get to truck.

Just had a request to review this online which means that the whole Coronavirus thing has gotten so bad that people have started to actually read my blog.

I'll let that sink in for a minute.

Originally posted in tribute to Mr Airwolf himself - Jan-Michael Vincent - when he died (and in no way an attempt to rustle up some new readers) it seems from the blog stats that no fucker bothered to read it at the time so here we go again.

Damnation Alley (1977)
Dir: Jack Smight.
Cast:  Jan-Michael Vincent, George Peppard, Dominique Sanda, Paul Winfield, Kip Niven and Jackie Earle Haley.

"Bomb or no bomb, the lights never go out in Vegas!"

Welcome to the US Airforce's best kept secret, an ICBM base cunningly disguised as a collection of garden sheds some place in the sunny Mojave Desert where mustachioed military Major Eugene Denton (pity poor Peppard having to slum it to pay his wife's alimony) and his rebellious rookie sidekick Dan 'Elsie' Tanner (grizzled Airwolf star Michael Vincent) spend their days marching up and down corridors and looking intently at a series of randomly flashing lights whilst wearing fancy white cravats and Kwik-Fit overalls.

Paul and Barry Chuckle: The Nuremberg Years.

It's not all hard work tho' as they do get to occasionally hang out with Kev Keegan (Star Trek II's Winfield), the bases security chief cum artist whose obsession with painting Denton's wife (or is it Denton?) naked borders on the obscene.

But just when you think the movies going to take a turn into paint covered multiracial tit wanking territory Russia decides to start World War III and nuke America.

Arse.

Not wanting to spoil the habit of a lifetime when it comes to world wars our Yankee cousins wait a little bit (well until Albuquerque has been nuked) before joining in the fight and it's not long before the Earth dies screaming in a searing haze of disco lights, atomic test film and stock footage from The Guns of Navarone, all played out to an eerie electronic proto-jazz score courtesy of Jerry Goldsmith.

On crack.

Cue your friendly neighbourhood title cars to explain that as well as mutating scorpions and turning the sky into a giant laser light show, the combined nuclear explosions have also tilted the Earth off its axis.

Which is nice.

Luckily for the plot our heroes base is safe, enabling the few bold survivors to carry on doing all that military stuff for no apparent reason other than an almost psychotic obsession with finally making all the lights on the control panels flash in unison.

Except that is for Denton who spends his time tinkering away in the garage, assisted by the only slightly moustached Lt. KT Perry (teevee stalwart Niven) and the by now air force drop-outs Keegan, who's taken to shoddily painting tropical landscapes on the outside of his shed and Tanner who fills his day by wildly driving around the desert annoying the local giant scorpions.

It's a living I guess.

If not very exciting to watch.

"Fuck me! It's Fred Titmuss!"

It's a good job then that one of the airman, enjoying a post wank fag accidentally sets light to a jazz-mag which just happens to be resting against a pipe that says  "WARNING:FLAMMABLE GAS" in big letters down the side.

Massive explosions and more stock footage ensues leaving only our feebly fleshed out foursome standing.

Or in Jan Michael Vincent's case leaning drunkenly against a wall.

But fear ye not, for Denton and Perry have been building two pimped to fuck silver (I.E. futuristic) highly armed transit vans, christened Landmasters with the intention of driving to Albany where Denton is sure a group of survivors live.

This is probably more likely than it seems, I've been to Albany and I can assure you it's not even worth shitting on let alone wasting an atomic bomb on, even the birds fly past upside down.

So our heroes, like a gaggle of sci-fi pikeys set out across the radioactive desert in the vain hope of finding the last remnants of humanity.

Or at the very least a field to park in.

"Wanna buy some pegs Dave?"

Almost immediately (it's as if the director is scared we'll get bored if there are more than five minutes of dialogue on screen between the action) our motley band drive headlong into a terrifying tornado-style storm.

Yikes.

Tanner, being a wee bit of a rebel decides to carry on regardless whilst the more by the book Perry pulls over to the side of the desert to consult the Landmaster manual.

This turns out to be a fairly bad decision as poor Perry has only gotten as far as how to set the dashboard clock before the storm has picked up the Landmaster and deposited it upside down halfway up a hill.

And unfortunately on Perry's head.

As a plus point this does mean that for the first time in cinematic history it's not the token black guy that died first.

Tho' an actor of Paul Winfield's caliber was probably hoping to get out sooner rather than later.

"You mean this van isn't full of sweets?"

There's no time for tears tho' as the next stop is fabulous Las Vegas, where quite surprisingly (and to Hunter S Thompson's utter joy I imagine) the Circus Circus is still all lit up and pumping Tom Jones thru' the tannoy system.

I would expect nothing less from the hotel I got married from.

Keegan and Tanner, relieved at finally getting some fresh air after days of wallowing in each others farts (and trust Me Jan Michael Vincent's taste of egg) race thru' the casino with gay abandon pausing only to chance their luck on the puggy machines whilst dashing Denton stand atop the stairs, hands on hips and with a clearly visible erection, gazing down on his boys with all the decorum of former Labour MP Lord Janner at an orphanage.

"Merde
  dans les cuisses de grenouilles mah bouche gourmands!"

Suddenly as if from nowhere a curtain wearing, long of face yet smooth of thighed French woman appears and introduces herself as club singer cum exotic bird (and last non mouldy woman in Vegas) Ms. Janice (Sanda from, um some French stuff).

Which is a bit of a shock for our heroes as they were expecting Cher.

Or at the very least Lance Burton.

She soon explains that she managed to survive the war because she was giving the manager a private performance in his handy fallout shelter when the bombs went off.

Typical fucking blonde.

Being real gentlemen our tricky trio offer to take Janice all the way (to Albany, not up the arse obviously) but first have to stop in Salt Lake City to get some petrol.

Oh and crisps.

Arriving at their destination (in what seems like a matter of minutes) Tanner and Janice head into town of his motorbike to look for 'women's stuff' whilst Keegan checks the abandoned cars for any discarded chocolate or cans of Tizer leaving Denton to stand about looking manly whilst sucking on a cigar.

It's whilst on this snack hunt that Keegan notices how strangely clean the human bones are within the abandoned vehicles.

It's almost as if the set has been littered with bits of cheap Halloween skeleton toys.

Well either that or the place is full of fist sized flesh eating cockroaches but really what are the chances of that?

We'll soon find out cos no sooner has Keegan open the petrol hatch when hundreds of the black shelled buggers start swarming (do cockroaches swarm?) toward him, biting and barking wildly as they go.

Keegan finding himself pursued by what looks like loads of raisins stuck to a bit of lino jumps inside one of the cars and attempts to hide under a skeleton.

Big hunky black man, skinny white skeleton, you do the math.

Beware the Cornetto man!

Noticing his pal's dilemma (tho' why he's admiring the make of car he's hiding in under the circumstances is anyone's guess) Denton hops into the Landmaster and pulls out that most useful of sci-fi movie weapons; a fire extinguisher.

Great, because we all know that mutant insects are allergic to foam.

That'll be why you never see them taking bubble baths then.

Unfortunately for Keegan this has absolutely no effect on the bugs, so Denton shuts the car door to muffle the screams before radioing Tanner to announce, in all seriousness:

"This whole town is infested with killer cockroaches, repeat, killer cockroaches!"

Utter fucking genius.

Relieved that they're not actually being chased by giant liquorice balls Tanner and Janice do their best to lose the bugs in the local Woolworths, taking the stairs (on a motorbike mind) in an attempt to outrun the lazier cockroaches who'll no doubt be waiting on the lift before stunt biking it thru' a first floor window in glorious seventies slo-mo action.

Ker-chow!

Waiting for them downstairs, after first blowing up a wall with a handy grenade launcher is good old Denton smoking a big cigar and standing manfully atop a pile of foam sodden bugs.

Phew.

Tonka.

Patting each other on the back as they drive no-one seems to give a fuck that Keegan is dead, more likely Tanner realises that he's now the only hetro' guy onboard, bringing him closer to having a wee French fancy.

Dirty sod.

Denton, obviously upset by the lack of firm man-meat in the Landmaster decides that they should stop at the next town they find in the hope of coming across a young boy.

You can take that any way you like because I'm pretty sure Denton will.

Coming to a sudden halt outside a rundown shack in the middle of nowhere, Denton sniffs the air before changing into his best uniform and heading outside where, not too surprisingly, he finds a young, baw headed and buck toothed boy named Billy (Future Fred Krueger and author of Roots Haley), who's busy throwing rocks at bad men.

Result.

"That's amazing! I'm 15 and like The Saturdays too! Now get your webcam on and your clothes off!"

Adventure seems to be coming at them by the bucket load now (well at least that's all that's coming) because after the first thirty five minutes where sod all happened they appear to be finding fairly attractive survivors every couple of seconds now.

Except for this time obviously where our heroes run foul to a group of real-life, rape obsessed gypsies hiding out in a petrol station just waiting for a nice bit of prime ass to travel by.

Oh and to sell them some pegs as well.

It's only thanks to big browed Billy's amazing rock-throwing skills coupled with Janice's almost impregnable bra (oh and Tanner's ability to shoot someone in the face at point blank range obviously) that our merry band escape without so much as a violated mouth or loss of bladder control.

Denton, feeling a bit left out of all this manly fighting decides to show everyone who's boss tho' by firing a couple of rockets from the Landmaster's missile tubes at the outside toilet in which two of the gypsies were hiding.

Which I'll admit does seem a wee bit excessive even by the future A-Team leaders standards.

"Four fingers and George Peppard...never touched the sides!"

After all this rough terrain, rough justice and even rougher toilet paper it's not too surprising to find that the faithful old Landmaster has begun to make loud clanking noises and belch plumes of oily black smoke.

Looking under the hood Denton deduces that the crank-shaft and armature quim have broken and need replacing ASAP.

If not sooner.

Luckily for all concern Denton designed and built the Landmaster to use common or garden truck parts so it's a quick detour to the wrecking yards of Detroit then all the way to Albany.

Huzzah!

Pulling into the nearest scrap palace Denton gets hard at work straight away vigorously screwing his nuts whilst Billy goes out exploring and Janice and Tanner stare into the middle distance, totally unaware that the sky has gone all red and the wind is whipping up.

Cue a low rent version of the last twenty five minutes of 2001 projected onto the clouds as Tanner, astride his beloved bike tries desperately to find little Billy whilst dodging large chunks of painted cardboard.

"Hmmmm....tastes like chicken!"

Spotting Billy having a piss behind an old corvette Tanner grabs the boy and rides back to the Landmaster just in time to see a giant tsunami engulf Detroit.

Luckily, Denton also designed the Landmaster to float, giving us ample opportunity to experience the sheer joy of watching a shoddily painted cardboard box with cut-out wheels bobbing in a bath.

Noticing the huge wet patch on the seat (no it's not Janice) Denton and Tanner manfully force open the Landmasters top hatch to discover that not only has the sky has gone back to it's pre-nuke normality but from the look of things Detroit is now a lake.

Yup, the huge and impressive special effects sequence we've just experienced was, in fact the Earth tilting back to its normal axis.

Three cheers for science!

Feeling fairly elated by this turn of events Denton sets the Landmaster into 'chug' mode and heads for dry land.

I wouldn't want that swimming up my arse.

Coming ashore in what looks like a kiddies playpark and knowing the movie only has about ten minutes left, Tanner and Denton get to work on setting up a radio transmitter in the hope of contacting Albany, which luckily they do within a matter of seconds.

And guess what?

It's only a few miles down the road.

With an excited glee not seen since The Pope visited a Glasgow orphanage Tanner and Billy jump on the motorbike and head off to meet these newly christened 'Albanians' and hopefully get first dibs on any Mars bars left uncontaminated.

Gazing ruefully into the distance as they drive into the sunset, Denton uncomfortably hugs Janice who, in turn just stands there looking French.

Chinny rackon.

Meanwhile, further down the road, Tanner and Billy are amazed to pass fields of non-mutant sheep and cows, small clean faced children playing in the bushes and about thirty well dressed and healthy people ready to welcome them to their new home.

Awe.

From the director of that other classic book balls up The Illustrated Man comes this cack handed post apocalyptic action based on a novel by Roger Zelazny, which itself is loosely based on the story of Balto, a Siberian Husky sled dog who led the team on the 1925 emergency run, transporting diphtheria antitoxin from Nenana, Alaska to Nome.

Not funny but absolutely true.

In the novel, tough as nails Hells Angel Tanner is hired to deliver a load of cod liver oil tablets to somewhere inconsequential.

Due to his unbearable BO Tanner is forced into piloting the Landmaster alone; the situations and survivors he comes across during the course of the novel work to reawaken his humanity, until by the stories end and with the Landmaster totally fucked, Tanner walks the rest of the way with the serum in a backpack.

A bit like Judge Dredd did in The Cursed Earth saga remember?

With such a great (and highly pilfered) concept and top pedigree it's genuinely frightening to see how much the movie plays out like a Children's BBC version of Mad Max.

How could director Smight and scriptwriter Alan Sharp go so wrong?

Well adding an array colourful cardboard cliché characters doesn't help

or a Frenchwoman.

And utilizing tinfoil, tea bag boxes and giving your huge survival tank a ruddy great canvas midrift is probably not the best way of going about it if I'm honest.

Oh, and getting your six year old nephew on board as scientific adviser is probably not the greatest of ideas.

"Come get in the back of me Cortina and let me bite ya!"

But to be fair there are a few enjoyable things on show.

I mean the cast are good (to a point), the deserts look nice and there's gangly love god Jan Michel Vincent  for the ladies.  

And lets be honest, what more do you want on a Sunday night?

A pity then that I watched it on a Friday.                                                                                       

worriers of the waistband.

Been concentrating on the outbreak a bit too much according to some readers so thought I'd feature films that show what may happen post-Corona.

Or if you live in Dudley what happens on a normal day.

Warrior Of The Lost World (AKA The Executioner of the Lost Earth, Mad Rider, Raiders of the Omega Year. 1983).
Dir: David Worth.
Cast: Robert Ginty, Persis Khambatta, Donald Pleasence, Fred Williamson, Robert Kilroy Silk and Bruno Bilotta.

“Very bad mothers!
Very bad mothers!
Very bad mothers!”

World War III has been and gone in a big puff of stock footage-less explanatory dialogue.

From the ashes of conflict has risen a new society, the totalitarian government known as Omega run by professional bad man Prossor (Pleasence still wearing his old Blofeld costume and therefore saving the costume designer a costly trip to Matalan) from his highly fortified shopping centre base.

Opposing this faceless, emotionless regime is the individuality loving The New Way, lead by the silver fox like Professor McWayne (orange skinned, Arab hating former talk show host Kilroy Silk) and his crack squad of nappy clad Nepalese wise men.

Legend has it - isn't that always the way? - that a mysterious (well, unshaven and piss stained) fighter will appear to help in their battle against the bad men, leading them into battle astride a cardboard and MDF enhanced 'supercycle'.

His name?

Mr. Lesley Warrior.

A smoother ride than your mum.

When we first meet 'Warrior' he's whiling away the afternoon by racing along a country lane playing tag with various Omega security cars obviously still obsessed with people adhering to the speed limit whilst Einstein, his bikes onboard computer does it's best to annoy the fuck out of the viewer by repeating everything Warrior says in a voice reminiscent of a child with a badly fitted voicebox.

Cue twenty minutes of racing, shooting and playground style stunts as Warrior battles everyone from fascist police-types to Nadsat spouting 'teens' with tights on their heads and finally a group of Nazi Stormtroopers who live on a newly mowed football pitch scattered with a dozen or so junked cars and attack passers by from their heavily armoured kiddies go-karts.

None of these are any cause for concern to a warrior of, um, Warriors standards unlike the huge cliff face he singularly fails to see before driving headlong into it.

Arse.

Luckily for the rest of the movie this inconvenient accident doesn't kill Warrior or destroy Einstein (unfortunately in that case) and he's soon seen lying naked except for a fluffy towel whilst those pesky mystical types wave their hands over him, watched by a bemused Barry Henchman (Williamson, whose alimony bill must have been fucking huge that month).

Resting up (but not shaving) Warrior is approached by the sexily snooty Nastasia McWayne (dusky beauty Khambatta from MegaForce and Star Trek: The Motion Picture) who explains that her dad has been grabbed by the Omegas (sounds painful) and is to be executed the next day unless they mount rescue mission.

As opposed to mounting a wee boy.

"I'm shagging your weans!"

To make sure he'll agree to the mission Nastasia threatens to shoot him in the cock if he tries to leave.

No surprise then that he eagerly agrees to help and is soon decked out in a pair of Kwik Fit overalls, navigating a secret underground tunnel chock full spiders, snakes and ball headed mutants by torchlight in an attempt to break into the Omega fortress.

Which if I’m honest isn't half as exciting as it sounds seeing as it only takes them about ten minutes, to give some much needed perspective it took me at least half an hour to break into your mum.

Only joking.*

Entering Omega city via a warehouse cum nightclub our heroes are subjected to some eighties style leather-clad Europop dancing before making their way outside and along to execution plaza as dastardly Donald's voice booms over the cities sound system reminding folk that emotions (and collars by the look of things) are a crime.

Oh and that there's a special offer on baked beans, twelve tins for a pound.

"Do you expect me to talk?"
"No Mr. Bond I expect you to shite in mah mooth!"

Arriving at the execution area our heroes take a seat and prepare for action by watching three (obviously less important) prisoners pull sex faces whilst getting electrocuted before one of the guards, armed with a huge flame-thrower comes out and roasts the corpses.

Just to make sure.

As soon as daddy McWayne is dragged out for his (s)execution Nastasia and the Warrior take out the guards (and anyone else in their way) with some handy machine-guns before running thru' the city and decimating what looks like at least 70% of Prossor's army and smashing a few windows for good measure before escaping in a handy helicopter that was parked in the street.

Unfortunately in all the excitement Nastasia (after getting shot in the arse) gets left behind to be captured by Prossor's men whilst his elite crop spraying team try in vain to stop Warrior and the professor reaching the relative safety of hills.

Persis Khambatta, up the casino, 1979.....Yesch!!

Back at hippy central, McWayne decides that maybe he should have tried to help his daughter rather than run screaming from the scene so, in a fit of pique raises a rag-tag army of misfits (about twelve of them) to overthrow Prossor and turn his superstore empire into a collection of pound shops.

The only way to get these outsiders (or 'marginals' as the script calls them) on side tho' is for Warrior to go to the local kiddies playground and offer to fight them all, which of course he does (tossing a midget for good measure), winning the title of 'Mr. Lost World Top Fighter' and the respect of his peers.

It's now time for Warrior to lead this makeshift military mob into battle against the forces of darkness and destroy the Omega fortress by means of kiddies scooters, some second hand mobility cars, a few old taxi's with cardboard fins stuck onto them and a milk float whilst The Professor and Mr. Henchman monitor the attack from the air.

Just imagine the climax of Mad Max 2 re-enacted by a gypsy convoy and you're halfway there.

Some muthas do 'ave 'em.....dig?

This (scarily) successful attack on consumer culture is brought to a sudden halt when Prossor unveils his ultimate defense.

A giant, matt black bin lorry with huge wooden spikes attached and a roof mounted flame thrower that thunders very slowly up the road and can't take corners.

Ladies and gentlemen, behold the 'Megaweapon'.

The deadly Megaweapon earlier today.

Everyone stops what they're doing and just stands staring as it trundles slowly toward them, not knowing whether to run scared or piss themselves laughing.

Warrior asks Einstein "How the Hell do we stop that?" before receiving the chirpy reply of "Forty megatons!"

Yup, that's right, a glorified removal van that can only be destroyed by a nuclear strike.

This film must be like hard core porn to Jeremy Clarkson.

Clarkson: masturbatory fantasies.

With Megaweapon looming ever closer and the evil Prossor preparing to wipe Nastasia's mind (that wont take long), it will take a miracle (or some shady plotting) for Warrior and his friends to succeed in bringing what amounts to anarchy to Prossors well ordered society.

Will they overcome the dreaded Megaweapon?

Will Einstein get crushed under it's wheels allowing Warrior to find the off switch?

or Will Prossor turn out to be an android replica all along?

There's only one way to find out!

You can't help but feel envious of director/writer David Worth.

Not only has he directed three of the greatest movies ever made; Shark Attack 3: Megalodon, Kickboxer and the Cynthia Rothrock starrer Lady Dragon but admits that when he was hired to direct Warrior Of The Lost World he was given free reign to make it about anything he wanted as long as it looked a wee bit like the poster they'd designed.

So how on earth did he manage to make something featuring super fast cars and bikes so pedestrian seeing as he had carte blanche and a budget well in excess of £78?

Too much freedom perhaps?

James Cameron please take note.

It's like coming in halfway thru' the last episode of a six part TV series, you kinda guess who everyone is, you know what's going on and you think you know where it's going.

Just just don't care why.

It's not all bad tho', the thing is fairly enjoyable in a 'what the fuck's going on?" kinda way and the cast (bar the annoying little fucker playing Einstein) are top notch, well midway notch...well they're notched in some way.

And what a cast it has; The Exterminator himself Ginty resplendent in stonewash denims and teabag stubble, dear old Donald Pleasence, Persis Khambatta with hair and Fred Williamson in a beret.

Just when you think it can't get any better in the cult actors stakes tho', my mate Geretta Geretta turns up as a foxy Amazon and kicks the shite out of our hero whilst a plaid covered dwarf looks on.

It's worth it just for this alone.

Oh that and the fact that everyone shakes their guns in a pow! pow! motion whenever they are called on to fire them.

Frankly if this is how the post-apocalyptic world is gonna be then I'm off to cough on everyone in Morrison's.

I'll just go cut the collar off my shirt and blow up the wheels on my trike.

Post-apocalyptic pleasures don't get much guiltier than this.

...and the fathers who love them.

*Or am I?

wong turn.

Todays Coronavirus classic is actually so good I've reviewed it about 9 times before.

Tho' that was originally about 15 years ago and according to the blog stats only 8 people read it.

Bastards.

Yi boh laai beng duk (AKA Ebola Syndrome 1996)
Dir: Herman Yau.
Cast: Anthony Wong, Yeung Ming Wan, Fui-On Shing, Wong Tsui-ling, Miu-Ying Chan and Meng Lo.

In the back room of a fashionable Hong Kong restaurant, Kai (king of the bad guys and HK's answer to Eric Roberts Wong), ne'er do well employee and general sleazy man spends his off work hours shagging his boss's sexy wife over the uncooked shrimp whilst sweating a fair bit and grunting loudly.

In Cantonese of course.

It's not too surprising tho' that before long his boss has caught kinky Kai red handed - well bare arsed - with his trousers round his ankles and his cock in his missis.

In case you're wondering, her arse is in the egg noodles causing all sorts of health and safety problems.

Gordon Ramsay would have a field day.

And probably a quick reach-around.

Like any normal jealous hubbie in the same situation, big boss man administers a severe beating upon the Kai whilst angrily shouting at his unfaithful spouse.

Again in Cantonese.

However, after about the fifth kick to the nads and general pointy fingeredness, Kai goes completely mental killing his boss and then his bosses wife in a pot noodle of blood and sweat, leaving only their young (Cantonese speaking obviously) daughter alive.

"I said SHITE in mah mooth!"

Coming to his senses (as opposed to over the corpses which we were expecting) Kai decides the best course of action would be to quickly leg it out of Hong Kong and try to start a new, quieter and dead body free life somewhere else.

Grabbing his passport and kiss me quick hat he reckons the best place to lay low would be sunny South Africa.

"Call that a pizza? It's more like a pizzashite! Disgusting....I'm closing you down....Chef! etc."

Thru' the power of wobbly dissolves we jump forward ten years to find that Kai has carved out (tho' not literally) a nice life for himself, working in another restaurant, the Kurried Kaffa and filling his days off by masturbating with sides of beef whilst watching his new boss Terry and his wife shagging on the tables.

Well at least he's not killed anyone else.

Yet.

Wallace and Torode - they've got something to put in you.

All good things must come to an end tho' and after missing out on a place in the Master Chef finals and the failure of his apartheid themed Nelson Mandelicatessen, the pair desperately search for a way to keep the business from going bankrupt.

Enter (but obviously not roughly from behind) local Farmer Barney Moe who, it turns out is making a roaring trade selling cheap pig meat out the back of a van in the nearby village of Spent.

Overjoyed by the prospect of saving some cash Kai and Terry decide to hit the road and head into the great outdoors for a nice picnic and the chance to buy some inexpensive meat product for use in the restaurant's best selling hamburgers safe in the knowledge that no-one will be able to tell the difference.

Unfortunately on arrival they discover that the entire village is suffering from the infamous Ebola virus.

How's yer luck?

Grabbing their hankies and quickly covering their mouths our intrepid duo complete the purchase without incident (or anal bleeding) and beat a hasty retreat back to the car.

Surprisingly given the circumstances, everything is going swimmingly until that is they happen upon a woman lying prone in the grass and having a seizure.

Either that or she's a Gregory's Girl fan.

Kai, hypnotized by the unfortunate woman's (admittedly bouncy) breasts stands and stares for what seems like an eternity before snapping back to reality and doing what any red blooded sexual deviant would do in that situation, namely running over to give them a bloody good squeeze with his big meaty sausage fingers before unleashing his throbbing member and sticking it in her.

The romantic devil.

And before you can say 'Jingle jangle jewelery!" Kai is pulling a truly terrifying cum face whilst the woman spews up a mixture of blood and warm milk before letting out a massive fart and dying.

"Oooh Vic...I've fallen".

As you can probably guess, the conversation on the way home is a wee bit stilted and when finally arriving back at the restaurant both Kai and Terry decide to never mention the incident again.

A kind of 'what stains in Vegas stays in Vegas' deal.

Which would probably be OK if only poor old Kai hadn't developed a fever (and an embarrassing itch) within hours of his return.

Terry persuades him to visit his local GP who immediately recognizes that Kai is showing the symptoms of Ebola.

Which isn't that much of a surprise if I'm honest.

Luckily Kai's doctor is up to date with the latest research and prescribes plenty of bed rest and weak lemon drinks for our unlucky pal.

Oh yes and absolutely no raping.

Of people or meat products for at least a fortnight.

Bizarrely enough tho' this course of action actually works and within days his fever (tho' not the itch) has all but gone and Kai begins to feel better than he has for years.

And how does our horny hero decide to celebrate his new found lease of life?

Why by raping and murdering Terry's wife of course.

But not before bludgeoning Terry to death with a leg of lamb.

And can you guess how Kai decides to dispose of the bodies?

Yup in a masterstroke of unhinged genius our mentalist mate begins to sell a new dish, African Buns, thru' the restaurant.

And (as if you hadn't guessed) African Buns are (albeit very tasty) hamburgers made out of the by now Ebola infected folk that Kai has killed.

Hmmm.....I reckon this could cause a few problems if not a spike in toilet roll sales.

"Now get in the back of mah car so I can bite ya!"

Indeed, it's not long before a large proportion of the populace of Johannesburg are writhing about on the floor foaming at the mouth and pissing blood and it's all thanks to Kai and his tainted meat.

Understandably worried about how this could affect his business and career opportunities Kai is left with no choice but to sell up the restaurant and head back to Hong Kong on the next available flight in the hope of at least getting a part-time job in McDonalds.

You think that wee boy looks happy now? Well just wait till the face fucking starts.

As luck - and totally non realistic storytelling would have it -  he boards the plane to HK with absolutely no problems, enjoying a slap up meal and three whole bags of peanuts on his way back.

He's so relieved he doesn't even attempt to fuck any of the other passengers to death during the inflight movie.

Not even the ones that look like they deserve it.

But you know his run of good luck can't last and sure enough who should he bump into as he's collecting his baggage?

Why only Maisie, the daughter of the couple he killed ten years earlier.

What are the chances of that?

Being a model citizen - and having a really good memory -  she rushes to tell the local authorities but much to her dismay they send her packing thinking she's imagined it.

As if the police would ever ignore evidence of abuse?

With no alternative but to take the law into her own (very delicate) hands Maisie decides to follow Kai, making sure to write down everything she finds out in a little pink Hello Kitty diary.

This is a good plan for a variety of reasons, firstly it means she has evidence to back up her claims and secondly but more importantly it means we are treated to loads of montage shots of Kai abusing prostitutes and wanking into peoples underwear drawers.

Which, if I'm honest is what cinema is all about.

Emma Watson was beginning to regret taking a cameo role in Brucie: The Early Years.

Discovering the whereabouts of his new apartment, Maisie decides to confront Kai in the hope that he'll give himself up but this only angers the munching mentalist who then proceeds to try and cut Maisie’s tongue out with a pair of blunt nail scissors.

Which shows he's nothing if not consistent.

It wont come as too much of a shock when I say that Maisie isn't really into this and a scuffle ensues culminating in our heroine biting Kai and running away into the night leaving him to carrying on doing his thing.

Or should that be doing things with his thing?

Fair enough.

And as we've gathered his thing involves a few (well a lot) more killings, loads of sexual shenanigans, a couple more murders and a little bit more shagging.

Really I don't want to spoil it for you.

Sanity soon prevails tho' and the police finally decide (after much poking and prodding) that this Kai bloke is possibly a wee bit loony and that maybe, just maybe they should really bring him in for questioning.

"I'll give you five English pounds for a shot at Nick Berry's mooth!"

On paper this looks like a good idea but in reality sending the HK equivalent of Nick Berry from Heartbeat probably wasn't the best way to go.

When the officer (well wee boy) turns up to ask him a few things (just minor stuff like "Are you an Ebola infected multiple murderer with a penchant for shagging bits of meat?") Kai loses the plot even more than normal (which is a sight to behold) and escapes into the busy city streets.

But not before taking a cute wee Chinese a girl hostage and daring the police to shoot him, risking his blood infecting everyone in the surrounding area.

Which begs the question of what they were planning to shoot him with?

A rocket launcher?

Devo and Nick Heywood always enjoyed their

weekly game of 'What's the Time Mr. Wolf?'

With the police either too scared - or too busy - to risk anything Kai is almost home free until that is the small girl ruins everything (as girls do) by starting to cry for her mum, Kai reacts as any meat obsessed murderer would and shoots her in the face before running (like a girl himself I must admit) thru' the busy streets spitting on passers by and hollering "I have Ebola and now so do you!" 

Which is nice.

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

Will Kai be captured before he infects the world?

Will Maisie turn up again or has she disappeared completely from the film due to her refusing to do nudity?

And will I ever recover from seeing the great Anthony Wong slaughtering a frog in extreme close-up?

The infamous Mr. Sausage Fingers was dismayed

to discover that The Cheeky Girls would

never reveal the whereabouts of his car keys.

On paper Ebola Syndrome sounds as if it should possibly be one of the most offensive films ever conceived, from it's tragedy exploiting plot thru' to the constant on screen barrage of murder, sexual violence, swearing, more sexual violence, child murders and gore.

But bizarrely enough it isn't.

Somehow director Herman Yau has managed (by accident or design, who knows?) to give a skewered sense of quality and credibility to the whole thing, partly thanks to an amazing turn from Anthony Wong as ker-razy Kai.

The magnificent Wong, a mainstay of Hong Kong cinema for the past thirty odd years has made a career playing damaged characters in films of wildly varying quality, flitting happily from such critically acclaimed fare such as Infernal Affairs to shite like Raped by An Angel IV.

Here Wong manages to makes Kai the film's most interesting (if not most sympathetic) character, the rest of the (admittedly great) cast all just fade into the background when the great man is on screen.

So you can imagine that when he's got his cock out they've no chance.

"It's Cccccchhhhrrrriiissstttmmmaaasssss!!!"

If any criticism can be leveled at the movie it has to be the completely gratuitous (and unnecessary) scenes of animal slaughter, a throwback to the worst of the 70's Italian exploitation era and, while it may only be a few frog guttings and the beheading of a couple of mangy chickens, it's still enough to taint the viewing experience somewhat.

Perhaps if Wong had just had sex with them instead?

Well it's just a thought.

But don't let that put you off experiencing such a sleaze-tastic epic that for all it's shocks is infinitely less hard going than the earlier Wong-Yau masterclass in restaurant based bad taste, the true story inspired Baat sin fan dim ji yan yuk cha siu baau.

It's still a must see tho'.

This is why your girlfriend didn't
return your calls last Saturday.

Great as a first date film and even better on a quiet Sunday afternoon with the family, Ebola Syndrome has everything you could ever want from a film about a food fucking sexual deviant with a deadly disease and until Greg Wallace decides to do the same, it'll win out over Master Chef every time.

The celebrity editions not withstanding obviously.

turkey balls.

OK so everything as gone to Hell in a handbag due to the whole Coronavirus catastrophe going down right now but I'm here to help.

Well I say help.

"You want toilet roll? You must be off your trolley mate!"

Anyway today's blast from the Bubonic past is a film so awful that the first time I watched it my body rebelled forcing me to begin violently shitting blood in an attempt to stop me.

Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves for...

Birdemic: Shock and Terror (2008).
Dir: James Nguyen.
Cast: Alan Bagh, Whitney Moore, Janae Caster, Adam Sessa, Colton Osborne, Patsy van Ettinger, Tippi Hedren (on video) plus lots of other unfortunate folk who will remain nameless.

Dr Jones: "It's the human species that needs to quit playing cowboy with nature. We must act more like astronauts, spacemen taking care of Spaceship Earth."

Generic stud muffin, green activist and traveling sales-guy Rod (Bagh, most famous for his role as 'party goer' in the movie version of Rent), taking a well deserved break from punting environmentally friendly nose-hair clippers and computer type stuff to old men, stops off for a bite to eat at a cosy diner where in between chowing down on lobster and fries he glimpses the toothsome and skull-headed beauty that is Wallmart catalogue model Nathalie (Moore) sucking the grease from a hobo's coat at the other table.

Realizing he'll never meet anyone again who can match his frightening lack of charisma and talent he gives Nathalie his number (12 probably) and arranges to meet her for a dinner date later that week.

Heading home to get showered Rod notices that a few birds are flying backwards and using their pooh to write abusive graffiti on windshields.

Our hero thinks that this may be something to do with global warming but instantly forgets about the whole thing as soon as he pulls into his drive way.

"Curses He-Man!"

Changing into his dad's shirt and tie he meets up with Nathalie for a slap up Happy Chef meal (but no starter, the budget isn't that big) leading to what seems like a three hour long vomit inducing romance montage involving them kissing each other goodnight, chatting to their friends, Rod selling stuff (but unfortunately not his arse) and talking about inexpensive solar paneling with Nathalie's grossly overweight mum.

Meanwhile on a nameless beach an eagle dies.

After a particularly tasty McDonald's Happy Meal (with a free Transformers window dangler) Rod and Nat decide that rather than going back to one of their comfy and well furnished apartments that it'd be more fun to have a shag in a filthy, run down motel in the middle of nowhere.

Who says romance is dead?

Seductively (by seductively I mean really uncomfortably, like having to watch your mum pole dance) Nathalie strips to her (non matching) underwear whilst raunchy Rod stands about like a discarded mannequin decked out in a pair of tramps pants and socks before easing himself onto the flea infested bed for a night of hot passion.

Thank fuck the camera fades to black before we get to see any of it.

Come to think of it the film's been on for an hour so far and we've yet to see anything of consequence.

It's a bit like watching sub-shite soap opera paint dry.

It really is this shit. Just accept it.

But lo! As if by magic something finally happens as we're treated to the sight of some 1980's style computer generated birds suicide bombing the local city and exploding for no apparent reason.

Back at the motel Nathalie is rudely awakened by a mix of vaginal itching and a loud banging coming from outside and - after opening the curtains (and sharing with us the horrific sight of her skinny bum cheeks hanging limply from between her thong string) announces to a groggy Rod that they are under attack.

By kamikaze eagles.

Striking a heroic pose Rod drags the semen and shit stained bed over to the window to create a makeshift barricade before giving up, pulling his trousers on and hiding behind the TV.

Sick of having to sit quietly staring at Nathalie's knobbly knees for an hour our hero announces that the birds must have got bored and gone to lunch and that now would be a good time to make a break for the car.

Leaving the motel room they soon come across an equally unattractive and badly dressed couple, Gordon Ramsey (Sessa - like it matters) and his beast-like missis Becky.

Tho' from the look of her it might be his mum.

Or more likely your mum.

Armed with bird-bashing coat-hangers and a bottle of cheap gin, this gruesome pair of would-be abortionists offer our heroes a lift in their minivan.

Bagh: insert cock here....if nothing else it'll stop him talking.

Beating off the birds (but not in that way, it'd be far too much fun for this movie) as they fight valiantly to get to the van, Ramsey pulls out a kiddies toy M-16 machine gun from under the passenger seat managing to kill all the feathered fiends before the fantastic foursome drive off into the countryside and, after (more) chat about global warming, try to bring some much needed excitement to the movie by trying to run over a couple of pug faced children.

Being a complete arse tho', Ramsey can't even manage this which means we now have to suffer the robot-like non-acting of a pair of pig nosed pre-pubescent pains as well as everyone else.

Hoo-de-fucking-hoo.

More chat, driving and random bird murder follows.

Beware the Joan Crawford dance group!

Stopping for a picnic the stodgy sextet discover an eminent bird doctor standing on a bridge wearing an ill fitting suit and a decorators mask looking for all the world like a would be child molester with a Billy Goats Gruff fetish.

Or in current climes a normal person shopping in Aldi.

In a perfect world this would be Donald Pleasance but (luckily for him) he's dead so in his infinite wisdom the director goes for the next best thing.

A lard addicted derelict in a dead man's moth eaten jacket.

But try not to laugh too much because he has something important to tell us.

You see, it's not the poor birds fault it's ours.

Yup, all of our loud music, cars and motel based shagging has sent the worlds birds mad and now they want revenge.

And a big bag of seed.

Shite in mah mooth
you feathery bastards!

As the shock realization that the world as we know it has gone mad slowly sinks into the casts thick craniums, thoughts turn to survival.

Or in Becky's case where she can go to have a big shit in safety.

Will our motley band of wanna-be's and ne'er were's find a safe haven to rebuild their shattered lives?

Will Nathalie ever get a pair of undies to match her cheap (and frankly whorish) bra?

And, most importantly, will this ever end?

Nope, not even with yours.

What can one say about Birdemic that a thousand websites haven't already said in the ten years since it's release?

Hailed as a work of self-knowing cinematic genius by some and a Plan 9 From Outer Space for the 21st century by others, the entire internet at one point was totally overrun with opinions about the movie until everyone just moved on with their lives after realising that it wasn't even worth shitting on, much to the chagrin of director Nguyen who'd spent the previous months threatening to sue anyone who gave it a bad review in a series of ever more bizarre and crazed emails.

Yes, even this fine blog was targeted and threatened with legal action*.

And how did I reply?


James, 

You poor, misguided man, I don't care how much you soaked in the rave reviews and celebrity endorsements, winking knowingly as you bathed naked in the torrent of salty fanwank that soaks you to the skin, you didn't set out to make an amusingly self aware post modern epic - you set out to make an environmental horror movie.

And failed miserably.

I can't blame you for enjoying your new found celebrity status but you seem to forget that you originally took this mess to Sundance as a serious contender for competition.

Didn't the mass walkouts and audience suicides tell you anything?

It's not as if there's even a great film hidden beneath all the horrible mistakes and technical defects (everything from audio dropouts, badly recorded and muffled dialogue, jumpy editing to the use of free animated Gifs as birds), there are just the results of a delusional egotist (and self proclaimed Master of Romantic Thrillers TM) with more money than sense.



If you think I was a wee bit harsh you have to remember that Nguyen financed the movie, wrote the script, appears in it and also produced and directed so who else is there to blame?

China?

A bad boy who ran away?

Well, it beats clipping for small change
at the bus station.

Saying that tho' many people pointed out that what the film lacks in budget, style and technical expertise it more than makes up for due to Nguyen's obvious enthusiasm, ambition and vision.

Fair enough but saying that, I'm really enthusiastic about my dream to invade Latvia using an army of robot geese bolted into bronzed battle tanks but I'm honest enough to know that this is never gonna happen.

At least until I figure out a cheaper way of plating the amour.

No doubt you'll watch this anyway just because all your friends have so I have to ask (in my best Daddy voice), would you jump under a bus if they did?

Hmmm, thought so.

*This has actually happened twice, the other time was when Carolina Grigorov, the 'star' of Robin Hood: Ghosts Of Sherwood threatened to sue me for having a photo of her in my review.

hand job.

Just discovered that sozzled superstar - and Unwell regular - Stuart Whitman has died, tho' he was aged 92 so not that surprising.

Anyhow, in way of tribute I'm taking a look back at some of his best films.

Well the ones that I've got.

And are close to hand.

It's just a quickie tho' cos if I'm honest this movie isn't even worth pissing on.

Enjoy.

I must point out tho' that the film was so arse numbingly tedious that I ended up making things up for this review.

See if you can guess which bits.

Demonoid: Messenger of Death (AKA Macabra: La mano del diablo, 1981).
Dir: Alfredo Zacarías.
Cast: Samantha Eggar, Stuart Whitman, Roy Cameron Jenson, Lew Saunders, Narciso Busquets Erika Carlsson and José Chávez.

You either cut off my hand, or I'll kill you!

It's modern day - but still pre-wall - Mexico where portly porn 'tached mine owner Mark Baines (tubby teevee stalwart Jenson) is excitedly awaiting the arrival of his wife Jennifer (Eggar - desperate to pay of her rehab bill) so he can show her around the strawberry jam mine he's recently purchased.

He reckons that once it's running at full capacity it will not only solve the problem of world hunger but also net them a tidy profit.

Sorted.

Well they would be if the superstitious locals weren't too scared to work.

Or is it that they're just lazy?

Picking Jennifer up at the airport, Mark's right hand man Pepe (Romancing The Stone's Chávez) explains that according to local legend the mine is built on the remains of a Conserve cult temple and is the resting place of the ancient Jam Demon ievārījums famous for sacrificing virgins and making yummy sandwiches.

Possibly.

Not being ill-educated, superstitious common types the Baines laugh (now) at such tales deciding to explore the mines themselves to show the workers that there's nothing to fear.

Except giant ants obviously.

And the French.

Armed with jaunty torch hats and a bag of jars the couple head down into the mine to explore soon coming across the aforementioned temple as well as a small tin casket containing a severed hand.

Hmmm....could the locals concerns be justified?

Realizing that they may get a few quid for it at Cash Converters Mark pockets the casket and the pair head back to their hotel for an evening of food, wine and heavy (in Mark's case extremely heavy) petting.

"Spice Girls number one for Christmas.....MONSTA!"

As is the way when you organize a night of hot passion with a loved one Jennifer invariably comes down with a headache leaving Mark moping around on the sofa with his flaccid member in one hand and a cheap bottle of plonk in the other.

Unable to resist his urges yet filled with guilt at the thought of cracking one of whilst his wife sleeps next door Mark removes the severed hand from the casket and clumsily attempts to pleasure himself with it.

Without warning - and just before climax - the hand springs to life and attacks the couple before turning to dust as it tries to suffocate Mark leaving nothing but a dusty residue in his dribbly mouth.

And no doubt a sense of shame in all those involved.

Things go from bad to worse tho' as the next day Mark turns up at the mine and herds all the workers inside before blowing it up.

Which is nice if a wee bit unexpected.

Suddenly thanks to the magic of scratched to fuck stock footage we're in Las Vegas, where Mark has set himself up as a plaid-jacketed gambling god whilst Jennifer wanders the strip trying to find him.

Can I just point out that at no point will anyone mention the fact that he's murdered hundreds of poor mine workers.

It's almost like being Mexicans the American Government didn't really give two fucks about them.

C'mon how far-fetched is that?

His winning streak spotted by a local gambling shark and his whorish girlfriend Mark is bundled into the back of a car and driven to a remote cabin where the pair attempt to beat the secret of his gambling success from him.

"Shite in mah mooth!"

 Mark calmly - well as calmly as a sweaty fat man strapped to a table can - explains that his hand is possessed by the devil and that's how he wins so much but to no avail so to prove the fact he breaks free of his bonds and proceeds to kill the creepy couple before dousing himself in petrol and lighting a match.

Surely there are easier ways of ridding yourself of the stink of such a movie?

With his body being all burned and crispy the authorities mistake him for someone else and ship his body to Los Angeles for burial at the church run by the dippily drunken and questioning of faith Father Richie Cunningham (Whitman with a comedy 'Oirish' accent and a bad case of the DT's).

Arriving at the church Jennifer attempts to warn Cunningham that her husband's body (well his hand) was possessed by a demon and requests that he be exhumed and an autopsy be performed.

On him obviously not just on some passing stranger.

Because the best way to prove demonic possession is by getting someone to cut open your corpse.

Probably.

Look by this point the writer was obviously passed caring so why should I?

As the pair continue their heated discussion - well Eggar attempts to feed Whitman his lines as he stands swaying from side too side with a glazed look in his eyes - Mark’s severely charred and crispy corpse - in a fantastic display of chutzpah over cash - bursts from its grave and bounces down a nearby path.

Hearing the noise of breaking wood (and realizing it's not his legs) Cunnigham quickly calls the police and soon LA's finest Sergeant Leo Matson (Saunders, son of Jennifer best known for his stand out role as an orderly at Murdock's V.A. Hospital in The A Team) arrives to investigate.

Searching the grounds he soon comes across Mark's lifeless (no it really is this time) body hanging out of the police car, his left hand severed at the wrist.

"Put it in me!"

Bending down to examine the corpse (and check for loose change) Matson is surprised when the hand suddenly gooses him, causing the clumsy cop to jump up and bang his head on the car roof knocking himself unconscious.

We unfortunately are still awake.

Menacingly it crawls toward our prone police pal.

Bored with all this existentialist chat and in dire need of a dump Cunningham offers to pick Jennifer up at her hotel the next day to discuss things further, she reluctantly agrees and heads off for a good nights sleep and an angry call to her agent to see who she has to fuck to get out of this mess.

There's then a bizarre boxing match between a sweaty Whitman and the policeman that ends with Matson running away screaming from Cunningham's huge crucifix but it's kinda irrelevant to the plot so forget I mentioned it.

Like I wish I could the whole movie. 

Anyway imagine Jennifer's surprise the next morn when she opens the door to find not a sweet smelling Catholic priest but an angry Officer Matson shouting something about our heroine being a lousy car thief and how he has to take her (roughly) up the station.

Handcuffing Jennifer before bundling her into the back of his car the pair drive away just as Father Cunnigham waddles into view.

Instead of taking her into custody (or violently up the casino) Matson drives to the surgery of local plastic surgeon and part-time ice skater Dr. Julian Rivkin (Busquets famed for his portrayal of Don Indalecio in the hit show El padre Gallo) where he threatens to shoot the surgeon in the face if he doesn't remove his hand there and then.

Rivkin agrees to his demands and removes the hand which then grabs Matson's gun and shoots naughty nurse Morgan (Carlsson...look do you really care?) in the back as she tries to ring for help before jumping off a table and messily ripping the Sergeant’s face off.

On a roll now the horrible hand worms its way into Rivken's trousers and possesses him by forcing its way (two fingers at a time) up his ample arse.

"If you lie on it first it'll feel like someone else is doing it!"

Chillingly announcing that Jennifer is the true owner of the hands power Rivkin begins to chase her around the surgery brandishing a child's toy syringe, poking her with a needle at any opportunity only stopping when Cunningham and a cop turn up and punch him in the head.

Being demon possessed tho' Rivkin just laughs it off and escapes by car to the local railway station where he lays his arm on the track in order to severe the hand.

It really hasn't got the idea behind possessing and controlling people has it?

With all the exciting things that are happening it's no wonder that Jennifer is feeling a little tired so heads back to her motel room for a rest.

It'll come as no surprise to anyone that the hands follows her and sneaks in thru' the catflap wiggling it's rubbery fingers in her general direction.

Its fearful finger threats are cut short by the arrival of Father Cunningham and the pair flee to the church, which should give them plenty of time to formulate a plan seeing as they're in a car and the hand is following them by slowly crawling along the freeway but guess what? Yup it arrives almost simultaneously and cuts the power and phone lines.

How?

Does it use its fingernails?

And how does a severed hand have the leverage to do half the shit it's doing?

I was going to mention it earlier but thought I'd give them the benefit of the doubt but now I really can't be bothered.

Will good prevail or will the hand finally possess Jennifer and rule the world?

Will Whitman make it to the movie's climax without falling into an alcoholic daze?

Will the much promised gore and nudity ever surface?

Does anyone outside the director's immediate family care?

After being given this as a birthday present I'll admit that the only reason I watched this movie was on the basis of how cool the poster art was.

Scary hands, buff devils and shiny bikini wearing babes all done in an overly airbrushed 80's style.

What's not to love?

Plus we know that great cover art is always a sign of cinematic quality.

Disappointingly the version I was given was called Macabra which I then discovered features fuck all nudity or violence.

What it does feature tho' is some of the most laughable, threadbare and downright bizarre scenes ever to be committed to celluloid.

From it's shaky point and shoot and shockingly overlit cinematography to it's kindergarten quality special effects via  a visibly intoxicated lead desperate to stay upright  Demonoid: Messenger of Death is a perfect example of low budget, no talent film-making made flesh.

Everything on show is a brightly lit location, every actor a family friend and every effect seems to be pulled from a pound shop Christmas cracker.

Even the rubber hand looks embarrassed to be there.

Especially the scene where it's forced to sexily fondle Samantha Eggar's beefy knees.

Beefy.

Talking of knees - beefy or otherwise - Demonoid: Messenger of Death is at least slightly more enjoyable than the director's previous foray into horror the instantly forgettable John Saxon snoozefest The Bees so for that at least we can be grateful.

Tho' not as grateful as poor old Stuart Whitman was for the free holiday and extra drink money.

Just a pity none of it was thrown our way.

You'll fucking need it cos there's no way you'll be able to sit thru this sober.

to the max.

Max von Sydow 

10 April 1929 - 8 March 2020