people you fancy but shouldn't (part 49).

Homes Under The Hammer co-host Lucy Alexander.

And her sidekick Martin Roberts isn't too bad either.

If you're that way inclined obviously.

superfly (poster) guy...the return.

Readers with long memories and short hair may remember this post regarding the hand painted posters design to advertise Ghana’s infamous touring cinema's (as you may recall they were usually created by hooking up a TV and VCR to a portable generator) that would travel from village to village using large barns or even tents as temporary venues.

Anyway, here are a few more.

Enjoy.

 

more fairly amusing celebrity lookielikies.

necro franco.

12 May 1930 – 2 April 2013.

RiP You wonderful pervert and thanks for all the fish

summer lovin'.

bloggers back to normal and I've got shed loads of stuff to go thru' so to keep you all busy till then here's a fantastic guide to the harmless hobby of 'girl collecting' (or as the courts today call it stalking and abduction) from the June 1959 issue of the late lamented Girl Watching magazine.

Enjoy.

And no blaming me if the police get involved.

even sweeter seats, slimline teats and a wee touch of cloth.

(Or Frightfest, part two).

It's 7:30 AM on a Saturday morning and I've had a restless night, my dreams invaded by impure thoughts regarding Alexa Nikolas' arse and visions of Sheri Moon Zombie riding a stuffed, sock wearing goat.

Could anything save me from this madness?

Nikolas: pissing the bed with fear.

Well if anything could it was probably the world premiere of a cleaned up, buffed and breezy, English language version of Mario Bava’s classic 1963 anthology Black Sabbath.

Those of us brave (and awake) enough to join horror god Boris Karloff, Mark Damon and the scrumptious Michele Mercier at 10:45 in the morning were treated to a mighty trilogy of terror from the undisputed master of horror featuring ghostly ex-lovers haunting beautiful women, vampiric family feuds and naughty nurses presented for the first time in a print worthy of it's reputation.

Gorgeousness abounds.

"Now here's a mooth worth shite-in in!"

Next up was more hi-jinks from Hellfjord before FF unveiled the fantastically monikered Bring Me the Head of the Machine Gun Woman, the story of geeky nightclub DJ Che who, after accidentally hearing his mobster boss discussing an upcoming hit manages to avoid execution himself by offering to carry out the killing for them.

Unfortunately the target is the leather clad, scantily panted bounty hunter Machine Gun Woman, a Hell in high heels vengeance driven vixen with the smoothest thighs this side of a butter factory.

Even just a tit wank would probably kill you.

Pity then that the main focus of the movie is the charisma free Che driving around town in a live action version of GTA: Chile rather than the titular Machine Gun Woman herself.

Although not a complete failure the movie could have done with less shots of Che bouncing around in his car and more (much more) footage of the frankly ferocious Fernanda Urrejola bouncing around whilst shooting things.

And bending over to polish her stilettos.

Whilst covered in chocolate.

Tho' if I'm honest I'd still be thinking of Ingrid Bolsø Berdal.

"la meg berøre pikken!"

More Hellfjord happenings were followed by the UK premiere director Barry (Rain Man) Levinson's take on the mocumentary/found-footage horror genre with his lo-fi eco-parable The Bay.

This chilling tale revolves around the small coastal town of Chesapeake Bay where a frighteningly high level of toxicity has been found in the local water.

Water used not only by local businesses but also by the townsfolk themselves.

A small scabby child, bleeding from her mouth, left on my sofa, alone...WITH MY REPUTATION?

With the mayor refusing to cancel the Independence Day celebrations it's not long before the population is infected by a plague of flesh-popping, tongue-chewing, mutant Cymothoa with amusing consequences for all.

Well everyone except the folk whose stomachs keep bursting obviously.

Tightly plotted with a convincing cast and a premise to leave you itching all night, The Bay was enough to satisfy even the most jaded found footage fan.

Except the wee boy outside who said it was boring because there was no sexy stuff in it like Lords of Salem.

Hopefully his folks wont be missing him.

Yet.

Ginger boy: Up the shitter with a ten inch blade...Yesch!

Now it was time to head back inside still caked in blood, egg and tears and right on time to have the age old question "What happens when you give 26 directors $5000 each, four minutes run time and a letter of the alphabet to play about with?" 

The answer is the horror anthology The ABCs of Death.

Now I don't mind admitting that this was the one movie I had reservations about in regards to how successful/entertaining/sexy the whole concept could be when  dragged into reality, suffice to say I was as pleasantly surprised by the whole thing in the same way that small Filipino boy surprised me with his dusting skills last Easter.

Composer Simon Boswell, after leading the crowd in a totally tuneless (as only a Weegie crowd can be) rendition of The Jackson 5's ABC explained that the assembled directors had attempted to create the celluloid equivalent of a drunken party with something for every taste.

And to my surprise and their credit they managed it.

Frankly portmanteau cinema hasn't been this much fun since The Monster Club.

And never before has a movie appeared to plug itself directly into my Aspie addled brain and dragged my darkest thoughts kicking and screaming into reality (yes I'm looking at you Noboru Iguchi and Yoshihiro Nishimura).

Boswell entertains with his backing group Jake West, lovely Lucy Clements and Bane from Batman.

Taking in everything from claymation crappers to high powered heroin heroines via kitten killings, flatulence and every conceivable thing in-between,  ABCs is a truly one of a kind movie that does indeed feature something for everyone.

Including those with a Japanese Nazi-chick with a huge thrusting plastic cock fetish.

That'll be your nan's Christmas present sorted then.

Sexy lady + big gun = happy boy.

With a laugh a minute Q and A from a group of those sick puppies involved - Jake West, Lucy Clements, Simon Rumley, Lee Hardcastle and the aforementioned Boswell it was time for a (very) quick poo before the previous two hours of low budget genius made way for 90-odd minutes of star driven stodginess as producer, co-writer, tea-boy, stunt man, composer, combat photographer, unit milkman and star Eli ("The postage was how much?") Roth took centre stage to introduce his new movie, an arse clenching tribute to Irwin Allen and Fireman Sam style disaster movies, Aftershock.

Aftershock: No, not this one.

Set during the aftermath of the 1976 Tangshan earthquake in China, Feng Xiaogang's heart-breaking story of a mother forced to chose between which child to save went on to win the best Feature Film and Best Performance by an actor (Chen Daoming) at the 4th annual Asia Pacific Screen Awards.

Sounds fantastic doesn't it?

Unfortunately our Aftershock was a totally different film entirely.

Aftershock: No, not this one either.

In this one, Eli and his (real life) pals Ariel Levy and Nicolás Martínez are enjoying a hedonistic holiday in Chile. Hooking up with some foxy chicks (the yummy Andrea Osvárt, the scary Natasha Yarovenko and the cutsey, pantie flashing Lorenza Izzo) they head to Valparaiso to dance the last few nights of their holiday away in a groovy nightclub.

Unfortunately (for them that is, for us it's a blessed relief after almost 40 minutes of heartwarming character 'development' broken only by a fleeting appearance by Selena - not in the mouth - Gomez) a huge earthquake hits the area causing death, destruction and social unrest amongst the plebs on a massive scale.

Ben Affleck, up the casino, Blackpool, February 2013.....YESCH!

Adequately directed but with way too much time spent on character fluff - Roth and Lopez's intention was for Aftershock to start off as a buddy comedy and change into a survival flick at the halfway mark - amiable enough I guess but it doesn't really work when you know who's involved and the nature of the movie, you end up just twiddling your thumbs till the killing starts plus the dark locations and quickfire edits don't give you any sense of scale meaning that the movie ends up looking like it takes place across two interchangeable streets.

Luckily everybody gives their all acting wise (tho' there really wasn't that much to give) and looked good in mud plus the physical effects are impressive.

Pity about the prolonged onscreen rape tho'.

Surely the threat is enough without the 5 solid minutes of thrusting, screaming and soiled pants?

Just me then?

He's a rich, womanizing, world famous film director/writer/producer/actor who can't move for money or pussy. You write a blog no-one reads. Who is the more tragic?

As time began to run out (literally in my case seeing as it appeared to be seeping from my trouser leg) there was just time for a wee snippet from the third Glasgow based zombie Nazi movie, Outpost: Rise Of The Spetsnaz before the night was brought to a close with the final two instalments of the by now totally addictive Hellfjord and an incredibly serious Q and A regarding sexual health practices with director Patrik Syversen and Kobba himself, Mr. Stig Frode Henriksen.

Who it turns out during questioning contracted AIDS from my nan.

A fact for which I am eternally sorry.

Gomez: Always use the tradesman's entrance.

 So with heavy hearts and itchy pants we headed off into the chill Glasgow night (the temperature sharper than Norman Bates' kitchen knife), older, wiser and somewhat grubbier than we were 24 hours earlier safe in the knowledge that not only had we all survived another Frightfest but that they'd never find the wee ginger boys body.
 
Well until next February that is.

sweet seats, sugar teats and a wee touch of aids.

(Or how I stopped worrying and learned to love Norway).

A Bit late coming but it's taken me till now to prepare myself mentally for a revisit to this years Glasgow FrightFest, I mean can you imagine how hard it must be for someone like myself who suffers from severe text diarrhoea to attempt to compress over 12 hours of cinematic treats (and Lords of Salem) into something resembling a well written and sometimes amusing blog post?

Especially when this years event was probably the most fun ever.

Well, I've done my best.

Now in it's 764th year, this time round FF boasted not only allocated seats (which still didn't stop a drunken, middle aged Weegie trying to fight me on Saturday) and more movies but a guest list that would make even Parkie wank himself silly with excitement.

St. Trinians saucepot Gemma Arterton was in attendance, as was the barely legal beauty that is Saoirse Ronan alongside directing legend Neil Jordan and bespectacled producing god Stephen Woolley, all there for the European premiere of Byzantium whilst various cast and crew members of Sawney: Flesh of Man joined the onstage festivities later in an attempt to hide from the cold and explain why a serial killer apparently living on The Isle of Skye would drive all the way to Glasgow and back just to pick up one victim and how on earth a 11 year old 'reporter' could possibly have a drinks problem.

Rounding up (not literally) Friday’s guests was 'Canadian' director Mr. Spencer Estabrooks who scarily had flown over at his own expense to unveil his latest short entitled The Hunt.

Which luckily for us (and him) was quite good.

But now to the movies and what a mix bag it was, opening (as is now the Glasgow tradition) with a documentary, this years offering was Michael Stephenson's frankly magnificent The American Scream which took us to the seaside town of Fairhaven, Massachusetts where the Brodeur, Souza and Bariteau families spend fortunes and hours every year turning their homes into haunted houses for the Halloween holiday, for no other reason than to entertain their neighbours with good old fashioned healthy scares.

Freakishly funny and remarkably touching, Stephenson treats his subjects not as freaks but with the respect they deserve, which must be hard seeing as, on first sight, the Brodeur's appear to be a pair of inbred pedo' potato people with a fetish for sinister clown suits when in reality they're one of the nicest, most loving family I've ever come across.

And not in that way.

Highly recommended.

"Wanna buy some pegs Dave?"

Following on from the aforementioned The Hunt (love to see a feature spun out of this, I'm available to script duties Mr. Estabrooks) and a quick pee came the Scottish horror effort Sawney: Flesh of Man, based (very) loosely - IE it had a cannibal in it - on the legend of the 15th century flesh-eater and his murderous clan (copies of my rejected Sawney script and storyboards are still available by the way) transported to the modern day and featuring a taxi.

How do you sum up a film which even the events host described with the words "Well it was better than watching paint dry"?

Apart from praising it's cinematography and wondering why director Ricky Wood had decided to make the naturally entertaining David Hayman tone down his performance rather than letting him go full pelt with the mentalism that is.

His googly eyed, dribbly performance doesn't totally save the film but it does drag it out of a self induced coma around the 40 minute mark.

And I must point out to those involved that having Grotbags from Emu's world appear in animated form as a surprise threat in the last 10 minutes of a movie really doesn't work on modern cinema audiences.

Some fairly decent cinematography yesterday.

There was barely time for a slash 'n' fag before the high-point of Friday’s proceedings, not content with raping our childhoods with his abysmal Halloween xerox and subjecting viewers to endless shots of his wife’s scrawny arse disguised as entertainment, Robert 'Rob' Zombie (not his real name) has returned to our screens with his attempt to do a Rosemary's Baby with his much anticipated (it says in the PR handout) Lords of Salem.

Before the screening ringmaster Paul McEvoy promised us that the film would 'divide the audience'.

Which frankly was a polite way of saying it's shite and only wanking obsessed wee boys and fat neck bearded virgins in man-tit revealing White Zombie t-shirts would enjoy it.

And then only because they don't know any better.

Lords of Salem: Fucking shameful.

Allegedly a tale of witches wickedly wreaking revenge on the town of Salem via the medium of a shit doom rock 12 inch single and forcing a ball-headed chicken man to impregnate Sheri Moon Zombie, the movie proves once again why Zombie needs to have both his hands and his testicles removed before he forces another 2 and a half hour excuse to wank over his wife's frankly average arse on the unsuspecting movie-going public.

The mind boggles as to how the man could get a cast of such high calibre (and his wife) to appear in such unmitigated arse biscuit.

I mean it boasts such talent as Bruce Davison, Ken Foree, Patricia Quinn, Dee Wallace, Meg Foster, Michael Berryman and  Judy Geeson, what did he do? threaten to fuck their kids?

Less a bad movie, more the cinematic equivalent of being brutally (and forcibly) taken up the shitter by a crab infested, middle aged Croatian transsexual whilst your parents drunkenly raise a glass shouting "happy 18th birthday son!" and laugh maniacally.

Apologies tho' to the wee boy I shouted at outside for enjoying it.

I really should have stabbed you in the face putting us all out of our misery instead. 

You would. All three. Twice.

And how do you possibly follow a film like that?

With probably the best vampire film of the past 30 years.

Well since Lifeforce anyway.

Yup, it's Sir Neil of Jordan's utterly fantastic Byzantium.

Introduced by the great man himself, Byzantium tells the tale of a mother and duo on the run from unknown forces whilst trying to live a 'normal' life amongst the living who find themselves holed up in an off-season seaside town.

Things begin to unravel when daughter Eleanor becomes frustrated at having to keep her vampirism a secret as she falls in love with a local boy.

Brilliantly shot and beautifully acted, Byzantium is already one of the top films of the year.

See it now.

Or whenever it opens obviously.

From the sublime to the ridiculous now with what was the dark (tho' dead would be a better description) horse of the festival, the first two episodes of the  Norwegian TV series Hellfjord.

Hellfjord is what happens when you get seven of Norway ’s finest directors and writer/producer Tommy (Dod Sno) Wirkola completely rat arsed on cheap (if not illegal) Vodka, or it might just be a documentary.

I've never been to Norway so I can't say.

Coming over like the bastard child of a sweating drunken back alley threesome between Twin Peaks, Hot Fuzz and They Came From Somewhere Else, the series focuses on the misadventures of disgraced Police Sergeant Salmander who, after accidentally killing his horse infront of thousands of onlookers at the annual independence day parade is posted to the small town of Hellfjord as punishment, a town where the family restaurant doubles as a topless mud-wrestling club, 99% of the populace (average age - 67 smoke) and the sun never sets.

Oh yes, and travellers have to appease a sea serpent for fear of getting eaten.

"Vil du ta min pikk?"

Possibly the greatest teevee show ever to come out of Norway, the rest of the series was shown over Saturday and due to threats from the Scottish crowds already picked up for a UK DVD release and broadcast.

"jævla fantastisk!" as the probably Norwegians say.

With the night coming to a close we where treated to the sight of big Bruce Campbell whoring himself in the name of the Evil Dead remake, valiantly trying to convince us that it'll be as great as the original in an exclusive behind-the-scenes look at the movie that split the audience by age.

Anyone who'd seen the original on release shuddered and sighed whilst the children in the audience whooped and cheered before turning up their personal stereo's full blast to listen to that new rock band One Direction or something as they waited for the final film of the night, Alex Craig Mann's high school set  Detention of the Dead, a film so beige and bland as to have the effect of rendering the viewer unable to move, a hellishly misjudged mix of The Breakfast Club and Night of The Living Dead that uniquely ignores the reason for both these movies success and just plods along like a crook legged child in search of it's parents.

Nikolas: arse not shown.

You know you're in trouble when it's 00:48 on a Saturday morning and your only reason for watching a film is the drunken hope that ex-Disney star Alexa (Zoey 101) Nikolas will trip up and show her peachy, fishnet clad arse.

Suffice to say it didn't happen.

Still to come...The ABC's of Death, Eli Roth's reaction to me asking him for my £6.50 back, more Hellfjord and the story of how Stig Frode Henriksen contracted AIDS off my nan.

See you back here when I've typed it all up.