I don’t know about you, but I’m already sick and tired of the “Millennium™”. Not the Dome, I don’t plan on visiting it, but then as it’s in South London, even if it was full of naked young girls writhing around in giant champagne glasses…actually, yes, I think I would go for that. (Note to self, email organisers with great new idea) The basic idea behind the millennium stretches out a “slow news summer” into a whole “slow news year”. Well, it would, if not for the fact that the papers have taken it upon themselves to go undercover and blow the lid on 2nd-rate celebrities and their sleaze habits. It’s only a matter of time before Christopher Biggins (Safari? So gooooooooodie) takes to walking about Docklands with his pants round his ankles, screaming for coke (if this appears after News of the World exclusives about “Christopher Biggins – Drug Shock”, it’s really got nothing to do with me).

Of course conspiracy theorists among you have probably worked out the slow, lazy news coverage is just hiding the fact that the newspapers know it’s the end of the world but can’t be bothered covering it as it’d effect sales. While I’m not overly paranoid (stop laughing at the back), things do seem to have been coming to a head: the non-war in Kosovo, India and Pakistan playing war and the UK losing the Eurovision Song Contest are, I think, all signs of the impending Armageddon, or are they??! If ITV’s appalling The Last Train (WE MUST GET TO ARRRRRK!) is anything to go on, I hope I die come the great flood/asteroid attack/nuclear war because I’ll end up with a dysfunctional group of badly realised cardboard cut-outs, we’ll wander around the countryside for a few weeks, then at the end of the 6th week something very strange will happen and it’ll be the end, or will it??!

Talking of appalling, and changing the subject, I had the misfortune to watch Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas last week, now, I’ll put my hand up and say that, despite my writing, the nearest I’ve come to a class-A drug is watching Airport on BBC1, and I do think Gilliam is a great director, but what the hell was going on here? Yes, yes, I know, before you all start shouting “It was like someone had taken written accounts of all the best trips they’d ever had and put them on the screen.” Bollocks. Ohhh look, all the people have turned into lizards, hang on they’re in a bar, oh, lounge lizards, I get it, haha. Hard to believe someone actually financed this rubbish. I suppose it goes to prove two things: one, Hunter S Thompson is having a great laugh at all our expense; two, Johnny Depp really is the worst actor in the world (what do you mean I don’t do film reviews? What’s your point? I’m venting, leave me alone).

The same night, I also watched The Suicide Kings, and let me tell you, it was about seven and a half million times better. I’d not heard anything about the film, did a little rollercoaster of emotions as the film started, “Oh shit, that opening title sequence is ripping off Se7en, and I hated that movie, oh, Christopher Walken is in it, I like him”, and so on and so forth. Bottom line is (I’ve suddenly worked out I’ve been rambling so’ve decided to cut this short. That said though, me writing this has made it longer than if I’d have carried on, ohhh whatever…) it’s a damned fine movie, so go get it (even if it’s only for the sight of Christopher Walken wearing a long wig and 70’s clothes in a flashback scene).

Right, well, back to reality, and more importantly, to work. I’d have finished a week ago if I hadn’t twisted my knee (saving a pregnant lady who’d fallen in the path of an oncoming bus. Ok, getting in a cab), and yes, that is an excuse. Those with internet access who visit the Trash City site will have, no doubt, seen Jim updating the page count for the new issue (paranoia suggests this is there entirely for my benefit, after all, it saves him having to bother even talking to me). Whatever anyone might say, please rest assured that my article will not be the last one to be completed, and it won’t be the reason the new issue won’t be out before the year 2000. No more time wasting though, there will be a break in the reviews (thanks Jim, for not including any anime “rubbish” this time), so I can tell you lots more interesting things, including, if you’re lucky, the wonderful new LinoCam address! (I was bored, ok?)

So, I lie, just a little bit more time wasting…. It’s now 9:05am on Tuesday 20^th July 1999, the 30^th Anniversary of Elliot Gould discovering something I think, and I’m going to get everything done and dusted today for three reasons.

1. I just need to get this out of the way so my adoring public can gaze in wonder on my words.
2. I got yet another phone call from Jim warning me that if I didn’t have the stuff finished by the weekend he’d do it himself (which leads me to believe that he’s actually enthusiastic about this issue).
3. I’ve been told that I’ve got some top secret Cosgrove Hall animation footage from the new Noddy series coming in… Doh! Ignore that last comment.

So, without further ado, we present, for your pleasure and delectation…. What you’ve actually come this far to read… What I can’t really get around to starting (Ohhhh hush), no, really, it’s time for…

The REVIEWS!

Bomba Movies 6 (All reviews special). From the people that brought you Vixxxen (see below) comes issue six of Bomba Movies. You know, it’s only now, that I realise having such long gaps between issues of TC makes my life very difficult. Did I enjoy this the last time? Ahhhh the wonders of computers, I’ve found the old batch of reviews, and thanks to a Charles Band like stroke of genius, will reprint what I said last time to pad out what I’ve got to say this time!! Muhahaha!!

>>Creaky old flashback effect<<
…all that and the sordid little pictures are easier on the eye too! Excellent. More please!
>>Creaky old flashforward effect<<

Ohhh, I made it back…. Yep, well everything I said about Bomba still holds true. Issue 6 is reviews only, which is no bad thing, I do like reading reviews (especially mine… ha, geddit?). You’ve got reviews of movies ranging from the sublime Bell of Hell to the ridiculous Porno Holocaust. It’s nice to see a film I reviewed at least 9 years ago in Creeping Unknown get another review (that movie being Centipede Horror), and a little piece of trivia, in the Pervirella review, it mentions the very nice touch of a tribute to the late David Warbeck at the start of the movie, well… I did that! Blimey, it’s a small world after all… So, in closing my friends, do try Bomba Movies… It is after all, the gift that keeps on giving.

Sweet Smell of Sick Sex 2. You know that Tex Avery eyes rolling around in your head type of deal you get sometimes? OK, you don’t, but that’s what I got when I picked this up. The first thing you’ll notice is the amazing, sick, twisted, perverted, fabulous artwork and posters for films I’d wish they’d make tomorrow “The West Family” anyone? How about “Grandpa Ghoul”? You’d think they’d be able to sell it to people on the strength of the artwork only – imagine Eric Stanton if he’d really gone to town, mixed with some Coop for good measure. Add some cartoon strips to the mix, and a hilarious interview with Al Goldstein of Screw magazine fame, who spends most of the phone interview trying to get an eatout order on the female interviewer… One more highlight is coverage of a 1950’s French Canadian “newspaper” called “Allo Police” (No, really, unless of course it’s all bullshit, and I’ve been suckered in), which was the MOST amazing thing. Imagine Faces of Death (or Traces, or whatever sick little Mondo floats your boat), in print form, with pictures of mutilated corpses all over the front cover and you’ll scratch the surface of “Allo Police”, and this was all in 1953??!! Throw in an interview with Lux Interior and Ivy from The Cramps and a bucketload more stuff… It’s a hit man!! A HIT!!

Danzine 13. I think it was Margo St. James who once said, “I’d rather suck cock than kiss ass.” Of course I only know ‘cause it’s printed on the bottom of the first page of Danzine, which is, if you don’t already know, “An independent publication for exotic dancers and ladies in the sex industry” (is that me?). I’ve got to say before I picked up Danzine, I was confused as to dealing with the IRS regarding the tax deductions on any tips I might make while stripping. Not any more! Turn to page 3 for an answer to that! I was also totally ignorant of the fact that if you’re diagnosed with herpes you should “Love yourself and eat and drink healthily” (Surely, “loving yourself” in the first place would cut any almost any chance of contracting herpes…), more handy herpes tips can be found on page 5. That’s not all! You’ve got fiction in there, Brandi recounting her visit to be a guest on the Jerry Springer Show (apparently, she has an act that involves “Breast Milk”), a “pro’s” guide to the strip joints in San Francisco and of course, a whole lot more. All in all, probably the finest strippers and “professionals” fanzine you’re ever going to read. (No, there isn’t even a picture of a nipple, what a gyp…)

Dark Star Double issue 14-15. Ah, one of those clever “Get half way through then everything gets turned upside down so it looks like two issues” deals. Well, listen here, Rob Dyer! I don’t pay £2.95 of my hard earned money only to have to stop reading something and go through the laborious process of turning the ruddy thing upside down, going back to the front cover and starting again!! OK, so I don’t pay £2.95 full stop. But if I did, oh boy, would I be totally pissed. Actually no, but it has, as you can plainly see, used up some space, and that can only be a good thing (note to self: try reading some books on English sentence construction, you’ve not used a full stop in about 12 lines of text, surely some mistake. Another note to self: buy a copy of Private Eye next week, you’ve not read that for ages. Yet another note to self: yes, it’s correct, eating an entire pack of 6 Mr Kipling Strawberry Sundaes does in fact make you go a little mental; something to do with the food colouring I’ll be bound. Final note to self: weren’t you reviewing Dark Star a minute ago? Ohhh yes, sorry). Any magazine with a picture of Xena on the cover (even if the article inside is written by Jim), can only be a good thing. Ahhhh, we like Xena, with her slightly butch looks and fabulous thighs… In fact, I now present a little snippet from a terribly interesting Xena story I found on-line the other week:

From the table he pulled two round cups. He sprayed the inside with a liquid and then moved to Xena. She tugged at her bonds but there was no give in them. Bazaal carefully cupped her sweaty bosom, each breast at a time and the cups stayed in place even as Xena tried to wobble them from side to side.

The final probe was moved down to her crotch and she grimaced as she felt it enter into her body.
“So this is just some sick fantasy of yours, Bazaal. I expected something better.”
“Oh it gets better.”
He pulled a lever and water began to flow into the machines on the wall. Wheels moved, cogs turned, pumps started pumping and Xena let out a gasp of shock.

Cor, blimey, that’s not bad is it! If you want to see the rest of the story, don’t hesitate to mail me at lino@lino.demon.co.uk. I can recommend downloading pictures of Lucy Lawless from the net and making your own little picture book up… Not that I’ve done anything like that, of course!! Oh, and for those who are interested. What IS the story with Gabrielle’s new dykey haircut, she looks trés skank-like now, and you can bloody well print that!!!

Anyway…bumper double issue filled with reviews (though Rob Dyer thinks Cube was the best sci-fi film of 1998. It was diverting, but hardly the best thing in Sci-fi). Rob and his chums (does that sound condescending? Ahhh, whatever), take a look at Cat III movies (I used to make the BBFC cuts in the Eastern Heroes movies, you should have seen what they did with that baseball bat in Whores from China), they also, if you’re interested, and I can’t see you would be unless you’re called Vaughn or something, review a batch of anime titles (Zzzzzzzzzzz). Best thing? Rob’s in-depth look at the movie The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T. The funniest? An interview with Julian Richards under the byline “Is this man the Welsh Cronenberg?”: how funny is that! According to the opening paragraph of the interview it tells us “The youthful Richards is being hailed as the great white hope of the UK horror genre”…is he? Anyway, look, Dark Star is good, ok? I mean it, I’m not just saying that because it’s suddenly dawned on me that Rob Dyer can punch my head in, honest… I loved it. You will too, well you will if you slit a hole on the cover with Xena on it, then it’s like she’s giving you a b…….next!!

Napartheid – Issue something or other. Probably. Now you see, very occasionally, I love a challenge. This isn’t one of those occasions. At all. Give me something printed in a foreign language and most of the time, I’ll use all available clues to tell you what language it is and where the fanzine is from. Napartheid has me totally stumped. Added to the fact it’s 8:35am on Friday, my cab has conspired to get me to work early, and there is a godawful racket from the studios over the road where some “pop” group is filming a video (They’re so cool that they travel in a school bus with the S and H painted out in the word “School” on the back of it). I’m not saying I don’t like it. I’m guessing it’s Eastern European, and anything that has a cartoon strip depicting the last hours of Di & Dodi (remember them, anyone? Anyone?) featuring cut-out photo heads stuck on scrawled drawings and a last frame containing a picture of an ambulance with the siren wailing “DODIDODI” can’t be all bad. It all looks terribly political, so I’m sticking with my East European theory. Let me take another look through, don’t move… Hey! You at the back, don’t turn to the pictures of cartoons just yet, I said don’t move. You know, this is so political, and dates back 2 years: I imagine that everyone who contributed to it has been rounded up and shot. If you haven’t, mail me. Thanks. I’ll leave you with my favourite quote from Napartheid… “Kuxx laztana! Etor nire etxera zuretzat deputamadekoa den zerbait badut eta.” Translate that and I’ll send you a prize. Hilarious stuff from our hairy East European buddies. [Ed: it’s actually Basque Spanish…]

Hand Action 23 + 24. Hey! Are you a wanker? No really, do you like a quick one off the wrist? A little hand shandy? A bit of a spit. Do you enjoy “killing time”? Bashing the Bishop one of your favourite things to do on Sunday after Eastenders has finished? Well get your “hand” on “Hand Action” a photocopied tribute to wanking… so go on you wanker, go to it…. I thought it was a little scary, and that’s saying something.

Vixxxen 2 Hey!!! I remember this… Tell you what, let’s just jump into the old time travel machine again and see what I said about the last issue of “Vixxxen”… Or not, as it seems I can’t find anything I wrote. Hmm, perhaps it’s because I thought it was so bad. Nooo, that can’t be right. Hang on, you know I don’t think it’s really fair to base reviews on past issues of the ‘zine. You’re probably right, but by that same token it’s not fair to base reviews on comments made in that fanzine about the fanzine of someone you know. So, I won’t… Honest. Let’s tear this baby to pieces! I’m feelin’ feisty!! Ripped off interview with Jenna Jameson (boorrrrrrrring)…. Justin Bomba (yes, yes, I know, but Vixxxen is brought to you by the fine people who bring you Bomba Movies) looks at the work of Crepax (wasted on the people who will buy Vixxxen for the porn articles mebbe??), a “Lost Classics” section reviewing movies most people haven’t heard of in a long while. (best thing in the whole of Vixxxen if you ask me… Although I’d hardly call “Pretty Peaches” lost, that was the first porn movie I saw <sniff>).

More comic goings on with a retrospective look at “Carnal Comics” (hrm…why?). An Eighties retrospective of the works of Christy Canyon (the 80’s were shit. for the most part, as demonstrated here…), an Eros comics review section (Ok, I liked that. so sue me), and last but not least some porno reviews, and the saving grace, two fangtastic (hah, I’m so funny) pictures of Vanessa Del Rio from the movie Dracula Exotica. What a woman… You see, they only put those pictures in there because they knew I was going to say “£3 for this is a little on the excessive side”, which, to be honest, I still think, but I won’t say that obviously because of dear sweet Vanessa <sigh>. I suppose technically, if you’re a jizzfilm boy, you’ll appreciate what’s on offer. Well, when it comes to the reviews of the old stuff, but who cares what Jenna Jameson’s gotta say about anything?

Thunderbox 1? Hmmm, you know, you get to see some worthy things that don’t really interest you in the slightest and you think to yourself “The easiest thing in the world to do would be to slag it off…” but I’ll try and avoid that. Maybe. OK, let’s start by saying that according to the editorial, Steve Green et al wanted Thunderbox to be “a great format for a fanzine, mixing the serious and lighthearted, the timeless and the timebound…”. And, if I avoid the fact the editorial goes on to mention “Novacon 28” (which sounds suspiciously like one of those events where people who spend 11 and a half months of the year as shut-ins go and congregate in a hotel near an airport to dissect the hidden meaning behind Babylon 5, but of course, I could be wrong), they set out and achieve everything they want. Of course I can’t stand “serious” so if you want to find out about that, and there’s plenty in there, go get a copy. The one thing I will mention here is the letter sent to the National Lottery organizers (no, I’m not telling you what the letter says), and the po-faced reply. You want me to tell you if it’s worth buying? Well I’m not going to, find out for yourself. Ha! I love doing that right near the end of a column; it does so annoy people. Ignore the “Computers are the new Jesus” imagery on the front too, the contents are better than the cover would have you believe.

Mansplat 14. I’ve said it before (probably – I don’t usually pay much attention to what I say…and neither does anyone else, before Jim says anything), and I’ll say it again. Mansplat is consistently funny, far funnier that I could ever even hope to be, and it’s free. Even if it wasn’t funny, the damned thing would still be free and therefore worth getting your hands on. If you want a rant from a smoker (Go smoker, go smoker…I love a cigarette, me), you’ve got it. If you want a brief, hilarious history of swear words, you’ve got it. If you want a list of “Mansplat Superheroes” (Couch Surfer + Beer Breath), again you’ve got it. I can’t even begin to describe how funny it is, I was considering reprinting some of it, but no, remember I told you it was free? Contact them yourselves and get hold of whatever back issues you can. If you’re at all disappointed (or a girl), mail me and I’ll set you straight, mate.

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And that’s it. Whew, that was taxing. No, really! As this will undoubtedly be the last thing I write this millennium, I’ll take this opportunity to wish you all the best, blah, blah. Myself, I hate New Year’s Eve at the best of times but add the 4000% increase in madness and it won’t be any better. I’ll probably do something as exciting as last year when I was hanging speakers. I’d rather do that than go to a party where you’re forced to be nice to people you neither know nor like at the stroke of midnight. Stuff that!

Right, now, as I’m polite, it’s time for some thank yous before I head off, ready to receive thousands of congratulatory emails… In no particular order. Thanks to Jim for cutting out two thirds of this article before you see it (probably all the libellous elements), and for buying pizza on Saturday. Thanks to everyone at work for doing my work when I was doing this, and particularly to Nick for keeping me supplied with coffee and stories about trials for Hayes Town football club, and the scandalous “No oranges at half time” story. No thanks at all to “sickboy”, I think it’s about time he shit or got off the pot, I’m getting bored with it now. Thanks to Juliet for putting up with my huge mood swings (at work, natch), and sorting out all my personal paperwork when she doesn’t really have to, even though she’s Northern and I assumed they couldn’t read, well apart from signs they might find in coal mines – “Danger: Gas” and the like. A huge thank you to Howard Stern for totally humiliating Chris Evans and his cronies (you might have seen that if you watch Bravo), it just goes to show that outside the UK, Mr Evans would die a swift death: let’s buy him a ticket now. Thanks to Toby Russell for being the most mentally unstable person I know, always making me laugh even though he’s keeping me late at work with movies about Bud Spencer lookalikes and piglets, oh, and keeping me supplied with pizzas!

Thanks to Wee Jimmy at work for helping me out when he didn’t really have to. No thanks at all to “Wok’s Cooking” restaurant for sucking me in with a hilarious name, getting me all worked up last Sunday looking forward to a Chinese meal, then not bloody well being open at 8:35pm! Thanks to Marks & Spencer for having the best fruit gums in the world…yummmmmy! Thanks to Tesco for delivering food. No thanks to eggs for being breakable bastards and spilling all over my chocolate. No thanks to the summer for being crap, then all humid: remember, kids it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity. Thanks to Paul for lifts home from work that generally involve conversations that end in songs, driving very fast over narrow country hills and making me more mental than I already am.

And finally…a very, very, very, huge thank you to Jaime, for being generally the most lovely woman on the face of the planet, putting up with me, and making me feel nice and warm and squidgy inside (most of the time!), for that and so much more, I love you J. Oh look, stop it, I’m getting all mushy, that’ll never do, and I couldn’t end an article like that, could I? Yes, actually, I could. See you in 2000!

• Bomba Movies (£1.95) + Vixxxen (£3) – through Media Publications
• Danzine – 625 SW 10th Ave #233B, Portland, OR 97205, USA
• Dark Star (£2.95) – 64 Arthur St, Gravesend, Kent, DA11 0PR
• Hand Action – your guess is as good as mine…
• Mansplat (Free…ish) – PMB 591, 2318 2nd Ave, Seattle, WA 98121, USA
• Napartheid (300 pesetas) – Uztarrotze karrika 40, 31014 Irunem, Nafarroa, Spain
• Sweet Smell of Sick Sex ($7?) – Sophie Cossette, PO Box 41, Place du Parc, Montreal, Quebec, H2Q 2M9, Canada
• Thunderbox – Steve Green, 33 Scott Rd, Olton, Solihull, B92 7LQ

And back on planet Earth, this is your humble editor speaking, with all the ‘zines which Lino didn’t, or wouldn’t, review. First, there’s Mansplat, who’re now up to #16, though there’s not much more that needs to be said about it, ‘cos I agree with Lino: it’s great. The latest one covers lesbians, swearing, hippies, their annual Barbarella awards (‘uncovers’ would be more appropriate there) and beer. Almost as good as the fabulous #13, which set unsurpassed new (low) standards in humour and bad taste. Technically free, but be a sport and maybe send them summat typically British for their efforts. Like tea-bags…

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Return to a normal font, I think, since we now move onto the “anime rubbish”, as Lino so delicately put it – once more, we opted to save him from them, and indeed, them from him. The British anime industry may be sucking hard but, perversely, the British anime ‘zine industry continues to flourish, with a selection of more or less interesting product. The focus seems to be largely on manga-style comic strips, and Boiled Spoons is a prime example, showcasing the writing talents of Carl Desforges and a selection-box of artists. The word “fluffy” comes to mind: if this were a foodstuff, it’d be an all-you-can-eat buffet of variously flavoured Angel Delight – limited nutritional content, but tasty nonetheless.

Taking a similarly eclectic approach to contributors, but probably closer to something involving large quantities of chocolate are not one, but two issues of Cyber Age. The majority of CA is a dense, heavily-plotted maze, inspired by SF-punkish Cyber City Oedo: the ongoing stories might be a bit tricky to follow without backtracking, given the gap between installments, yet it’s well worth the effort, and there’s a good balance of humour and even (gasp!) text. Strange how the brief lifespan of Cyber City Oedo has spawned not one, but two, ‘zines: there’s also Cop Fiction, fan-written stories in the same universe. No previous experience really required though, they stand alone just as well. One staple in the top-left corner makes it feel agreeably like something unauthorised, even if the “Over 18’s” tag is largely down to one, admittedly eye-watering, paragraph. Since the demise of the much-loved Cajun Sushi Bar, anime fan-fiction has been lacking, making this one especially welcome.

Quietstorm has one writer, one artist, and costs one pound; there is a pleasing simplicity to this which is reflected in the spartan and effective artwork. Returning to the dessert theme, it would be a lemon sorbet. On the other hand, Spacenoid is a cheeseboard with a very sharp knife, since it’s an “afters” of a different kind altogether, containing no comic strips at all: instead, it’s an entertaining mix of articles, reviews and whatever else Paul Lampshire finds amusing, with a colour cover. Bastard – why can’t he stick to black-and-white like the rest of us? Finally, there’s British Manga, and here the whole metaphor breaks down, since I like pudding. While an improvement on previous efforts, what can you say about a ‘zine with upside down pages? It’s either an amazing artistic statement or…the artists included deserve better.

• Boiled Spoons – No price or contact details. And we’re already late. Try mental telepathy?
• British Manga (£1) – 99 Herga Rd. Harrow Weald, Middlesex
• Cop Fiction – another elusive bunch, c/o Cyber Age is your best bet!
• Cyber Age (£2.50) – Vanessa Wells, 95 Rosemary Ave, Braintree, Essex, CM7 2TB
• Quiet Storm (£1) – 129 Applegarth Ave, Guildford, Surrey, GU2 6LT
• Spacenoid (£1.50) – 63 West Ave, Ripley, Derbyshire, DE5 3JA

Andrew Collins, July 1999

Been a while, over a year, since my words graced the pages of TC, and quite a testing period of absence it has been. Ironically, though Jim’s output has been less productive than I was led to believe, indeed a gaping void of publication, he phoned me this week and gave me a deadline! After 13 months, I have a week left in which to produce this article! Slackness befalls me – I write like a drugged serpent. The phrase ‘Blood out of a Stone’ springs to mind. To be honest, writing has been at the distant back of my mind, as the perils of South London have taken over. Rent crisis! Attacked by gang in Peckham! Grifted by a whore in Brixton! Directionless night buses! Prevented from falling off stool in Fridge Bar, Brixton by girl after overdosing on absinthe! Surviving the hostilities and dope fumes of hard core Yardie pub off Coldharbour Lane! Gently ‘admiring’ a prostitute’s very attractive black lace top in a seriously dodgy club in central Soho! Oxford Circus, Saturday afternoon!

Incredible as it might seem, drinking exploits have slacked off this year. Something to do with being chucked out by that mad flatmate I was living with, more to do with bastard overpriced rent and several court cases. However, this is not to say I have been reduced to a dullness, boredom and tragedy evident in such persons as, perhaps, Jim Tavare, the ‘comedian’. Christ help us. Drink need not be imperative to and derivative of having auspicious moments of careless joy and reckless abandon. Er, well, it is, but the article tries to promise not to be the alcohol fuelled rhetoric of a semi-possessed man at odds with the rational Universe. So (sipping glass of highly toxic Cornish Haye Farm Cider) – what to write? Abusive? Vitriolic? Arcane? Or poignant?

People falling/jumping off buildings seems to be a recent feature in my life. Working for….the….. council at the moment, evaluating properties. This lacklustre job has brought me into contact with various denominations, ethnics, fringe lunatics, cool dudes, angels, stricken artists, post-nuclear families and bewildered loners. On the fifth floor of a savagely depressing tower block, a 50’s architectural nightmare (Lambeth Towers for God’s sake), I sat talking to an affable couple about the state of the world.

“Anything terrible ever happen here?” I asked nonchalantly.

Small talk had just shrunk, humiliated, into the far corner, to try and creep off unnoticed. Not quite sure what I meant, the husband stared at me worryingly for a while. Then he giggled. “Well”, he started, “me and the wife were having breakfast one day…..”

“Yeah…..” I prompted. I was half expecting some awesomely amusing story about cereal and how she opened it the wrong way up to get the toy out ‘to give to the grandchildren’, only secretly, she wanted it for herself, having a persistent Peter Pan complex and a moulded plastic fetish, and then he had forgotten and picked it up the right way the next morning to have masses of wheaty crunchy goodness spill onto the table and his lap, prompting a curse which so offended the delicate sensibilites of his dear wife that she refused to let him watch the United match later that evening, condescending, later, to allow the last ten minutes of the Grand Prix (highlights). But it wasn’t to be.

“And then this body fell past the window” he smirked.
“Oh. Er, a body?”
“Yeah. We were a bit shocked of course.” Silence reigned supreme for a moment. The sublime tick of a grandfather click marked time. My little finger twitched in anticipation. I admit I was shocked too. “Anyone you knew?”
“Oh no” his wife piped up. “A stranger. Don’t know how he got in”
“Or got on the roof”, finished the husband. All this seemed a little academic, considering.
“Oh. So what happened next?” (alright, I made that up, but it carries the narrative quite well I think).
“Well, he hit the ground. And it made the most amazing sound.”

My stomach flipped just a little. Not knowing the plight of my intestines, he continued, a wry grin ebbing onto his features like a slow secret tide. “In the movies, it just makes a small thud. But it’s not like that at all. It made a massive noise! Like a bomb going off! All over the place!” My little finger was now fairly having a life of its own. “Er, right, that’s the lounge done then. Thanks for your time.”
“Alright. No problem.” He paused reflectively at the door, still sporting that worrying grin. “An almighty noise.”
“Like a bomb going off?” I confirmed.

His face lit up like a Christmas candle. “Yes! BANG! Mess everywhere!” Behind, grinning similarly, was his wife, seemingly inhabiting another plane of existence, almost awkwardly sharing his bizarre humour. The empty, souless corridor flanked me on both sides. The immensity of cruel concrete seemed to crush my spirit, and shadows cast by the pernicious neon lighting appeared to crawl towards me, tormented, lost. But you’ve got to laugh, eh?!

I did, in all fairness, say bodies. The next fallen man, not from a tower block this time, was from an altogether more wholesome estate, SE1. The couple (why is it couples that seem to witness these things?) were thankfully, rightfully grave and upset in the telling of their account. This ‘jumper’ landed on a roof of a warehouse which their small, tidy kitchen overlooked. Splat! I think he was a dusk rather than dawn ‘jumper’, so they were having dinner. Can’t remember what. They, too, remarked on the noise, but it seemed circumstances were suspicious. I was beginning to feel like Columbo, even to the point of developing a worrying squint in one of my eyes, though I didn’t have a wife to talk about relentlessly to confuse the ‘suspects’.

I asked to sit, whereupon they detailed the police investigation, the statements, and ‘the dangerous nut case upstairs’ who seemed implicated. Unfortunately, this ‘dangerous nut case’ was a tenant who I had to visit later on. I thought perhaps I should obtain bungee cord before calling, but was told that no proof of his complicity was found – he seemed, in the unwavering eyes of the law, innocent. Strangely, they too, mentioned the noise of impact – this seemed to be a point of annoyance vis a vis portrayal in films. They’ve got it wrong! Which brings me to the third and final falling body. Luckily, this time, it wasn’t real.

I was on terraced housing detail a week later – altogether more charming than urban monstrosities of upward housing, and (though it might seem pedantic to say so) the quality of tea is a lot better, more often than not PG pyramids, or Tetley draw strings. Two lovely cuppas later, and a slice of fruit cake (aptly), I was receiving more falling body information. Behind the tenants’ garden was an old disused cinema complex and an empty water tower. As the couple (same age as the other two – a new social trend? Suicides are more likely to be witnessed by couples in their mid-fifties. Check it out!) sat to breakfast – Weetabix judging by the gait of the man – they saw two chaps fighting atop the tower. Concerned, they watched the drama unfold in the distance. It should be empty!

Shocked, they saw one man pushed! He fell outrageously to his death. Their blood ran cold. Small explosions fired off in the courtyard. Yelling, gunshots. Had the Yardies taken Kennington by storm? Luckily not. It was a scene being shot for the excellent film Death Wish II, and Charlie had just offed another bad guy. And you thought it was all being slugged out in American bad lands!

Thus I can only record a body count of two so far in my employ, the dummy having to go down as a stupid stunt double (besides being out of date). So, as I said, not one bottle of Tequila mentioned! No drunken madness! No humiliation! Am I a reformed man? Of course not, just a little more controlled and contrived. I must add, as a passing foot note, that I tried to obtain access to all the roofs mentioned above, and found it impossible. They are usually guarded by dense, piss-stained sheet metal, graffiti-ridden doors, lurking like portals through to another dimension, strangely lonely. Locked off with formidable padlocks and prison bars. Perhaps the aging couples are right – it’s not the pointless, tragic waste of life, or the bomb-like noise on impact that primarily disturbs the soul following a roof jump suicide, but the prescient question of how the bloody hell did they get on the roof?

“Raven, Black as pitch
Mystical as the Moon
Speak to me of magic,
I will fly with you soon.”

Following a disturbing vision of a futuristic, thought controlled fighter craft, Marc Lewes undertook research to explain away the imagery. Far from being deluded fantasy, he collated information from a variety of independent sources to conclude that, somewhere in the world, this awesome, horrific craft does in fact exist. He calls it the Raven.

PART ONE – MIND CONTROL

“I was stationary – atop a ridge. It was night, and everything was still, potent. Soon, prosaic orange lights attracted my attention. In the distance, in rows, marking out what seemed to be a small runway. I went closer, to discover that they were in fact marking out some sort of compound. The soulless feeling of the place caused me to shiver – there seemed to be no spiritual radiance anywhere – even the lights seemed artificial, illusionary, as if they served no other purpose except to illuminate the extremely sinister object squat down on the ground some distance away, loathsome in its savage purity and noxious beauty. It was like the Devil as machine. I watched in a frozen mental embrace, captive to my discovery for a while.”

Section of Raven transcripts, from personal vision, circa 1994.

Remote viewing? Astral projection? Mere pyrrhic fantasy? As I was to discover, the awful truth lay in reality rather than in my mind’s eye. The object described is, in all probability, a new breed of bio-aware fighting craft, an Anglo-American hyper-secret venture. A craft possessing not only anti-gravity capability, but psychic interfacing, lethal + non-lethal weapon capacity, non-combustive power plant and a fluid filled cockpit. Using updated Tesla technology, the latest particle/wave beam offensive and defensive arsenals, drawing on some four decades of high-level, mind-shattering psychical and technological research, the resultant attack craft is nothing if not terrifying.

As astonishing and fantastic as all this may seem, perhaps a conglomeration of too many sci-fi films, fringe literature and hostile projection, unfortunately research and outrageous coincidences led me to believe in at least the stark possibility of such a machine existing, or being under construction. Consider that the SR-11 ‘Blackbird’ technology goes as far back as the Sixties, and Stealth bomber advancements can be traced back to the Seventies, then we have at least twenty years of occult scientific advancement which, to my knowledge, has not been revealed in any tangible form. This is not a UFO problem. The ship I saw was of terrestrial origin, from the very fact that I sensed human involvement, and indeed a human pilot, behind the pitch black flanks and rind of the flying beast.

I do not want to reveal much ideological or political information behind this as yet, because research is ongoing. I was ‘discovered’, in that lonely, desperate spot by the ‘watchers’, or masters of the project, as the entire setup is run, typically, by deranged Government military splinter groups. But these people have strong psychic abilities – indeed this is the crux of their power. For many months I lived in a state of subliminal threat, and ceased to investigate further. Truth will Out, as they say, and, for my sins, this article was born.

Perhaps some readers may have heard of Landig’s Point 109. This was supposedly a secret meeting place, where high level members of the scientific and political groups, from all countries were to meet, near the North Pole, in the latter years of WWII. The purpose was to reveal Nazi V3 technology, the fabled WWII UFO’s (Foo Fighters). Apparently, some propulsion method beyond simple rocket science had been invented…or given. The Morris Jessup information published in the 50’s, following Project Rainbow revelations? Russian secret science? This, however, ties up with hollow Earth theories, and is now almost mythological. Fascinating, but largely inconclusive. The answers lay with hard, if not occult science.

The Dark Craft, or ‘Raven’ as I dubbed it would not go away, and continues to persist. All the while it is in my consciousness, darting about in its inimitable way, dominating the airspace, its energy waves ‘irradiating’ water as it flew low level. Its propulsion unit glowing like the coals of hell, crystal/wave dynamics producing finely attuned beams of energy. Surging it forward like a thought. The whitened, albino pilot, in the womb like cockpit, literally thinking his way around, sensing threat, mindfully activating counter attack. Who was behind this? How was it conceived and constructed?

My first investigations led me to a man codenamed ‘Penguin’ – Col. John B. Alexander (US Army Intelligence and Security Command – read NSA). An ex-commander of Green Beret Special Forces in Vietnam, he is also the man who first came up with the concept of non-lethal weapons 19 years ago. In December of 1980 he published an article in the US Army Journal, Military Review, entitled ‘The New Mental Battlefield’. This gained the attention of senior Army generals who encouraged him to pursue his nefarious work. In the article, he mentions that telepathy could interfere with the brain’s electrical activity (telepathy was scientifically and irrefutably proven by secret Russian experiments using rabbits on submarines as far back as the 1960’s).

Retiring from Army life in 1988, he joined Los Alamos National Laboratories, infamous for weapons research, working with Janet Morris, the Research Director for US Global Strategy Council (USGSC). She is also the co-author of ‘The Warrior’s Edge’, initiated into the art of Bio-energetics, and graduated from the Silva course in advanced mind control. More to the point, she has been conducting remote viewing experiments for fifteen years, and researching the effects of the mind on probability in computer systems. That two highly qualified, radically thinking people collaborated on such strange and disturbing projects, under the auspices of the US Government, seemed incredible. Perhaps, after all, my vision might have some credence, some basis of reality. The connections were, as we shall see, too powerful, too direct, too circular. There seemed a common goal for all these disparate, strange people and their occult research. I had a feeling I knew what it was.

Los Alamos, mentioned earlier, prides itself on cutting edge weapons research, notably the atom bomb, and is relatively well known. What is less well known is the fact that immediately after the Second world war, it was mostly staffed by ex-Nazi scientists. Not one or two, but several hundred. Starting as Operation Lusty, when Germany was scoured for scientific blueprints, prototypes, and scientific papers the Allies soon realised that there was a wealth of superior technology and information. Colonel Donald Putt, the man in charge, decided that he wanted more than the scientific spoils of war – he wanted the brains behind them. Thus Operation Paperclip was born, and the Nazi scientists were shipped over, including the notorious Albert Speer, and Herr Kammler, architect of Auschwitz.

Thus, with blood on their hands, these men were soon contributing to and shaping the destiny of the American space programme, culminating, of course, with the Apollo moon landing. What is clear is that without Nazi technology, this would never have been possible. It was to this legacy that Colonel Alexander wedded himself, working for the USGSC, with great interest in mind-control and non-lethal weaponry, such as microwave devices. This man seemed at the hub of the problem, the vision I had experienced some four years ago.

So far, I had established, if the research was to be trusted, that certain top-level mind-control programmes were in operation, and had been for decades. This is well known, but to have a clear link with the control of computer systems, such as Janet Morris’ research was fantastic. This tied in with the notion of a thought controlled craft, piloted from a bio-reactive cockpit, one filled with fluid and sensory devices. Rather than a ‘brain link’, there were no direct links – a mesmeric, highly attuned psychic interface through months of conditioning. Is such a thing possible? Could a person be trained to such a degree, and deal with the split second decision making of combative avionics? Of course! Using a combination of Neuro Linguistic Programming, meditation, psychotronic development (interface with machines), bio-energetics, a reactive sensory medium (such as the fluid)…does all this sound ridiculous? Perhaps it may come as a surprise that the first incident of a computer reacting to thought patterns was in 1974 when neurophysiologist and electronic engineer Lawrence Pinneo, working for Stanford Research Institute (a military contractor), came up with a system that was able to correlate brain waves off an ECG with specific commands. As far back as then a computer could respond by moving a dot on a TV screen. Obviously this is very basic, but we have had 25 years to develop much more sophisticated systems. Enhanced states, drug induced or low level directed electromagnetic waves combined with these new systems would enable someone to largely pilot a craft with their mind alone.

There is a wealth of information that I cannot go into here. Needless to say, the information is overwhelming in favour of this craft, the Raven, being easily realised. I split the investigation into five areas, which will be explored later briefly in part 2 of this treatise. I had established tentatively that a mind/complex machine interface might be possible, something a little more organic and holistic than Firefox. But what about propulsion? The weaponry? The funding? Why hadn’t anyone else seen, or mentioned it? Why the strange effects I saw in further visions as it flew low level? I had my man – John Alexander, and his cohorts. But his modus operandi was all theory, all in the mind. How did the collusion between him, the air force and secret weapons programmes come about? And was there any defence against this seemingly invincible dark fighting machine which sullied the skies?

I was to find out that the answers, as usual, were where I least expected them to be.
MARC LEWES

To be continued…

Being the adventures of young men whose interests are beer, travel and (in a suitably “ironic” way of course) the Eurovision Song Contest

Though in my student years I covered most of Western Europe on Inter-Rail forays, I’d never really been to Germany, save a few days in Berlin – with exquisite timing mere weeks before the wall came down. But a steadily increasing appreciation of things Germanic (not least foaming things, served in half-litre glasses) meant that when Rob Dyer, editor of Dark Star magazine, suggested I join his party for a long weekend in Hamburg, little persuasion was needed. It seemed so simple: get cheap accomodation, fly over, and engage in social intercourse with our European colleagues.

Theory. Practice. They’re not even spelt similarly. We forgot to take into account that the weekend we’d chosen was the Harbour Festival, probably the biggest party of the year. Plus the German Tennis Open was taking place there, and it was also the weekend that an estimated 30,000 Kaiserslautern fans descended on Hamburg to celebrate clinching the Bundesliga title. Thus, our trio eventually camped out in a leafy suburb, kind of the Hamburgian equivalent of Camberley, 35 minutes walk from the end of the S-Bahn line in the delightfully named Poppenhüttel.

However, this was by no means a bad thing, as the dead calm of this residential area provided a nice contrast to the hustle and bustle of the town centre. We were staying in an upstairs flat, with all mod cons –­ though the cooker didn’t exactly see a lot of use. But we did get to watch late-night cable TV; it’s kinda odd watching Jackie Chan’s “Police Story” dubbed into German, but after about five minutes the novelty value wore off and we switched to the steady diet of undressed Frauleins available on another channel. No language barriers there.

Speaking of which, I had to blow the rust off my German: I had stopped studying it in 1981, and had hardly used a word since. It was weird: I’d be able to completely understand one sentence on a poster, and not have the slightest clue about the next. [Mind you, some didn’t need translation – you may think the adverts for H&M here are raunchy, but the German versions have more in common with Penthouse photo-shoots] However, I wasn’t going to need to discuss Nietzsche: asking whether I could pay by credit card was about as tricky as it got.

And the answer to that was almost invariably “Nein”, worth bearing in mind for any other potential travellers. Which was a shame, as I had deliberately undercut the amount of cash, with the expectation that a highly developed country like Germany would be on the cutting edge of electronic commerce. Not so: if you can’t scratch a window with it, they won’t accept it. Also, while during the week, shops are often open till 8pm or so, on Saturdays they shut at 4pm – and by five, Hamburg city centre was deserted: Romero could have filmed another zombie movie there, if it wasn’t for the tumbleweeds rolling down Main Street. For Germans seem to start partying late, and go on late. We went into a restaurant at 6pm, and were the only customers, though this meant we could chill out there for a couple of hours, after a long day trekking round the town. By the time we emerged though, approaching 9pm, things were beginning to wake up again – so where better to head than the world-renowned Reeperbahn?

It was somewhat different to what I expected: to start with, it’s far broader, being a dual carriageway. It probably has more in common with Paris’s Pigalle than Amsterdam, mixing bars, sex shops, fast food joints, strip clubs and all the other ephemera of modern late-night life. You did, however, have to be impressed by the sheer scale; some of the shops in the World of Sex chain were probably coming close to the size of Tower Records at Piccadily Circus. You name it, they had it – although unlike Amsterdam (the obvious benchmark for all red-light districts world-wide!), a “no children, no pets” rule was in effect.

The area was heaving: Saturday night, and a good proportion of the football fans seemed to have stayed, though there was no sign of any trouble, despite their boisterous and loud celebrations And nowhere was more heaving than the street where the prostitutes worked – easily locatable, since it’s the one next to the police station. The crowds were understandable, because the Hamburg hookers were, almost without exception, drop dead gorgeous. Under normal circumstances, you’d happily gnaw off the majority of your own limbs to sleep with women like them. There were a mix of street-walkers, and Amsterdam style window-booths, the latter located in a road which was sealed off at each end, presumably to prevent passers-by being offended by the sight of lingerie-clad lovelies. One difference to Amsterdam though: few of the girls were ethnic, almost all being white – possibly East European? One slow lap round there (trying desperately to avoid eye contact, which would have been as fatal for my morals as gazing at Medusa) and we needed beer.

We found a bar nearby, and tucked ourselves in the back, under the TV which was showing the Eurovision Song Contest, without sound – they were playing a bizarre mix of oompah and Neil Diamond on the stereo instead. As the acts came to an end, and the voting began, the place suddenly got packed out. Not surprising, the scoring is always the best bit; I have happy memories of sitting in front of the TV with reams of paper. Of course, now I’ve discovered baseball… We were cheering every time Germany got a point (their entrant being the fabulous Guildo Horn, giving the contest the seriousness it deserves, with a song whose chorus went “Peep! Peep! Peep! I love you!”), cheering every time Britain got a point, and shouting “But it’s a bloke!” every time the trans-sexual Israeli entry turned up. Beer was hurled at the TV set, Israel eventually won, and we staggered out into the night, to look once more at some real women. It truly has to go down as one of the most surreal experiences of my life.

I must mention the beer, which was in general good to excellent. Even though we had no real idea what we were doing, and every bar seemed to have a different selection (beyond the ubiquitous Holsten), pretty much everything was drinkable. And we did. Repeatedly. Odd to have bars which have menus, and where you don’t pay for each round, but run up a tab. And distinctly pleasant, after last year’s American trip, to have bar-staff who don’t expect a gratuity, simply for doing their job. [Some may complain about the lack of ice in drinks here – but when it comes to tipping barmen, I am most definitely with Steve Buscemi]

Our sole source of English info was a quirky free booklet, ‘Top Info’, picked up at the airport. Here’s are a couple of examples of it’s extraordinary, understated style:

“The Hafenmeile…is an extensive (and crowded) funfair-style area all along the river banks by Landungsbrucken which – assuming you are suitably dressed to pre-empt pickpockets and protect yourself from capricious changes in the weather, and as long as you don’t go all panicky in large crowds – can be fairly pleasant”

“Opposite the Markthalle is the City Hof Passage. This must be the ugliest shopping mall in Hamburg, but as we know from our tedious day-to-day experiences ugliness is only skin-deep and within this monstrosity of infantile lego-stone architecture food from three nations awaits you…To top it all, a very cheap bikers shop is also in the mall; the discount helmet line is well recommended, especially if you are planning on going to the fun fair”.

Precisely why a biker’s helmet should be needed is never explained, we braved the fair without its protection, and emerged unscathed. It was a pleasant enough diversion and a very good way to spend a sunny afternoon – nice to discover that large number of stalls, all selling T-shirts with the same tacky slogans, is not a phenomena restricted to the West End.

On Sunday, we did some more meandering, even though by this stage, my boots were literally falling apart. We headed for the west of the City, as that seemed to be where things like record shops were located. This gave us an insight into another side of Hamburg; Turkish shops, student hangouts, lots of graffiti, that kind of thing. It was all very relaxed and laid back, in some ways it almost felt more like New York than anywhere in Europe.

This was but a precursor to the day’s main event, a concert by industro-classical group In the Nursery at the Markthalle, which was the excuse for the weekend’s jaunt. The venue looked like a converted auction house, with a stepped ring around a central flat area, which would be ideal for, oh, bare-knuckle bouts or cock-fighting. The stage was only a little higher, and I ended up leaning against the speaker stacks, virtually on a level with the band, and briefly toyed with the idea of helping out on some songs… The concert itself was great – ­how can you dislike a band who for half their numbers have three drummers? – and I ended up with bruises on my leg from over-enthusiastic thigh-slapping. Which would be appropriately Bavarian, if only Hamburg were in Bavaria, and not at the other end of the country. The night was ended with a local kebab; very impressive, it actually tasted of pork, and the mint sauce which it came with set the flavour off nicely.

Monday. Just time for a fast sweep round the shops. The centre of Hamburg is largely pedestrianised, which makes it very pleasant to walk around. The architecture is interesting to look at, even though most of it is post-war (courtesy of RAF Bomber Command), there’s a mix of styles which provide variety, rather than the “two different flavours of concrete” approach often seen in British city centres. The wonderfully sunny weather helps the scenery improve too…

By the time we attack a record shop or two, as well as ‘Otaku’, a bizarre establishment that sells techno music, clothes, and cult films, but also has a hairdresser’s in the back, financial resources are diminishing rapidly. By pooling our assets, we scrape together enough for lunch, the last meal on German soil being the same as our first – sausage, naturally. Mine came with curry sauce, which was…different. We headed for the airport, and used the inevitably overpriced cans of Coke to staunch our raging thirsts, and get our combined financial resources down to a satisfactory 12 pfennigs, or roughly fourpence. Thank heavens for free airplane drinks.

Customs at Gatwick was a breeze; the “blue” channel, for flights from within the EU, was staffed by one thoroughly disinterested officer, provoking the inevitable annoyance at not having stocked up in a major league way on contraband (the stun-guns seen in one shop had been especially tempting). I think they should stamp your passport on the way out, telling you in advance whether you’re going to get stopped or not; it would make things so much easier. Maybe they could also introduce duty free limits for pornography, alongside those for cigars and booze: “four erections or two penetrations or one ejaculation” perhaps.

Hamburg is an excellent place for a short break, though I suspect it would probably be less lively over a ‘normal’ weekend. Regardless, I think you could find plenty of stuff to do; we hardly needed to bother, with the cultural aspects particularly well ignored. A return visit would certainly be welcome – but there are a few other European cities worth a visit too, such as…

Prague

Readers may recall, if their memories stretch back to the dim and distant past of, ooh, three issues ago, a thoroughly entertaining week spent in and around the capital of the then-new Czech Republic. I was recently back there, and it was interesting to see how five years of unfettered capitalism had changed things. Er, well, not that much actually. I was expecting it to be wall-to-wall tourists, given all the publicity the place has had over the past few years, but this was another pleasant surprise. I think we may have missed the tidal wave of backpackers which apparently hit the place shortly after democracy did. No longer being the hip and trendy destination, things seemed to have returned to normal: going in February probably did help, and we were extraordinarily lucky with the weather – T-shirts are not normal garb for that time of year.

The place remains remarkably cheap across the board. The price of beer had doubled, admittedly, but even at the dizzy heights of 40p/pint, is scarcely likely to break the bank. You just have to laugh when the bill for eleven beers and an absinthe comes to £5.60, though it makes coming back to London a real shock! Accommodation, not a concern last time, was also ludicrously cheap: less than a tenner a night each got the four of us a wonderful apartment just off the top of Wenceslas Square, with a billiard table in it. And we ate like kings, plates piled high with various forms of once-living creature, cooked in a variety of interesting ways and given bizarre Czechlish names like “Sack of Mr.Town Councillor”. [And virtually everywhere, vegetables are an optional extra] My only regret is I didn’t get to sample the traditional local kebab…

From a leisure point of view, there’s something for everyone, from brothels to churches, discos to puppet theatres, and even a giant metronome overlooking the town, for those who feel in need of rhythm. In four days, we barely scratched the surface, and could have spent twice as much time there without running out of things to do. The place is probably my favourite city in Europe, and the odds are heavily in favour of me being back there again before five more years have passed.

When you mention Hong Kong cinema to most people, what they tend to think of is action films: Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan and John Woo dominate the field by some margin. Art-house fans may mention the works of Wong Kar-Wai, and sex- and gore-hounds will talk about Cat.III classics like ‘Dr. Lamb’ or ‘Sex and Zen’. However, one genre that will be almost entirely missing from such a discussion…comedy.

There are probably several reasons why it’s largely notable by its absence from the titles released in this country. Firstly, it’s a field already well-satisfied by Hollywood. Then, while movies like ‘Hard Boiled’ and ‘Heroic Trio’ take the action genre to a whole new level, it’s much more difficult for humour to do the same. Subtitled comedies also have a poor track record generally: films like ‘Les Visiteurs’ have done nowhere near as well abroad as at home, because intellectual cinema-goers tend to shy away from anything as common as jokes. But perhaps the biggest stumbling block is a perception that these films are incomprehensible to Western viewers.

This is, in some ways, fair criticism. Even the best subtitling in the world – and heaven knows, HK films are frequently a long way short of that – ­would be hard pushed to cope with the blizzard of verbal comedy which is often their core. You feel much as an alien would watching ‘Have I Got News For You’ – though something is clearly meant to be funny, you have no idea why. Yet at their best, Hong Kong comedies are easily the equal of those coming out of Hollywood. And even at their worst, they are certainly still a damn sight more amusing than ‘Ace Ventura, Pet Detective’, even if for no other reason than a numbing feeling of disbelief at what film-makers there apparently consider fair game.

For example, take ‘Boys Are Easy’. In other hands, a storyline about a father whose dying wish is to see his daughters married could have been a touching drama or a black comedy. However, despite a stellar cast (Brigitte Lin, Chingmy Yau and Maggie Cheung are the daughters), this one is pitched closer to ‘Kingpin’, full of utterly dumb stuff like the Triad Olympics, where the races are started with a burst of automatic gunfire, and jokes about pubic hair.

Speaking of Maggie Cheung…though her reputation in the West rests partly on her role as Jackie Chan’s much put-upon girlfriend in the ‘Police Story’ series, and partly in high-brow fare like ‘Irma Vep’, she spent a lot of her early career in severely lowbrow comedy films. One such is ‘Millionaire Cop’, which also illustrates the aforementioned tendency for Hong Kong comedies to hurl anything they can think of at the screen in the quest for laughs, regardless of logic. The central plot is sound enough – a policeman must pretend to be an industrialist’s son “with hilarious results”, as the video sleeve probably says. Bolted on are things like a transplanted hand and fart jokes, as well as Cheung, whose character turns into a nymphomaniac every time she sees a round object. I use the word “bolted” advisedly, since these elements have no connection to the main plot. While the end result is not actually very funny, as such, you certainly can’t deny its originality.

Wong Jing is undoubtedly the most prolific auteur (if that’s not too strong a word) in the field; his work-rate is legendary, even if he tends to spend as much time reading the racing papers as directing. His films tend to be the cinematic equivalents of All-Star games, one of the tenets of his film philosophy seems to be “when in doubt, add another famous actor”. Witness the previously mentioned ‘Boys are Easy’, or the similarly-themed ‘Modern Romance’, which may not have Maggie Cheung, but does have almost everyone else: Christy Chung, Carrie Ng, Sandra Ng and Chingmy Yau, to name just the female leads. For once he doesn’t short change the audience on plots: there are four separate stories here, one for each lady (superstitious, lecherous, gay and jealous respectively), charting their progress through the icebergs which are…‘Modern Romance’. Given it’s basically a chick flick – albeit a highly skewed one – it’s really rather good, though it may put you off Hong Kong women for life.

Any discussion of Hong Kong humour can only lead to one man: Stephen Chow Sing-Chi. Born in 1962, he started off as a kids’ TV presenter, alongside another future star, Tony Leung, before moving into dramas, and eventually feature films. At the box-office in Hong Kong, he’s only just behind Jackie Chan, and well ahead of Chow Yun-Fat, with his “mo lei tau” (make no sense) films regularly cleaning up. Unlike his colleagues, the Western release of his work has been very limited, largely to minor movies, seeping out almost unheralded, such as ‘Legend of the Dragon’, a film most notable for a cameo by snooker ace Jimmy White. Chow’s often compared to Jim Carrey, with some justification, although his best-known characters are more sympathetic and restrained. Both do well playing “the little guy”, up against, and often getting the better of, authority figures, enmeshed in situations well beyond their control. It’s certainly possible to see Carrey in some of Chow’s roles, and indeed ‘God of Cookery’  has been slated for a Hollywood remake.

Unlike Carrey, often more irritating than endearing, even Chow’s less successful films  demonstrate his abilities. ‘All’s Well Ends Well’, for instance, is compelling evidence that HK comedy does require skill. In this ensemble piece there’s a marked contrast between bits that, while trying very hard to be funny, end up as mere frantic mugging, and sequences involving Stephen Chow and (again!) Maggie Cheung, which are several orders of magnitude better. It chronicles the obsessions, problems and entanglements of a family, valid contenders for the title of World’s Most Dysfunctional, as they progress towards the happy ending given away by the title. Large chunks border on the painful to watch, yet it’s redeemed by Chow and Cheung as a lecherous DJ and his movie-obsessed girlfriend, leading to parodies ranging from ‘Ghost’ to ‘T2’. It’s typical that weaker movies like this still have scenes which are laugh-out loud, though even I must confess there are exceptions: to these Western eyes, his ‘Chinese Odyssey’ films were completely incomprehensible. I suspect an appreciation of Oriental myth and legend would have been helpful.

Chow’s talents don’t stop at comedy. Earlier films like ‘Triad Story’ and ‘He Who Chases After the Wind’ show he can turn in perfectly decent performances in dramatic roles, without stealing scenes or over-acting. But it’s in comedy that Chow seems to be at his best, and it is there that his greatest successes and most memorable movies can be found, even if, for the moment, he remains one of Hong Kong cinema’s best kept-secrets. Unsurprisingly, given the length of his filmography, I can’t claim to have seen all of his work – of the twenty-plus which I have, here are my personal favourites.

God of Gamblers III: Back to Shanghai (Wong Jing) – Barely related to the Chow Yun Fat classic,  Stephen Chow is the ‘Saint of Gamblers’, who gets sucked back in time when his paranormal powers clash with those of the villains. Though this takes a while to get going, it’s a great set-up, with little quirks like his mobile phone not just working in 1937, but letting him call people in the 90’s for advice as he battles gangsters and strives to win the heart of a fair lady – or failing that, her mentally retarded twin sister… [Both played by, of all people, Gong Li, better known for art-house stuff like ‘Raise the Red Lantern’. Hell, this is a Stephen Chow film!] The sheer volume of good humour on display means this is certainly more enjoyable than Chow Yun Fat’s half-baked sequel, though it may fall short of the original film. Supreme moment: Chow hides a venomous snake by wearing it as a cool leather tie.

Magnificent Scoundrels (Lee Lik-Chi) – One of those, “Oh God, where to start?” films, largely thanks to an amazingly constructed plot,  virtually made up on the fly. The basic thread concerns two teams of swindlers, respectively  impersonating the owners of a vacant house, and pretending to be rich visitors. Each thinks the other is legit, and is trying to rook them out of as much as possible. The mental duelling between these opposing charlatans is the heart of the film, and is a delight to watch. In comparison, the opening and climax are somewhat lack-lustre; though the former can perhaps be excused as necessary scene-setting, the latter is a disappointment. But it’s hard to complain given the enormous amount of invention on view in the rest. Supreme moment: Amy Yip vomiting down a guy’s throat.

Love on Delivery (Lee Lik-Chi) – This showcases Chow’s talent for the character-driven; nobody plays the luckless underdog like him. Here, he’s a fast-food delivery boy, who has the misfortune to fall in love with a girl who is also being pursued by a martial-arts master. So Chow tries to learn to fight, only to fall in with a con-man; typically, he ends up learning anyway. Oh, and he can only use his skill when wearing a Garfield mask, so it’s not much use for impressing his lady, especially given all the copycats (hohoho) who follow in his wake… The film is crammed full of glorious stupidity, great characters and ends with a brilliant display where Chow tries to survive a three-round deathmatch, by not fighting his opponent. A super piss-take of the usual macho heroics, this is Very Zen, yet also Very Stephen Chow. Supreme moment: Chow and his pacifist-fu.

From Beijing with Love (Stephen Chow Sing-Chi) – Never mind Austin Powers, this is the Bond spoof to end them all, with Chow coming out of ‘retirement’ as a butcher, to safeguard China’s national riches. From an inspired parody of Bond credits (not for the last time – ‘Forbidden City Cop’ does the same thing), it’s a blizzard of gags, the best revolving around gadgets such as the shoe which cunningly conceals…a hairdryer. Chow is perfect as the deadpan ex-agent, while Anita Yuen covers both good-girl and bad-girl bases. There are many great sequences: the use of porn as an anaesthetic, an escape from a firing squad and his piano-playing all stick in my mind. Perhaps most surprising, it works almost as well viewed as an action film: like the Bond movies, it builds with a good sense of pace, towards a climax where Chow’s butchery skills are invaluable. For a directorial debut, it’s an amazing piece of work; truly, nobody does it better. Supreme moment: the solar-powered torch.

Stephen Chow Sing-Chi Filmography

• 1987
  Just Heroes
• 1988
  Dragon Fight
  Faithfully Yours
  Final Justice
  He Who Chases After the Wind
  The Last Conflict
• 1989
  Thunder Cops & Thunder Cops 2
  The Unmatchable Match
• 1990
  All for the Winner
  Curry and Pepper
  God of Gamblers II
  Legend of the Dragon
  Look Out, Officer!
  Love is Love
  Lung Fung Restaurant
  My Hero
  Sleazy Dizzy
  Triad Story
  When Fortune Smiles
• 1991
  The Banquet
  Crazy Safari
  Fight Back to School
  Fist of Fury 1991 & Fist of Fury 1991 II      
  God of Gamblers III: Back to Shanghai
  Magnificent Scoundrels
  Top Bet [Cameo]
  Tricky Brains
• 1992
  All’s Well, End’s Well
  Fight Back to School II
  Film Without Bounds: the New Hong Kong Cinema
  Justice, My Foot!
  King of Beggars
  Royal Tramp & Royal Tramp II
  Thief of Time
• 1993
  Fight Back to School III
  Flirting Scholar
  Mad Monk
  My Hero 2 [Cameo]
• 1994
• From Beijing with Love [+ Dir & Writer]
  Hail the Judge
  Love on Delivery
• 1995
  A Chinese Odyssey Part One: Pandora’s Box
  A Chinese Odyssey Part Two: Cinderella
  Out of the Dark
  Sixty Million Dollar Man
• 1996
  Forbidden City Cop [+ Writer]
  God of Cookery [+ Prod, Dir & Writer]
• 1997
  All’s Well, End’s Well ‘97
  Lawyer Lawyer
• 1998
  The Lucky Guy
• 1999
  Gorgeous [Cameo]
  King of Comedy