bugger lugs.

The Human Centipede 2: Full Sequence (2011).
Dir: Tom Six.
Cast: Laurence R. Harvey, Ashlynn Yennie, Vivien Bridson, Maddi Black, Bill Hutchens and a shit load of folk from the Islington job centre.

"Great blow job but I'd rather be fucking that retards arse".

Baw headed sweaty London manchild Martin Lomax (Harvey) when not spending his time working as a car park attendant in Tooting enjoys nothing more than sitting in his booth masturbating furiously to a copy of The Human Centipede, the pleasures of his clammy little palms relieving much of the tension he suffers as a result of being buggered on a daily basis by his jailbird dad as a child (tut all you want but he does have a really peachy arse for a fat bloke), having to live with his abusive mum Fanny (the skeletal yet scarily sexy Bridson, just imagine Super Gran portrayed as a foul mouthed aged stripper) and the constant hard core dance tunes being played by his large, gay upstairs neighbour.

Add to his troubles a habit of poohing the bed, a weirdy-beardy psychiatrist  (Hutchens) who's more interested in sucking his cock than soothing his pain and a pair of nipples like hairy plates and you can see that poor Martin is one of life’s losers.

He probably even reads this blog.

Nah, he's not that sad.

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

Anyway, back to the plot where Martin has decided that it might be a good idea to try and make a human centipede of his own using the various folk who use the parking garage as his test subjects.

Cue an hour of head smashing, knee-capping and baby bothering violence intercut with scenes of our bald pal getting felt up by the doc, his mum shouting at him and the aforementioned gay neighbour destroying the Lomax family dinner table.

Despite all these inconveniences tho' Martin bravely struggles on, even going as far as phoning the actors from the first film in an attempt to lure them to London for a 'special show'.

And surprisingly one of them, the pointy of face yet smooth of thighed Ashlynn Yennie, actually turns up.

Posh and Becks: the Vimto years.

But before our beautiful Hollywood starlet can become the main attraction in Martin's scientific wonder there's still the small matter of killing his mum to deal with.

I mean come on, she did rip up his Human Centipede scrapbook and tell him he stank of shit.

With mum out of the way, Ashlynn tied up in a warehouse alongside all his other 'volunteers' and the noisy neighbour in the back of his van Martin is finally ready to make medical history.

"Shite in...well someone elses mooth I guess".

With only the Eye Spy Book of Medical Facts to help, Martin gathers a veritable potpourri of kitchen utensils, DIY tools and assorted household junk to aid the construction of his medical marvel; a human centipede consisting of 12 hastilly sketched stereotypical clichéd characters.

He's got something to put in you.

Finally after an hour and a quarter of some of the most bizarrely delivered dialogue and arse-clenchingly experimental acting-styles ever committed to celluloid it's time for a wee bit of hammer based tooth removing, mucky mouth slicing and rectum ripping fun, shot entirely in glorious black and white and backed with the dulcet tones of mental Martins girly giggles.

Using a handy staple gun to attach each of his victims face to the person in fronts arse, Martin chooses Yennie to be the acceptable face of this new and improved human centipede, partly so her make-up wont be ruined by the constant mooth shite-ing but mainly because she's by far the most attractive member of the cast.

After much prodding, poking and pissing Martin, clad in a labcoat and with his obvious erection barely kept under control in his shit stained underpants, can finally marvel at his creation as it stumbles around the room making gurgling and farting noises.

But something - and it's not the self respect on the part of anyone involved surprisingly - is missing.

Yup, you've guessed it; no-one has started shite-ing in each others mooths yet.

"Laugh now!"

But not to worry because Martin has come prepared.

And no doubt in his pants.

You see, right after feeding Ashlynn some tasty tomato soup and tinned peaches, Martin quickly forces a family sized bottle of quick acting laxative down her pretty tanned throat, causing each member of the centipede to violently evacuated their bowels into the mooth of the person behind them.

The length of the chain also gives our medical mentalist time to wrap his throbbing member in barbed wire, run to the end of the centipede and violently rape the last person in lines filth covered arse thru' a sea of ever flowing shit.

As you would in that situation.

As is always the way with these things, everything is going swimmingly (shittingly?) until one of the centipede parts spoils everyone’s fun by choking to death leaving Martin in tears and a tarpaulin covered pregnant woman, whom he thought was dead, time to suddenly regain consciousness and run screaming to Martins minivan.

With Martin distracted the centipede breaks into two and attempts to escape whilst our poor, misguided mad man stands confused not sure whether to chase the mum to be or regain control of his creation.

As the situation escalates from nutty to fruit loops a tiny bit of poo drops from Martins bottom.

Will our hero calm the centipede?

Will our escapee accidentally crush her newborn baby whilst trying to find reverse in a strange motor?

Will anyone live to tell the tale?

And if so, how are they gonna explain it to my nan?

Hopefully it wont turn out to be just a dream...

Or will it?

I ignored the first Human Centipede for a variety of reasons, one being that there was no chance of it actually living up to the premise and another being that for some bizarre reason director Six hadn't cast Udo Kier in the Dr. Heiter role but mainly because if anyone was going to make a movie full of mooth shite-ing madness and mentalist German doctors it really should have been me.

Anyways, jealousy aside I didn't Tom Six did, it caused a wee bit of controversy before released before finally opening to a loud "Wuh?" and much viewer apathy.

Because frankly we only get upset by fox hunting bans and people lighting upg in non-smoking areas in the UK.

Dunkirk spirit and all that.

But that wasn't enough to stop our cowboy hatted pal from unleashing a sequel onto an unsuspecting world and upsetting the mighty BBFC in the process who regarded the film as being "sexually violent" as well as possibly being in breach of the Obscene Publications Act.

Demanding 32 cuts (totalling 2 minutes and 37 seconds) before granting it a certificate the film is is finally with us and despite losing some references to sandpaper aided masturbation, forced mooth shite-ing and newborn baby crushing the movie still manages to be the funniest, most hellzaboppin' comedy I've seen since Cannon and Ball's one and only big screen outing The Boys in Blue.

"Rock on Tommy! There's mooth shite-in about!"

It's almost as if director Six has somehow channelled the journalistic genius of the great Charlie Brooker (or locked him in a cellar) into purposely writing a movie that's aimed fairly and squarely at readers of the Daily Mail* and no-one else, just to watch their collective heads explode as they try to comprehend it.

I mean, where do you begin when summing up such genius?

The acting, as mentioned before is excruciating to watch but perfectly pitched, giving a spot on portrayal of the kind of performances usually seen in this type of movie.

Special mention has to be given to the neighbour who's delivery of lines like "I'll play my fahkin music as loud as I like you fahkin retard!" are so stiltedly delivered, his walk so laboured as to give his scenes an almost cinéma vérité feel seldom seen in the modern horror genre.

Every shot, every action, every scene of the film is so recognisable and so clichéd that to see them de-constructed then presented back to us in such a perfectly re-rendered way is mind blowing in it's simplicity.


Never has the idea of the metanarrative been so successfully used before now in an attempt to actually fuse the audience members (as it were) into the story telling technique. Our knowledge and appreciation of the differences between good and bad cinema have never been so fully utilised by a director before, making us as much a part of the story as Martin or even the mooth shite-in.

Jean-François Lyotard would be wanking himself silly in his grave at the thought of it.

If he still had a cock obviously.


But is that so surprising for a wonderfully metaphorical work such as this?


I think not.

Unfortunately it seems that precious few of the folk who'd actually appreciate all this meta-textual bollocks have been arsed going to see it.

And rather than come out and agree with me, Tom Six seems to be staying silent.

I mean at this rate the whole point is gonna be lost and I'm going to end up looking like an arse who's been duped into reading way too much into something that in reality has very little cultural or cinematic worth other than to shock.

And don't you just hate it when that happens?

Lyotard: Clever clogs. And French.

*For those of you outside the UK the Daily Mail is a British 'news' paper written exclusively by, and for ex-Nazi's and their families. Famously pro-Hitler during the 40's, latter day classic cuts include advocating abortions for babies with Autism,  describing Stephen Gately's death as a little sleazy due to him being gay and that every crime and benefit fraud in the country is committed by 'Johnny Foreigner', who even tho' has been welcomed into our country with open arms refuses blankly to turn his skin white.

And that's just articles by Jan Moir.