a true story.

A few years ago, there was a wealthy couple who had two young children, a boy and a girl. The family lived in a large house in Newport Beach, California. After taking care of their kids all week, the mother and father decided that they needed a break, so they booked a table for dinner at a nice restaurant. That evening, they called a teenage girl they knew and arranged for her to come over and babysit their children while they were out. When the babysitter arrived, the parents told her to fix supper for the kids and put them to bed.
"After that you can just watch TV and help yourself to anything in the fridge", said the father.
"And if you wouldn't mind," said the mother, "could you watch TV in our bedroom? The kids have been having nightmares recently, so if you hear them crying, you can just go in and calm them down."
The babysitter happily agreed and the parents left for their dinner date. The girl gave the children some milk and cookies, then ushered them upstairs to bed. She started to read them a bedtime story and, before long, the little boy and girl were fast asleep. After tucking them in, she switched off the lights and went to watch TV.
As time passed, the babysitter started to feel more and more uneasy. Finally, she decided to go downstairs and phone the parents. When she dialed the number they had left for her, the mother answered.
"Hi, it's me," said the babysitter. "Everything's fine. The kids are fast asleep in bed, but I was just wondering, would be OK if I watched TV downstairs?"
"Of course," replied the father. "But why?"
"I know it sounds silly," laughed the girl, "but the statue of Vincent D'onofrio in your back yard is really creeping me out.
The phone went silent for a moment.
"Listen to me very carefully," said the father. “Take the children and get out of the house. We will call the police. We don't have a statue of Vincent D'onofrio."

thought of the day.

thought of the day.

For those of you that missed it.

Excellent.

Can we carry on now?

no hell field in.

A Field in England (2013).
Dir: Ben Wheatley.
Cast: Julian Barratt, Peter Ferdinando, Richard Glover, Ryan Pope, Reece Shearsmith and Michael Smiley as O'Neill

For those readers from foreign parts a wee bit of a history lesson might be in order to truly appreciate this movie seeing as it's set in the olden days.

During the year (of our Lord) 1642 the weather in England was particularly warm causing the majority of the nation to become rather grumpy due to half of them having to wear heavy cloaks, frilly shirts and large hats, topped off with rather fancy moustaches every day because shorts and t-shirts had yet to be invented.

These foppish fellows were nicknamed Cavaliers.

At the other extreme of English culture were an unfortunate group suffering the affliction of massive heads due to the law forbidding them to remove their hats.

Banding together in the town of Bradford these unfortunates pulled together to form Britain's first "crusty-punk" pop combo's The New Model Army.

These fellows were known as Roundheads.

Obviously.

With neither the weather or the fashions improving everyone got together and decided that what the country needed was a war to take everyone's minds of things.

Being English tho' it was decided not to have any violent skirmishes like other less civilized nations but to conduct the whole thing in a very courteous and kind manner.

Hence The English Civil War was created.

A war that was fought without real weapons but mainly with the armies standing either side of a huge hedgerow firing eggy smokebombs and shouting at each other.

Fact.

"Quick men! Load the rotten egg cannon!"

It's during one of these hedge-based hullabaloos that we're introduced the angry Captain Percy Trower (the tiny eyed Barratt from hit teevee comedy The Mighty Boosh).

And the reason for his anger?

Apart from having to appear in this movie obviously?

Well, it appears that the other team have decided not to turn up instead rigging up a selection of flour bombs in the bushes accompanied by a tape recording of common people screaming and shouting "Ooh Aar!".

Not expecting such coarse language, Trower's men have become so frightened that they've taken to falling headlong thru' the shrubbery in a state of utter panic not helped by the fact that poor Trower ends up impailed on a Do Not Feed The Ducks sign due to an unexpected chorus of The Wurzels hit 'Combine Harvester' suddenly blasting from a hidden tannoy.

Ouch.

"Miso! Miso! Fighting in the dojo. Miso! Miso! Oriental prince in the land of soup!"

As Trowers men run screaming from the scene, trainee alchemist and master debater Richard Whitehead (professional grumpy Blackbird Shearsmith from teevees The League of Gentlemen) awakens in the hedgerow only to discover  the enigmatic gypsy Ivor Cutler (Pope who was once in The Bill here channelling David Essex) gently trying to persuade the stubbly soldier David Jacob (ex ABBA hit Ferdinando) and his friend Friend (Sightseers star and fancy hat wearer Glover) to help him dig up a missing Irish necromancer (Smiley) who just happens to be hidden somewhere in the field alongside some treasure or something.

It's all rather vague and arty.

"This is a local field for local people! We'll have no plot development here!"

To aid them in their quest Cutler has kindly cooked a broth of magic mushrooms for everyone and organized a friendly game of tug o' war as well as penning a few novelty ditties to keep their spirits up.

Cue what seems like 16 hours of sub Wicker Man imagery, fetid folk tunes and endless scenes of one of Britain's greatest comedy talents running around pretending to be a pony.

In slow motion.

What the hell did poor Reece do to deserve this?

Fuck Wheatley's daughter?

"Please don't let the mooth shite-in start!"

From Ben Wheatley the pie guzzling beard obsessed director of the botched backstreet abortion that is Kill List and the fairly harmless Sightseers (well put it this way, I at least didn't want to self harm after it) comes quite possibly the biggest load of arse I have ever had the misfortune to sit thru.

Seemingly shot in glorious shades of muddy grey on an old Panasonic M10, what the film lacks in charm, production values and plot it more than makes up for in cod-intellectual (and ineffectual) ramblings and a pompous sense of self importance rarely seen in someone with so little talent, desperately wanting to channel the British horror brilliance of Pete Walker, Wheatley comes across more like a peat bog.

Obviously aimed at the lemming like chin strokers with more money than sense and those sockless art fags that clog up tube trains with their big portfolio's full of vapid reheated retro-wank, the lack of effort that appears to have gone into it's production (even the white balance is off, could they afford even a piece of fucking A4 paper?) is as offensive as the makers claims of producing a thought provoking piece of cinematic genius.

A field in England yesterday was unavailable for comment.

And for those of you angrily pouting that I've missed the point or that I'm just not clever enough to understand it (hello director of Yellowbrickroad) I have just this to say:

You've been had mate, get over it.

Truly the worst movie I have ever seen.

And from me you know that's something.

no hell's house party.

Sorry about the recent lack of updates but work coupled with a severe allergic reaction to this film has kept me out of action for a while.

Even now I'm still having flashbacks.

Evil Dead (2013).
Dir: Fede Alvarez.
Cast: Jane Levy, Shiloh Fernandez, Lou Taylor Pucci, Jessica Lucas and Elizabeth Blackmore.

"I will feast on your soul!"
"Feast on this motherfucker!"

Poor old Mia (Levy from the US version of Shameless, which is apt) has a problem with 'the drugs' so her best buddies; Eric, Olivia, Mia's brother David and his girlfriend Natalie, sick of her crashing out in the corner at parties stinking of piss and eggs have decided to take her to an old cabin deep in the Tennessee (well, New Zealand) woods in order to get her clean.

Unfortunately things begin to go wrong from the moment they arrive, Mia (channelling Nights of Terror) starts to complains about the stench of death coming from a kitchen cloth whilst David's dog (the four legged kind not Natalie) during a bout of rug sniffing, comes across a cellar hatchway hidden under a carpet.

"Does it come on a Kindle?"

Deciding to investigate, our troubled teens are fairly surprised to discover not only a collection of animal corpses hanging from the ceiling, a double-barrelled shotgun and lying unloved on a table and wrapped in a bin bag a really shoddy fan made copy of the Necronomicon.

You can tell it's not the original for a variety of reasons not least being the fact that not only do the illustrations look like they were hastily scribbled by a 14 year old virginal heavy metal fan but that it also has handy English translations in the margins.

Oh yes and DO NOT READ scrawled across the cover in big letters.

This doesn't seem to put off the lank haired bespectacled Eric (Pucci from, fuck it do you really care?) tho' seeing as he decides to start reading passages from it aloud causing all many of strange camera angles and lighting effects.

Oh yes, and a she-demon (in reality Levy blacked up like a minstrel) to pop out the bushes and scare Mia, who's minding her own business sitting on the car from the original movies which just happens to be parked outside.

"Shite oot mah mooth you demonic bastards!"

Terrified (or embarrassed it's hard to tell) Mia pleads the group to let her leave saying that she really needs a poo but can't do it in an outside toilet but the group refuse, determined as they are to make her kick her 'habit'.

At this point I could understand how she felt.

With a wiggle of her peachy junk filled arse Mia grabs the car keys and stroppily drives away in the car (no-one bothered to hide the keys) but before she can make it any further than the top of the road the Al Jolson demon pops up out of nowhere causing Mia to crash.

As you would in these situations our drugged up dame legs it into the woods only to be attacked by the trees and have a slimy shit coloured tendril go up her Jemima Puddleduck.

Ouch.

And definitely don't fucking watch it.

The group after, ooh, minutes of searching find Mia lying in the woods covered in shit and stinking of piss (kinda appropriate for this movie) and take her back to the cabin where she attempts to warn David about the monster in the woods but the rest of the group think she's talking absolute shite in a vain attempt to escape back to her crack-addled world of drugs.

Which quite frankly is where I'd love to be right now.

If you think that's bad then imagine David's reaction when he finds that not only is his sister a total pain in the arse but that someone has bludgeoned his dog to death with a steel dildo.

Well, actually with a hammer but you have to agree my version would have been better.

Anyway in all this dog based death drama Mia manages to lock herself in the bathroom where she proceeds to scald herself in the shower for some reason or other.

"Boiled onions!"...a cellar based beast yesterday,

Finally deciding to do something proactive, David attempts to drive his by now slightly crispy sister to a hospital, but a flood has blocked the only road out.

What?

Didn't the budget stretch to a Lego bridge?

Back at the cabin, any attempt to sedate Mia seems to send her more and more loopy culminating in her turning up in the living room armed with a shotgun.

Unfortunately rather than shoot the entire cast dead and them herself she only manages to slightly graze David's shoulder before collapsing to the floor and vomiting over Olivia (Cloverfield's Lucas). 


Realizing that they're in a remake and that the movie is at the halfway point, David kicks Mia into the cellar and chains it shut giving the director a chance to give us a cellar based creep out even more terrifying than the original.

Unfortunately he manages to fuck that plan up by replacing the lo-fi frights of a paper mache covered Ellen Sandweiss with a visibly embarrassed Jane Levy doing her best amateur hour Exorcist impression whilst forced to shout the clumsily constructed "I'll feast on your soul!"

Bless.

...And how it should be done.

 Cue forty odd minutes of soulless slashings, paper thin homages to the beloved original, inconsistent lighting and a complete lack of understanding as to what made Raimi's original so damn good.

For fucks sake Sam, you can't be that skint.

Where does one start when it comes to the Evil Dead redux?

I'll admit that I was a wee bit sceptical when it was announced but was soon won over by Sam and Bruce's hard sell shmuck, which was a bit like a couple of long lost friends offering to take you out for the night to revisit your favourite pub from your younger days.

Sad thing is that when you get there they've knocked it down and built a carpark.

"Hey buddy! Wanna buy a franchise? Only one previous owner!"

Whilst the young things (and a few older people who should know better) seem to have been bewitched by the all glam and glitz approach to the remake, with it's promise of no CGI and unrated bloodletting they all appear to have forgotten what made the original so bloody brilliant in the first place.

 What the original lacked in budget it more than made up for in sheer unrelenting terror, the perfect haunted house movie made (puckered and twisted) flesh from a pre-digital age when only those young film makers with the perseverance and talent could hope to make their mark on a jaded industry.

And then usually by having to pawn the parents house. 

Sure the characters in the original are cliches but at least they're interesting cliches, the remake throws us the five most, whiny, self obsessed and boring teens since Dawson's Creek.

In the original you were rooting for Ash, Scottie, Linda, Cheryl and Shelly, this time round you're just praying that the cabin explodes taking the entire harsh faced, moaning cast with it.

Alvarez, this is your fault.

I could go on but what's the point?

No talent, no mercy, no point....like watching your wife, high on crack sell your first born into child sex slavery. 

I actually pulled a nail off in anger during it. 

Fede Alvarez your turn is coming. 

That is all.















*Except to say that giving your characters the initials D, E, M, O and N isn't big or clever, it's just shite.

never forget.

Belinda Maine.

Just you're average email.

just received this email at The Arena.

 

Fuck knows why.

 

But saying that it's better than the usual death threats.

 

Probably.

 

Rupert Grint: A warning.

Rupert Grint’s gargantuan hands reach out and shove you back into the chair, hairy knuckles squeezing your shoulders painfully at the end of his gangly arms. “Oi’ve hit me puberty,” he intones in his gravelly new voice, “so now oi’m the man!” He stands upright, towering over you, and leans his head back to let you appreciate his first claim to adulthood: the rudiments of a scraggly beard appearing along the line of his jaw. He twists one between his thumb and forefinger, tugging it gingerly. “Cor! ‘at’s a right pisser, ‘innit?”

You don’t have time to answer before he shifts his attention downward, to the fly of his jeans. He lifts his Hogwarts jersey and, with a few deft movements, it stands before you: his thick, unclipped, distinctly British hog. This is not the dainty, elegantly tapered ginger morsel you remember. Brackish pubes menace from his distended scrotum, curling outward at you. The sack itself has taken on the appearance of Mickey Rooney, seemingly aging a lifetime in mere months, and his penis has exchanged its youthful pallor for a yellow-brown tinge that reminds you of overripe fruit.

“‘orright mate, get to work, get to work! I’m not gon’ta’ wank i’!” He bellows his baritone commands at you expectantly, even as the monster begins to take shape. As if awakening for the first time in its wretched existence, his meaty chud rises off his balls with a malevolent swagger. He lets it brush against your cheek and leans backward, allowing you one last, furtive glimpse of the boy you once loved.. and the abomination he has become.

Steeling yourself, you return your eyes to the task before you. He is ready now, you realize, his slit glistening with precum, his shaft twitching with his heartbeat. This is it. You detect the scent of fish and vinegar on the air, and it reminds you of better times. It seems so long ago….

 

 

sad single women - an apology.

In my review of Cool for Cats I mistakenly wrote the phrase: Shoddily made shite for sad single women when in fact I obviously meant to write Shoddily made shite for single women's sad cats.

My inbox have been literally overwhelmed with complaints from hundreds of obviously not at all sad single women (some with cats) so I'd like to not only apologize for any hurt or insult caused but also present my handy visual guide to women with (and without) cats.


Enjoy.

Normal lady with cat (not sad).

Sad cat.

Sad lady (with bag cats).

Sad lady (without cat).

Bat-Cat (without lady, he works alone).

Normal lady (without cat) yesterday.

Hope that clears everything up.

rejected pitches 2.

Just got an Email back from Marvel/20th Century Fox, the bastards have rejected my pitch for the X-Men-First Class sequel.



I still believe it could be the greatest superhero movie since The Phantom.

Here goes:

Pimping professor Charles Xavier decides to build a brothel as a tool to making humans get along with mutants and the like.

Storm, Rogue, Jubilee, Cyclops, Jean and others, Xavier’s former students, will help by working in the Brothel.

Magneto is responsible for looking over Xavier’s Brothel, rating the establishment’s quality from time to time, and helping him by attracting richer and more powerful costumers.

Reed Richards opens a downmarket brothel, staffed by street urchins, homeless teens and former members of Alpha flight next door.

Super heroic rivalry and hilarity ensues.

And if you're reading this Mark Millar, you can have this for a packet of Silk Cut and a tenner.

dick strangelove.

...or how I stopped worrying and learnt to love the hom.

Welcome to the wackily right wing world of conservative cartoonist Dick Hafer,  best known for his controversially archaic Christian comics, where MAD style artwork sits uncomfortably alongside the most overblown anti-gay rhetoric and fascistic moral bullshit ever written.

It's enough to make Hitler baulk.



But don't just take my word for it, enjoy for yourselves:

And frighteningly enough there's more where this came from.

still missing.

Just a quick note for all of our American cousins that keep stumbling across my blog whilst searching for your next filthy Megan is Missing fix.

Megan: She might look apprehensive now but just wait till the mooth shite-in' starts.

I don't know how to break this to you all but the film is PRETEND!

Yup that's right....IT'S NOT REAL, she's an actress, she's even on Facebook and I know this will dissapoint you but alas I never killed her.

Yes that's right she's alive and not really in my basement.

which does mean that there's room for YOU!

Thanks for listening.

big bloody plug.

If you enjoy my inane ramblings here why not visit my day job?

Just promise to be kind (plus I only have one follower so I'm getting kinda lonely).

have a good one!

the festive thing.