t-rextacy.

Originally released way back in 1994 on the ragged coattails of Jurassic Park, Tammy and the T-Rex is a bit of a guilty pleasure at Arena Towers - epitomizing as it does everything that was/is utter shit about mid 90s movies.

When I reviewed this originally way back in 2007 I remember saying (well typing but you get the idea) that it would probably fare a wee bit better - and receive a bit more love - if the director had just gone "fuck it!" and made it a gore soaked T-Rex 'n' sex based movie to begin with rather than a poverty row screwball comedy filled with cock jokes and hellish homosexual stereotypes.

So you can imagine my surprise - I'm easily pleased - when it was announced that an unrated “Gore Cut” had been discovered and is finally getting a Glasgow airing next month.*

Hopefully someone will read this and be so impressed they'll invite me along to do a 'proper' review.
If not you'll just have to put up with the very old - and very creaky one from way back.

For those of you reading it for the first time - enjoy, and for those of you re-reading it - I've added a few more "Shite in mah mooth!" captions for you so everyone's a winner.
Except Paul Walker obviously.

And not just because he had to spend the entire shoot encased in a dinosaur suit that the Pertwee era production team would think twice at putting on screen.

Tammy And The T-Rex (1994)
Dir: Stuart Raffil.
Cast: Denise Richards, Paul Walker, George Pilgrim, Ellen Dubin, Sean Whalen, Theo Forsett, Terry Kiser and a big dinosaur.

Fish lipped and shiny haired high school cheerleader Tammy (a pre-Bond - and pre-Botox - Richards) has fallen madly in love with the sensitive yet still manly football jock Michael (a pre-death Walker) and spend her school days gazing adoringly at him from afar.

Unfortunately tho' her mad as a bag of spanners, ex-beau Billy (Pilgrim, best known as the original AJ Chamberlain on CBS's longest running Soap Opera of all time, Guiding Light) is making her life a living hell, stalking her, phoning her and generally being a bad lad who takes particular offense to Michael's apparent interest in Tammy which culminates in a playground scrap where the pair roughly grab each others genitalia to see who will let go first much to the eye-popping amusement of Tammy's black and gay (wasn't it always the way in the 90s?) best friend Byron (Forsett, best known for Street Knight and Street Hawk - poor fucker).

Luckily this only brings the pair together and Michael finally asks her out for a picnic.


As in for sandwiches, crisps and pop 'n' stuff, not just to share a chocolate bar.

Glad that's sorted.

But Billy is lying in wait and upon discovering Michael in Tammy’s room later that evening explodes in a fit of jealous rage and chases poor Michael across town before beating the crap out of him and throwing his unconscious body into the lion enclosure at the local zoo.

Which seems a wee bit over the score if I'm honest.

Fast, furious and fish lipped.

As luck - and plotting - would have it Michael is only slightly (but not quite fatally) mauled and is rushed to hospital under the care of medical mentalist Dr. Wachenstein (TeeVee stalwart and Friday the 13th Part VII: The New Blood star Kiser giving it 110%) and his 'busty' German assistant Helga (Dubin from Napoleon Dynamite and your dad's bed).

Hearing the terrible news Tammy hurriedly squeezes into her best slut chic outfit and rushes to be at Michael's bedside only to find that Wachenstein - after having a wee fiddle with his bits because he's a bad man - has transplanted Michael's brain into the body of a ferocious T-Rex.

As you would.

Tammy does what any strong independent woman would do in this situation and faints.

As does Byron because he's gay obviously.


But what of poor Michael?

Waking up in his new (tiny handed) body he, quite understandably, goes on a mad killing rampage attacking Billy and his gang at a pool party before squashing the bully underfoot.

Luckily for the crew the 'delicate' animatronics didn't fuse in the water, tho' the fact that the dinosaur can only move it's head ala the Clooney Batman probably means it was a clockwork one.

Either that or a really awful Halloween costume.

There's no time to spend admiring the dino-suit tho' as we're about to strike comedy gold when Helga arrives at the scene and upon surveying the carnage decides to roll the squashed body of Billy up like a carpet.

Oh.

My.

Sides.

"Fiona! Where's mah lunch?"

Realising that most of the subsequent dino attacks are probably going to end up on the cutting room floor director Raffil plows straight into the romance subplot so has Michael kidnap Tammy and take her to a secluded hayloft just out of town.

Tho' how he can pick her up in those itsy bitsy stick thin arms is never revealed.

It doesn't take Tammy long to figure out that the horny lizard rubbing against her leg is her beau and so begins a race against time (and good taste) to find Michael a more 'acceptable' body and one better suited to giving Tammy the love she needs whilst dodging the local sheriff and the mad doctor intent on reclaiming his latest creation.

Seriously you get the idea, can I stop now?

Laugh now!

From the director who gave us Mannequin: On the Move, The Ice Pirates and Mac And Me comes a movie that does for the dinosaur what Cruising did for random night club pick-ups.

Tho' to be fair at least after Cruising your dad decided to stay home a wee bit more at the weekend which probably helped save yer folks marriage.

At least till you left home and he moved out to share a flat with his pal Brian from work.

You remember, the flat you couldn't visit because it only had one bedroom so your dad slept on the couch.

Just me then?

No caption needed.

Anyway back to Tammy and the T-Rex - if I must - which is just like your dad's life choices is a cliche-filled, ultra-shite crapfest of equally baffling and oddly schizophrenic proportions that's neither funny enough or blackly comic enough to be any way successful tho' to it's - very mild - credit it does have some scenes that raise if not a wee chuckle then a little bit of bile at the back of your throat.

Yes, I'm talking about the bit where Tammy sexily strips to her 80s style white Madonna basque and suspenders - complete with white fluffy boa in front of a brain in a jar.

A brain she has just poured a glass of champagne over to 'get it in the mood'.

Oh.

My.

Sides.

Oh, and maybe, just maybe I'd have to mention the scene with the T-rex watching a funeral from behind a bush and maybe even the 'tender' love moments between Tammy and a large rubber dinosaur which were both vaguely amusing but that's about it seeing as most of the alleged comedy comes from some Chuckle Brothers style pratfalls and the fact that Tammy might be sleeping with a dinosaur, I mean just imagine the films standing if the director had show the balls to give us some foxy Denise on dino' soft focus, MOR scored loving.

Or is that just me that gets excited by that thought?

"Shite in mah huge Jurassic mooth you ape descended bastards!"

Worth it only if you're a crap dinosaur fan or get off at the thought of Denise Richards dressed up like your uncles new mail-order 'girlfriend' at Christmas whilst flirting outrageously with a rubber T-Rex.


Or if you have shit for eyes.










































*Tho' if you lived in Italy on it's original release you've probably seen most of the cut stuff seeing as the deleted scenes were reinstated there.

let's be frank....

For your viewing pleasure here's a video featuring every guest star ever to appear on top teevee tec show Cannon.

Enjoy.

it's raining men.

People say that I cover way too much horror and sleaze on this blog and not enough films featuring large white pants.

Well it's the new year so I thought I'd change all that.

And luckily in this age of comic adaptations it just happens to be one of those too, so hopefully this'll get some kids reading in a mistaken view that this is the one-stop shop for all things Marvel/DC related.

Enjoy.

Otenki-oneesan (AKA Weather Woman 1996).
Dir: Tomoaki Hosoyama.
Cast: Kei Mizutani, Takashi Sumida, Yasuyo Shiroshima, Kunihiko Ida, Ren Osugi, Saori Taira.

Given the films title you may not be too shocked when I tell you that it is indeed the story of a female weather broadcaster, in this case it's stand in teevee weather girl Kieko Nakadai (she-ferret Kei Mizutani) who, during her first forecast, accidentally flashes her pants to the nation.
I often wished Carol Kirkwood would do the same.

You could house an entire refugee family quite comfortably in those.

Not too surprisingly ratings soar and Kieko becomes a media darling, not just in Japan but worldwide and instead of replacing regular weather girl Michiko (Teevee starlet Saori Taira) for one night, Keiko is given a permanent slot in which to flash her pants, forecast snow and the like to an adoring nation.

Why can't all films have plots this simple?

Or pant-centric?

Harsh.

Poor Michiko is relegated to hosting the hit reality TV show ‘Hentai-san, hajimemashite’ (Hello, Mr Pervert!).

Obviously angry and annoyed (tho' it's hard to tell from her acting plus I kept getting distracted by her shoulder pads) at losing the best job on teevee Michiko plots her revenge.

In between presenting stories about old men fondling strangers arses and guys in love with horses that is.

Just imagine This Morning but with smoother thighs.

Luckily for her the studio owners daughter, a French educated weather expert named Shimamori (Yasuyo Shiroshima, ultra-cute star of the fantastic BeeBop High School) also has plans to oust our heroine (who is in fact her old school rival) and, after humiliating Kieko during a live broadcast, takes over the weather slot hoping to be crowned national 'Weather Woman'.

Just. Too. Cute.

Deciding to fight back Kieko enlists the help of fellow employee and professional stalker Yamagushi (none trick pony Takashi Sumida) a creepy geek with a crush on Kieko.

Why? You may ask.

As in why does she need his help not as to why he fancies her obviously.

Well, it appears that Yamagushi owns the fabled 'Heavenly Whip' which, when used on Kieko, will grant her the power to control the worlds weather (no, I'm not making this up) enabling her to defeat Shimamori.

"Gordon's alive!"

After an extremely long (and slightly uncomfortable) scene of Kieko bound and whipped by her sweaty stalker she finally gains control over the elements and is reborn as the all powerful Weather Witch, heading over to the studio to battle Shimamori for the ultimate prize.....

Who will triumph?

And more importantly what will they be wearing?

Fair enough.

Director Tomoaki Hosoyama's first (and last) stab at mainstream success, after his 'Pinku' classic (and plea for sexual tolerance) Lesbian Colony (1987) certainly knows how to grab the audiences attention, opening the film, as he does, with Kei Mizutani masturbating furiously atop a building, which kinda gives it the edge over Suicide Squad in the comics to film stakes.

Never one to miss a trick he shows her at it again about twenty minutes in (tho' he does change the scenery by setting this saucy scene in the station toilets) and intercuts all this fiddling with an almost obscene amount of pantie flashing (I lost count after thirty), which I'll be the first to admit does detract from Kei Mizutani's nightmarish incisors and ghoulishly grotesque  pin-head.

Kirkwood, you would, I would. Twice.

What makes this movie truly bizarre tho' (as if the 'plot' wasn't enough) is that alongside the copious amounts of sexiness and fetish fantasies are serious commentaries on Japanese business culture and interpersonal relationships (no really) coupled with off the wall moments of untranslatable 'comedy' and satirical jibes at the state of television, making it slightly more schizophrenic than Norman Bates but better looking in a dress, obviously.

Comic lady.

Real lady.

Vibrant, colourful, vaguely amusing, slightly smutty yet never boring, Weather Woman is the perfect movie to entertain grannie with (or anyone with a thing for rat faced, grumpy women, uncle Jeff perhaps?) on those rainy afternoons and sits proudly at the top spot of the weather-based, underwear obsessed witchcraft movie genre.

Check the shoes.

It's just a pity that Tomoaki Hosoyama went and ruined it all with the totally unnecessary sex based (and shoulder showing) low in laughs sequel Weather Woman Returns but hey ho at least it's not New Female Teacher - Leotards of Temptation - now that is shite.

Don't worry the usual films about bad murders and the like will be back soon.

bridezilla.

Happy 2020 all - well as a happy as a new year can be when the President of the United States is threatening war in the Middle East and Doctor Who is hemorrhaging fans quicker than a really quick thing.

Doctor Who yesterday....or is that tomorrow?

At least the Mark Gatiss/Steven Moffatt re-imagining of Dracula (you know the one with the cleaning product in it) has been pretty good so far.

And not just because of Molly Wells frankly fantastic turn as Agatha Van Helsing.

So in tribute let's start 2020 as we mean to go on, with a wee bit of the vampirism and a whole lot of the lesbianism.

Oh yeah and that woman out of The Champions naked for a scuba mask.

Ladies and gentlemen I give you.....



The Blood Spattered Bride (AKA The Bloody Bride. 1972).
Dir: Vicente Aranda.
Cast: Simón Andreu, Maribel Martín, Alexandra Bastedo, Dean Selmier, Rosa Rodriguez, Montserrat Julio and Angel Lombarte.

"They'll come back. They cannot die!"

The lovely librarian-like Susan (La cera virgen star Martin) and her unnamed (onscreen) husband - who for the duration of this review we will call Bob (Andreu from Amando de Ossorio's classic Night of the Sorcerers which I really should review at some point) are speeding thru' the Spanish countryside en route to the honeymoon hotel after just getting married where they'll spend a few days holed up for some rumpy pumpy before heading to Bob’s family estate, a massive castle which he's not visited for many a year.

Which is always the way in these films.
Arriving at the hotel Bob tells Susan to head straight up to the room while he 'puts the car in the garage' - which isn't a euphemism I'm afraid - and Susan, being a wee bit wet, nods her head and does as she's told.

Ah it was a more innocent time.

And by innocent I mean slightly sexist obviously.

Hanging her clothes up in the wardrobe she's surprised when a man with a stocking on his head jumps out and after smothering her with her veil, tears off her clothes and begins to ravish her.

Which I must admit was fairly unexpected.

Suddenly Bob enters the room to Susan sitting on the bed in an undamaged dress, looking as though she's just farted and followed thru'.

“I don’t want to stay here, I don’t like this hotel.” She says.

Phew, it was all in her head.

As opposed to all in the wardrobe obviously.

Paddington.

Anyway 10 minutes in and we've had the first breast reveal - to prove this is an artsy vampire film obviously - so with that out of the way we can get on with the pesky plot as Bob packs up and takes Susan to his castle where she meets his - again nameless - servants/housekeepers (Lombarte from The Killer with a Thousand Eyes, and Horror Rises from the Tomb's Julio) as well as their 12-year-old daughter Carol (Rodriguez), who all take to her straight away.

Possibly because they were worried that being a castle owning rich bloke he was more interested in deflowering Carol than meeting someone his own age.

Just me then?

Fair enough.

This is probably really symbolic of something or other but I'm too thick to know. Sorry.

Retiring to the bedroom that evening Bob is surprised to find that Susan wants him to undress her (lazy cow) but when he happily obliges by tearing at her flimsy lace gown with his sweaty sausage fingers (tho' leaving her massive granny pants intact) she lies there in shock as visions of the  masturbatory hallucinatory fantasy she had in the hotel fill her mind.

Guilty pleasures or an ominous sense of things to come?

Who can say cos by this point Susan's slight mentalism is showing in other ways as she begins to see a beautiful, blonde girl in a lavender dress roaming the estate.

And she's sure she's seen this woman before.

Spooky.

Possibly the most erotically librarian based outfit I have seen for quite some time. That is all.

Bored and wandering the house to look for things to dust (as women do) Susan soon notices that every one of the family portraits adorning the walls of the castle are of men and inquisitively asks Carol the reason why.

Because it's easier to ask a small child about your husbands family history than your actual hubbie obviously.

As it turns out it's quite an interesting story - well more interesting than the main plot anyway - you see all the portraits of the ladies were stashed in the cellar by order of her husband’s granddad after he caught his wife having sex with the postman.

Which is fair enough I guess.

One portrait in particular intrigues Susan tho and that's the one of a blonde woman in a lavender dress, caressing an ornate dagger in one hand whilst wearing four massive inverted rings on the other.

It'd destroy you just thinking about a hand job.

The strangest thing about the painting tho' is the fact that the face has been cut out just like one of those novelty 'Kiss Me Quick' stand-ups you used to get at the seaside.

This it transpires is Bob's totally bonkers great aunt Mircalla Karstein who a century back, killed her husband on their wedding night as he attempted to do something very naughty to her.

Tho' they don't tell us what.

Anyway it was said that Mircalla was discovered the next morning sprawled across the bed with her nightie up around her neck next to her husband’s mutilated corpse in a deathly trance-like state but as it was a Sunday and the local doctor was out fishing the family decided to have bury her next to her hubbie to save time and any uncomfortable chat when she awoke.

And on that note Bob takes Susan to the tomb where she's buried in order to crack open the coffin and show her the bones.

What a romantic devil.

"Laugh now!"

And with that Susan's dreams about the mysterious blonde become much more vivid.

Like you're surprised?

From imagining Mircalla giving her the dagger from the painting to dreaming about touching Mircalla's breasts (well it is European), Susan becomes more and more distraught as the nightmarish visions continue and the situation isn't helped when she discovers the dagger under her pillow one morning.

As is the way everyone is quick to blame Carol who unfortunately doesn't get spanked with a slipper, instead she's tutted at and sent to her room whilst Bob goes off to bury the blade in the garden.

It's like a particularly drugged up episode of Neighbours if I'm honest.

But the dreams don't stop and the next night Susan imagines Mircalla leading her to the grandfather clock in the hall, opening it to reveal the dagger before taking Susan back to the bedroom  where the pair stab Bob to death with it before removing his heart.

And his pants.

"Put it in me!"

In order to prove that the dreams are nothing but the result of a fragile female imagination Bob takes Susan to the clock to prove it but is fairly surprised to see that the dagger is in fact inside and with this he storms of to see the family doctor (Selmier) for some advice.

After listening to Bob whiter on for hours the doctor decides that Susan is suffering from a malaise often found in recently deflowered women and prescribes bubble baths and snuggles before warning Bob that if the treatment doesn't work they will have to lock her up.

That's the 70s for you.

As Susan gets more and more grumpy, rejecting not only her husbands advances but also his offers of warm, milky tea leaving Bob no alternative but to head off to the local secluded beach for a tearful wank and a ham sandwich.

Oh and to rebury the dagger obviously.

And it's there that things begin to get really odd.

Or ludicrous, take your pick.

You see, as Bob finishes burying the blade (ooeerr) he notices not only the top of a snorkel protruding from the sand a few feet away from him but also a human hand.

Quickly heading over he starts to frantically dig away around the snorkel soon uncovering a buxom blonde (Bastedo, from The Champions), totally naked save for the diving mask and a set of huge poundshop rings which she wears palm side in on her left hand.

Thanking Bob for digging her up she introduces herself as Carmilla (only one name a bit like Shakira or Billie) and explains that she'd fallen asleep sunbathing after a wee bit of scuba-diving and must have been buried when the tide came in.

Totally accepting this explanation Bob offers the nude woman a lift to the castle where she can borrow some clothes and maybe get a bite to eat.

Sounds legit.

You're welcome.

Unable to remember anything but her own name, Susan and Bob have no choice but to look after Carmilla till she regains her memory - which she appears to be trying to get back by sleeping in a makeshift coffin all day then parading around the house after dark in low cut dresses whilst licking her lips everytime Susan walks by.

Which is fairly enjoyable to watch but probably not to live with.

As you can imagine all this bouncy breast activity has a bit of a negative effect  on Susan, who gradually falls under Carmilla's spell and begins to partake in late night trysts with the mysterious stranger in the woods much to Bob's chagrin.

Standing up for himself he insists that their new houseguest gets a job to help with the bills and Carmilla (surprisingly) agrees applying for - and getting - a post at the local school teaching biology to Carol and her classmates.

Especially the bits about blood.

Between teaching teens and teasing troubled tottie Carmilla feeds Susan’s barely suppressed hatred for her husband whilst feeding on Susan's blood late at night in the old church where Mircalla is buried.

It's all go isn't it?

Worried for his wife's sanity - and frustrated that Carmilla is getting more action than he is - he calls on the doctor (not that one) to investigate and after a few evenings following the pair around he comes across the pair in a saucy sapphic situation, curled up naked in a Habitat sofa coffin in the church.

The office Secret Santa got stranger every year.

With her lesbian lusts discovered Carmilla decides the time is right to rid herself of the meddling menfolk around her so that she can have Susan all to herself....

From Spanish arthouse auteur, director, screenwriter and producer Vicente Aranda comes this slow burning take on J. Sheridan Le Fanu's 1872 Gothic novella of Carmilla that owes more to Jean Rollin's Shiver of the Vampires (released the previous year) than it does Hammer's kinky Karnstein trilogy.

Which is kinda disappointing but heyho.

I mean The Vampire Lovers has Madeline Smith in it so wins just for that fact alone. 

But whereas Rollin rebelled against such outdated notions as coherent plotting, casting actual actors  and Hammer concentrated solely on Ingrid Pitts admittedly stunning cleavage, Aranda - due in part to the draconian censorship laws regarding nudity on film during the Franco era - seems more interested in exploring Catholic guilt and sexual repression mixed in with a wee bit of social commentary regarding the treatment of women in 70s Spain.

Which is a worthy cause if not a wholly satisfying one when the poster promises blood, boobs and that woman from The Champions seducing a petite brunette.

Plus it's pretty difficult to criticize something when you're bound by its rules.

And even he admitted that the countries censorship issues  caused problems for him, especially when shooting Carmilla's demise.

But at least he tried, his earlier works Fata Morgana and The Exquisite Cadaver go someway to proving that.

"I can see your house from here Peter".

 

Luckily he has a cast that can carry the movie - even at it's most bizarre/ludicrous - delete as applicable - moments, from Maribel Martín's neurotically nervous young bride to Simón Andreu's condescendingly creepy hubby, every member of the films small cast gives it their all but most surprising of all is Alexandra Bastedo's seriously underplayed Carmilla.

For those of us used to the voluptuous vamps of Hammer or the council estate, dirt footed Rollin rascals Bastedo is a revelation, coldly calculating with a performance that is perfectly pitched 'tween boredom and bonkers.

Definitely leaning more toward classy vamp than saucy tramp she even manages to look otherworldly and aloof when clad only in a pair of goggles and buried in a kids sandpit.

I see your dad's taking the divorce well.

Go in expecting a feast of blood soaked girl on girl titillation and you'll be heartily disappointed but if you switch off your sleaze-radar and settle back for something a wee bit more refined you'll discover a wee gem of a movie that whilst nowhere near as great as Daughters of Darkness is an entertaining enough way to spend an evening.

Bizarrely enough tho' if you take this, The Vampire Lovers and Shiver of The Vampire and stick them in a blender you'd probably get the perfect Carmilla adaptation.

Maybe one day.

soggy biscuits.

Well as you may have noticed the last few weeks I kinda run out of SciFi stuff to review in preparation for The Rise of Skywalker and by default have blown any chances of upping my readership into double figures.

But hey, who needs readers?

It would entail having to review stuff that people actually want to see as well as probably upping the abusive email amount tenfold.

So anyway came across this searching for extra booze last night and remembered that it's become a kinda unofficial Christmas movie around here, no idea why tho'.

Might be because the girl on the cover looks like a novelty bauble.

Entrails of A Virgin (AKA Guts of A Virgin, Shojo no harawata. 1986)
Dir: Kazuo ‘Gaira’ Komizu.
Cast: Saeko Kizuki, Naomi Hagio, Megumi Kawashima, Osamu Tsuruoka, Kazuhiko Goda, Osamu Tsuruoka and Hideki Takahashi.

"それはまだでていますか？"

Welcome to mid-eighties Japan, where all the young women dress like Purdey from The New Avengers and all the guys have her haircut.

Did the local shop have a run on bowls or something?

Anyway off in the mountains just outside Kurashiki, young Rita (Kizuki, of Women in Heat Behind Bars fame) and her gal pals Kazza (Pinku no kaaten and Chokugeki! Ryôjoku-shi star Hagio) and Dave (frighteningly pointy chinned Kawashima in her only role) are busy working on a photo-shoot for top fashion and lifestyle magazine Spunkmonkey alongside famed photographer cum human hamster Ken (Tsuruoka - best known for Monzetsu!) and his assistants Alan (Katô, star of Katte ni shiyagare hey! Brother) and Gordon (Takahashi from the Sôsa keiji Chikamatsu Shigemichi movie series).

Bloody Hell that was a lot of words.

Less over the rainbow, more under it and just behind the bins.

Beginning with your average cheesy grins and shoddy swimsuit shots the whole thing soon degenerates into a sea of wet breasts, straining groins and bullet nippled naughtiness as each girl tries her best to convey the adult nature of the film.

Pity then the whole thing is backed by a cock bothering sub-standard light n' breezy jazz score.

I mean it's like trying to masturbate in a lift.

Probably.

Content with giving the (male) audience members something to fiddle over for ten minutes the merry band decide to pack up and head home in their decidedly Lego-like camper van backed by even more inappropriate cheesy listening music.

And it's these sinisterly shite sounds coupled with the male casts heady mix of untouched erections, egg stained shirts and sweat that - probably - causes a mysterious fog to rise making driving any further than the local - and deserted - community centre impossible.

Luckily tho' it's is well stocked with booze and food.

Alongside massive boxes of shaving foam and condoms.

What are the chances eh?

As my dad always said  if you want to wank over someone with the body of a 12 year old boy just get over it and find yourself an actual 12 year old boy.

Settling down for an evening of piss-weak drink, various spicy snacks and the hope of some sordid yet crisply shot arse banditry, our gleeful group gleefully get the party started, unaware that they're being stalked from the bushes by a muck encrusted someone - or something - that's less than human.

A something with a penis the size of a large baby.

A large baby with a really pronounced spine.

And a massive head.

"Paging Mr. Herman..."

Back at the community centre (did we ever really leave?) things are hotting up with Alan and Kazza indulging in a bout of underpant wrestling whilst a very sweaty Ken decides to try out his smooth seduction techniques on Rita.

For anyone that's interested in trying these techniques for themselves next time you're out they involve violently licking your (preferably huge) sausage fingers and forcing them up a ladies skirt.

Whilst  dribbling.

Surprisingly Rita actually seems impressed.

I obviously hang about the wrong type of places.

What your girlfriend gets up to on her 'college' night.

Meanwhile in the bushes, the beast man watches intently.

As the party starts to wind down and our loved up losers start to go their separate ways  (for more sex obviously) the big bollocked brute strikes, murdering the group one by one.

For the men it's beheadings and impailings but for the women it's death by demonic dong.

Who will survive unscathed?

"Put it in me!"

Good old Kazuo Komizu, not content with nicknaming himself after a 1960's flesh eating movie monster and writing the screenplays to literally dozens of top drawer erotic thrillers (everything from Female Market to Go! Go! to the criminally under-rated Second Time Virgin), he decided -  whilst midway thru' his second decade as a writer - to re-invent himself as Japan's answer to Joe D'amato creating as he did a brand new genre that consisted of (very) short movies containing nothing but arse, tits and sexual violence.

Pure, unadulterated exploitational sleaze for the bedroom bound, masturbation obsessed masses.

And for that at least we should be grateful.

I think.

Jeremy Beadles final wish.

It's scary to think that back in the dim and distant 80's that you could be arrested, stoned and then hung for even thinking about this movie because when viewed today it's all rather quaint with it's rough as road surfacing actresses, gore effects that look like they were conceived by a hook-handed child, comedic non-acting from the men - all nail biting and worried frowns - topped off with the most unattractive cum faces since you accidentally came across you mum and dad at it on the sofa that New Year when you were a small boy.

Obviously tho' neither of them were masturbating with a severed arm.

Cheerfully cheap and nasty (a wee bit like your wee sister) and with the greatest comedy cock this side of Boogie Nights - honestly, what's not to love?

lego lass.

Our youngest has just gotten back into Lego in a big way and - after hours of building, bashing, rebuilding and general tinkering it got me thinking.

Why are so many lady Lego characters so damned attractive?

Just me then?

hp source.

In the middle of doing some 'proper' work for some legitimate clients leading up to Christmas which means I don't really have enough time to watch and review the usual rubbish on here.

Be thankful for small mercies.

I have to make an exception for this beauty tho' as it's become a wee bit of a tradition that we watch it every Christmas.

Curse of the Crimson Altar (1968).
Dir: Vernon Sewell.
Cast: Christopher Lee, Boris Karloff, Michael Gough, Rosemarie Reede, Virginia Wetherell, Barbara Steele and Mark Eden.

"It's like Boris Karloff is going to pop up at any moment!"

 You have to feel sorry for square jawed antique dealer Robert Manning (Marco Polo himself and latter day Corrie mad man Eden), not only has his better looking brother Peter gone missing - kidnapped by a pervy tea towel wearing Satanic cult led by a turquoise breasted witch named Lavinia (swinging sixties sex goddess Steele), we got to see this amazing spectacle in the pre-credits teaser - after sending him only one of a matching pair of candle sticks but, and this is much more important, his attempts at flirting with his assistant Esther (Reede) have all the erotic pulling power of your dad pissed up and trying it on with a bridesmaid at a wedding.

The mighty man tits don't really help either if I'm honest.

With only a hastily written note detailing Peter's last whereabouts - which if you think about it is more than most folk have to go on - Robert heads off to the typographically odd Craxted Lodge in the quaint English village of Greymarsh, which by some bizarre twist of fate and plot convenience is where his family originally hails from, for some answers.

And maybe even a shirt or two that fit from the local tailors.

Barbara Steele: Ask yer granddad.

Driving into town in the middle of the night Robert is welcomed by the sight of a nearly naked young girl being chased by two mob filled cars and with him being an heroic type he pulls over, leaps out of his car and to her defence.

Wouldn't you know it tho', it's all a huge misunderstanding and the group are actually playing a grown up version of hide and seek possibly called run and ravish .

Sounds reasonable I guess.

Making his apologies for trying to punch everyone involved our hero is surprised to find himself invited along to the annual whacked-out witch party - of the type that only exist in the minds of middle aged film producers in the late '60's - being held at the Lodge.

Cut to ten minutes of saucy body painting, exotic types pouring cheap Cava over their overripe breasts, besuited Brylcream boys smoking dope and girls timidly touching each others thighs whilst licking their lips.

Robert, realizing that with all the drinking going on he might actually pull immediately grabs a large one and proceeds to fire into the first girl he sees, blonde bombshell Eve (Weatherell, best known for playing dishy Dyoni in the first Dalek story and waving her breasts at Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange) who just happens to be the niece of J.D. Morley (Christopher 'the kids school fees are how much?' Lee), the man he's there to see regarding his missing brother.

Lucky that.

Christopher Lee tries out Mark Eden's new Ronco anti-mooth shite-in mask.

Escorted by Morely's monosyllabic manservant Elder (the shameless Gough) to the drawing room, Robert is informed that Morley has never met his brother and has absolutely no idea who he is but does offer to let him lodge at the house until he either finds him or nails his niece.

Which is thoughtful of him.

Thanking his host before heading off for a quick Pot Noodle, Robert is waylaid by the arrival of the wheelchair bound local witchcraft expert Professor John Marsh (Karloff, nuff said) who, armed only with a bottle of home brewed tonic wine and a back of torture instruments proceeds to regale our hero with the tale of the luscious Lavinia Morley, a witch burned by the towns folk a hundred years ago that very night.

The party it seems is the locals way of celebrating the event because nothing says community spirit like a good burning.

Except maybe pedo baiting.

How your mum earns the money for all your Christmas presents.

Now that the entire cast have been introduced we can get on with the plot good and proper.

And my word what a plot it turns out to be featuring as it does a Joe Orton style mute manservant with a gun fetish, LSD fuelled dream sequences full of middle-aged men in bondage gear alongside tassle-titted butch babes in animal masks, horrible bri-nylon Kung Fu style pyjamas and, most disturbingly a bizarre sixties style revolving lamp that communicates from beyond the grave using Barbara Steele's voice.

Which is weird seeing as not even he appears to be using it in this film.

They must have secretly recorded her answer phone or something.

Tonight live on stage....One Direction!

It's not all breasts, booze and beasts tho' as Robert is soon dragged headlong into an hallucinogenic hellhole of soul selling and rare silverware that even Bargain Hunt's Tim Wonnacott would be wary of.

Tho' saying that he'd have had absolutely no problem bedding at least half of the party goers by now.

Even Christopher Lee would have been tempted.

Probably.

So, will Robert find his brother and manage to get a good price for the candlesticks?

Will bubbly Barbara pop out of her gravity defying dress?

And most importantly will Robert's frankly over aggressive pulling technique of attempting to force himself upon Eve culminate in a kissing session or a restraining order?

Five miles...roughly speaking.

Executive produced by Tony Tenser, the man who gave us Witchfinder General, The Sorcerers, Cul-de-sac, Repulsion and Frightmare amongst others, written by Mervyn Haisman and Henry Lincoln of Doctor Who fame, based on a story by HP Lovecraft and with a cast to die for (oh and Mark Eden), Curse of The Crimson Altar should be one of the Greatest British horror movies ever made.

I say should be because what we end up with is a gloriously cliched and convoluted pot boiler of a 'B' picture that's so simplistic in it's plotting as to make Scooby Doo look like Eraserhead.

Barbara Steele: She'll have plenty of energy left for me long after you've crawled into a corner for a cry.

That's not to say it isn't still wildly entertaining and worth a look tho', if only for the legendary Karloff and Lee sharing screen time.

It's just a pity we don't get to see more of the magnificent Ms. Steele in all her technicolour glory which frankly would be far more attractive than a topless Mark Eden grubbily pawing at Virginia Wetherell's flimsy nightie with his massive sausage fingers.

Erotic as that maybe for your grannie I'm sorry but it does nowt for me.

Wetherell: Nip slip and side shed.

Adequately directed in a workman-like manner by 'B' movie stalwart Vernon Sewell, director of The Blood Beast Terror - the film that Peter Cushing decried as his 'worse ever' - Crimson Altar isn't necessarily bad or unwatchable it's just that with hindsight and seeing the film as the last gasp of the whole Roger Corman led/Hammer following gothic horror cycle of the fifties and sixties before gruesome realism and grittiness took over that both the audience and the actors deserved a wee bit better.

Bloody Hell that's a bit of a downer to end on isn't it?