necro-mantic.

 

So who else had them finding the Necronomicon on their 2021 bingo card?

Always trying to see a bright side this is as good an excuse as ever to take a look at what is probably THE best film to feature not only that fabled book but also the famed Manga artist and part-time cosplayer Ippongi Ban.

As well as the biggest collection of ex-shop display hoovers this side of a Dyson ad.

But who is this mysterious Ippongi Ban? I hear the less cultured among you type.

 

A comicbook yesterday.

Born on January 4, 1965 in Yokohama City, Japan, Ban made her manga debut with Ippongi Bang's Campus Diary in 1983.

Published in Fanroad magazine, this semi-autobiographical work originally focused on  her experiences at the agricultural college (?) before turning its attentions to the misadventures of Ban and her fellow artists working at Studio Do-Do.

Usual plots included fights over who left a big poo in the the toilet and arguments over who is the best artist.

You can still pick up issues online dirt cheap and if you buy the American reprints you get the added bonus each issue of a colour poster of Ippongi - usually dressed in a glittery bikini.

Which is reason enough for purchasing I guess.

Anyway enough of the chat, it's action we want.

As one final aside I'd just like to add that my copy has no subtitles so I kinda had to guess as to the intricacies of the plot so forgive me for any glaring mistakes.

Tho' the spelling errors are all my own work.

Enjoy.

Chô-yôma densetsu Uratsuki-dôji: Makai gakuen-hen (AKA Exorsister 1994)
Dir: Takao Nakano.
Cast: Ippongi Ban, Kei Mizutani, Yoshiki Fujii, Yuuya Fujikawa and Kan'ichi Hiraga.

Meet the sexily hatted, foxily fish-netted flayer of fearsome creatures Maria Cruel, a demon hunter for hire armed with a six-gun and a razor-edged crucifix who has sworn to protect Tokyo from the evil shag monsters from Hell.
 

Which is nice work if you can get it.

Ban Ippong: Why? She's done nowt wrong!

Anyway somewhere in that sprawling metropolis the nerdy 'schoolgirl' Brenda (who let's be honest is slightly too old to pull off the uniform, looking as she does a wee bit like a Japanese version of Olive from On The Buses - which if I'm honest isn't a bad thing) is strolling around the campus talking to the trees (as you do) when she's accosted by two cigarette smoking, short skirted bad girls.

These violent vixens decide to drag poor bespectacled Brenda kicking and screaming to an empty classroom where they proceed to steal her lunch money - and her clothes - before rudely pinching her nipples and smacking her admittedly peachy bum.

Brenda can do nothing but moan, wriggle her arse and squeal.

Returning home after a day of abuse at the hands of the bullies our nerdy heroine decides enough is enough and begins to formulate a way of getting even with the bad girls.

Angela Lansbury, up the casino, June 1953.....YESCH!

Donning a frankly hideous pink fluffy jumper (no idea if it's related) Brenda intensely surfs the interweb in order to find a particularly nasty satanic themed revenge (again no idea why) and - surprisingly quickly -  manages to find an evil website that enables her to summon a group of terrifying - if slightly mis-matched and shoddily realized - demons.

Seems legit.

This horrific terror tag team consists of a wheelchair bound old man capable of transmorphing into a rubbery (why, thank you) lizard thing; a housefly in a suit; a two–faced (by two-faced I mean he's wearing two overly large pound shop Halloween masks hastily glued together) demon; a really annoying she-creature wearing Cyndi Lauper's cast-offs and a pink wig; a massive moving shit and a man in a gorilla suit.

No really.

Jumper.

And what will this demonic pact cost?

Her soul?

Her collection of Harry Styles memorabilia?

Nothing so mundane.

It seems that to consolidate the deal our schoolgirl chum must enter the demon realm whilst clad only in a pair of little white panties.

This must be part of an ancient Satanic ritual or something I guess, I mean the film's depiction of Satanism has been pretty spot on up till this point so why would it change now?

But that's not all because upon arrival she must allow the big big poo monster to lovingly rub Vaseline covered vacuum cleaner pipes on her.

In loving close-up.

For about twenty minutes.

After all this hoover action - I'll never look at a Dyson the same way again - the (by now slightly foxier looking and contact lens wearing) Brenda hits town to find her tormentors.

Hang on, wasn't that the demons job?

This pact with the devil hasn't really been thought thru has it?

Encountering bad girl bully no. 1 in a seedy bar she quickly administers a good kicking before disappearing back into the fog in order to seduce a drunk old man for a bout of badly filmed optically censored, pixel vision sex.

Fuck me it's Mark Kermode!

Returning home to her hysterical (and not to mention hysterically bewigged) dad, she knees him in the happy sacks before shouting “Fuck you very much!” at him then storming off to her room.

There's only one person who can save his daughter now.

Enter.....the Exorsister!

You would (like you'd have a choice).

Resplendent in leather bike boots, a 'kiss me quick' hat, Christopher Eccleston's shame stained old coat, crusty fishnets and a belt for a skirt, our fag smoking Saviour rides to the rescue (via 1970's style CSO) astride a big black Kawasaki, armed to the teeth and ready for action.

Meow.

Arriving at the house she sits down with a nice cuppa to consult what looks like the limited edition Anchor Bay 'Book of The Dead' release of The Evil Dead (no, hang on, it must be the real Necronomicon....it says so on the side), Ms. Cruel decides there's only one cause of action open to her and, armed with only a plastic Uzi water pistol she enters the girls bedroom spraying her with Holy water in the hope of banishing the demon from within her.

Unfortunately it's not just Brenda's soul that's at stake.

The demons have there milky eyes locked firmly on the school bullies too.

Will the  Exorsister be able to save them from the demonic sex monsters before it's too late?


No chance.

Is it just me or does her right
thigh appear to be floating?

You see whilst all this water pistol action was going down the other demons have been passing the time subjecting the bullies to all manner of pervy, vacuum cleaner based, panty ripping, nipple slipping, noisy tentacle sex.

And let's be honest is there any other kind?

"Laugh Now!!!"

Luckily (for who tho' I'm not sure, I mean the girls seem to be enjoying themselves - tho' not as much as the gorilla I'll admit) the Exorsister quickly bursts into the demon lair and kills all the monsters with her flying crucifix blade before shooting the tentacled turd-man in the face.

Look after all the KY-based cuddling there was only about 10 minutes left to tidy up the plot so they did their best.

"I love you....could it be magic?"

Directed (if you can call it that) by Takao Nakano, the man who gave us the underrated Killer Pussy, the Exorsister is a frighteningly low budget spectacular (shot on Betacam fact fans) featuring more breasts than you could shake a - very slimy - stick at.

With guest appearances from Leatherface, a monster that consists of a tombstone toothed Japanese man dressed in a turd suit, girl on girl wrestling and hoover pipes on wires doubling for schoolgirl molesting tentacles I'm surprised that this series hasn't been picked up by children's ITV before now.

But is it any good and more importantly how does it measure up to classic western demon-based fayre such as RentaGhost or the Ghostbusters remake?

Well if you can ignore the fact that the movie has a budget that appears to run into minus figures, the vacuum cleaner tentacles, the climactic pan-dimensional fight scene being staged in a kiddies playpark, the dads wig, pixelated shagging, the lack of a proper plot and the obviously 30 something school girls then there is much joy to be had here.

Especially if you live in your parents basement and find the thought of talking to a real girl terrifying.

Which is near enough everyone reading this if I'm honest.

Put 'em away luv....No really put them away.

Becoming the surprise smash of 94 (surpassing Forrest Gump and The Lion King in rentals) The Exorsister catapulted Nakona into the wank-tastic straight to video stratosphere culminating with him helming the frankly fantastic Sumo Vixens with the harshly ferret faced, incredibly tiny headed star of Termatrix and Weather Woman Kei Mizutani.

Which is probably more than you - or I - have done with our lives if we're honest.

Print this out and you can give it to your gran so
she knows what to buy you for Christmas.

people you fancy but shouldn't (part 97).

 Jennifer Rene Psaki - American political advisor and the White House Press Secretary in the Biden administration. 

 

 

"cos i wear these toggles!"

So after surviving lockdown, Christmas (with another lockdown) and 'The Hogmanay' it was back to the old routine yesterday of trying not to vomit after overdoing the booze and shortbread whilst settling down to yet another fantastic Chris Chibnall-penned Doctor Who New years special.

 

It was whilst watching this utter amazing piece of teevee sci-fi (in particular the bit where a poorly rendered CGI testicle attempted to face-fuck the star of Shark Attack III) that I remembered a film from my youth where much the same happened to a group of folk on a remote Scottish island.

A few of which had been in Doctor Who.

See? I don't just randomly chuck this stuff together you know.

The Doctor desperately scans for someone who gives two fucks.

Island of Terror (AKA Night of the Silicates/The Night the Silicates Came/The Night the Creatures Came/The Creepers. 1966)
Dir: Terence Fisher.
Cast: Edward Judd, Peter Cushing, Carole Gray, Eddie Byrne, Sam Kydd, Niall MacGinnis, James Caffrey, Liam Gaffney, Roger Heathcote, Keith Bell, Shay Gorman and Peter Forbes-Robertson.

John, I've just found one of my horses dead. At least, I think it's my horse. It's all soft and flabby.

On the remote, tinker packed Petrie's Island, well meaning science type Dr. Lawrence Phillips (the chief Sea Devil himself, Forbes-Robertson in a blink and miss it cameo) is about to unveil his life's work; a cure for cancer.

Unfortunately rather than produce it in easy to swallow pill form (or even a nice orangey syrup) he appears to have stitched two giant warty testicles together and stuck a hoover pipe into the middle of it.

Oh and given it a taste for bones.

Is it just me that thinks this experiment may go slightly awry?

No time to think about it tho' for no sooner has he flicked the bollock enlarging switch than his lab explodes in a dazzling cartoon explosion leaving him and his scientist pals dead.

And the warty walnuts free to roam the island....

Radiation room? or dodgy porn stash?

Off home after a heavy nights drinking and Pot Noodle session with the boys, duffle-coated local farmer and part-time bin man Ian Bellows (Eastenders Gaffney) finds himself caught short on the way home and decides, as you do, to relieve himself against some handy polystyrene rocks.

No sooner has he unsheathed his mighty manhood than the silence is broken by his horrific screams.

And what sounds like someone farting in the bath.

His lovely (OK I'll be honest harsh) wife Morag surprised at not being pawed awake at three in the morning, finding her nightie round by her neck and the bed sick free worriedly contacts local copper (and town chiropodist)  John Harris (Brit teevee and movie stalwart Kydd) at the local constabulary in the vain hope that her hubbie has fallen asleep there or at the very least been arrested for cow violation.

Again.

Unfortunately Harris hasn't seen him since they left the pub but offers to go out and look for him, if only to get the babydoll nightied, horse thighed harridan off his doorstep.

I'm not saying she's scary looking but you can actually see the milk in the jug on Harris' table turn when he opens the door.

Wandering aimlessly thru' the brightly lit studio backlot (sorry, I mean darkened woods) he soon comes across (leaving an unsightly streaky pattern) Bellows' lifeless (and boneless) rubbery corpse propped up against the polystyrene rocks  like a big fleshy trifle.

"What we have here is the severest case of mooth shite-in known to man".

Terrified (and a wee bit aroused by the sight of the poor fella's gaping and somewhat inviting mouth), Harris swiftly (well as swiftly as a half cut, short arsed Oirishman can) runs to fetch the islands top Doc and resident posh bloke Dr. Reginald Landers (Star Wars' General Willard himself Byrne).

But despite his university education and fine line in tailored overcoats, Dr. Landers is fucked if he can determine why the dead man is completely without bones so decides to travel to the mainland to seek the help of severe cheeked pathologist and horror legend Dr. Brian Stanley (Cushing, all praise to him).

Like Landers tho', Stanley is totally at a loss at to what could have possibly caused such injuries, so the pair head round to the groovy penthouse apartment of the suavely sophisticated Dr. David West (Judd star of everything from First Men in the Moon to Coronation Street), the worlds leading authority on bones, bone diseases and boning in general.

And boning appears to be what's on his mind seeing as he's currently attempting to get into the (very tiny yet tastefully lacy) undies of the voluptuously hipped, wealthy jet-setter Ms. Toni Merrill (Gray from The Young Ones with Cliff Richard who, to our American readers is the true king of rock 'n' roll).

Gray: Sexier than Jesus.

Banging on his door just as West is about to start banging Toni, our middle-aged medics waste no time in explaining their predicament to West, even tho' there's a lady present.

Intrigued by the problem and knowing full well that he can't perform in front of an audience, West agrees to accompany them to the island and Toni, up for a wee bit of orgiastic pikey sex and a chance to undermine feminism in all it's forms offers the use of her dad's private helicopter in order to get back to the island (and the plot) that wee bit quicker.

Only thing is that he needs it back by three so he can go to Waitrose for his monthly food shop, effectively leaving the fantastic foursome stranded on the island till the bin men arrived the following Thursday.

On arrival their first stop (after getting their inoculations against foot and mouth and general Oirishness) is Phillips' secluded castle laboratory where they find the poor scientist and his colleagues all dead eyed and floppy.

Just like your dad when he used to sneak into your room after the pub.

Deciding that whatever caused all the deaths must have come from the lab, West, Stanley and Landers (Ms. Merrill has the most important job, which is to sit in the car and keep the seats warm) gather up all of Phillips' belongings (including his ladyboy porn stash, fags and notes) and head back to the hotel to 'study' them and, over a few pints of Guinness catch up on the plot so far before discovering that Phillips had inadvertently created a new lifeform by accidentally splicing a silicon atom to a pair of giants gonads.

"In mah mooooooooth!"

Meanwhile PC Harris, thinking that the boffins are still at the castle arrives there to report on a boneless horse that's been found behind the youth centre.

Intrigued by a locked door with a sign that reads 'Killer testicles keep out!' he heads inside only to be attacked and killed by a huge, rubbery tentacle.

In his mouth.

Back at the hotel, it's discovered that these creatures, dubbed Silicates by West and Stanley (Ms. Merrill wanted to name them Testiclons, bless), kill their victims by injecting a bone-dissolving enzyme into their bodies and sucking the resulting goo thru' their arses.

Not only are the Silicates the most pant wettingly scary creature ever to appear on film but are also bloody hard to kill as Landers discovers when he tries unsuccessfully to kill one with an axe only to have it retaliate by forcing a tentacle up his arse.

The poor man screams for help as the rest of the cast look on with expressions of mild apathy.

And in Stanley's case a wee hint of jealousy.

With one of their number down and the Silicates multiplying like rabbits, West and Stanley head over to the house of local big man (and the islands unofficial king) Roger Campbell (Zeus himself MacGinnis) in the hope of recruiting the islanders to repel the massive man-sack menace.

After convincing him that the creatures are of English origin - and with him being a typical Paddy - Campbell jumps at the chance of a fight and quickly phones his loyal assistant (and owner of the local newsagent) Peter Argyle (former actor and current alcoholic drink Caffrey) to round up the townsfolk and arm them with anything that comes to hand.

Which, being Irish means bullets, petrol bombs, exploding pigs and dynamite.

God bless them!

"Help mah boab!"

None of this seems to have any effect on the Silicates tho' and after a couple of minutes of loud bangs and random people shouting things like "Begorah!" and "Oh no! annudah baybees died!" the creatures get bored and go to sleep.

But not before splitting into two and doubling their destructive force.

Yikes.

With the battle quickly becoming a lost cause and with nowhere to turn the fate of the island looks bleak, until that is West and Stanley hear reports of a Silicate found dead on the beach after eating a stray dog that had inadvertently consumed a sandwich containing a rare isotope called Strontium-90.

Could this be the key to Petrie's salvation?

With time running out and the Silicate threat growing, Stanley and West must venture back to Phillips' laboratory in the hope of finding enough isotope to destroy the Silicates once and for all....

A testicle carrying a designer handbag yesterday.

Remember back in the swinging sixties when Britain actually had a film industry and companies like Hammer Films, Amicus and Tigon kept the locals on the edges of their collective seats with a constant stream of horror classics?

Well there's one company from those heady bygone days that lies forgotten and dejected, even tho' they released one of the most terrifying films ever made.

That company was Planet Film Productions and the film was that classic of science gone wrong that was, is and always shall be Island of Terror.

Unless you live abroad that is where it's known as the slightly less gruesome Night of the Silicates.

Or something.

God knows how much the budget was but most of it seems to have been blow on winter coats for the actors, which amazingly helps to show who's in charge of who in the cast; ordinary islanders wear donkey jacket style attire whereas the more important community members wear duffle coats, mainlanders are bedecked in Crombie's whilst Roger Campbell (being the big man) has a duffle coat with toggles and a sweater modeled from what looks like stringy cottage cheese.

Design genius I'm sure you'll agree.

Then there's the almost Lynchian direction and scenes of unnerving bizarreness on screen.

Examples include the fact that every time a car doors slams it does so to the exact timing of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, the fact that local copper Harris, in a sign of almost Wicker Man-esque Lord Summerisle adoration of Dr. Landers, dutifully follows the physician around whenever he's onscreen, helping him into his coat, bowing graciously and even following him around with his trilby like a dutiful footman.

And taking of headware, the mighty Peter Cushing adds a subtle touch to the oncoming danger, donning a variety of more and more darker hats (and matching shirts) as the movie progresses.

Insert slimy tentacle and/or cock here. Please.

Ah good old Peter Cushing, probably the scariest thing is how such a threadbare company as Planet were able to afford such a prestigious actor.

The same goes for director of Terrence Fisher’s standing.

I've no idea what incriminating photographs Planet's head had of the pair but I for one would love to see them.

Ripe for re-release and begging to be remade (but on the same budget obviously) Island of Terror is a remarkable experience that will alter the way you look at your testicles for years to come.

And there aren't many films you can say that about.

bee best.

Now that Trump is gonna be dragged kicking and screaming from the White House in a couple of weeks before being carted off to prison where he'll no doubt be passed around like the latest issue of What's On TV magazine, I realized that Melania is going to need a new job.

And I can think of much worse things she could do (or has done for her green card) than maybe appear in a remake of this classic.

I mean it's practically her life story already.

So Mels, give us a call and I'll see what I can do to make this happen.

Delirium: Photos Of Gioia (1987).
Dir: Lamberto Bava.
Cast: Serena Grandi, Daria Nicolodi, Vanni Corbellini, Karl Zinny, Lino Salemme, Sabrina Salerno, David Brandon, Capucine and George 'The Body' Eastman.

''a woman's anger can be very bad''

Terrifyingly breasted Former model cum part-time porn princess Gioia (Grandi, the big faced star of such quality movies as Anthropophagous: The Beast, Angelina: Lady of the Night and Frivolous Lola), has finally hit the big time with the publication of her cutting edge 'fashion' magazine, the aptly titled Pussycat.

To celebrate, our dirty pillowed darling has hired her hunky photographer brother Tony (Corbellini whom you may recognize from his star turn as Gualtiero Di San Casciano in the fantastic TeeVee miniseries Black Arrow....or maybe not) and his camp as pants assistant, Roberto (Brandon from, um, Beyond Dark) to re-imagine some of the risqué images that made her world famous (well they helped your dad thru' some lonely times) but this time using a hot new lady-model.

Your mum last Saturday night.

Everything goes swimmingly (and I must admit, quite sexily in a kinda eighties way) and the shoot wraps without a hitch, unfortunately, shortly after leaving Gioia's villa little miss model (we'll call her Babs) is brutally (and not to mention bloodily) slain with a rusty pitch fork.

Ouch.

Luckily (for the police, not the model, obviously) this wicked act is witnessed by Gioia's wheelchair bound young neighbour - and part time stalker - Mark (Zinny, long faced star of Bava's Demons and Graveyard Disturbance) thru his telescope that he just happens to have had trained on the swimming pool all day.

Dirty wee sod.

Yes it is Sabrina - you know the one that sang 'Boys -Summertime Love' and the Stock, Aitken and Waterman classic 'All Of Me' - being touched up by mummies in case you were wondering.

 

 

Being a nice guy he immediately phones Gioia -rather than the police- with the news.

Tho' it's a surprise that he can find the telephone under the pile of crusty tissues in his room if I'm honest.

Unfortunately our busty babe, thinking it's just another of Mark's pervy phone calls (he doesn't get out much) hangs up on him.

Thinking nothing more of the situation Gioia goes back to work preparing the next big issue (of Pussycat magazine, not the paper that the homeless sell) and trying to contact Babs to offer her another job (this time advertising the cut price undies for the Aldi catalogue no doubt).

With her phone ringing out constantly and no-one having seen her for weeks, Gioia assumes that poor old Babs is on holiday, but this idea is cruelly shattered when not only does her body turns up behind some bins but also an envelope arrives at the 'Pussycat' office containing photographs of the murdered model posed in front of a huge blow up piccie of our Gioia.

"Eye hen!"

From then on it's murder after murder as more and more models on the Pussycat books start turning up dead - and in poses that'd make a whore, or your mum, blush - meaning it's up to police inspector Corsi Manlove (Salemme, another refugee from Graveyard Disturbance and latterly a star of The Passion of the Christ) to find this mammary minded mentalist behind the deaths before it's too late.

Too late for what I have no idea, but you have to admit it sounds good.

Manly.

Corsi is convinced that the killer must be harboring a grudge against Gioia (no shit) and is probably someone very close to her.

Figuratively speaking that is, I mean not actually standing behind her or something.

But who?

Could it be mustachioed man-breasted Alex? (genre god Eastman in a small but perfectly formed cameo that involves him having soapy sex with Grandi in a bathtub) or is it kooky Evelyn? (the ever wonderful Nicolodi, who is never anything other than perfect).

Possibly not.

So how about Roberto who's been seen cruising around the streets at night looking for a nice bit of manarse (and we all know that according to giallo rules homosexuality equals evilness) or is it Mark, driven insane by the constant night time visits by Mother Fist and her five beautiful young daughters?

And don't forget Gioia's bitchy lesbian publishing rival Flora (Capucine from Fellini's Satyricon) who's trying to get her bony old lady fingers into both Gioia's magazine and her silky undies.

Or is it someone else?

But let's be honest here, do we really care?

Once seen, never forgotten - a bit like when you catch your parents having sex - Lamberto Bava's Delirium plays out like some bastard beast-child that sprung from the (sweaty yet gloriously smooth and tanned) loins of Jackie Collins after a particularly heaving drink and drugs session with Joe D'Amato's pet dog.

Whose name I believe was Pascal.

Originally conceived as a star vehicle for one time 'sexiest woman in Italy' Serena Grandi (at that point more famous for her 39D boobs than any of her acting roles), Delirium was written to showcase her fantastic acting range as well as her pendulous breasts and peachy arse, therefore mixing emotional, heart felt drama with a bit of soft core nudity.

Oh yes and lots and lots of blood.

But it's not all killings, cod-psychobabble and boobs tho' as the film has a pretty unique ace up its wizard-like sleeve.

Namely the fact that the killer (due to some freaky medical condition that is never explained) sees all his victims as tho' they have huge comedy paper mache carnival heads.

No, really.

Yup, for no other reason than the joke shop next door to the studio was having a closing down sale the murderer sees one of his soon to be victims with a giant cyclops face (and a nasty seventies bun hairstyle a wee bit like your gran) and, in a scene that will live in cinema as a perfect example of celluloid genius long after you and I have passed on, sees another as having a big furry bee head.

Oh and scarily pointed breasts.

But I have a feeling those are real.

I don't know what's freakier,
the big bee head or the shocking pink wallpaper.

But it's these scenes of bloodletting, bizarro bonces and bouncing breasts that are the films saving grace, because if it wasn't for them breaking the arse numbing tedium of the movie every five minutes you'd have to concentrate on what passes as the plot.

"I'm sorry I have my womans period!"

If, however you manage to make it to the movies end then you'll be happy to know that it climaxes (oooerrr) with a dribbling man cutting off Grandi's flimsy garments whilst pervily whispering ''I want to see you in the nude, one last time''.

And after the amount of times she's flashed her (slightly soiled) wares during the proceeding ninety minutes the promise of no more nudity seems like a godsend.

One to keep you entertained during lockdown.

Or if you're missing your gran.

happy new year.