Nobody gets enough holidays. After ten years in the same company, I have a mere 25 days off a year, nowhere near sufficient for the relaxed lifestyle to which I aspire. There are two ways to supplement this: ask for unpaid leave, which you probably won’t get and which costs you money, or phone in sick and be not at work, yet still get paid. No prizes for guessing which is preferable. However, to make the most use of this supplementary time off requires the use of psychology, as well as acting skills that would put Keanu Reeves to shame, in order to convince your employers that there is indeed a minor outbreak of Ebola in Tulse Hill, but that you should be over it by Thursday.
Preparation
Firstly, choose your day. Everyone goes for Fridays and Mondays, so these are to be avoided for general sickies; this is doubly true for days around Bank Holiday weekends, when even the most gullible of bosses will begin to smell a healthy-but-faking-it rat. The advantages of, say, a Wednesday, is it chops the week right down the middle, leaving you no more than two days from legitimate leisure time. But remember to vary things a bit, as the aforementioned credulous manager is bound to notice you missing six straight Wednesdays.
Secondly, pick your cause. The ideal sickie:
comes on swiftly, avoiding the need to foreshadow your illness over the previous couple of days,
matches your lifestyle; foreign trips provide an opportunity for exotic infections on your return,
doesn’t mock co-workers; if someone’s genuinely asthmatic, using it as an excuse is impolite,
leaves no trace, since questions about what happened to the chickenpox marks can be awkward.
at the risk of stating the bleedin’ obvious, it should probably also be curable.
A Note On Hangovers
Never underestimate the humble hangover: absenteeism and poor job performance induced by it is estimated to cost the American economy $148 billion a year. [1] Yet despite this, it is viewed with great disfavour by bosses, as a self-inflicted wound. This is inconsistent – would they use the same grounds to deny sick leave if you got AIDS? – but here at TC, we don’t bitch about how unfair life is, we deal with it. Treat your hangover like a genuinely-ill sickie, and simply convert it into something less provocative. The exception is when those Kodo drummers in your brain are the result of a works outing: if everyone knows exactly what you were doing, you might as well bite the bullet and go in. It’ll hurt, but establishes your credibility as someone who won’t let “a mere hangover” stop them from coming in. Best not do it too often though, or “Jim is a conscientious employee” will become “Jim is an alcoholic”, though this would open up whole new areas of opportunity, such as cirrhosis of the liver, detox sessions, etc.
[1] Dr.Jeffrey Wiese, medical professor at the University of California, writing in the Annals of Internal Medicine, June 6th 2000.
senivpetro, CC BY-SA 4.0 via Wikimedia Commons
Top 10 excuses for absence
“Food poisoning”. Your diet – curry, kebabs and other junk – sucks anyway, so this will come as no surprise to anyone. Discussion of bowel movements will block suspicious questioning.
“Women’s problems”. Obviously limited to women, but if you are, you have a huge advantage: any male will blanch, and not pursue things further. Also a reason to act the complete bitch.
“Migraine”. Excellent for emergency use, when you need to get out of the office quickly, although best to previously establish a pattern in less critical moments. A naturally recurring infirmity too, so can be used often.
“Flu”. No-one gets a cold any more, let alone claims one a reason to stay home. Thie perennial favourite can easily be stretched across several days, especially if used during a genuine outbreak.
“Back problems”. The ideal chronic illness, because it’s almost totally unprovable either way. Helps if you generally look miserable at work, which should be easy, since if you’re happy there, why are you pulling a sickie?
“Dentist’s appointment”. Usually requires advance notification, and generally only good for half a day, but has the benefit that you’re not expected to be in the house.
“Allergies”. I know someone who sniffed the family pet to enhance her sicky with streaming eyes and wheezing. Find your allergy and be ill at will; just avoid peanut-style anaphylactic shock.
“Stress”. Implies you’re working too hard, which may or may not be credible, but the symptoms e.g. high blood pressure tend to be nicely internal. Develop a facial tic to bump up people’s pity. More advanced pupils may also care to test the theory that the more severe the complaint, the less likely anyone is to risk of contesting it, in case you actually are…well:
“Cancer”. Only if you want a lot of time off. Everyone has dodgy moles, and even a lame melanoma is near-sacrosanct. Shave your head badly before you return, and blame chemotherapy.
“A funeral”. While not strictly your affliction, Oscar-caliber practitioners can find out at work, and break down sobbing. Who’d dare probe such histrionics? Don’t claim dead parents too often…
Signing Off
Opinion is divided as to whether it is better to have someone call in for you, or do it yourself. My view is that it depends on the precise nature of the illness you are claiming: the more serious ones are more likely to benefit from this approach. If you opt to use it, someone of the opposite sex is best, to prevent potentially awkward rumours circulating while you’re away…
You do not want any contact with your boss, who is liable to ask awkward questions. So speak to a sympathetic co-worker i.e. someone who won’t give a toss, or leave a message on voice-mail. Phoning early in the morning is helpful, because it looks much more conscientious than leaving it until lunchtime, and your voice is also likely to sound nicely raspy and weak. It’s worth setting an alarm-clock in order to do so, even if you crash out again immediately after.
If you are unlucky enough to encounter your boss, the question of when you’ll be back is likely to arise. Technically, the correct (but none too diplomatic) answer is “ask the bacterial infection currently rampaging its way through my body”. Therefore, vagueness is best: say you “hope” to be in tomorrow. For a short sickie, it’s best to leave on an optimistic note, by saying you think you’re over the worst and are feeling a little better this morning. This not only shows a keenness to return to your beloved job, it also primes an excuse, should you be heading out of the house.
Euricius Cordus (1486-1535), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Covering your tracks
Once you’ve convinced your boss, you want to enjoy your bonus holiday; this is fine if you work behind the counter at Millie’s Cookies, and are certain no-one is going to phone you at home about anything. However, odds are that you work with a bunch of incompetent baboons incapable of wiping their own bottoms, and who will think nothing of disturbing your recovery with an endless series of inane questions. Which is a bit awkward, if the truth is that you’re sitting in a beer garden somewhere.
Warn any unemployed/student/similarly sicky housemates who might get to the phone first: “I think he’s sleeping and I’d rather not disturb him,” is the answer they should give out if you aren’t around, or perhaps the more dramatic, “he’s in the bog puking up right now,” which should forestall all but the most persistent. Either of these can be primed during the phone-in, when you say you hardly slept and how badly your stomach was upset. It need hardly be said that if you answer the phone, a weak and quavering voice is essential, until you’re sure who’s on the other end.
If no-one at all is around when work comes a-calling, you need to have a good reason why you didn’t get to the phone. As well as the ones listed above, you can add things like “went to the chemists”, though this is not much use if you’re not around for the whole day. “At the doctor” gives a little more scope, since the NHS being what it is, getting seen the same day is a major triumph. An answering machine is almost essential: as well as allowing for call-screening, a phone that rings and rings is infinitely more suspicious than one which only trills twice before the message cuts in.
Do exercise care in your choice of destination: too many people have been nailed due to being spotted on the highlights at Lords’ after claiming a sickie in order to head for the cricket. Avoid TV cameras like the plague, even if you are a witness to UFOs landing outside 10 Downing Street: you are supposed to be at death’s door, not the Prime Minister’s. It goes without saying that you should also keep some way from your job, or any places associated with it. It may be tempting to attend that leaving do in the evening of your sicky, but it will only cause trouble as claims of “miraculous recovery” are likely to be met with scepticism.
The Return
It may be painful to realise it, but you will have to go back eventually. Ideally, you should continue to play the invalid for at least the first morning back. The impression you want to give is of someone who has bravely struggled into work, despite not quite being 100%. There is a secret technique here, which I now reveal: start acting ill only when you are sure no-one is looking at you. If you see anyone noticing, smile bravely, and make a limp attempt at perking up. This is such a contrast to what people expect from skivers, that the very idea that you’re pulling a double switch on them will never come to mind. You can now begin to plan your next scheduled malady…
Oh, come on, Jim!”, I hear you say. “You’re not really trying to tell us there is a connection between animated mice and the Third Reich, are you?” Perhaps, perhaps not. But let me take you on a strange journey…
This started one Saturday afternoon in front of the Cartoon Network, when it was pointed out that, as well as being the most Oscar-winning duo in history, Tom and Jerry were also more-or-less the opposing sides in World War II: Tommies, the British soldiers, and Jerries, the Germans. I laughed. I thought about it a bit more. I did some research. I’m not laughing quite so loud now.
First, some history. We need to begin back before cartoons, before sound, before even cinema itself, in the Georgian era, which is where the term “Tommy” first arose. It’s noted as far back as 1815, and comes from the name used to show Army privates how to fill in official forms: Tommy Atkins. This name became a general term for any British ‘grunt’ and is significant, because it strongly suggests that the term had been around for a long term, and likely was familiar to the creators of T&J. Though there’s no such precise origin for ‘Jerry’, it’s rather more obvious, and so probably dates to the first time an English-speaking nation clashed with the Germans in anything more menacing than a penalty shoot-out.
I think it’s safe to assume, especially in the context of a series which began right around the time of the Battle of Britain, that the choice of these names was no accident, especially since it precedes the American entry into World War II. They are also markedly different to the meaningless names selected for other MGM cartoon characters around that time e.g. Sniffles, Droopy, etc.
In this context, it’s particularly interesting to note that, while Tom might seem an obvious name for a cat (as in “tom-cat”), he was not called that originally – in the very first cartoon, Puss Gets the Boot, he is clearly referred to as Jasper. It wasn’t until the second, The Midnight Snack, that the names Tom and Jerry appear. According to Patrick Brion’s seminal book [1], they came from a contest among studio employees, but strangely, there is no mention of precisely who won it.
There had previously been another animated couple of the same name, from the Van Beuren studio, but neither a cat nor a mouse were involved, and they are names whose pairing originally goes back a great deal further. Again, we must return to the Georgian era – 1821, to be precise – when Pierce Egan published the spectacularly-titled Life in London; or, the Day & Night Scenes of Jerry Hawthorn Esq., and his Elegant Friend Corinthian Tom. Clearly Mr. Egan was paid by the word, but this was Tom and Jerry’s first appearance in popular culture [2]. And by no means their last: while it’s of limited relevance here (okay – absolutely no relevance at all), Simon and Garfunkel were known by that name, early in their careers.
Perhaps the most disturbing thing about this theory is that Jerry is the good guy, the peace-loving victim of Tom’s evil schemes, but who usually wins due to his superior intelligence. Read in a wartime context, the suggestion that violence isn’t a solution goes beyond the subversive and borders on outright sedition. An alternative explanation that Jerry = GI is no more loyal, since it suggests the two Allied sides were fighting each other. In either case, it’s certainly worth noting that MGM were conspicuous by their absence in the field of animated Allied propaganda: even at the height of the war, Tom and Jerry was a series almost entirely free of political commentary. The closest approach was 1943’s Yankee Doodle Mouse, but this treats hostilities as just another setting for their usual slapstick, not significantly different from the Wild West or Three Musketeers milieus used in other instalments. The only other acknowledgement of ongoing global conflict which I could find was the same year’s The Lonesome Mouse, with Jerry drawing a Hitler-style moustache on a picture of Tom. This seems mere tokenism, especially when contrasted with Warner Bros, whose output included hugely jingoistic slices of xenophobic bigotry such as the amazing Bugs Bunny Nips the Nips.
But then, we can also discriminate between the background of the studio heads [3]: Jack Warner was born in the British Commonwealth (London, Ontario) while Sam Goldwyn and Louis B. Mayer were both Eastern Europeans, from Warsaw and Minsk respectively. Mayer didn’t bother to become an American citizen until his late 20’s, while ‘Goldwyn’ was not Sam’s real surname. [Taking the latter as evidence of radical tendencies is, I admit, a bit much – I wouldn’t want to go through life called Sam Goldfish either…] At the risk of drifting into anti-Semitic territory, perhaps this ties in with the ‘Jewish Mafia’ who ran – and to a lesser extent, still run – Hollywood, though the question of why they would have any interest in supporting Adolf Hitler is a bit of a problem, to say the least. However, revolution makes strange bedfellows, and both men definitely have the potential to fall into the two areas most often suspected of attempting to undermine American values: Jews and Bolsheviks.
There’s a postscript to this subversive tale – or perhaps, tail. When MGM moved to revive the series in the early 1960’s, they used a Czech animation studio. Supporting Communist enterprise at the height of the Cold War, right through the Cuban missile crisis, seems remarkably unpatriotic, to say the least, and adds a cherry to the top of this insubstantial, yet somehow intriguing, illusion. In answer to the question posed at the start of this article, the answer is: “not really”. In many ways, it’s merely an exercise in how easy it is to find evidence to back up any theory, no matter how ludicrous. However…pay attention the next time you watch a cartoon cat and mouse hit each other over the head with household items – you may be seeing more than you think.
References: [1] Brion, Patrick: Tom & Jerry, Harmony Books, 1990 [2] Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase & Fable, 15th ed. [3] Microsoft Encarta: entries on Sam Goldwyn, Louis B. Mayer and Warner Bros.
There is an enormous amount of challenging information in this book. Please do not continue if you are dependent on your present belief system, or if you feel you cannot cope emotionally with what is really happening in this world.” – David Icke, The Biggest Secret
Okay. Hold onto your hats: you are now leaving reality and entering – literally – a parallel world of shape-shifting reptiles from the Nth dimension. This all started when a pile of photocopied material on mind control technology which I’d sent, went AWOL in the post – it did eventually turn up (five days for first-class post?), but while waiting, I was listening to Duran Duran and my paranoia latched on to the line: “Voices in your body coming through on the radio”. Here are the full lyrics:
Telegram force and ready I knew this was a big mistake There’s a fine line drawing my senses together And I think it’s about to break
If I listen close, I can hear them singers Voices in your body coming through on the radio The Union of the Snake is on the climb Moving up, it’s gonna race, It’s gonna break through the borderline
Night shades on a warning Give me strength, at least give me a light Give me anything, even sympathy There’s a chance you could be right The Union of the Snake is on the climb It’s gonna race, it’s gonna break Gonna move up to the borderline
I sat up, since one of the things discussed in the mind control material was implants, and the use of radio by the CIA and others to make targets hear internal voices. That this reference came in a song called Union of the Snake was even more interesting: I had long been aware of underground reports in mysterious and anonymous documents, which posit that a reptilian alien race were controlling things from bases below the surface of the Earth.
Looking at the lyrics (right), it’s certainly possible to read them in a conspiratorial light. “I knew this was a big mistake” is an odd line, and “Give me anything, even sympathy, there’s a chance you could be right” is too – if even 5% of the reptoid theories are anywhere near true, we are fucked. But perhaps most interestingly, the chorus goes “The Union of the Snake is on the climb/Moving up, it’s gonna race, it’s gonna break through the borderline.” William Bramley, in his book Gods of Eden, describes a secret organisation called the Brotherhood of the Snake, which is just too close for comfort. Does talk of “moving up” and “on the climb” refer to its increasing influence, until it crashes “through the borderline” to trans-national government? New World Order, here we come.
The video, directed by Simon Milne, shows the hero descending into an underground city, a relic of an advanced civilization – one reviewer described it as “reminiscent of H.P.Lovecraft’s classic SF tale, The Nameless City.” This ties in with “night shades on a warning”, since one meaning of “shades” is the underground realm of the dead, as in Hades. With all this, I think it’s fair to say that Duran Duran – a name taken from a humanoid alien in Barbarella – have moved on from mud-wrestling totty.
To see the reptoid stuff in full effect, get hold of a copy of David Icke’s book, The Biggest Secret. The former TV commentator turned New Age guru has turned in one of the most fabulously loony works I’ve ever read. It starts with him churning out rehashed Velikovsky, where the planet Venus careers around the solar system like a pinball, triggering floods, etc. on Earth. From here it moves into vanilla-flavour conspiracy, in which all history from the birth of civilization is controlled by a secret group, the Babylonian Brotherhood. Almost all Earth’s leaders – Nelson Mandela gets a grudging exemption – are part of this. “So what?”, you yawn. Ah, Icke’s angle is different: this lot aren’t actually human…
Yes, our controllers are reptiles from the lower reaches of the fourth dimension, who are merely occupying human vessels, though they occasionally “glitch” and reveal their true forms. For example, here’s an eye-witness description of one such transformation. Which world leader do you reckon:
“…began to transform into a reptile. He eventually became a full-bodied Reptiloid, growing in size by some two feet. He was ‘slightly scaly’ and ‘spoke fairly naturally’“.
That was Edward Heath, our former Prime Minister, taking part in a Satanic ritual near Chequers.
Overseeing this vast conspiracy is our Royal Family, who are near the top of the cold-blooded heap, being pure-blood snakes involved in human sacrifice and black magic, as well as the drug-running beloved of Lyndon La Rouche. Phil, Liz, Charlie-boy: they’re all at it. Here’s one of Icke’s sources, talking about the Queen:
“I have seen her sacrifice people and eat their flesh and drink their blood. One time she got so excited with blood lust that she…just went crazy, stabbing and ripping at the flesh after she’d shape-shifted into a reptilian…She has a long reptile face, almost like a beak, and she’s an off-white colour. The Queen Mother looks basically the same”
Reading this, I had a sudden image of the Queen Mum, forked tongue flicking in & out of a large gin…
The further one gets in, the more berserk Icke’s theories get, and they start spinning off all over the place. “I have no doubt from the evidence I have seen that the Earth is hollow”, he says. Princess Diana wasn’t just murdered, she was ritually sacrificed, the time and place of her death planned years in advance. And so on. But Icke seems to suffer from a disbelief bypass: he accepts the much-discredited Protocols of Zion, and takes the wild Trance Formation of America at face value. The latter – conveniently available from the same publisher – is written by Cathy O’Brien, who claims to have been sexually assaulted over a 25-year period by more or less everyone who is anyone in American politics, business or entertainment, including the evil paedophile, Boxcar Willie. While Trance is certainly worthy of a salacious read (I assume libel laws are less strict in America), as a credible source, it leaves a great deal to be desired.
Never mind 5%, if any of Icke’s theories are true, we are completely up the proverbial creek. Fortunately, I have my doubts – even if it all does add an entirely new meaning to another Duran Duran lyric, “Please, please tell me now, is there something I should know…”
David Icke, The Biggest Secret, Bridge of Love, £15
Cathy O’Brien & Mark Phillips, The Trance Formation of America, Bridge of Love, £12.95
Duran Duran, Seven and the Ragged Tiger, Parlophone, £7.99
(or, “Where is Francis Ford Coppola, and what have you done to him?”)
As Hollywood budgets escalate, the lure of the sequel grows: why risk good money on a risky, new idea, when you can invest in one with a proven track record? The generally held critical opinion is that this is bad, because it’s a short-sighted view which promotes the ploughing of unwarranted and bloated budgets into derivative and hackneyed movies, at the expense of original cinema. Or, put another way, “They’re over-priced, and they’re crap”. While there are plenty of counter-examples available (Terminator 2, Gremlins 2, Drunken Master II and Species 2 were all at least as good as the originals), when you progress further down the line, to a third film, the odds of coming up with quality appear to lengthen dramatically.
There are some cases where the cause is obvious: a new director is quite sufficient to send the most cast-iron franchise down in flames. Exhibit A in this category must be Batman, which Joel Schumacher appears to have made his life’s work to destroy. Say what you like about the first two, they were at least memorable: I can’t recall one single scene from Batman Forever. I admit that Batman & Robin is worse still, being many people’s choice for worst film of the 1990’s, but there’s no doubt when the rot set in.
Even if you keep the same director and star, you can still run into difficulties by fixing what isn’t necessarily broke. For examples, see The Evil Dead and Mad Max trilogies, which show some interesting similarities. Both start off with cheap, hugely profitable openers, followed by sequels which actually come closer to big-budget remakes. Then, realising they couldn’t get away with doing that again, both George Miller and Sam Raimi head for the cinematic hills, opting for other than the simple “…3” title to boot. Although I actually quite like Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome and Army of Darkness, the former replaces hardcore action with a lot of mythic mumbo-jumbo (not to mention Tina Turner!), while Army is a Ray Harryhausen film filtered through the Three Stooges.
Alien 3 – sorry, that’s the almost apologetic 3 – was another destined to be a disaster from the moment David Fincher stepped on board. Previous instalments had been directed by people with experience in the genres: the nearest Fincher had come to horror was working with Madonna. As a learning experience, it’s marginal: compared to the classic horror movie and all-time greatest action pic which came before, it blows chunks and, measured against its predecessors, may be the worst third entry ever. The curse is of particular note here, since Fincher has since proven his talents with Se7en, The Game and Fight Club. In that kind of company, Alien3 seems an out-and-out aberration.
Strike threes…
Three’s that triumph
Alien 3 Robocop III Lethal Weapon 3 Star Trek 3 Hellraiser III Return of the Jedi (nominally Part VI, but one word: Ewoks) Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade A Better Tomorrow 3 Drunken Master III Scream 3
In the Line of Duty 3 Goldfinger Poison Ivy 3 Er, that’s it…
Speaking of aliens brings me to The Godfather III, since the only explanation for it I can imagine, is that at some point shortly before filming began, Francis Ford Coppola was abducted by ET’s and had his entire talent sucked out through an anal probe. Since his return, the empty husk has been shambling around Hollywood, directing things like Jack. Never work with animals or children, Francis – especially not your own. And, as an aside, I’m sure that Daddy had nothing to do with Sofia subsequently getting to direct The Virgin Suicides. However, going by that, it looks like the bug-eyed monsters got to her early.
Return of the Living Dead 3 seems to buck the trend, being Brian Yuzna’s fabulously kinky eulogy to body-piercing, and a vast improvement on part two. However, don’t forget that Return of the Living Dead was itself a sequel, to Night of the Living Dead. This means Return of the Living Dead 2 was thus the true third part, and it duly blew chunks, allowing Yuzna to escape the curse. The moral of this story is that sometimes you have to look especially carefully in order to see the evidence.
There’s another factor which might play a part, to do with a letter producers feel a particular urge to tack onto “3” titles: “D”. Jaws 3-D, House 3-D, Nightmare on Elm Street 3-D, Amityville 3-D. Now, even at the best of times, it’s a very tricky task to combine the usual requirements, like plot development, with the necessity to have sharp, pointy things coming out of the screen at regular intervals. Indeed, I’ve only seen one which works as a regular i.e. flat movie – Flesh for Frankenstein. For a double-sequel, already likely to be struggling, it’s yet another cross to bear.
The strange thing is, this is all despite the fact that there are logical reasons why they should be better, not worse. By this stage, you should be looking at fully-developed characters, to whom audiences have already been successfully drawn twice. In addition, if a concept is good enough to sustain a solid sequel, then it should be able to squeeze out at least one more before collapsing. Let’s face it, by the time you reach a third installment, the studio is thinking “franchise”. Which may be the problem: after two hits, lazy executives will green-light a third almost as a reflex action, without bothering to concern themselves over trivia like scripts. I suspect you could hand over a hundred pages of the LA telephone directory and get it made, if you scrawled Terminator 3 on the front sheet.
T3 will be an interesting test: looking likely to be Cameron-less, yet with Arnie on board, the odds are not in its favour, if our theory holds true. The Matrix 2 + 3 will also act as a litmus paper: I predict the first sequel will be competent enough, and the second will blow chunks, despite being shot back-to-back in Australia, with the same cast and crew. I believe the third part will focus almost entirely on Carrie Moss’s character, allowing them to call it The Matrix 3: Wholly Trinity. [Sorry…]
In conclusion then: “Sequels suck!”, says a character in Scream 2. This is what passes in the series for wit – but perhaps the most ironic thing is that the lame, tame Scream 3 provides damning evidence for the hypothesis that second sequels suck even more.
No, I’m not wearing a silver suit, I’m not wearing a metallic string vest and I’m most certainly not launching myself into space to fight spinny flying saucers. The year 2000? What a letdown. The nearest thing we’ve had to an apocalypse so far is the petrol “crisis” and people slagging the Millennium Dome off (no, I’m joining in on that one, I really couldn’t care one way or the other at this stage of the game). Strangely enough (and yes, my first bizarre tangent of the whole article), Jim has actually been chasing me for the reviews, I’ve had the things for ages, and now, here we are, Tuesday 3rd October 2000, with Jim descending on my house this coming Saturday to pick the finished reviews up, and I’ve not even started. How terribly Julie Burchill of me – minus the face like a spastic bulldog chewing a wasp.
So, what’s been happening with me? Hmm, well, quite frankly, it’s really none of your business. I could ramble on about various job offers that had been made to me involving £3000 cash bonuses for moving (that I turned down – email me for the full story), or the fact that little Nick, who is basically my bitch at work (I promised I’d give him as many name checks as I could), has been offered a contract to play “soccer” for 2nd division Reading football club which means I’m going to lose him at the end of November, which really is a shame because, and this is being polite to the point of making even myself ill, Nick is one of the nicest people I’ve had a chance to work with. Ok, so when he started as a temp 2 years ago, at the age of 17, he was a freakishly tall, mute, scary-looking fella, but since we took him on full time, and he started talking, and more importantly, since my bleak, “cup is half empty” view of life has rubbed off on him, he’s turned into quite a normal human being, and it really will be a shame to say goodbye. Well, unless I can bribe someone to run him over with a forklift.
What else, what else, oh, yes: my new game. Shopkeepers across the country (I’m assuming it actually is across the country, and not just in London) have started installing cashpoint machines inside their shops. A genius idea. Ok, so it costs £1.25 to get money out of the thing, but as I’m with the Abbey National and the only other cashpoint machine between my house and work is a Nationwide one that charges me £1.50 to get money out I’m not complaining (bear with me, this does get interesting and is in no way an attempt to put off reading fanzines, no, sir). Anyyyyyway, my new game involves said cashpoint machine in shop, me and an unsuspecting minicab driver. You ask the cab driver to stop at the shop: “Keep the engine running, I’ll only be two minutes”, then you go to the shop, take, ohhh I don’t know, lets say £50 out (it always seems to pay out in £10 notes) then, clutching the money in one hand, come running out of the shop (or the closest approximation of running I can manage), jump into the car and yell “Drive! Drive! Drive!”. Fine, so it doesn’t actually freak the cab driver out, but it keeps me entertained. Try it, it’s… Ok, don’t try it. Ok, damn you, I’ll start reading, you stay there and wait: believe me, it won’t take very long at all…
Arteries – Issue one (£2.50). Oh, this really is priceless… I picked this up and was instantly transported back in time. I have tears of joy in my eyes. Anything with a picture of Bad Taste on the cover automatically gets my thumbs up, and the reviews, oh please, how totally wonderful. Here are some sample quotes; these alone will have you searching out a copy, believe me:
Mothers Day: “an effective little shocker which will offend some and delight others, personally I liked it!”
Android of Notre Dame: “Definitely for people who like body dismemberment in movies, Disney this ain’t!” (my personal favourite!)
Sleazefiends (Muhahaha) will love the movie [Caligula: The Untold Story] but don’t expect a UK release any time in the near future”
The editor also appears to have an unhealthy fascination with turds, mentioning them in almost every other review. The video game reviews and insightful Internet overview are merely the icing on a very, very wonderful cake. Oh, my aching sides…
Cashiers Du Cinemart – Issue 10 ($3). From the ridiculous to the sublime… This is more like it, and hell, I don’t even mind all the advertisements scattered throughout the issue if they manage to keep the cover price down to $3; good luck to them. Issue 10 has enough material to keep you reading for well over 10 minutes (probably longer if your attention span is…er, what was I saying?). Bang! A six page look at the Babycart movies (including an exploded view of the baby cart itself – they never did that on Blue Peter). Bang! An interview with Keith Gordon, who you’ve probably never heard of (he was in Christine remember?): excellent stuff, and I still rate Static as one of the best films I’ve ever seen. Bang! Ok, that’ll do, otherwise I’ll just go through the entire thing saying you should read it, when in reality, all you want to do it go out, buy it and read it. Now, if it had a picture of Drew Barrymore wearing only little Victorian boots and a red ball gag it’d get my Magazine of the Millennium award, but well, you can’t have everything, can you?
Vex – Issue 4 ($3.95). Ok, now I swear, I’m just pulling these things out at random, it’s not some bizarre “Oh look, he’s just putting all the stuff he likes in the article first”, but I really do like Vex, this issue being no less funny that the preceding three. In-depth, stupid, sick and very, very, very entertaining. Disney this ain’t! (heh, see what I did there, that was quite funny). You! Buy! Now!
Roadworks – Issue 5 (£2.50). Ok, look, it’s Thursday, Mr Editor is coming around to my house on Saturday, I have no time to read all of this so, er, well, here we go…Wow, £2.50 for a magazine packed full of quirky short stories and poems, what a bargain. 64 pages long, that works out to around 4p a page. I can’t recommend this highly enough, and the cover is green, which, as you all know, is the Celts good luck colour. What more recommendation do you need?
Hey, you know I think I bluffed my way through that last review quite well, I don’t know why I didn’t think of doing this ages ago, I would have saved myself so much time, and I don’t know about you, but I welcome a “Price per page” count. And now…it’s time for the “Annual Bumper-Mega-Huge-Combo-Multi-Issue Mansplat review 2000” Right, we can play this two ways, you can have all four issues reviewed in one huge blobby concoction or each of the issues reviewed, one after the other. Make you mind up and call now on 020 8900 %$(“. Oh, the phone’s ringing, how exciting, excuse me… “Hello?” “Get on with it! No-one has even bothered reading this far, so it doesn’t matter how you review them as long as you do review them!” “Ok, thanks, Jim – I’ll get straight on that, see you on Saturday.”
Mansplat – Issue 17 (No charge, which reminds me of a country song). Ok, so I actually looked at this after 18 & 19, but you’ll never know as I’m cunningly sliding it at the top of the Mansplat section. You fools! Muhahhahaa<cough>hahaha. Heh… The first thing that struck me about issue 17 was the “Movie villain guide”; my favourite villain from that article? “Fu Manchu – So solly – you must die”. Excellent! Elsewhere is the TV guide we really wish we had, a Spiderman vs. the Internet face-to-face showdown, pages of video reviews, a picture of a cute Asian girl in strappy boots holding a gun (no, the boots aren’t holding the gun. Look, I don’t get paid for this, so grammar is out the window. Hmm, actually, even if I were being paid for this, the grammar would still suck) – ok, so that picture is from an ad, but it caught my eye. Talking of ads, there’s also one for something called “Trash City”, apparently, according to the ad: “Trash City is a magazine published out of London, England by a dedicated group of insane writers…” Blimey, I wouldn’t want to meet any of those wacky sorts!
Issue 18 (Free!). Hmm, Julie Strain. We like Julie Strain, even though she is knocking on a bit, bless her, but she looks wonderful on the cover of issue 18, I think I’ll just retire to the toilet so I can examine this issue more closely… Ok, I’m back, and it’s quite easy typing with sticky fingers, don’t believe what they tell you.
The sky is bright blue Clouds are so fluffy, so soft I’ll kill everything
What’s that? Well it’s one of the Godzilla haikus that appear in issue 18: genius! Ok, what else is there? Lemme carry on reading…
Oh, look: “The 100 Women who Wrecked the World” article.. No. 43: Alanis Morrisette – “Geez, she gets dumped by one guy and 12 million have to hear about it.” Marvellous! Also contains the Top 12 greatest women of all time, Hmm, Drew Barrymore is no.6. I knew there was a reason I loved Mansplat. Moving on, elsewhere in issue 18…nestled softly next to the “Where have all the fat wrestlers gone?” article (shut up, Jim!) is the invaluable “Burpology: cool words to say while belching” article, and hell, for the sake of journalistic completeness (ok, so completeness is the wrong word), I have in the space of the last 40 minutes burped my way through three quarters of the words listed. The easiest? “Keno”. The hardest? “Duran Duran”. Go! Now! Write! Email! Get Mansplat! This phrase is guaranteed to be repeated at the end of the reviews for the next issues of Mansplat, or your money back.
Issue 19 (Yep, still free). More of the same (see those four words? I’ll be using those a lot), centre-page madness looks at American cereals. You know, I always maintain that American cereal is so much better than ours. Ok, we briefly had Lucky Charms, and there was the mad period where Ricicles had marshmallowy bits in, but look, you’ve not lived till you’ve started your morning with a bowl of Fruity Pebbles (what do you mean, you don’t like lemon flavoured pieces of cereal?). Terribly informative guide to road rage – I do hope you’re paying attention at the back, Mr. McLennan. And also in issue 19, Mansplat staff reveal the things in Batman’s utility belt; I knew that bulge was a butt-plug.
Issue 20 (Free, probably…see below). Er, I haven’t got a copy of issue 20; I do have two of issue 19 though. I’m sure that issue 20 is lovely. Next!
Issue 21 (Free, to do what I like, any old tiiiiiiiime). Here we are then, the last issue of our marathon “Annual Bumper-Mega-Huge-Combo -Multi-Issue Mansplat Review 2000” 4 issue splurtathon. Wow, look, there’s an article on psycho lovers, I wonder who I know that could have done with reading it a couple of years back? A centre-page double-spread A-Z bra guide, bucketloads of video reviews, a loving look at greasy fast food (hmm, grease) and beer. Did you know that certain Americans think of Harp as the best beer in the world. Just sit back and digest that fact. Harp. The best beer in the world. How frightening is that? Last but not least, a classified section!! Oh, lets go read that now, shall we? Hmm, it was ok, but I was longing for the old Fangoria days (I’m assuming it is the old Fangoria days as I’ve not picked a copy of that particular rag up for years), where the classified section held lines and lines of “Jason Rools” and “Freddy Cuts Me Up” missives.
There you go: that’s the end of our Mansplat journey, and what have we learned? We’ve learned that even over the course of four issues (let’s forget the fact I didn’t have an issue 20), Mansplat is one of the most consistently entertaining fanzines to come out of the States. So there, and what’s more it’s free, they’ve got a website, and er, pictures of ladies’ soft pillows. How’s that for a recommendation?
Heh, Jim and Vanessa (top-class arty designy layout type person to the stars) popped around last Saturday to pick up the fanzines I’d already looked at, and in-between conversations about Jim attacking Vanessa’s nose with a Stanley knife in a fight over who got the last peanut (I think it was something like that), I stupidly mentioned that I only had four more fanzines to look at and was sure I’d written around 2,700 words. Well, that was wrong; bad and wrong. I just did a quick check and it turns out that I’ve actually written over 3,100. So, I guess I’d better not waste any more time and get straight on with the next review. Or should I? The more I think about it, the more the thought of Jim cutting swathes of rubbish out of this whole mess entertains me. No, no, ok, you’re right, I’m bad.
The ‘Mazing Adventures Of Captain Cadwallader (Issue one – Price erm, unknown) No, I’ve not lost the ability to spell even the simplest word, it’s actually “’Mazing”, and is according to the inside front cover (which, incidentally, has also got 22/100 written on it in silver pen – this makes me wonder if it’s actually worth carrying on with the review as all the copies have probably gone by now, but whatever), a melodrama in seven parts. Think of it as a kind of Around the World in 80 Days if Jules Verne had been sniffing Vim (or Drano if you’re reading this in a country that wouldn’t have the first idea what Vim was) It’s a lovely, small, A5 30-page piece of fiction (with some nice full-page illustrations). The ending is a bit of an eye-opener too: I say, that’s not cricket! Worth a read if you can still track a copy down (here’s a hint, Jim has got the copy I’ve just finished with, just think, issue one touched by Jim and myself!).
Arteries (Issue 2) He’s only gone and put another issue out hasn’t he? The conversation I had with Jim on Saturday night went something along the lines of this. “I see I’ve got another issue of Arteries to review, you know, I think I’m going to slag it off”, “Awww no, we like Arteries” replied Jim. Hmm, I’m in two minds now. On the one hand, I don’t think this is really doing anything that wasn’t done 5000 times over 10 years ago, on the other hand, you’ve got to admire the effort that “Lord Brendan MBE” has put into both this and issue one. Just the general slagging off of Jess Franco’s Faceless has me wanting to tear this issue into little pieces and throw it away (although knowing Jim’s hatred of Jess Franco it’s probably why he likes Arteries so much), and I have to wonder, if he hates the movie Forced Entry so much – “I don’t recommend it to anyone. Women will find it incredibly offensive and if any man enjoys this mean spirited, unsavory movie he needs to see a shrink and get his head examined!” – why he bothered reviewing it in the first place. Or more importantly, why he bothered buying a copy at whichever film fair it is he enjoys visiting. Ok, let’s be objective.
Not everyone here has been around that long, so final word. If you’re new, and want an easy way of knowing what’s what with “video nasties”, get yourself a copy of Arteries (although I would do something about the £2.50 cover price); on the other hand, if you’ve been around forever and a day, this really won’t tell you anything you don’t already know. How’s that for partisan? No, not the cheese, that’s Parmesan you maroon.
Little Shoppe Of Horrors – Issue 14 ($7.95). Fuck my old boots, he’s put another issue out! Huzzah, Tiny Tim will eat some turkey this fine Christmas morning. After the nasty hiccup a few issues back when it seemed like Richard Klemensen (who seems to have lived a far more entertaining life than I could ever wish for) was going to stop working on LSOH (don’t you just hate it when people put initials in instead of the full title, it’s so slack, and in this case, almost as if the author is typing really, really quickly to get everything done before the editor arrives to collect the finished article. Finished? Hah! Anyway…). Luckily for us, that hasn’t happened. Hell, I don’t really love Hammer films, apart from getting all nostalgic about getting off the train at Kenton station and walking to school on the morning after one of the Hammer films had been shown on the TV. It’d be easier for me to tell you what isn’t in issue 14, namely no pictures of Kelly Brook strapped to an X-frame with a bit gag. Hey, I’m nothing if not inconsistent.
Let me give you a quick rundown on what is in the issue so you can decide if it’s worth shelling out the eight dollars. [Three hours later] Oh God, no, there is too much in here, really, far too much for just $7.95, oh and it’s got nothing to do with the fact that the review of Trash City in there has choice quotes like “Probably the most fun reading fanzine coming out of the UK”. Hmm, he doesn’t mention me though, which is probably an oversight on his part! Go on, give Richard some of your money: well, give him some of your money if you like Hammer movies, don’t bother if you hate them. Hmm, if you’re rich and want to send him money anyway, you can do that. No, send it to me instead, I can always use extra money. Happy now?
Hog – Issue 4 (£2.50). This is more like it. Nick has just walked past my desk. He pointed at the cover and said “That is the best front cover I’ve ever seen”. How’s that for an unsolicited quote? Balls-out comic art from people I’ve never heard of, but want to hear a lot more from. Damn, this is all good, and hey look! Teresa Scott “comic strip” with a gag! Brilliant. Brilliant. Brilliant. Get this, get a copy of the first three, and a copy of anything they’ve done after issue 4; you won’t be disappointed! Without doubt my choice of comic fanzine of the month – or year, probably. No, it’s the best comic fanzine I’ve seen all Millennium. So there!
The Fugazi Virus (one-off). Judging by the “96/100” written on the inside front cover, I’d say that this was from the same publishers that brought you “The ‘Mazing Adventures Of Captain Cadwallader”. Once again taking the form of a complete short story (this time with half page illustrations), and according to the inside back cover it was produced for the Break 21 Festival in Slovenia, May 1999 (oh, how I wish I was there). Fairly bog standard science-fiction story, without anything to recommend it. Sorry, boys. Probably not a good thing that I’m looking at this the morning after I had the most disturbing dream concerning a nuclear war. Remind me to tell you about that sometime: it’s not often that I’m actually woken by a dream and have had to go and do something before I can get back to sleep.
I found a copy of something else hiding at the bottom of my drawer, so this is officially the final review (perhaps ever <sniff>).
Bomba Movies – Issue 7 (£3.00). Hey, look, the Bomba Movies boys are back, going all A4 sized and everything! <Sniff> It’s like my little boys have grown up. I actually read this one through cover to cover (yes, yes, I read allof the fanzines through cover to cover, honestly). Pages of reviews for some obscure stuff that even I haven’t heard of! They win extra points for a look at some of Jess Franco’s women in prison movies, but lose points for slagging Tintorera off (I love all killer shark movies). Perhaps the Bomba Movies people could send a copy of this off to the people behind Arteries, just to show them how it could be done! My last review, and it’s something I enjoyed. Isn’t that sweet?
There we go then. That’s it. It’s all over. The end. With Jim disappearing to Cuba to start his own jazz band. will this be the end of Trash City and more importantly the end of my cutting edge fanzine reviews? Who knows, but I think, if we’ve learned one thing in the time we’ve spent together, it’s that I generally don’t like much, but I’ve got to the stage where I’m too old to really hate anything. Well, apart from those miniscooters, and commercial breaks, oh, and plastic wrapping that needs scissors to get into, and work. Yes, that’s about it. No, I also don’t have much time for old people whining that they don’t have any money. Balderdash! (Christ, do you remember that game Boulderdash? I loved that). Everytime I see old people they are either driving around in brand new cars or lugging around shopping trollies full of groceries, piss-smelling old liars. Not to mention the fact they are vicious at bus stops: don’t be messing with an old lady when the 18 bus arrives, let me tell you!
So, just before I go, some thank yous. Thanks to Nick for putting up with my constant mood swings over the past three years and good luck at Reading football club (someone tell him that they really do eat oranges at half time, he doesn’t believe me). Thanks to everyone else at work (you know who you are), another thank you to Toby Russell for keeping me supplied with chocolate from Marks and Spencer (and for still being the most insane person I know: “Go out, spend money, stupid”). Thanks also to Jaime who, despite everything, is still lovely (things have a habit of working themselves out, no matter how long it takes). Thanks also go to the people who actually read this column – both of you – and to the one person who mailed me after the last issue wanting me to send them the Xena story (which of course, I did). Final thanks go to Jim, who has the patience of a saint going through the rubbish I spew, and working it into something vaguely legible; good luck in Cuba and don’t forget to send me some cigars occasionally!
If you have any comments (or pictures of Drew Barrymore), just send them along to: lino@lino.demon.co.uk and I’ll be sure to send them straight to the trashbin. Oh, and Jimmy S is not a dirty old pedophile, no sir, no way, no how. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have 26 episodes of Sooty Heights to watch – now with added Scampi, who actually makes Scrappy Doo look entertaining. I’m looking forward to the Brian Blessed episode. And people say I have a boring job!
