brothers in arms.

Just woke up (well not literally, I mean I've been awake for hours what I just typed was a figure of speech to set the scene but hopefully you knew that) to the news that top children's entertainer and scourge of the left wing Barry Chuckle has died.

This reminded me that over a decade ago (yes I've been blogging in undeniable obscurity for that long - tragic I know) I wrote a rather nice piece about the brothers celebrating twenty years as Britain's premiere comedy duo.

Many folk (well two) found it vaguely amusing so I thought I'd re-post it now (with some added stuff so you don't feel cheated) as a tribute.

Enjoy.

Twin brothers Barry (born 24 December 1843) and Paul Von Chuckle (born 18 October 1870) were abandoned by their parents in the forests of Lithuania when it was discovered that they suffered from a rare form of Lycanthropy that caused them to be born with a full head of thick, spiky brown hair, mustaches and mullets.

The earliest existing photo of Paul and
Barry Von Chuckle, aged 3.

Saved from certain death and raised by a passing band of cannibalistic circus gypsies, the brothers were versed in the dark and ancient rites of 'knockabout comedy', entertaining the crown heads of Europe until a fateful night in 1907 when they found themselves shipwrecked off the coast of Scotland after a particularly violent storm.

Left penniless and homeless (but not mustache-less) the brothers survived the only way they knew how, desecrating graves and feasting on the flesh of corpses, absorbing the very essence of the recently deceased bodies before pawning their rings.

A rare (colourised) photo of the brothers parents, Lord Hailstrom and Lady Vindictiva Von Chuckle, Duisberg 1867.

It was during one such graveyard excursion that they discovered tickets to the ITV talent show New Faces in the jacket pocket of a murdered country singer - Wailin' Wayne Wilton and after consuming the singers face the brothers stole the tickets and decided to audition.

It came as a surprise to audiences and contestants alike when the duo won the series in 1974 after the bookies favourite, Wee Charlie Hadcock (an Edinburgh-based ventriloquist suffering from leprosy whose catchphrase "moldy bread!" had taken the nation by storm at the time) was found dead in his dressing room with his throat ripped out.

The last known photo of
Wee Charlie Hadcock.

The boys should have been catapulted to stardom had it not been for a terrifying incident during the final curtain call where the full moon like shape of the arc lights coupled with the over excited pheromones of fellow contestant Marti Caine caused the brothers to revert to their true form...that of giant humanoid dog-like creatures (with mullets) and attack the audience.

This incident went on to be known as the great Teddington terror and for many years became a favourite staple of the Dennis Norden gaffs 'n' gashes compilation show It'll Be Alright On The Night as well as inspiring the little seen 1978 Hindi horror classic Darwaza.

Grade: pseudo-sexual
science.

Luckily too much bloodshed was avoided when one of Caine's fellow judges, Lord Lew Grade managed to calm the brothers by singing an old Lithuanian lullaby in his native tongue before subduing them with his silver topped walking stick and whisking them away to a top secret research facility hidden beneath Pinewood studios.

What happened to Paul and Barry in the intervening ten years is difficult to know, rumour has it that Grade spent millions trying to harness their sheer animalistic entertainment talent (and luxurious hair length) to create a new race of Teevee personality (ex Magpie frontman Mick Robertson was discovered to be part of this breeding programme), this would explain the sightings of large wolf-like beasts reported around the studio's in the mid seventies and the excessive amounts of missing persons the police have on file for the Pinewood area at the time.

Mick Robertson, Algarve 1978.

The brothers would have become a footnote in history had it not been for the efforts of world renowned animal expert and geneticist Rod Hull, who in late 1984, launched a daring raid on the studio to free Paul and Barry and offer them a lucrative BBC contract.

The mission (codenamed: Entertainment Express) did not go smoothly however, a spy in the ranks meant that Grades crack ITC elite were waiting for them, mortally wounding funnyman Peter Glaze. and had it not been for the sacrifice of Bernie Clifton's ostrich Oswald there would have been many more casualties.

Clifton and Oswald shortly before

the raid that would claim his life.

The story tho' had a happy ending (and a new beginning) for the Chuckle Brothers, thanks to the help and guidance of Hull and Barbara Woodhouse, Paul and Barry launched themselves onto our Teevee screens in 1985 with the spectacular Chucklehounds, a series of short shows (usualy featuring the brothers attempting to move pianos for pensioners) with no dialogue aimed at a pre-school  (and post pub) audience.

"To me to yooooooooooo!" The Chucklehounds attempt to move a piano.

The viewing public, caught up in the excitement of the show failed to realise that the brothers were not, in fact wearing costumes but still trapped in their Vulpine form and tho' ratings were high the duo were kept away from public appearances for fear that they may eat the children.

Pyke: Five fingers, never touched the sides.

In 1986 however a breakthru' occurred when famous Doctor of Scientific things, Magnus Pyke discovered that an enzyme secreted from the brother's forebrain - usually found at the ballooning end of the neural tube and located most rostrally (toward the nose) was the cause of their affliction.

In an average human the caudal end of this ballooning portion is the rhombencephalon (4th ventricle), the middle part of the balloon is the mesencephelon, and the anterior part of the balloon is the proencephelon/forebrain but in the brothers case it was discovered that the  proencephalon was divided by the ballooning inwards - rather than out.

Further studies showed that the telencephalic vesicles could be used to ferment a change in their physiognomy, returning them to their 'human' form permanently.


But you all probably knew that.


The procedure was a success and the brothers, with the the last vestige of their wolf form, razor sharp incisors cunningly hidden behind bushy moustaches quickly moved on to their most famous show, Chuckle Vision in 1987 and, with catchphrases such as "To me....To you!", "Fancy a spin in me motor?" and "Ooooh....he's a suave bugger!" the show was an overnight hit bringing in over 19 million viewers.

Suave buggers indeed!

There was nothing to stop the brothers now, wining the BAFTA for best children's series and launching the quiz 'To Me, To You', the basic format of which was deceptively cunning; involving as it did two teams, competing each round for prizes on a morticians trolley (albeit with a fake corpse attached). By rolling a dice carved from human bone the teams had to get the trolley to their end of the board. The 'squares' leading up to their end of the board often represented dangerous challenges such as piranha pools, quick lime pits and gun emplacements manned by ex-Soviet special forces.

The rounds ended when this was achieved and new prizes were put on the trolley, which was reset to the centre with a cry of "Oh how fortitude doth forgive the foolish!" delivered by a cage of lank-haired homeless ex- bus conductors.

The show lasted for three series before being banned under the UN war crimes committee.

"But who will help me with this piano?" Tensions run high as the UN arrest the brothers.

The brothers were soon acquitted of any wrong doing blaming co-host Dave Lee Travis for the numerous violations of human rights on show, even going as far as to give evidence against the so-called 'Human Cornflake at The Hague despite death threats from a sinister cabal of showbiz luminaries led by Jimmy's Savile and Krankie.

It was during the final day of the trial when the brothers escaped death for a third time (after the Scottish shipwreck and an ill-advised summer season in Weston Super Mare obviously) when comedy superstar Billy Pearce - brainwashed by Travis and high on Tizer - attempted to attack the courtroom with stinkbombs given away free with that weeks Whizzer And Chips comic.

Luckily Three of A Kind star and ex-SAS sergeant David Copperfield was present, managing to wrestle the bombs before they could be used, diffusing the smell by lying on top of them therefore allowing his brand new Arran sweater to soak up the stench whilst armed guards cleared the area.

Pearce: Hypnotized.

 Thanks to a massive multi-agency operation the evil cabal was eventually broken up allowing the brothers to return to their second love (their first being grave robbing) appearing on stage almost constantly throughout the rest of year as they toured with their semi-autobiographical show "'Boiled Onions and Bangers" across the UK.

And it was the success of the show that led to the brothers to concentrate more on stage than TV as over the next 18 months they premiered over a thousand new shows including  The Erotic Adventures of the Chuckle Brothers, The Chuckle Brothers in - Trouble at Sea, Raiders of the Lost Bark, Barry Potty and his Smarter Brother Paul in the Chamber of Horrors, The Chuckle Brothers meet Pol Pot, Star Doors, Pirates of the River Rother, Doctor What and The Return Of The Garlics, Spooky Goings On, Spooky Goings On 2: Prayer of the Crack Ho's and their biggest success to date the fantastic plea for peace in the Middle East Chuckling All The Way To The West Bank.



But all this success couldn't save Barry from the nightmares and flashbacks caused by his experiences with the showbiz terrorist group that tried to kill him.

And it would be these fears that would almost cause the brothers career to come crashing down around them as when researching a new show about an overweight feminist set on a 70s council estate - the controversially titled "Lip Up Fatty" that Barry was drawn into the world of fringe British politics, posting threads on Facebook regarding the banning of Foreign-made Spoons and bringing back the death penalty for the use of canned laughter during the recording of sitcoms.

Paul desperate to save not only his brothers sanity but a lucrative marketing deal that had just been signed with chemical giants Glaxo hatched a plan to kidnap his brother andtake him back to the wilds of Scotland to recover.

And this he did, leaving British TV and theatre bereft of any mustache-based monkey business for almost a decade.

But as suddenly as they'd vanished they returned with the news that after a massive bidding war (and at the cost of over 20,000 lives, mainly in marketing so no loss really) that The pair had signed a massive multi-million pound contract with well-respected arts broadcasters Channel Five to produce an in no way derivative (yet still hilarious) clip show cleverly titled Chuckle Time (with The Chuckle Brothers.

Harry Hill was unavailable for comment.

As was Lisa Riley.

Tho' that might be because the restraining order is still in force.

Riley: Twice.

But let's forget all the Dodgy politics and even dodgier fashion choices and just remember The brothers as they would have wanted.

As comedies (elder) gods.

And with this quote from their management when The Huffington Post asked for a statement on the rise of the right in the UK:

Barry Chuckle - (born 24 December 1843 - died 5 August 2018)

adventures of a (not too) private dick.

Spent the last few weeks drawing gothic Victoriana and mixing visuals for a brand new Scots Pop music night Simply Thrilled so thought I'd take a break with a wee movie and long-term reader Mr. Ken Korda from Hackney recommended this 'dark and deadly' thriller.

True there was a big lady bottom on the cover but that didn't mean that the whole gumshoe shtick was just a cover for some sweaty rutting did it?

Will I ever learn?

Asian Noir No.6: Evil Sex Trap (2008).
Dir: David Aaron Clark
Cast: Ange Venus, Mr. Marcus, Coco Velvett, Destiny, Lana Violet, Myla Montez and Dick James.

Hard boiled (and shiny dome headed) LAPD detective Terrence Trent (the smooth sex superstar Mr. Marcus from The World's Luckiest Black Man and your Auntie Joan's bed) wakes up one evening to find himself face down of the floor of a deserted room in the wrong part of town and suffering from a really bad case of amnesia.

Tho' not I hasten to add crabs, which in his line of work should be a given.

Clad in his best Billy Dee Williams suit and with only his toy police badge and big silver gun for company, our sexy Tec is desperate to find out what has happened and why he's there.

Oh and when he can start shagging a few fit (and clean) ladies.

Suddenly his mobile phone begins to ring and, on answering our hero is bombarded with the drunken ramblings of the infamous Lady Wu herself (the flat faced, skinny arsed porn goddess that is Ange Venus from My Mom's First Black Cock and Mini-Van Moms 2), who promises to reveal to Trent but only if he makes his way to her thoroughly evil sex trap warehouse cum knocking shop (fantastically played by the directors mum's condo in north Hollywood).

His curiosity aroused, Trent has no choice but to obey.

"Excuse me...is this the way to the mooth shite-in suite?"

Arriving by taxi (via a sexy voiceover) at the aforementioned evil sex trap type place, Trent soon realises that things aren't quiet what he expected.

For one thing it's not him indulging in some of the sex with an evil looking undead Asian babe (You're On Trial singer Dick James - possibly -  and My Daughter's Fucking Blackzilla! star Lana Violet) on a nice MFI leather sofa but a strap-on wielding masked lady instead.

Oh how they tease us.

Under the pretense of being a good detective (and not you understand because he fancies a cheap thrill) he sits back and watches the show, until that is things start to get a wee bit ugly and Trent feels he has to step in.

Which is a bad move if you think about it as the whole messy (in both senses of the word) situation ends up with the strap-on lass vanishing into thin air and Dick murdered - to death - by Trent's own hand.

How's he gonna explain that to his nan?

"You're on Trial" which is sex industry slang for you're on my massive black cock bitch! obviously.

Cradling Dick's stiff in his arms Trent begins to experience erotically fueled (and tit filled) sweaty flashbacks to, um stuff that maybe important later.

Or may just be flashy porn scenes for those who get off on such stuff.

Either way it's nicely lit.

Moving deeper and deeper into the evil sex trap warehouse (yes I know it's a mouthful), Marcus comes across (literally) loads more sexual encounter between various big black blokes and a number of fairly tiny tattooed Asian babes occasionally interrupted by even more of Lady Wu's drunken ramblings.

Imagine a twelve tissue version of Lost Highway with a cast constructed entirely of silicone and you're halfway there.

Still intrigued as to why he's there (and no doubt enjoying the sight of so many jiggly jubbly jugs) our sun-kissed sex machine finds Wu's saucy suspender clad secretary Lana (fresh faced and smooth arsed Velvett from Hit Me with Your Best Squirt) bending over a filing cabinet at the end of a long hallway.

Coco Velvett: Just add water.

Deciding to fill in Trent (and us) on what the fuck is going on, Lana explains that the building is home to not only a classy brothel but also an Import/Export business and a porn studio based in the cellar.

Which is nice.

Obviously keen on seeing a few more spunk covered arses, Trent heads to the lift double quick his manly hand clutched tightly around his massive weapon just in case of trouble.

And trouble he finds, in the yumsome form of the mysterious Bella Emberg (Mini minx Montez fresh from Black Dick Too Boo-Coo 4), who frankly makes no effort at all to seduce our police pimpmiester, she basically just flashes her arse and our hero does the rest.

The Wanko novelty sofa cushion...available now!

Whilst all this bum humping is going down Lana has fallen asleep whilst going (as opposed to coming) over the clients figures and is currently having a fairly erotic cum scary dream about Trent and his weapon to a sexy sax solo.

Trust me, you can almost taste the Brut aftershave.

Finishing up by romantically wiping his cock on the curtains, Trent fails to notice that Bella has wandered off (probably to clean herself up before she starts sticking to things) but being a detective, the Trent-inator follows her snail-like trail upstairs where he's shocked (and let's admit it, if he's anything like my mum slightly aroused) to find Lana being chocked/bummed to death by a mask wearing, strap on thrusting succubus (Destiny in her motion picture debut).

"I can see your house from here Peter".

Starting to lose his cool due to all the shagging and eighties style pop vid' lighting, Trent just stands there looking bald (but still sexy as fuck) in the vain hope that someone (anyone) will explain the plot to him.

Luckily Lady Wu finally makes an appearance, floating into the room on a cloud of poppers and shame to inform Trent (after having sex with him of course) that he once committed a bad murder and that the masked strap-on succubus, Bella and Lana aren't really harsh faced porn stars but are, in fact, an trio of evil and fairly vengeful spirits hellbent on punishing Trent for his various misdemeanour's.

And yes that does include messing up the curtains.

With his memories now restored (and his huge uncircumcised penis cocked and ready) Trent realises the true nature of the evil sex trap....

but is it too late to save his (arse) soul?

Mr. Marcus: he's shagging your mum.

From the slightly Asian babe obsessed mind of the late, great David Aaron Clark comes (literally) this bizarro mix of softly lit porn, Outer Limits homage's and kinky hair whipping that would shame even the legendary Joe D'Amato and his back catalogue of horror/porn crossovers.


And probably make him green with envy at the fact that Clark could get so many fairly attractive actresses for so little money whilst he was stuck with George Eastman in a vest.

Eastman: Sweaty sac.

Coming across like a buffer, less hairy version of Richard Roundtree mixed with the sheer animalistic rutting power of Bobby Blake, Mr. Marcus (real name: Marcus Frank Spencer) gives a fairly competent performance as an amnesiac copper with a constant hard-on, spending as he does the majority of the movie wandering through a spooky building and occasionally having sex with a number of Botoxed babes.

His real talent tho' lies in the sheer number of radically different cum faces he manages to pull during his many climaxes. Each one as different as they are strangely attractive.

I for one could happily watch him rutting my mum for hours just to gaze on his furrowed brow as he expels his mighty man-muck into her every orifice.

On a downside some of the make-up FX are frankly shite and most of the editing (credited to one Hasiell Damnett who I'm fairly sure isn't using his real name) looks like it was done using scissors and glue by a boss eyed hook handed toddler, but I can probably say that most viewers will be more interested in counting Ange Venus' ribs that checking out the continuity.

Except that is for the scene where Destiny's sex-mad, strap-on wearing succubus is killing Lana that is.

I for one was shocked to see the bastard had completely ruined the scene by shoddily intercuting it with footage of (gasp) some common or garden conventional sex therefore destroying the illusion of any supernatural occurrences at all.

Big thumbs down (and one right up the shitter) to the director for allowing this to happen.

But saying that he's dead now so I reckon one of my digits up his arse is the least of his worries.

leathery balls.

I sometimes get emails complaining that there isn't enough sport featured on this blog.

Or girls with massive chins.

But mainly it's folk just wishing me dead.

Or things like this:

Which is nice.

So with everyone gripped by 'the World Cup fever' as they say I reckoned now would be the time to jump on that bandwagon and hopefully get some new readers/sponsorship/money.

I can but dream.

So as all you 'soccer' fans say:

"Come on the reds!"

Or something.

Sing gum zhook kao (AKA Sexy Soccer, 2004)
Dir: Sik Hok Min (Yup, that's right - THE Sik Hok Min)
Cast: Au Yeung, Carmen Yeung and lots of other people but I've discovered that no-one actually reads the cast list bit, they go straight to the movie poster that's usually right below.

Professional sleazy guy Terry Rolando (Yeung, probably) is having a wee bit of bad luck culminating with a run in with the local loan shark.

You see he'd made a huge bet on his fave team winning the football championship cup (or something....as you can probably tell, I'm not really the sporty type) but guess what?

Yup, they lost.

Feeling generous the loan shark decides against cutting his throat and instead offers him one last chance to come up with the cash.

With no idea as to what he could do to raise the money Rolando decides to go watch a football match to get a wee bit of inspiration.

It's there that whilst enjoying the game his eyes are draw to a brash n' busty jogger bouncing by him at half time.

Rolando sees this as a message from God telling him to form an all female football team (named Friendly Balls) to compete against the all male squads, with the ladies uses their 'sexy bodies' to distract the testosterone fueled male players.

How this would work is never fully explained (much the same way as the loan shark storyline never re-appears) but, we've been promised scantily clad and sexy girls playing football so let's stick with it and see if it delivers.

Same shit....different smell.

Anyway back to the plot (which I will cover quickly so I can eradicate any memory of this film from my head), everything starts swimmingly with much training footage of girls jogging in tiny shorts and shots of sweaty ladies jumping on the spot as Rolando's plan seems to be foolproof enough for him to actually have a chance of winning whatever he's meant to win (I don't really care).

Unfortunately his arch rival Dennis gets wind of his plan and has a secret weapon of his own....

You see, he's secretly been training a team of homosexualists to play against the ladies in the final.

The rotter!

When all seems lost tho' our hero comes up with his greatest plan yet.

Remembering that 'the gays' like arse he gets all the ladies to flash their bum cheeks at them, instantly curing them of their gayness and thus enabling the girls to win.

Gary Lineker and your mum.

Effectively that's it as far as the movies plot goes, with half of the film being a shameful excuse to see a handful of fairly unattractive young ladies with bored looks on their faces (and one with a chin like an ironing board) prancing around in tight tops and tiny seventies style shorts wiggling and jiggling like they're have a stroke.

But not in a good way like when Helen Robinson had hers in Neighbours.

What he said.

The remainder of this epic consists of endless scenes of Rolando (dressed like your dad) having sex with the team ( either in reality or 'hilarious' dream sequences) in the most disturbing scenes in cinema since Harvey Keitel cracked one off over that car door in The Bad Lieutenant'.

True there's and almost obscene amount of nudity (plus sex scenes that border on hardcore) but it's a bit like watching a video of your parents having sex.

In your bed.

And trust me on this when I tell you that's not a nice feeling.

No idea if she's in the movie but this picture came up when I was searching for the poster so thought it'd be a shame if I didn't share it.

Saying that tho' at least Harvey looked like he was enjoying himself (as did my folks), Yeung on the other hand keeps pulling comedy 'cum' faces whilst making grabbing actions toward the unfortunate actresses breasts.

For Minutes at a time we're subjected to this in extreme close-up, it's almost as if he's possessed your teevee and is desperately trying to escape to do bad things to you.

And your mum.

And your mum's dog.

Twice.

I will admit that the film does have a few stand out moments, mainly showcasing the total ineptitude of those involved, including a fantastic bit in which one of the team actually stops speaking to look off-camera at the director for reassurance before continuing the scene.

Buy this film now and see how many you can spot.

It'd be much easier than trying to spot any of the films promised 'sexy' moments.

They can't be arsed why should I?

Market to us foreign devils as a kinky version of the classic Steven Chow comedy Shaolin Soccer, this is more Benny Hill than Jimmy Hill, replacing the formers knockabout comedy, musical numbers and martial arts mayhem with copious amounts of spotty arses, crap Cosby sweaters and a plethora of frankly arse numbing sexual shenanigans that only seem exist in order to pad out the movie's meager running time.

Worth it if you're bored to a point of suicide, find horse faced Chinese girls attractive or if you don't have a girlfriend.

Or like football obviously.

love bites.

Three days into the school holidays and we've exhausted the Paul Naschy collection, bizarrely it wasn't the werewolf stuff the kids enjoyed but Count Dracula's Great Love so been desperately searching for any other vampire movies I own that may be kid friendly.

This one, it seems may not be.

Gayracula (1983).
Dir: Roger Earl.
Cast: Tim Kramer, Steve Collins, Rand Remington, Randal Butler, Michael Christopher, Ray Medina, Max Montoya, Doug Weston, Douglas Poston and Davin McNeil.

"You have done me a great service....

now I shall service you!"

Our dark tale of undead bloodlust begins with a group of robed and mysteriously seventies haired monks carrying a coffin thru' the California desert to a fairly inoffensive sub-Jerry Goldsmith Omen-esque score.

So far so so.

Entering a dark, dank cave our hooded pals force open the coffin to reveal a jug-eared young man in his granddad's tuxedo lying within.

As the lead monk Brian attempts to stake him thru' the heart our be-suited chum suddenly opens his eyes and sits upright before metamorphosing into a bat whilst filling the cave with what looks like eggy bad-dad gas.

As the monks shriek and scream in terror the bat - via a handy fishing wire and a big stick - flies to the cave entrance before reverting back to it's human form.

Naked apart from a cape, patent leather brogues and socks the monks can only cower in fear at the evil that is Gayracula.

Ladies and gentlemen....
live on stage....5ive!

Jump forward (backwards? sideways?) to the year is 1783  - well according to the dodgy Letraset font superimposed over a kids drawing of a Halloween castle it is - where the fantastically monikered Gaylord Young (The late Tim Kramer of California Jackoff fame), a courier for the legal firm of Crotchley, Bloomfield and Smythe (like it matters) has been dispatched to Transylvania to deliver a family heirloom to the mysteriously mustachioed Mark Shannon alike (and even more fantastically monikered) Marquis de Suede (Collins last seen in Falconhead Part II: The Maneaters).

Being so grateful for the personal touch of delivering the said artifact to his imposing castle by hand, de Suede offers Young a hot meal and a bed for the night.

Oh yes, and also insists on sucking the young man's huge throbbing member as if it were an oversized Chupa Chup before firing his own undead vampiric muck all over Young's lily-white arse and at the point of climax biting him on the neck.

All in gloriously over-lit clinical colour.

Which reminds me, how is your dad?

The year they invented Crayola obviously.

Waking the next morning to a head full of red and an arse like a sugared doughnut, poor Gaylord stumbles over to the mirror to examine his neck only to see not his own reflection but the face of de Suede laughing maniacally at him before the mirror explodes in a shower of sharp pointy shards.

The curse of the vampire has been passed to a new victim.

Gaylord Young, legal eagle is no more.

He has become the king of the undead.

Something less than human but with a cock the size of a newborn baby.

A very muscley new born baby.

With shotputters arms.

Which is a plus point if you think about it.

Your Dads works night out.

Suddenly (and without so much as a warning or even a crudely crayoned flashframe) we're transported to 'modern day' Los Angeles, where Boris the manservant (allegedly some bloke named Rand Remington but frankly I'm convinced is Tom Savini) and Geoff the delivery boy (Christopher last seen in the 1991 erotic thriller Fade In, an undiscovered classic that featured gay half-men, half-spiders who devour their sexual partners after trapping them in webs of sticky cum...seriously) are busy decorating a huge mansion ready for the new owner to move in.

Worn out after carrying a big wooden coffin into the lounge Geoff has to rest for a while but luckily Boris appears to be a trained sports therapist and offers to massage his stiff shoulders.

With his penis.

Obviously.

Geoff, grateful for the help notices that Boris looks uncomfortable sitting on a rough wooden box so, assuming his bottom must be getting a wee bit sore offers to massage that in return.

Boris agrees and the two men indulge themselves in a bout of manly massage.

It was at this point I realised that this may not be, in fact, a 'proper' vampire film.

"Tonight Matthew I'm going to be...
Gary Barlow!"

All this excitement, groaning and testosterone (not to mention the copious amounts of semen dripping into his coffin) is enough to wake Gaylord from his slumber.

Having been asleep for 200 hundred years tho' he's rather peckish and makes short work of poor Geoff's bum draining every speck of blood from his body.

And now Gaylord, rested and fed can begin to explore his new home.

Your dad, working late at the office last night.

And it's whilst taking in the LA sights (as well as taking a few other things in obviously) that Gaylord discovers that the Marquis de Suede is still alive - posing as an agent and running an all male dance troupe in a theatre just off Hollywood Boulevard.

And you guessed it our vampiric chum and the Marquis have some unfinished business to attend to.

Revenge for turning Gaylord into a vampire?

A battle to the death to decide who is the king of the undead?

Or is it that Gaylord just can't get enough of the Marquis' ungodly shaft?

Go on, guess.

"Flames in mah mooth!"

Arriving at rehearsals and given a front row seat - alongside a key to the mysterious 'backroom' - by the Marquis, Gaylord's sex plans are thrown into disarray when he comes across (not literally, well not yet) the young, virginal Gavin (McNeil star of Malibu Days Big Bear Nights), a waiter at the theatre and falls instantly and hopelessly in love with him.

Using his powers of persuasion to entice Gavin to his home the pair make beautiful (well sticky and sweaty) love together and, as Gavin falls asleep in Gaylord's arms, the vampire vows never to suck the young boys blood and to only indulge in rimming on a Tuesday.

Aw, ain't love sweet?

Abstaining from blood drinking tho' leaves Gaylord weakened and stumbling thru' the streets in a daze and it's only thru' sheer luck that he manages across the local bloodbank where, as is usually the way with these things, the hunky doctor is far too busy sodomising one of the (even hunkier) patients to notice our hero draining the blood supply dry.

Returning home Gaylord vows to tell Gavin the truth about his unusual affliction.

But will their love survive?

"Put it in me!"

Three cheers for Roger Earl for producing a vampire movie with all the passion, romance, horror and copious scenes of buggery sadly missing from such big budget offerings as Bram Stoker's Dracula, Twilight and the like.

It's micro-budget never once compromises Earl's vision and tho' he may have had to incorporate props and sets left over from the arse end of the seventies (cracked and wobbly disco balls, silver clad dance 'numbers' and a couple of unfortunate mustaches) he stays true to his aim of producing a film that not only delves deep into vampire lore whilst dealing with the universal issues of love and belonging but also manages to feature the most varied and frankly disturbing scenes of fucking, rimming, sucking and cupping I have ever seen.

And for this reason alone I take my hat off to him.

Who am I to judge tho?

 They may be smiling now but just wait till the fisting starts.

Earl may have just been making a low budget gay porn film and not realised the truly heart warming effect it would have on viewers so felt it my duty to spread the word.

To this end I invited my next door neighbours 14 year old Twilight fan daughter Agnes to watch it with me and she was left crying and shaking with emotion as the tender love story played out in front of her*.

Something I'm sure Robert Pattinson has never manage to do with his big square face and glittering shite.

I've not seen her since but when I do I'm sure she'll thank me for sharing the experience with her.

As will you after viewing this lost classic.































*only joking.**






























































**Or am I?

beat surrender.

Panic Beats (1983).
Dir: Paul Naschy.
Cast: Paul Naschy, Julia Saly, Lola Gaos, Frances Ondiviela and Silvia Miró.

It is the ye olden times somewhere in the French countryside (again) and top TeeVee weathergirl Carol Kirkwood (or a very convincing lookie-likey) is running naked and blood spattered thru' the fog enshrouded trees in an attempt to escape an unseen assailant.

Well either that or she's late for work.

Stumbling thru' the fog and dodging a collection of plastic joke shop skulls she soon stumbles to the ground, turning to face her tormentor - a clanking, wide-hipped knight carrying a blood stained mace.

Behold the stare of the evil Alaric de Marnac - last seen being bested by button nosed uber-babe Emma Cohen in Horror Rises From The Tomb.

Yup, that'll be Paul Naschy then.

Lifting his helmet visor our bearded badman raises his mace (which surprisingly for Naschy isn't a euphemism) and begins to strike down on the poor presenter.

Your mom after bingo night.

No sooner has this blood drenched big bushed beating begun than we're transported - thru' the power of shitey synth score and clumsy dissolves - to 'the modern day' and the city of Paris to be more precise where we meet the portly - yet clean shaven - Paul de Marnac (Naschy again, you know the drill), another distant relative of the evil Alaric who is busy discussing how best to deal with his fur coat wearing and possibly knicker-less wife Geneviève's (vacant eyed Naschy regular and Night of The Seagulls star Saly) fragile health.

Yup the poor woman suffers from a weak heart and 'the nerves', so the family doctor advises Paul to take her up the de Marnac ancestral house (which is in fact a house, a very big house in the country which used to belong to General Franco in real life fact fans) to recuperate.

As with the last film the pair are accosted on their journey by a pair of ragamuffins giving Paul a chance to show off the karate skills he learned filming The Beasts' Carnival in Japan three years earlier before getting back in the car and heading off to the house.

No matter how hard she tweaked Frances Ondiviela just couldn't tune her full size Ronko Naschy Radiogram to 6Music.

Arriving later than planned the pair are greeted by the a pound shop Mrs Doyle the almost mummified Maville (The Legend of Blood Castle's Gaos) and her naughty niece Julie (Ondiviela, a dirty minded dream in denim obsessed with Dexy's Midnight Runners last seen in Un refugio para el amor), who takes an instant dislike to poor Genevieve, thinking herself more worthy of some Naschy nuptials.

Saucy.

As the weeks go by tho' Genevieve and Julie grow closer, taking long walks in the woods whilst the minx-like maid regales the wobbly wifey with tales of the infamous Alaric and how he rises from the grave every hundred to murder unfaithful women with a mace.

This all began when he discovered his own wife being bummed by a binman all those years ago and his reputation grew from there.

Surprisingly tho' there's absolutely no mention of the cannibalism, blood-drinking, drawing penises on pictures of the mayor, buggery, false promises of 350 million quid to the NHS post Brexit and human sacrifice that he was accused of (alongside what we must now assume was his second wife) in the earlier film.

Which is kinda frustrating for those of us with a hard on for continuity fests.

Not to worry tho' as no doubt Naschy will appear topless at some point giving us at least something to spill our seed over.

"Chase me now!"

This knowledge seems to trigger something in Genevieve's muddled mind and it's not long before she's seeing snakes slithering across tombstones, scary suits of armour wandering around the drawing room and skulls in the butter dish, causing her health and her mind to grow ever more fragile.

Meanwhile Paul is making more and more frequent trips to Paris due, he says, to 'work commitments' tho' in reality he's off visiting his mistress Mireille (bird-faced, perm-headed Miró) whose first appearance, sprawled across a cheap motel bed resplendent in a skin-tight leopard print cat-suit (and tiny skirt) ranks as probably the most erotic scene ever committed to celluloid.

Even the bright pink bedside lap looks rude.

"Easy tiger....um leopard!" - I really didn't think that one thru' did I? Should have really made a pussy joke and be done with it.

But that's not the only girl trouble Paul has, as you see he's also actually in love with Julie and it transpires that she's been feeding Genevieve all these horrific stories in order to give her a heart attack so she can have Paul (and his massive girth) all to herself.

Well she's only flesh and blood.

It's not like a man of Naschy's stature would write in all those scenes of younger and younger women throwing themselves at him for any other reason than to forward the plot is it?

Bored with playing second fiddle to the by now shot to fuck Genevieve, Julie hatches the ultimate plan to rid herself of her love rival and with the help of the two robbers from earlier (whom Paul has said have been killed by the police), the always present armour and a handy pound shop skeleton mask and with poor Maville drugged into unconsciousness the pair finally rid themselves of Paul's pesky wife before jumping into bed together to celebrate.

Little do they realise tho' that Maville is watching.

Heading off to Paris to oversee the funeral Paul is shocked to find Mireille lounging in his flat naked and with a big cigar in her mouth and a plan to marry him herself.

With no other option left to him our hero indulges in 'the sex' with her before attempting to strangle his lover in her sleep with a silk stocking.

Unfortunately his almost constant breaking wind wakes Mireille up and the pair have breakfast instead.

Just like your parents used to.

Stressed to fuck and feeling flustered Paul returns home (his other home obviously) only to be confronted by Maville who demands that he be a good boy and dump the evil Julie.

With no other choice left to him he sets up an elaborate trap which causes the old lady to fall down the stairs and, um bang her head leaving Julie no option but to strangle her aunt.

As they attempt to hide the body tho' who should turn up unannounced but a thigh-booted  is interrupted Mireille wearing what looks like the cast of The Lion King on her back and demanding sex from her boss.

The request is met by an axe in the stomach and head by Julie. 

Frances Ondiviela: you would, I would, your dad did. Twice.

 

Tidying away the bodies and scrubbing the floors clean the pair are soon wed and enjoying almost constant sexual shenanigans.

Well Paul is because it seems that Julie is playing a longer game.

You see she's been in contact with the mysterious 'Maurice' - her ex pimp cum drug dealer cum lover with whom she's been planning to kill Paul and inherit his cash.

What a rotter.

...And here's Carol with the weather....and it looks like damp patches all round.

Will Paul get wise to his wife's wicked ways or will he did an embarrassing death by nude electrocution in a tiny bath tub?

Will Julie actually succeed with her plan to inherit the de Marnac fortune or will the evil Alaric (who's been conspicuous by his absence) actually turn up to extract revenge on her for abusing his family?

And will Julie ever put on the saucy maid outfit again that she wore for one scene earlier or will I have to just screengrab it for posterity?

Written and directed by Naschy himself as well as being produced by star Saly,  Panic Beats is a bizarro follow up cum remake of the aforementioned Horror Rises from the Tomb (1973) but this time with an added dash of Les diaboliques (1955) and Hitchcock's Rebecca (1940) for good measure.

Look if you're gonna steal then steal from the best.

But those unaccustomed Naschy's oeuvre who might be expecting a straight sequel may be a little confused as, much like the great man's Daninsky Werewolf movies, Naschy eschews the whole formula of a continuing story arc, preferring instead to re-use characters and situations within a completely unrelated story giving the whole thing a sense of deja vu at times, especially when Paul and Genevieve are accosted by robbers on the road.

Good job then that viewers never tire of Naschy - quite literally - throwing his weight around.

Luckily for the most part the movie does it's own thing and Naschy plays the whole idea of Genevieve's faltering mental state at a slow, almost funeral pace occasionally throwing in some shocks or nudity to keep the viewers interest as the double crossing deals are uncovered.

And it's this part of the plot if anything that falls flat seeing as the cast is so tiny (and Naschy such a showman) that it'd be a surprise if it were anyone but him (and Julie) behind the murder plot.

It's a wee bit like the revelation in Count Dracula's Great Love that the mysterious Doctor Marlow is, in fact, the bloodsucking Count.

I mean Paul Naschy has spent the last 40 odd minutes wandering around in a cape avoiding sunlight....who else is it going to be?

Luckily once the revelations and back-stabbings are revealed there's enough of them to keep you interested.

And it's almost as if Naschy knows that at points the plot gets maybe a wee bit too ludicrous so every now and then he gets Frances Ondiviela (or Silvia Miró or even Naschy himself) to strip naked and take your mind off it.

Which is very thoughtful of him, if only Rian Johnson had done this with The Last Jedi then it might have just been watchable.

"Hello are you the blind man?"

Talking of watchability the cast on show here (in more ways than one) are all top notch, from Julia Saly's waif-like Genevieve to Frances Ondiviela's bad girl antics via Silvia Miró's fantastically frightening fashion choices every one's a winner - mad, bad and dangerous to know but all linked by their unearthly (some would say ungodly) attraction to Naschy.

Tho' they're only flesh and blood. 

 As are we all when it comes to the great mans movies and as with most (all?) of them, Panic Beats is a throughly enjoyable experience that's a heady mix of gloomy gothic horror and gory giallo.

Yes it's true that the mystery aspect is more Agaton Sax than Agatha Christie but this just adds to its charm.

Scarier than your dad drunk and sexier than your wee sister on smack Panic Beats is a must see.

No, really.