With another venue open in Hammersmith, the popularity of striptease as entertainment clearly continues to grow — unless you’re a Hollywood producer, in which case it’s better to cut your loss, give Demi Moore the $12m, and send her home. But the heterosexual male in the capital has an every-increasing variety of opportunities to see more-or-less gorgeous girls taking their kit off.

The reasons for this growth may be correlated to the decline in situations where men are allowed to openly interact with women on a sexual basis. Overstep the bounds and you could end up in court, as one prominent doctor found out. He either brushed against a waitress’s leg (his version), or put his hand up her skirt (her version): the truth most likely lies in between. Now, the “victim” worked in a theme restaurant, and dressed specifically to appeal to male fantasies: yet when they were acted upon, the perpetrator was found guilty of indecent assault, when surely “lack of self-control” would have been a more appropriate charge.

This just represents the bluntest over-reaction. Men are basically sexual creatures, and it’s not something that can be turned off like a tap. Two million years of instinct trump a century of Victorian morality, and less than a decade of political correctness: biology is destiny. Yet an off-colour remark in the office could result in a sexual harrassment suit, and catching a woman’s eye on the tube leaves you feeling like a pervert. It’s no wonder that men flock to places where they can release at least some unresolved sexual tension without fear of repercussions.

There are times, however, when the question of exploitation does rear its head. Less of the punters by the artistes, or vice versa, more the way both (but especially the girls) seem to be getting exploited by the venue. From what I’ve heard, it seems that at best they don’t pay the girls. At worst, the babes have to pay an up-front fee and also contribute a hefty slice of their takings – 30% was the figure I heard – to the house. Now, this money doesn’t seem to be used to subsidise the drinks prices: while not extortionate, neither are they exactly happy-hour-at-the-Student-Union. Someone, somewhere is making a very pleasant profit, which probably also goes a long way to explain the proliferation of such venues. From originally being little more than a way of getting customers into out-of-the-way pubs on slow evenings, the entertainment has now become the raison d’etre. However, it is something of a disincentive to realise that the asshole DJ is taking his pay out of every quid you drop in the jug.

A pleasant development on the scene has been the introduction of table-dancing to, first Metropolis, and then Brown’s — the service lets you select a dancer and have her perform for you in relative intimacy. The cost is about a fiver per head, which gets you a song’s worth of undiluted attention in a curtained-off area. While remaining strictly a visual pleasure, it’s an experience I’d recommend to anyone — these girls are good at their job, and when you get to pick the best of them, it’s like having a blow-torch turned on your libido. The sensual equivalent of freebased cocaine, you get a cheap, instant, intense high, followed by an overpowering urge to repeat the experience. Fortunately, unlike crack, the main problem is supply and demand: especially at Metropolis, after ‘booking’, you may have a lengthy and for some reason nerve-wracking delay as you stand around, waiting your turn.

This innovation appears to have come about partly in response to a venue called ‘For Your Eyes Only’, which opened last year in the exotic location of, er, Hanger Lane. This new Gyratory System specialises in the table dance, but has not yet been visited by TC since it’s a) miles from anywhere else you’d ever want to go and b) £20 to get in, which goes against our philosophy. When one can see babes of the quality of Ulrike and Marianne for free, why bother paying?

This is especially true when the escalative spiral is continuing apace in more accessible areas. For a while, Brown’s offered “lap-dances” — though let’s be clear, we are not talking anything like the full-contact, sticky trouser experience seen in Showgirls. [See Beer and Writhing in Las Vegas for details] It was more like a point-blank table dance, so close you could feel their body heat, and strictly no contact permitted. This required incredible will-power – or sitting on your hands and to enforce the rule, it all took place ‘in the open’. However, after about ten seconds, you didn’t notice, and though the girls may be only topless, it was better value than their table dances.

That wasn’t their only new feature, though the appeal of the tequila slammer escaped me: five quid to lick salt from your girl’s arm, down the alcohol and pluck the lime from between her teeth seemed a bit steep. Both innovations only lasted a few months, but it’ll be interesting to see how their competitors respond: will Metropolis begin doing proper lap dances? Whatever happens, we, the customers will likely be the ones to benefit, illustrating perfectly the delights of competition in an unregulated free-market economy…

[Eagle-eyed readers may have spotted Brown’s making the news in August — sadly, for all the wrong reasons. Three employees were shot, when a group they’d thrown out for hassling the girls came back. One bouncer took six bullets, while his colleague and the manager were also injured. Sobering stuff. Not that it’s stopped us from going there, of course!]

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The Good Striptease Guide to London’
by Viad Lapidos, Tredegar Press, £4.99, pp.84.

A slim volume, and one surprisingly hard to track down. From first word of its appearance togqtt a copy took six months; “available from slightly disreputable bookshops”, maybe. It contains a swathe of information about the times and places in which striptease may be seen, right down to telephone numbers. All kinds of venues are covered, in and around London, from posh theatrical joints like Raymond’s Revue Bar to seedy dives, evaluated for ambience, visibility and totty quality. Fleshing out the bones are anecdotal tales and, for some reason, architectural observations. Perhaps behind the author’s (blatant) pseudonym lurks Prince Charles?

Given the anticipation, the book was something of a disappointment, inevitably. There’s not an enormous amount of information — I read it on the tube, between Liverpool Street and Victoria — and most of it will be known to any seasoned regular. Though a few venues were new to me, it didn’t sounds as if I was missing muchl The tales of attendance were the highlight; describing one dancer as like “a particularly languid sloth on a diet of beta-blockers” vividly evoke the imagination. But it’s all too slight to have more than passing interest: not worthless, by any means, especially for the novice, for whom it’s probably priceless. But anyone else would be better off using the money to get 4/5 of a table dance from the babe of your choice.

“Fuck off seven famous actress. Hyper Adonis, this time queens are young, bad and shakin’ hip, it’s hippy hip! With fruity smile and soup.”

There is a school of thought which suggest that not showing something is more evocative than if it is clearly seen. This applies to horror movies, and also to sex — certain critics bemoan the excesses of the modern era over the understated subtleties of former times. It’s not an argument I personally accept (if I want to “use my imagination”, I don’t need to shell out hard cash to do so), but in some cases, will admit that it can prove culturally productive.

Take Japan which, despite stern censorship, has developed a pornography industry second only to America, probably far surpassing the stale “legitimate” movie business, both in terms of turnover and invention. Each month, the number of tapes released is well into three figures, with the video companies publicising their wares in lavishly illustrated, full-colour brochures of sample sleeves. These are true works of art, in the same way that London telephone boxes become art galleries of the minimasterpieces which are prostitute’s cards — though in comparison, those look like a child’s finger-painting. If ever anything made me want to splash out on a colour cover for TC, these sleeves did, despite the same stringent rules for censorship still applying. Thus, all genitals are obscured, with a colourful range of red ink, black blobs and intriguing cross-hatching that makes every willie look like it’s been wrapped in straw.

The reason for the intense effort that clearly goes into the covers is simple: in a jam-packed market, you’ve got to leap off the shelf and grab a punter by the ‘nads in the time it takes his eye to sweep across your sleeve. Hence, gold, silver and flashy fonts are in order, though the format hardly varies across titles or companies. The front cover almost inevitably has the women who star in the video, the back is crammed with a cut-up assortment of stills from the film. The most notable point is that the immaculately coiffured woman on the front is all but unrecognisable when getting down and dirty “in action”…

Then there is the interesting usage of English. Now, taking the piss out of foreigners is childish and puerile xenophobia, but if you’re going to use a foreign language in your advertising material…let’s just say that those who live by the word, die by the word. Sometimes, though, the results have a grace and beauty that are almost poetic, as in the following, taken from the Garden of Schoolgirls sleeve:
      In the forbidden garden
      the defenseless girls
      who were carried away by sexual impulse

Not quite the traditional 5-7-5 syllable structure of haiku, but lyrical and graceful none the less. This was, however, an exception, and the vast majority treat English like a prisoner of war. The following samples, like every other one in this article, are presented with exactly the spelling, grammar, capitalisation and punctuation as they possess on the covers:

• “Oh, my God! Let’s enjoy sexual costume play with Sexy Doll Clice and have a ecstacy”.
• “A sex oil sticky level 100% The Ultra Estrus Girls”
• “I’ll make you feeling ecstacy by my buxom bust”
• “Bye Bye Super Very Bad Blue Days!! Good morning Satisfaction!!”

The last of these sounds more like an advert for breakfast cereal than X-rated pornogaphy. However, my personal favourite leads off this article, deserving to appear in large text and a different font, since it manages to be simultaneously evocative and completely incoherent,

The most superfluous warning has to be the “Caution X rated!” with which ZET Video is careful to label its product. This does seem somewhat pointless when the rest of the cover ensures that the tape is most unlikely to be mistaken for a Disney movie, and probably falls into the category of reverse advertising, done to lure rather than warn.

ZET are just one of the many companies competing for business: others, such as Big Morkal, eightman, Sodom, and the engagingly named ‘Atlas Radical Adult Fantasy Mega-Pictures’, are also out there pitching to the market. Some produce generic erotica while others have found smaller niches: Cinemagic do bondage, while Miss Christine are a “costume play” outfit i.e. dressing up, as nurses, schoolgirls or whatever. The Tiffany label specialise in debutantes, and this is reflected in titles such as Legend of Virgin Shrine, New Sensual Princess, and Virgin Princess (but oddly, there is no sign of Sensual Shrine).

The actual titles of the films represent an extension of the mutant English mentioned elsewhere. They range from the relatively straightforward (Uniform Lesbian BattleRoyal), through the slightly obscure (New UniformSniper — which perhaps raises more questions than it answers) to some that…well…would you rent Illegality Violate Tits [A program on a different channel version]? Here are some other interesting candidates:

• Body Conscious Hunting — Revival of Ultimate Costumes
• Welcome!! Super Exciting Pink Saloon
• Super Maniac Play Text for the Beginers
• When the Lecherous Ladies Violate a Man
• The Best Fucking Game With Pretty Baby
• Precious – Wedding Fuck
• Satomura – Mad Obscenity – Please ejacurate on my breast.
• The Wonderful Cock Suckin’ Rolling Thunder Special Sperm is on Heat

Of course, the all-time classic title remains Jesus Clitoris Superstar, if only because it lets me tell the (quite possibly apocryphal) story about a Japanese department store whose Christmas display featured Santa Claus nailed to a cross…

The Arcane Enchanter (Pupi Avati) – Startlingly tedious Italian ‘horror’ movie, which looks lovely, but has all the entertainment value of a drying fresco. The story, about a guy sent to act as scribe to a heretic with occult leanings, is worth about thirty minutes — at movie length, it’s near unendurable, and I came close to walking out. Said heretic appeared to spend large chunks of the movie asleep, and I can sympathise, every scene seems to go on twice as long as even fractionally interesting. It’s nice to be reminded occasionally of why I tend to the view that most Italian horror movies are vastly over-rated. E

Armageddon (Gordon Chan) – I’m a big fan of religious apocalypse films like The Rapture and The Seventh Sign, and this is an HK spin on the theme, with Andy Lau as a tycoon who finds himself caught up in…well, weirdness is perhaps the best word, including SHC and the re-appearance of his dead girlfriend, while sceptical cop Anthony Wong investigates. It’s stretched thin for a movie, but Wong and Lau are good fun to watch between plot elements. After a bad start (the worst English accent I’ve ever heard), the menacing atmosphere improves as the film progresses and a fair head of steam is built up. Definitely different — just when you think you’ve got Hong Kong cinema figured, along comes a curveball like this! B-

Beavis and Butthead Do America (Mike Judge) – In a year of strangely unsatisfying Hollywood blockbusters, it was at once scary and wonderful to find this among 1997’s best, purely because it succeeds at what it’s trying to do, which is simply be funny. I’m no fan of the original TV show at all, but it was a stroke of genius to turn their moronic music video commentary into a road movie, by making it about B&B’s hunt for their stolen TV. This broadens out the horizons to permit more than their usual “This sucks”, and it’s honest enough that you’ll know whether or not you’re gonna like it within seconds of the start: if not you can probably claim you’re in the wrong cinema and get a refund. As for me, I was creased double for most of the film, and very few comedies manage to do that to me. A-

Caged Fear (Fred Olen Ray) – A rather clunky retitling of Fugitive Rage, which, combined with the cover, is designed to play up the women-in-prison angle, despite the fact that only perhaps the first third of the movie takes place behind bars. It’s closer to Nikita, with Wendy Schumacher as the girl given the chance to get out of jail with pal (and Penthouse Pet!) Shauna O’Brien, providing she finishes off the mob boss she shot and injured – which got her in jail to start with – though her victim is keen to finish her off too. Fred’s best work is made tongue-in-cheek, and while competent, this one is played too straight, despite the amusing efforts of Toni Naples and Nikki Fritz. With the action lame and the sex mediocre (Shauna O’Brien doesn’t get her kit off nearly often enough), it definitely needs something more. D-

Caroline at Midnight (Scott McGinnis) – A Roger Corman production, with the usual cast of B-grade actors, headlined here by Mia Sara, who’ll always have a place in my heart for her black-lipsticked appearance in Legend. Seems to have rounded out a bit since then, though I detect the hand of silicone at work. Her and Virginia Madsen both make fine, smouldering femmes fatales, taking on double-dealing corrupt cops and investigative reporters in a risky game involving drugs and cash. Pity the direction relies too heavily on cliched techniques, and the script left me far more interested in Mia’s occasionally-exposed charms. A fast-forward job par excellence. D-

Conspirators of Pleasure (Jan Svankmajer) – Possibly the downright strangest feature film I’ve seen, Svankmajer’s third feature is almost entirely live-action, only the final quarter explodes into the sort of warped animation for which he’s famous. You want high-concept? Try this: “six people have a wank”. Any further description is futile, and it’s the world’s most un-pornographic sex movie. If there is a theme, it’s “different strokes for different folks”: one guy pretends to be a chicken, a postwoman snorts bread balls, a TV newsreader gets her feet tickled by carp. It all loosely ties together, despite the lack of dialogue, and I can’t fault the imagination on view, which is often very funny in a dreamlike way. Not so sure that it works on a more intellectual level, and despite having the long-term impact of a pop promo, it remains a refreshingly bizarre change. C

Crying Freeman (Christophe Gans) – This adaptation of the manga and anime is a faithful recreation, which fails to ultimately engage despite some well-handled set pieces. Mark Dacascos is Freeman, an assassin who falls in love with a girl he’s supposed to kill, amidst a web of betrayal and death. Y’know, the usual. The performances are pretty decent, though the director has an unnerving fondness for the hero’s bottom. It’s problem is one of pacing, the first half crawls past and it takes ages for the hero and heroine to get together. When they finally do, sparks fly, and both Freeman’s first hit and the final battle provide memorable moments, albeit too late. As straight-to-video fodder, better than average; as a cinema release, I’m less sure of its merits. D

Cutthroat Island (Renny Harlin) – After the disappointing Long Kiss Goodnight, I was pleasantly surprised by this – though admittedly wasn’t expecting much – as Geena Davis gets support from Matthew Modine, Frank Langella and a bunch of other memorable characters. It lacks the heavy-handed moralising which sank ‘Kiss’, and Harlin pitches it with the right level of tongue-in-cheek. Things getting slow? Let’s blow something else up. This attitude culminates in an explosion which is so large it tends to suggest pirates had access to nuclear weapons. A fast, flashy and unpretentious film, which substitutes things going ‘Foom!’ for a real plot. B+

Darklands (Julian Richards) – Craig Fairbrass’s three-film contract with Metrodome has churned up two of the worst British genre pictures ever: Beyond Bedlam and Proteus. This one isn’t quite as bad, but is amazingly unoriginal, being a remake of The Wicker Man set in South Wales. Fairbrass is a journalist who investigates a pagan cult and…you can guess the rest. Which is a major flaw: you know where it’s going, so there is precious little suspense, and what there is seems largely to devolve from sequences nicked from other films. This is a shame; given the half-million pound budget, it is technically fine, with good use of music to generate atmosphere. It’s just a pity the director didn’t have the courage to make something a bit less derivative. C-

Dobermann (Jan Kounen) – Dutch director, French film, mentality somewhere on another planet. The titular hero gets a gun as a christening gift; leap forward 20-odd years — he’s graduated to blowing up tankers and has embarked on a crime spree with his (equally weird) cohorts. To catch an excessive criminal, it takes an even more excessive cop, and no prizes for guessing it will all end a) excessively and b) messily. This is perhaps the most amoral film of the year; all the nice characters get ripped off, beaten up or killed — which is exactly the way it should be. Well-shot in both senses, it’s somewhere between Man Bites Dog and Delicatessen, and there are worse places to be. B-

Ed Wood (Tim Burton) – I can see why this bombed, big-time. It’s 127 mins long, in b&w, and the hero is a transvestite — not qualities that appeal to middle America. It also doesn’t go anywhere, being a biography of a life without true highlights, even though it almost skips Wood’s descent into alcohol and skin flicks. Despite this, for any fan of his movies, there’s a wealth of detail that rings true, regardless of whether it is or not. Johnny Depp plays Wood with much sympathy, putting him across as someone deeply cunning when it came to raising finance, yet remaining naive. Martin Landau also stands out as Bela Lugosi, and Burton pushes his usual themes of isolation and “being different”. A total mess of a movie, yet none the worse for it. B

Electra (Julian Grant) – One hoped this might be a spoiler of the oft-promised Elektra Assassin movie; it isn’t. Instead, it’s Shannon Tweed (a woman for whom time is clearly running out) as the stepmother of a young man who holds the key to a serum that gives its subject superhuman speed and strength, and who is consequently in demand by a lot of bad people. Far too restrained – it’s one of those films where people keep their clothes on while having sex, and even Shannon only gets ’em out once – with strictly low-rent production values: there are almost no extras, everyone in the film is in the film. Never actually dull though, and one of the evil henchwomen (sadly, not fully identified in the credits) has definite potential as a leather-bitch-goddess. D-

Felony (David S.Prior) – David Warner, Jeffrey Combs, Lance Henriksen, Joe Don Baker, Ashley (Hellraiser) Lawrence, Charles (Supervixens) Napier: truly a cult cast to die for, in this thriller where Combs is a cameraman who films Warner’s gang killing a SWAT team. As a result, everyone wants the video. Though double-crosses abound in this standard fare, the pedestrian action and plot are saved by the aforementioned actors who show why they are in the Hall of Fame: Joe Don Baker just sneaks the honours, as a CIA agent — or is he? Whoever was casting this deserves far more credit than the director. C+

Une Femme Francaise (Regis Warnier) – Staggeringly dull French film, which even actors of the calibre of Daniel Auteiul and Emmanuelle Beart fail to make even remotely interesting. Wartime soap-opera stuff, with Beart as a woman whose husband (Auteiul) returns from the war to discover her infidelities. Tedious beyond belief, I found myself reaching for the fast-forward in the hope of finding a) anything interesting or b) whatever provoked the ’18’ certificate. I failed. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a movie that failed to justify its existence so completely. Such is the life of a reviewer; we suffer so that you don’t have to. Many more turkeys like this and Beart is in danger of disappearing up her own art-house. E

Ferocious Female Freedom Fighters 1+2 (Jopi Burnama + Arizal) – This pair of Indonesian movies, catchily retitled by Troma, star the very lovely Eva Arnaz, and TC fave Barry Prima, last seen battling killer shrubbery in Special Silencers (TC 10). Only the first even partly lives up to its title, as a gang of women forced into prostitution fight against their captors with some of the worst kung-fu I’ve seen (Moon Lee will not be losing sleep), and also one of the most gratuitous mud-wrestling bouts. The second is bizarre: part melodramatic love story between Prima and Arnaz, part occult horror, part kung-fu, and Arnaz’s grip on the action (or at least, her stunt double’s) is notably better, which just gives it the edge. Prima is his usual square-jawed and heroic self, while Arnaz looks decorative and emotes a lot. Dumb trash, not without its charm. C- and C

The Frighteners (Peter Jackson) – Meatier than your average Hollywood FX-fest i.e. it actually has a plot, yet something of a disappointment as Peter Jackson movies go. Reminiscent of Mr. Vampire 3 (exorcist teams up with ghosts to make money, only to find himself facing a seriously peeved spectre), it lacks the strong, memorable characters which made his other films such classics. Michael J. Fox is almost forgettable as the exorcist and the superfluous heroine is severely underwritten; only Jeffrey Combs saves the day on the acting front, playing an utterly mad FBI agent. The effects work well and the New Zealand locations are excellent, but it has a mildness (’15’ rating!) that’s a bit worrying, even if there have been far worse Hollywood debuts. Note: it’s his third consecutive film with a domineering mother. Tell us more about your childhood, Mr. Jackson… C-

Grosse Pointe Blank (George Armitage) – John Cusack makes the transition to action hero in this unlikely but likeable tale of a hitman who returns for his high-school reunion, only to find he’s the sanest man there. The action and comedy elements are great: good to see Benny Urquidez again, and Dan Ackroyd is excellent as a rival killer. However, Minnie Driver, as Cusack’s old flame, seems to have wandered in from a Nora Ephron movie; maybe she’s supposed to be the ‘straight man’, but the overall effect is more to deaden and slow the pace and a better (albeit incestuous) match would be sister Joan, who plays his wonderfully kooky secretary. An amazing gun-battle wraps things up admirably though, and the end result is slick and fun. B+

Howard the Duck (Willard Huyck) – Slagged off last time, Miles Wood insisted I re-view it: “it is a terrific movie”, he said, “you owe it to yourself and to Howard to give it a measly two hours of your life”. So I did. And? It still hasn’t a clue what it’s supposed to be: if it’s a comedy, it ain’t funny, despite leaving no “duck” pun un-utilised. Lea Thomson asking “Can I find happiness in the animal kingdom?” is satisfactorily perverse, and the hyper-extended, excessive climax almost makes the effort worthwhile. However, the novelty of a kid in a feather suit soon wears off, and Howard comes across as just plain unpleasant. Perhaps that explains the original title: ‘A New Breed of Hero’ means one you don’t like very much. What are people like Thomas Dolby and Tim Robbins doing in this? [save inane mugging in the latter’s case] Divide by the budget and you certainly have a viable contender for Worst Movie Ever, on a per-dollar basis. Sorry, Miles! E+

The Jerky Boys (Scott Melkonian) – Looks like a possible influence on Beavis and Butthead Do America, with two foul-mouthed layabouts getting mistaken for mob hitmen, after which things then spiral out of control. The main difference is that Johnny Brennan and Kamal Ahmed (noted American phone pranksters, as yet almost unknown here) are smart rather than dumb, constantly outwitting the gangsters led by Alan Arkin. Though I suspect it’d be funnier if you’re familiar with the New York borough of Queens, the Jerkys are nice characters, and there are a quite adequate number of laughs. Nice to see James Lorinz, of Frankenhooker – and interviewed way back in TC 6 – is still alive, playing a much put-upon associate. C-

Killer: A Journal of Murder (Tim Metcalfe) – James Woods playing convicted serial killer Carl Panzram may not be particularly subtle casting. But who can really complain? Woods, as usual, is excellent, overshadowing Robert Sean Leonard as the prison guard who uses a diary to try and understand what’s going on in the murderer’s head. The major flaw is that once the central concept (“Society’s to blame”) is made apparent, it is rammed home for the next hour or so without significant variation. It might have been more interesting to have made the guard question Panzram about taking responsibility for his actions – instead, there’s nothing here that will challenge anyone’s views to a significant degree. D+

The Natural (Barry Levinson) – On one level, this is your usual shallow baseball film: team of no-hopers fight for the championship. Yet there is rather more to it than this, from the moment when Robert Redford’s farmhand easily strikes out the era’s biggest superstar to win a bet, it’s clear that something special is happening. Even a somewhat curious shooting incident only delays the inevitable by a decade or two before this amazingly gifted “middle-aged rookie” hits the major leagues, an almost mythic figure in status, with a bat hewn from a tree struck by lightning as his Excalibur. This is the stuff of legend, and an excellent supporting cast (Glenn Close plays the Guinevere role, plus you’ve got Joe Don Baker and Michael Madsen in small parts) make it rewarding, probably even for non-fans. B-

Nick of Time (John Badham) – Why this went straight to video here, when so much dreck gets a cinema release, is a mystery; it’s a perfectly solid thriller featuring Johnny Depp and Christopher Walken. The former has his child kidnapped by the latter, who gives him 90 minutes to kill the governor of California, or his brat gets it. Aside from the fact that the kid is no nauseating, you pray for her demise, this works well, propelled by the effective idea of unfolding the film in real time. Badham is a past master at this sort of thing, and delivers tension by the spadeful, with Walken outstanding as ever. Implausible as hell, yet if you can accept the central premise, the rest runs like a Swiss watch. B+

A Nymphoid Barbarian in Dinosaur Hell (Brett Piper) – Odds on that being the title before Troma got to it: slim. Post-apocalyptic prehistory, with the heroine fighting off mutants and dinosaurs, while trying to keep her top on — though the cover art bimbo is rather more impressive than the reality there. If you’re a fan of stop motion animation, this will be right up your street, with a lot of surprisingly decent (given the budget) work on view. However, the rest of the movie isn’t as engaging or appealing, and unless you have a keen interest in the works of Ray Harryhausen and his like, there are better post-apocalypse movies to be found. D

Once Upon a Time in China and America (Samo Hung) – Jet Li returns as hero Wong Fei Hung, only this time in the US, defending Chinese miners from small-town bigotry. Lighter in tone than the original, it really tries to cram in too much: there’s a sub-plot involving Indians (who switch between English and their native tongue semi-randomly!) that just peters out half-way. There’s also every cliché under the sun, which may or may not be sly parody. Oh yeah, and a great deal of fighting — it’s a surprise this hasn’t been done before, seems like an ideal combination, even if the result is bordering on a dog’s dinner. C+

Paganini (Klaus Kinski) – This is vanity film-making at its most excessive, with cinematic wildman Kinski writing, directing and employing his relations in this tale of a tortured artistic genius bonking his way round Europe; I imagine any similarity to Klaus is purely deliberate. Much of this is completely laughable – Paganini’s music apparently made women instantly go all squishy, and even starts horses shagging, in a scene reminiscent of Borowczyk’s La Bete – yet Kinski has the charisma to (barely) pull it off, assisted by some of the most berserk violin-playing you are ever likely to hear. I’m left wondering why anyone would give out money for this project but, let’s face it, would you be brave enough to turn the man down? C

The Prophecy (Gregory Widen) – Another entry in the “religious apocalypse” genre (see Armageddon above), Christopher Walken (again!) plays rebellious archangel Gabriel like a mobster, as he hunts the blackest soul in the world. Only people between him and it are a good angel (Eric Stolz) and a priest who lost his faith and became a cop instead. Gothic horror-fantasy, effectively driven by Widen, that uses FX sparingly on the whole, leaving Stolz and Walken room to act. After this, the finale is something of a disappointment, with dodgy optical work (Widen wrote Highlander, which had the same problem), though Viggo Mortensen as Lucifer almost steals the film. I suspect we might get more of this sort of thing as the millennium approaches… B- [Indeed, there is also in existence ‘Prophecy II’, which certainly comes into the category of “more of this sort of thing”. Sadly though, in this case more is less, and even the return of Christopher Walken can’t manage to save a very tired looking sequel, possessing little or none of the innovatively creepy stuff which characterised the first film. The Devil may have all the best tunes, but he also has some rather poor movies…]

The Razor (Misumi Kenji) – Seriously tacky Japanese film, from much the same team as Lone Wolf and Cub. The hero is a renegade cop, macho beyond belief, who interrogates women by bonking them into submission, having honed his technique on sacks of rice (and a training regime which adds a whole new dimension to ‘beating your meat’). After finding a conspiracy to cover up some high-level goings-on, he comes under pressure to drop the case. Three guesses whether he does. Body fluids everywhere and a script full of double-meanings, are wrecked by a tendency to go on and on, plus the deeply incongruous 70’s soundtrack (19, rather than 1770’s). A Shogun Assassin style edit of two or three entries in the series would be an improvement, and conceivably an undoubted trash classic. C-

The Relic (Peter Hyams) – In these post-Jurassic Park days, monster movies have changed. It is no longer acceptable to hide them in the dark, the odd claw peeping out, they have to be in your face. And, Mr. Hyams please note, in daylight, too — never has a film looked so murky. With a heroine who is self-centred and whiny, my sympathies were with the monster; some Amazonian DNA-fungoid-mutant-lizard-human, though its origins were obscured by copious technobabble, Rather gory for a ’15’, with a great decapitation, it is a stream of missed opportunities. When the monster finally lumbers into plain sight, it’s quite, quite lovely — you just wish it had appeared 90 minutes earlier. D-

Return of the God of Gamblers (Wong Jing) – A long time after the original, and choosing to ignore completely the Chow Yun Fat-less pseudo-sequels, this was a huge hit in Hong Kong, becoming the first movie ever to gross HK$50m. Despite this, it’s a strangely flat kind of film, which is simply just not as good as the original — for example, in it, the humour seemed to flow naturally from the characters, but in ‘Return’, it all seems forced in there, with some parts feeling like discards from a Steven Chow movie. It doesn’t take itself seriously, which leaves the dramatic elements flailing around aimlessly, especially a villain whose sheer evilness goes beyond caricature, and that’s before he kills Chow’s wife and unborn son. Speaking of Chow, he is, of course, charismatic and powerful as ever, yet even he ends up strangely unmemorable — there are hardly any moments which will stay with you once the movie has ended. C-

The Silencers (Richard Pepin) – An interesting counterpoint to what might be seen as the cynical pro-Conspiracy propaganda of Men in Black (“the MiB are your friends!”). Here they are the advance guard of an alien invasion, while a Secret Service agent and a dude from the Pleiades try and stop them. Owing quite a bit to The Hidden, though the heroes here lack the same chemistry as McLachlan and Nouri had there, The Silencers tries to make up for this deficiency with nifty whizz-bang action scenes — it’s 45 minutes before any significant plot turns up. The pyrotechnics are cool, but the stuff between them is facile and banal. At least you know you’re no more than ten minutes from another car flying through the air. C+

Swallowtail Butterfly (Iwai Shunji) – This Japanese movie is all over the place in genre terms, combining drama, blood-spattered action, comedy and musical numbers – if the end result is some way short of perfect, it’s always interesting to watch. The setting is the underbelly of Tokyo’s sprawl, peopled by gangsters, junkies, whores and migrant workers; a group of the last-named stumble onto a tape of computer data, and use it to forge money. Lots of money. Needless to say, the Yakuza owners are keen to get the tape back: cue mayhem (the fire-fight in a car is particularly impressive), intrigue, and a grunge version of ‘My Way’. While it’s at least half an hour too long, and sags badly in the middle, it’s buoyed up by a host of great characters, and is a glimpse into a part of Japanese culture that is rarely seen. B

Teenage Catgirls in Heat (Scott Perry) – Another Troma contender for Inspired Title of the Year, possibly too inspired, as it’d be hard for any movie to live up to it. This is basically a micro-budget comedy slant on Cat People, with an ancient Egyptian cat-goddess coming back and turning the local girls into cats (or was it the local cats into girls?). It reminded me of Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers, with worse production values – difficult though that might be to believe – while the producers must have had the gift of the gab, going by the number of women they talked into taking their tops off. I have to admit I did laugh out loud on a few occasions, though it won’t be replacing the Kinski flick in my affections, I was amused enough. C+

Underworld (Roger Christian) – One of the better Tarantino ripoffs, it clearly helps a lot to have someone like Dennis Leary mouthing your “amusing” dialogue, since he actually makes it funny. He is in full-on wacko mode, a psychotic psychotherapist (he got the degree in jail) now out to find and eliminate all those who put his Pop in intensive care, while dragging Joe Mantegna with him round a city virtually devoid of other life. Oh, and he sings selections from the work of Rogers and Hammerstein while he’s at it. Compared to him, every else in the movie seems to be operating at half-power, and while undeniably loopy, you can’t help liking his character. It all takes place over the course of a single night and thanks largely to Leary, comes over as an elegant, compact item. B

Wax Mask (Sergio Stivaletti) – Despite the limited resources, this is entirely acceptable as cheerful tack. Originally intended for Lucio Fulci, Stivaletti makes a decent fist of this remake, but ultimately falls down because he doesn’t bring anything much new to the old “waxworks using real people” story. Its looks do belie the $1.25m budget though, with the sets especially worthy of mention, and there are a few decent babes too, so it’s never tedious. However, it is hard to distinguish the actors from the waxworks, and ripping off the climax from Terminator probably wasn’t a wise move. C-

Wing Chun (Yuen Wo Ping) – A neo-feminist kung-fu flick? For here we have two sisters, neither much in demand by the local men — at least, not until they rescue a beautiful widow from bandits, and give her a home. The movie then teeters between bedroom farce, OTT kick-ass action, and something disturbingly close to a lesbian sub-plot for the rest of the way. Even if the action is too “fly by wire” for my taste, it somehow works: recent Bond girl Michelle Khan (no, hang on, if it’s Tuesday, it must be Michelle Yeoh) is perhaps the only female action star who could be mistaken for a man, as required here. It’s also nice to see Donnie Yen back, and the overall package is highly entertaining. B-

The Supplemental Delights of ‘Xena: Warrior Princess’

Back in the mid-80’s, there was a distinct sub-genre of films known as “barbarian bimbo”. These had titles like Warrior Queen and starred Sybil Danning, Lana Clarkson or some similarly formidable creature, who looked good wielding an F-sized sword. Watching Xena – Warrior Princess brings it flooding back: dodgy accents, small outfits pretending to be armour, and everything else that will warm the heart of a true fan of televisual tack.

Played by the delightfully named Lucy Lawless, Xena began as a spin-off from Sam Raimi’s TV show Hercules. Originally a minor character therein, Xena proved popular enough to merit her own show, also set in the nebulous time and space known as “Ancient Greece” (for which, 1990’s New Zealand is apparently a suitable stand-in). Starting off as a bad girl – in black armour, naturally – leading a horde of bandits, Xena switched to the side of good after rescuing a baby, of necessity swapping to a lighter shade of costume too.

In her own show, she acquired the traditional accessory of heroes: a perky, annoying sidekick, as personified by Monique Gabrielle in Deathstalker II. And, hey, Xena’s sidekick is called Gabrielle! A subtle in-joke? Could be: as a Sam Raimi production, anything’s possible. As far as influences go, they willingly admit HK movies, with Bridgette Bride With White Hair Lin a particular source of inspiration for Xena. Her every facet seems cunningly crafted to provoke awe. Hell, this woman had a spring-loaded cleavage dagger, and when she squeezed her (A-grade) mounds together, it shot out, oh, yessss… Rumours, sadly unfounded, abound of Lawless’s secret past as a porn star.

One interesting sidelight is the alleged subtext. Xena is a dyke icon, remarkably good taste on the part of the lesbian community, compared to their usual choices, such as Jodie Foster, and much panting goes on over the Xena/Gabby relationship, encouraged by unsubtle innuendo from the makers. However, it mostly relies on “meaningful glances”, and much as I enjoy a spot of hot all-girl action, I’m more inclined to point out one eyebrow-raising thing about ‘Hercules’: the quantity of young guys in skimpy leather outfits, hanging round the plot for no readily apparent reason.

Far better, of course, to have young women in skimpy leather outfits, and on her own, Lucy Lawless would be enough. Yet she is not the top-rated beauty on the show…

“Love is just a trick nature plays to get us to reproduce. I want no part of it”.

Every good show needs a good villain: Batman had the Joker, ST:TNG had the Borg, and Xena has Callisto. One of the strengths of Xena: Warrior Princess is its ability to get good performances from unknowns. Lucy Lawless had done little of note before, and the same applies to Hudson Leick (“like”), who plays Callisto: despite a minimal resume, she creates perhaps the most memorably evil TV creation of the 1990’s.

Her history dates back quite a while, to when Xena was still a bad girl herself. Her army rampaged through Callisto’s village, and while Xena’s rules were strictly Leon-esque i.e. “no women, no kids”, Callisto’s family were burnt alive. After growing up, Callisto dedicated her life to Xena’s extermination: starting with her reputation, moving on to her friends, and only then killing the warrior princess herself.

Callisto has even had a sword to Xena’s throat, and let her go, since she wants first to utterly destroy all Xena loves. Not the least of which is Gabrielle… Without wishing to give away too much plot, in the second series Callisto succeeds in changing the pacifistic Gabrielle into a revenge-driven harpy of rage. This feat forever endeared her to those of us who share Callisto’s opinion of Xena’s sidekick as an “irritating blonde”.

Such devotion to duty helps explain Callisto’s appeal — apart from the fact that Leick is a total babe! With cheekbones so sharp you could use them to cut glass, the blonde badness of Callisto does the unthinkable, and makes Xena look dowdy in comparison. Leick’s slimness is also the subject of some bitching, especially from fans of the relatively chubby Xena: but, hey, ‘Callisto: Warrior Anorexic’ has a nice feel to it.

They say the devil has all the best tunes, and in this show, she also get most of the best lines, as Callisto delights in playing mind-games with Xena, smearing her with bloody memories from the past. The quote above is an example of her philosophy, though it sadly puts paid to idle subtext-esque fantasies of Xena and Callisto, and never mind Xena and Gabrielle! But Leick doesn’t even need spectacularly excessive dialogue (“You created a monster with integrity, Xena — scary isn’t it?”), not when she can load up an innocent line like ‘Here comes trouble!’ with a deadly, insane edge, and make it ring like chipped crystal.

After one episode in the first series, it was no surprise to anyone when Leick was invited back for more in the second. And such was her success that not even death, smothered in quicksand, could stop her. She moved across to ‘Hercules’ and traded with Zeus’s wife Hera, agreeing to kill Hercules in exchange for life. Needless to say, she didn’t quite manage her side of the deal, but… Callisto is now godlike in the strictest sense, having eaten ambrosia — no, not the rice pudding, the food of the gods. As far as Xena is concerned, the phrase “Here comes trouble!” leaps to mind once more, with regard to the upcoming third season…

Despite her success, it seems unlikely that we will see Callisto in her own show. American TV is not ready for an evil heroine, and somehow the prospect of Callisto turning good like Xena has little appeal. Though this has been kinda seen already: after Lucy Lawless broke her pelvis in an accident with a horse, the makers used a range of tricks to finish filming — one of which was “Xena taking over Callisto’s body”. The result was… well, it’s an interesting place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there. Instead, to see Callisto in full evil flow is a wondrous experience: truly nothing succeeds like excess.

Some reckon the camera should merely spend 50 minutes panning smoothly up and down the firm, lithe bodies of Callisto and Xena, without unnecessary plot interference. Yet the makers insist on inserting stories and, worse still, making them imaginative and inventive. It’d be easy for the series to degenerate into a repetitive saga of “Kill the baddies, save the village”; that it doesn’t is a pleasant shock, even if it’s by wholesale plundering outside the Greek mythos, including Charles Dickens and Indiana Jones.

The characters, too, are often unexpected: Charon, ferryman of the dead, as a stand-up comic, or Sam Raimi’s brother Ted as an ineffectual wimp, and Bruce Campbell turns up as Autolycus, the king of thieves. But it’s Lawless herself who’s the biggest revelation, bringing a surprising amount of depth and colour to a role that could also have slid into the banal and cliched. In the episode Warrior… Princess… Tramp, she plays three totally different characters, and they are all perfectly believable. About the only weak link is Renee O’Connor; her attempts to bring variety to Gabrielle’s character are usually squirm-inducingly bad, and stand out all the more because virtually everyone else in the series is so good in their roles.

Xena has succeeded where other female action heroines have been critical and commercial failures: Lori Petty, Pamela Anderson, etc. Before Xena, you have to go back to ‘Aliens’ for a kick-ass babe who made such an impact. And Sigourney didn’t have pop-up breasts. It’s become the biggest syndicated show in America, providing something for everyone: women can appreciate the strong female characters, men can appreciate the, er, strong females. It’s no surprise that it’s one of C5’s top ten rated shows — though, let’s face it, anything with an audience in double figures would probably qualify there…

Pre-face… It suddenly occurred to me, as many things spuriously do, that I have a reputation to live up to. At least, a meagre one within the bounds of Trash City – let’s say the McLennan crowned King of High Weirdness.

Nominally, I don’t consider my exploits or persona weird in any way. True, at times, I remark on “how strange” recent events have been (1992-1997), or how “that person in the shop gave me a disturbed look as I walked past”. All things being relative, I think just about every other living being I chance upon is distinctly weird, a minor tremor of disconcerting reaction quivering through my mental ionosphere. I rarely analyse the circumstances I exist in, or the body blows and seductive caresses destiny deals me. I live pretty much from day to day, pausing only to discern some discernible linear structure in my world. This may be, of course, by examining a map, or taking a rough guess at which phase of the moon I’m in. Obviously, then I have to wait for nightfall to challenge my earlier celestial presumption. Usually, I am completely wrong, and if you were to see my glimmering face in the solar-neon-wash bouncing off a lurid full moon, you might think “Now there’s a man who looks confused”, expecting, as I was, to be staring heavenward at a pretty innocuous ‘first quarter’.

On to the chosen title of my latest piece. Luckily, for you, and for my organic psychosis, the previously mooted verbiage on Vomiting was never, well, spewed up. It could have been good, but we’ll never get to digest it.

‘Stitched Up’ is a passionate account of a sometime deranged flatmate, hospital insanity, film making, red-red kroovy and pigs trotters.

IN A CRAMPED STUDIO ROOM

Barnes north, suggesting itself to be a film crew, were four horrendously tired people. A camera lent crazily on insecure legs, teetering as we did, pointing in all directions, trying to follow just one. Midnight had slunk past like a junkie cat at the end of a fishing line, and everyone felt envious of the imagined sleeping masses around. The final shot in the short film – admittedly at my behest – was an explosion. I admit under questioning that I have a penchant for things that destruct amid brimstone and fire. For your benefit, I have included a copy of the storyboard in question [see fig. EXPLO #1. Minds are turning now, I feel your outcast mental processes shuddering – drug damaged neurons plaintively trying to connect with others – but there are no others! But one, lone neuron! Sorry, reading the psychiatrists report. You sick little monkeys – yes! Yes, I was injured! Wait, you gore fiends!]

That sketchy hand – my hand! It was my hand! That speaker? Fabricated, as was my future ‘reason for injury’ tale to interested parties. Even though it’s 2:29am, I am in a generous mood. I will provide a diagrammatic representation of the explosive used. I like to taste fear in my mouth, but not to have it piss down my throat. Therefore, I took safety precautions…….

1. Crash Helmet! Good for deflecting flaming pieces of debris!
2. Cardboard taped around waist. You never know!
3. Bollock guard. Stuff me full of grapes, I forgot to bring one.

Spend two hours carefully placing the charge on a carefully angled metal plate, and very carefully placing both into a carefully constructed cavity. Carefully drill out sections of the wood sides of the speaker which aren’t in camera view, so as to hopefully manipulate the explosive force. Which will blow out the carefully positioned speaker cone, of course being held back at a distance of 0.14 inches by a carefully secured tension wire. The carefully weighted structure will ensure the desired energy transference, and a spectacular visual effect! Lovely!

Hmmmm! I smile when I think back. How cunning my plan was. How exacting my devious construction. How fucking perfectly it would all go. With the camera assistant crouched fearfully behind a bunch of boxes (“Don’t like loud bangs”), and the camera operator crouched fearfully behind that teetering camera, me stood bravely and without an ounce of pussy-whipped fear in his body before the awesome danger (alright, I was a little anxious) – Sarah, my sometime wild flatmate and director of said film, pushed the button.

At this juncture, it might be useful to tell you what that button was. Operating instructions on the explosive charge mention something about a pissing NINE VOLTS. I laughed with righteous scorn. Toys take 9 volts. Safety devices take nine volts. A glorious moment was not going to be born to a stubby-chunk of over-priced electro chemicals. No. I jacked the whole contraption straight into the mains. “There we go”, I grinned. “That will light a fire under it’s arse”.

Later, in hospital, I learned of regret. Two hours into NHS purgatory and mental insanity, I learned of hell. Charing Cross Hospital is a Mecca to the deranged. A terminally drunken, stinking woman in a wheelchair constantly shouting “Excuse me! excuse me!” to anyone that came near her, then “Where am I? What time is it?” OK, you take pity, you tell her what’s what. Not after two hours of the same monologue. You want to introduce her to a Remington 10 Gauge. Men walking into walls. Combat trained ants. Nodding cameras when you proffer your wound to its roving lens. Psychos. Crazies. The wounded, the dying. Sure, just like any New Cross pub – but when you’re in pain, sadistically denied any painkillers, blatant NHS travesties. One of many. At 2:30am, 2 hours after I had first limped thorough the foreboding doors, a meek and apologetic nurse emerged from the bowels of the protoplasmic hospital. “I’m very sorry, but we only have one doctor on at the moment. You’ll probably have to wait another two hours.” Spittle flecked my lips, but I was too tired for remonstration.

I went home. To nurse my sorrows and blast damaged arm. Familiar surroundings brought me to my senses. The next day, I found myself in St. Thomas’. Ah, yes. The sanctuary of a world famous hospital. As I checked in, at the incongruous reception for A&E, the outside doors nearby burst open and a stretcher was thrust in, hurried along by ambulance personnel and a few policemen, carrion like. The man on it didn’t look so good. In fact, somebody was heaving up and down frantically on his chest. For a fleeting second, I thought I was watching a staged theatrical version of Casualty. He disappeared with attendants through to the emergency ward. Minutes later, I laid eyes upon several despondent solemn faces as they emerged; another tragic loss. I had witnessed my first clinical death. The reality of the scene I had experienced hit home. With a lurching stomach, clutching at re-awakened mortality, I headed into the casualty to have my hand stitched up.

In a small cubicle. A small trolley laden with a practitioner’s tools was wheeled in by a disarmingly charming female doctor. I felt better already. “So, ” I started, “is it true you practice stitching on pigs skin?” She faltered for a moment, needle and local anaesthetic in hand, then replied “Yes. Well, on pig’s trotters actually.” She leant forward. “Sorry, but I have to inject this into the actual wound.” The length of steel ebbed into raw, open flesh. Hmmm. Fluid and blood leaked out like forced tears. Pain flooded into my cerebellum. Think of the pig, Andy, I reminded myself: Bacon, pork and post-mortem stitching practice. Some afterlife. Later, I carried myself home on the No. 88 to Clapham, nursing small plastic strands poking out from my hand. A small sacrifice for one’s art I believed, as I keyed my front door, and headed for the bed once more.

Wounds happen like chance meetings with disastrous consequences. Foolishly, I ratified the fact in my brain that this was the year’s quota of knotting together accidentally separated flesh. I can laugh now. How I can laugh. Not for the first time in my life, I was gravely mistaken. Playing with fire has always been my downfall – a spiritual hazard – my mind wanders back in time……..

A NIGHTCLUB! FREE VODKA! FREE BEER!

Am I dreaming some imagined paradise? No! It was real! A record label party. New toons, new faces. Acclimatise, listen without prejudice, fight the seething mass for another double Vodka. The top level of the Subterranea warms my soul, engages my emotive spirit. To drink, to forget, to enjoy, to have a bloody good time at someone else’s expense.

A certain tome by Milton ebbs into my consciousness. Sarah, sometime wild flatmate, something to do with that fire hazard I was talking about, was conspicuously drunk. Leaning strangely against the balcony railing, having left my misappropriated chatting up of a Chinese girl (boyfriend was there too – but, honestly, I didn’t mean anything – blah, blah, blah).

Suddenly, afore-mentioned flatmate cries my name; it registers in the dim void that is my consciousness Aaaa….. nnnnn…. dddd….. eeeee! The noise is lost in the inner tumult that is vodka drenched brain cells. She leaps on me. From behind. Charmed, I’m sure. My legs buckle, you can guess the rest. The scene, the moment of utter embarrassment, pain and loss of dignity – oh, how cruelly it is etched on my mind. The first points of contact with the floor, in order of descent: (a) chin (b) elbow (c) knee. None survived. My chin split open like (I want to say “ripe melon”, but besides being cliched, I have never imagined my chin as a large fruit) – like a rabbit’s side being hit by a Ford Granada doing 40 mph (how’s that?). I lay, dazed and confused, blood leaking around. Pain. Lots of pain. Staring at me was, amongst other people the manager of the record label who I had been talking to not 30 minutes earlier. I struggled to my feet, heavily concussed. I can’t remember the exact phrase hurled at Sarah, but she hurried off. I couldn’t see the wound, obviously. Hey, I’m a big man. Didn’t feel that bad.

The stares of horror I was getting seemed to contradict my diagnosis. I wobbled to the bar. The manager was concerned. The barman was concerned. “Christ, that’s really bad.” Shit. “Do you want a drink?” Yeah. Yeah, there’s a good idea. Goo dripped from my head. I knew what it must feel like to be hit by Tyson. Commiserations to the loser. “Vodka. Big vodka”. More vodka. The club manager had now appeared on the scene. Oh-my-God. The evening had turned well and truly sour. A medi-kit appeared, and I was ushered – supported – into the toilets. There, through an endorphin haze, I saw what had once been my chin. A fleshy, split beaver of a chin (well, it had to come, didn’t it?). I felt sick. A huge dressing was taped over. Thanking everyone, as you do, I had to make my way through the entire crowd, to the awaiting taxi.

Sarah came with me. Guess where we were going? Paddington Hospital. Enter. Triage nurse. Classification of injury. Sit down. Wait your turn. I knew the procedure. Meek, drunken apologies from my flatmate. Hmmm. Now, as you might be thinking, the madness must be coming to an end. Ha. Ha. Ha. Sitting to my left was Methadone Man. Junkie Man. Crazy fucking man.

“Alright mate. How did you get that?” I duly explained. “What are you in for, man?” I quizzed. He grinned and peeled back a suspicious dressing on his lower leg. I saw a festering hole in the muscle. “Heroin, man. Inject it, but can’t use any of the veins in my arms, or neck, ‘cos they’ve all collapsed….” – my stomach flipped – “so began injecting my cock.” What do you say? I merely nodded. “But that’s all fucked up, so I started on my leg. But as you can see……”. Jesus Christ. This is what they didn’t show you in ‘Trainspotting’. We chatted. Compared veins. That sort of thing. Still drunk, I found solace in personal amusement – as you have to. Even when he plopped a copy of The Guardian on my lap. A bleeding heart Liberal, eh? Underneath he told me, was a present. I looked. “100mg. of Methadone. Pharmaceutical. Don’t give it to your friend, because she’s drunk.” I didn’t understand. “Man, if she takes this when she’s drunk, she’ll die.” I clearly relived that scene from Pulp Fiction, and made a note absolutely not to give her any. Ever. “Ur, thanks.” I replied. “Something for a rainy day”, he grinned. “Great!”, I concluded.

Finally, I was in the work room. That room – with the stretcher, the overhead light rig, the surgeons tools. And with the gorgeous doctor. It works. It really works; the pain vanished before feminine radiance. I lay down. Putty. She placed one of those green surgical numbers on me. But over my head, with my mashed chin poking through a small rectangle! This is fucking ridiculous, I thought. “How did you get that?” she chirped. “Ah, urm, well, I was at this nightclub, and, well, free Vodka, and the girl I was with, well, she leapt on me, and, well, yeah, this is what happened.” We laughed together, until she jammed a thin bit of steel into my flesh. The smile vanished. 7 stitches later, I was uncovered like a medical display, fiddled with my new plastic stubble, and headed out into the night. I can shave properly now, just a small lump to remind me of that grim evening. But further bad karma-sutres lie ahead, I’m sure…

[Please, do not try and re-create any of these stunts at home, dear readers.
Remember, Andy Collins is a trained professional…]