Jean Paul does (all over Celia's rather wobbly breasts) whilst Christopher hides in the shadows taking photographs of the whole thing.

Obviously offended by the Frenchman's lack of staying power (tho' by the state of Celia I reckon he's lucky to have gotten it up at all) our hatstand hero calmly walks over to the resting couple and crucifies poor Jean Paul for his troubles.

Your mum, up the casino, 1974....Yesch!



Celia, understandably annoyed by the poor sods screams of agony, forces Jean Paul to drink some paint stripper in the hopes of shutting him up.

Not really much else I can add to that really is there?

At a loss as to what to do for the rest of the day, Christopher and Celia decide to attend an engagement party being throw by the gay couple they insulted earlier thinking that if they turn up with a half arsed apology and a cheap bottle of (pink) fizz everything'll be OK.

The gays, being nice, kind folk instantly forgive the couples earlier homophobic rants and welcome them into their celebrations.

And much, much later their bedroom too.

But don't worry dear viewer there's none of that sexy stuff this time (this couple obviously have way too much self esteem to want to put it anywhere near Celia and Christopher) as the maid of mentalism has other ideas.

Yup, it's Celia's turn for a wee bit of the killing this time as she pulls out a gun and shoots the younger, make up caked stud muffin in the mooth whilst kinky Christopher chases his older lover down the street before disemboweling him with a large paper knife.

Knackered after a full day of maiming and murder the couple retire to their room to masturbate over the photo's taken during the day.

Gun in mah mooth!

Luckily for the islands residents, Scotland Yard are on the trail of the perverted pair as it seems that they've been committing similar crimes against fashion and good taste in the UK too and the British Government - worrying about how all this killing of foreigners will affect the BREXIT deal have dispatched DI Foster (Gonalons from some other stuff) to bring the couple to justice.

It comes as a wee surprise then (to him and us) that within minutes of stepping off the plane (clutching his duty free and in-flight magazine) Chris has tied a rope to him and taken off, leaving him hanging on for dear life.

It can't be that dear tho' seeing as within seconds he's let go with a shout of "Oh my fingers!", falling to the ground in a spray of piss and shame.

Pleased with his mornings work Christopher decides it's time he had sex with the hotel owner.

Obviously, this being Christopher tho', having sex involves pissing over her before sticking it up her arse and finally decapitating her with a handy bulldozer.

Celia by this point has had enough of all this mindless violence and sleazy sex and just wants a quiet life.

And cake.

Don't we all?

As you can probably guess this really, really annoys cuckoo Christopher but not as much as the pair of stoned hippie types that just happen to turn up and molest Celia obviously.

As a plus point tho' it does give our boy an excuse to kill some more people and show her that the world is full of badness and that the pair should stay together.

Yes, there's a moral here somewhere.

Getting angrier by the minute and realizing that he still has to kill an Asian shopkeeper, a heroin addict and a lesbian to fill his cliché rota, Chris persuades the by now shot to fuck and cum stained Celia to seduce the local lady lover whilst he watches from a bush.

Luckily she's also a dirty junkie so it's two for the price of one.

Unbeknown to both Christopher and Celia, whilst they've been merrily blow-torching the faces off lesbians and cracking off to blurry death pics, a local novelist has been secretly watching the pair in a kind of Jessica Fletcher manner.

But not as sexily as Angela Lansbury does obviously.

Nice bedding, shame about the film.


With the bodies piling high and the quaint countryside awash with blood, egg and semen, the net is closing in on the terrible twosome.

Even the local police have finally gotten up off their fat arses and given chase, forcing Christopher and Celia to hide out in the hills on a dilapidated ranch belonging to a 70s footballer permed, ball faced sheep herder named Neville.


"Leathery balls!"

Seeing this simple man's lifestyle and happiness with his job has a profound effect on Christopher, almost as if a veil has been lifted from his eyes.

Could it really be that rape and murder are bad?

Christopher will never find out as without warning the shepherd hits him over the head and tosses him into a lime pit before forcing himself on (and into) a screaming Celia who, after a slight struggle, begins to enjoy the experience as Neville violently fucks the badness out of her system.

Christopher's screams for help are ignored, even the revelation that Celia is really his sister (that if you think about it they both should already know) has no effect on the by now tamed woman and as the rain begins to turn the lime caustic, Christopher slowly dies in agony as Celia begins her new life of servitude and sex slavery with Neville.

I think there's a lesson for us all there don't you?
Photobucket
"Put it in me!"



Ah dear old Nico Mastorakis, how must it have felt to see your heart-warming tale of forbidden love cruelly slated as a video nasty before being banned from our shelves?

How can anyone even consider saying this movie has no redeeming features and that it's sole reason for being is to glory in it's own filth and depravity?

Oh the injustice of it all!

Scarily playing out like a nylon caked nightmare version of the Holiday Show, Mastorakis' movie veers violently from wrong to oh so wrong via just plain  wrong.

With absolutely no respect for decency or fashion, it's frighteningly unattractive psycho-sexual siblings begin their reign of sex and violence without warning and continue to do so throughout the films running time, killing off various clichéd characters with gay abandon as the movie lurches toward it's (genuinely) surprising conclusion.

Nico Mastorakis we salute you (grudgingly I'll admit) for giving us a film that on the surface looks like a worthless sleazefest of sex and sin but on closer inspection turns out to be one of the greatest pieces of blackly humoured Carry on Abroad style comedies ever made.

If only all family vacations were this much fun.

Or all our sisters had such peachy arses.

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