The BBFC have had a busy couple of weeks; not only have they released their new guidelines for R18 videos – which basically legalise hard-core pornography in this country – they announced changes to the way all films would be classified, as a result of consultation and research. The basic summary is fewer restrictions on films for adults i.e. with an ’18’ certificate, but tighter regulation on those available to be seen by children. These two combine to make what is perhaps the biggest shake-up in British censorship since the Video Recordings Act and could usher in a new, glorious dawn of freedom…

Or maybe not… It will be interesting to see how this works in practice. For example, although ’18’-rated films are now expected to be “only rarely” cut, the policy on video is still dictated to by the notion that videos may be seen by younger viewers. So we are still likely to have atrocities like Eraser imposed on us, where responsible adults, and those living in homes without children have to suffer cuts because of the failures of a small group of parents.

The full details of the research carried out by the BBFC are available through their web-site: they combined a national survey with smaller “juries” who were asked for their views in more details. I’ve picked out a few elements of particular note:

“About half the national sample agreed that violence in films might make people behave more violently in real life… The same statement was put to participants before and after the jury. As part of the process, they heard from witnesses involved in researching the effects of screen violence, and this seems to have made them much more doubtful about the simple cause and effect proposition. Agreement fell from half the jury beforehand to less than one in five afterwards.” The implication is that the “gut-feeling” people have that media violence leads to real violence, doesn’t stand up in the face of the actual facts.

“Almost half the national and postal samples agreed with the statement that people over 18 have a right to see graphic, real sex in films and videos. Internet respondents were much more strongly behind the proposition.” Indeed, 89% of us agreed, probably because we can see graphic, real sex on the Internet any time we want. But generally, Net respondents were much more liberal — only 7%, as opposed to 46% gave credence to the “imitative violence” statement. Some might say this is due to the fact that the technical feat of getting onto the Net filters out the dumber members of society…

“Approaching half of all three survey samples agreed that violence becomes more acceptable if it is humorous or in a historic/fantastic setting.” Actually, this is something that has always bothered me a bit; A-Team style violence without consequences would seem to me to be potentially more damaging, since it could cause people to downplay the real effects of violence. Obviously, there’s a point beyond which it becomes gloriously Tom & Jerry, but it’s always the nasty, brutal, realistic violence which the BBFC seems to cut.

“Respondents were asked to think of the different categories of film…and indicate for each level how offensive they found specific elements… Drug portrayal consistently [caused] the most offence and nudity the least.” As a result of this, there is the perhaps surprising recommendation that “natural nudity, providing there is no sexual context or sub-text, is acceptable at all classification levels.” A return to the days of naturists playing volleyball may be expected as a result…

“The BBFC recognises that audiences pay to see horror films because they like being frightened. The board does not cut films simply because they alarm or shock. Instead, it classifies them to ensure the young and vulnerable are protected.” Those are my italics – it’s good to see that the culture of doublethink promoted under Ferman, including the name change from “…Film Censors” to “…Film Classification”, is still alive and well. Try telling that to the distributors of Last House on the Left, recently refused any kind of certificate.

The BBFC attempt to portray the changes to the R18 category as a small loop-hole, since they are a tiny fraction of the tapes certified, and are “only” available through licenced sex-shops. However, what they forgot to mention – accidentally I’m sure – is that HM Customs and Excise have now been ordered to follow the same guidelines and so anyone with a credit card can import, not just the films which have been R18-passed here, but any of similar content. Previous attempt at liberalisation have been foiled by Customs bleating to Jack Straw that the BBFC were passing stuff which they would seize on import. No more, as the following news-group post shows:

Today I received a package from Customs HQ containing a DVD. The DVD contains graphic scenes of sex, including erections, masturbation, intercourse, group sex, oral sex, anal sex, double penetration, ejaculations on the body and in the mouth. Here is an extract from the covering letter:

‘I refer to our various conversations following your letter to Customs at Dover Postal Depot concerning the seizure of a DVD entitled “Pyramid”… The case was referred to me to enable you to view the DVD… However, after considering the impact of recent developments concerning the domestic distribution of material depicting consensual sexual activity between adults we have now revised our guidelines for the assessment of such material. We no longer consider material depicting consensual sexual activity between adults to fall within the scope of the import prohibition on obscene articles. I am therefore releasing the DVD to you…’

Hang out the bunting, pop the champagne, and get your credit cards ready for action. Britain has finally hit the 20th century. It’s still bizarre that sex shops are not allowed to supply R18 videos by mail-order, but you can buy and import them perfectly legally from the comfort of your own home, if you do it from abroad. I suspect that this prohibition will not remain in force for long — I think the first challenge to it as an unreasonable restraint of trade, giving foreign suppliers an unfair advantage over British ones, and it’ll come tumbling down too. Will the last remnant of the Empire collapse into anarchy and chaos as a result? Who cares – I won’t be around to see it!

For it is, of course, deeply ironic that all this happens two months before I leave the country for good, particularly since likely Presidential coupling Gore and Lieberman have made complaining about media violence a plank of their campaign platform — but what else would you expect from the husband of the notorious Tipper Gore? So I wonder how long it’ll be before I’ll need to start importing uncut versions of films from Britain into America…

Well, the big, bad Internet has come in for more stick this week, following the revelation that admitted nail bomber David Copeland (who came closer to blowing me up than I care to contemplate) used to find instructions on how to make his devices. Indeed, in an article whose irony was only invisible to the editor, the Daily Mirror published a step-by-step guide as to how you too could find out the same information. [1. Go to any half-decent search engine. 2. Type in “The Terrorist’s Handbook. 3. Filter out the inevitable porn sites which clutter up most searches these days.]

I rarely find myself in sympathy with Charlton Heston and the rest of the NRA, but at the risk of stating the bleedin’ obvious: the Internet doesn’t kill people, people do. I will happily admit to being someone whose bookshelves contain titles such as Improvised Explosives as well as the infamous Anarchist Cookbook – the latter, I should point out, was actually bought from that famed den of terrorism known as Tower Records at Piccadilly Circus. I have my doubts about that one, it has to be said, since rumour suggests there are enough errors (whether mere ignorance, or FBI-introduced) in it to make attempts at better living through its chemistry, rather short-lived. But it seems that words on a printed page are somehow less dangerous than precisely the same words on a computer screen. Had he bought his source material mail-order from the States, would there be calls to regulate the evils of the printing press?

If I may digress for a moment: actually, were it the Middle Ages, this probably would be the case, since this is largely just Ludditism at work: the fear of those in power that new technology will cause a loss of that power. This is especially true with regard to the Internet which presents perhaps the biggest threat to the established media corporations since the days of Gutenberg. It costs millions to set up a newspaper, tens of millions to start a TV station (and that’s once you’ve got a frequency), but anyone with a PC can create a web site for a few pounds, every bit as accessible to anyone in the world as a megacorp site. No wonder they’re squealing.

Anyway… Of course, you can make the case that no-one needs to know how to make pipe-bombs, and that’s true. But few people need to know how to solve quadratic equations, and that’s part of the national curriculum [Those who might counter that quadratic equations don’t kill people clearly didn’t have the same maths teachers I did] This guy was obviously a powder-keg waiting for a spark, and if it hadn’t been the Internet, it’d have been something else. He’s a loony, and you can’t legislate for them. I make absolutely no attempt to justify or condone his actions. But you can take the easy approach and blame the bogey-man of the Internet, or you can try to discover what made him such a sick, twisted individual, and work to prevent that instead. I know which approach is harder, but in the long run, it’s also infinitely superior.

Though I confess to some fellow-feeling: when I first moved down South, I lived and worked in Farnborough (indeed, my final home before coming into London was in Cove, the very same suburb where Copeland lived), and after a few months there, you aren’t left with a great deal of fellow-feeling for the rest of humanity. Even passing it on the train, as I did a couple of weeks back, you can sense its black soullessness sucking at you malevolently. It is indeed the sort of place where buying Ł1400 worth of fireworks in Spring would not raise any suspicions. And part of his rationale for bombing the Admiral Duncan pub was to piss off Tony Blair: justifiable homicide if ever I heard it. Indeed, this puts him more or less alongside the members of the Women’s Institute who jeered Blair earlier in the week. Truly does a dislike of Tone, strange bedfellows make…

Uuuuuurrrgggghhhh… That’s the sound made by a very “tired and emotional” man, struggling gamely to get up this morning. Was taking part in the office quiz night, and somehow we managed to win: in celebration, we were on the Pink Lady cocktails – the ingredients of which being one question we failed to answer – and they did not sit well with the pints of Director’s Bitter consumed over the previous four hours. Managed to get home okay, somehow, but soon found myself calling Ralph and Hughie on the big white telephone before crashing out, almost fully clad, on the bed.

I woke to the sound of thumping techno music coming from the street. Then I realised that was actually the sound of my pulse, and rapidly came to the conclusion that this was not going to be the most pleasant of mornings. I toyed with idea of pulling a sicky but couldn’t really do that. The altruistic reason was because I was playing football at lunchtime and didn’t want to let the team down. The more prosaic (and, let’s be honest, more important one) was that no-one would believe me, since everyone in the office knew exactly where I’d been, and what I was doing i.e. drinking heavily.

However, you can use such things to your future advantage. By being entirely up-front and open about having a hangover, it helps to establish your credibility, and people will be less likely to think it’s the case when you do phone in “sick”. However, you don’t want to come in every morning clutching a packet of Resolve in one hand, and your forehead in the other, as you’ll get a reputation for it, which thus pushes it towards the front of people’s mind. You’re going for “Jim doesn’t let a hangover stop him”, rather than “Jim is a borderline alcoholic.”

But there was no physical way I was going to make it to work on time. So I bit the bullet and phoned my boss – the smug bastard was already at his desk, sounding far more chipper than anyone ought to at that time in the morning – then sat back to ride it out, pausing only to barf up something green and bilious. The worst thing about a hangover is there’s nothing much you can do about it except wait. The best thing is knowing that, no matter how bad you feel, it will eventually go away. The trickiest thing is knowing when you can start putting fluids in your stomach without them bouncing back faster than a…than a…very bouncy thing. [I’m sorry, my brain is diverting power away from all non-essential functions at the moment, leaving my artistic faculties on life-support]

I think the low point was the journey to work, though it wasn’t quite as bad as the time I managed to black out — and the train was so crowded I couldn’t even fall over. At least I had a seat, though it was very tempting to stick my head out the window, despite a previous bad experience doing just that in similarly demonic-drink circumstances (I’ll spare you the details, but it involves the Forth Rail Bridge and my glasses). Do you know how hard it is not to think about vomiting? God, even typing that sentence makes me feel wobbly, so we’ll move on…

Somehow, I survived to London Bridge, and it has been a gradual recovery process since then. My stomach has now settled down a bit, though I doubt I’ll be enjoying any bacon sandwiches in the near future, or indeed anything much thicker than water. I am, as I speak, staring into the frothy top of a large coffee, and suspect Nietzsche was right when he said, “If you gaze for long into the latte, the latte also gazes into you”. Well, he would have, if they’d had Starbucks in his day…

Groan. I’ll never drink again…

Can I just say: I couldn’t care less about bloody Leo Blair? The only amazing thing is thinking that Tony has now had sex with the nightmarish Cherie four times: that is not an image upon which I care to dwell. So, moving rapidly on: you could have been forgiven for missing one news item of the past fortnight in all the fuss. For your information, I repeat it:

British censor fails to ban porn videos

LONDON, May 16 (Reuters) – British film censors failed on Tuesday in a battle to ban the sale of explicit pornographic videos in sex shops. The High Court in London rejected a challenge by the British Board of Film Classification (BBFC) against a decision by its own Video Appeals Committee to permit seven explicit films to go on sale at British sex shops. The BBFC said before the ruling that if its legal bid failed then virtually all hard-core porn videos could be classified for sale in sex shops for home use.

The titles at the centre of the case included “Horny Catbabe”, “Nympho Nurse Nancy”, “TV Sex”, “Office Tart” and “Wet Nurses 2”. Mr Justice Hooper ruled that the Appeals Committee had been entitled to take the view that the risk of children viewing the videos if sold in sex shops was “insignificant”. He took the view that the attitude of the Appeals Committee was one “a reasonable decision maker could reach. I have no doubt that the conclusion ‘that the risk of the videos in question being viewed by and causing harm to children or young persons is, on present evidence, insignificant,’ is one that a reasonable decision maker could reach,” he said.

The judge accepted there had been inconsistencies in the Appeals Committee’s reasoning in reaching its decision but said: “Any inconsistencies do not invalidate that central finding.” Leave to appeal against Tuesday’s decision was refused but it is still open to the BBFC to apply direct to the Appeal Court for leave to mount a challenge to the ruling.

Hooray! Ah, but the bad news is that Jack ‘War On Drugs – Except When My Son’s Caught Selling Them’ Straw is contemplating amending the law as a result of this legal decision. How childish can you get? “If you won’t let me win, I’m going to change the rules.” Will civilization as we know it collapse into anarchy in chaos as a result? Is this threatening the fabric of the British way of life? Haven’t the government got better things to do?

Enough already. A return to that ever-popular subject of TC Editorialising, Britney Spears, which is not perhaps so far a jump as it sounds [you’ll see…eventually]. Further communications on the subject have arrived at TC Towers:

Probably the last word on the Britster for now: I was shocked to find out a good friend of mine who should have known better had swallowed the covered-up boob job story hook, line and sinker. Even pointing out that a) little girls grow up into big girls (there was one sorry specimen at school with me who went up three inches and two cup sizes in under a year; it’s not that rare), and b) it’s amazing what a different set of supports and some good shading will do (you only have to compare and contrast Ms. Weaver in `Alien’ and `Galaxy Quest’…) did little to dissuade him. So it goes.

However, as a mature l\e\c\h\e\r\ connoisseur of the female form, I prefer infinitely the charms of SMG. The pout, the hairstyle, the fact that she can kick several shades of shit; all these are contributing factors. I’ve found a helluvalot of slash fiction, though; there are far too many people out there with not nearly enough to do.

I think the implant stories fit in rather better with the “dumb, talentless bimbo” stereotype which we’ve previously seen expressed, and puts Britney in the same category as the like of the late, lamented Lolo Ferrari [RIP – I wonder if her coffin had…no, let’s not go there] Heaven forbid she might be merely using her Supreme Deity-given assets. Wonderbras can do very nice things, it’s true — but you need something to work with to start with, as my Japanese ex-girlfriend found out. Hehehe. These days, I prefer proper women.

As for Britney the Vam…ah, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, erotic fan fiction is no surprise, it seeps out of virtually every TV series with more than one character. Recent events in Sunnydale, with Willow putting from the other side of the green, are only likely to provoke a tidal wave more. This is true even though they have been handled with a level of common sense and subtlety (I don’t think they’ve even used the L-word), not commonly seen on network TV. You could compare and contrast the rabid frenzy around Ellen, except that it was a) shit, and b) a loud statement of sexual politics. Keep all politics out of television, and the world will be a better place; better yet would be keeping politics – babies and all – off of television. Which is precisely where I came in…

Lightning flickers across the sky. Thunder rumbles around like the complaints of a slightly-peeved demonic entity. Rain pours down from a lead-coloured sky. It must be the cricket season…

At this very moment, I should, in theory have been relaxing at Lords’ (Cricket Ground rather than Traci’s, though the latter might have some entertainment value too), pint in hand, basking in the summer sunshine and watching the highest level of cricket being played live, for the first time ever. I’ve written elsewhere about the joys to be had, playing the sport, but must confess that watching it pales considerably in contrast to football, baseball, or Japanese barbed-wire death matches. My only experience of spectating at a professional game was an afternoon spent at a county game between Middlesex and Kent on one of my very earliest trips to London, back in the mid-80s.

However, when a work colleague suggested a trip to one of the days in the England vs. Zimbabwe test match, I was seduced by the idyllic vision of leather on willow – not to be confused with the vision of leather on Willow, which is a sordid, Buffy-related thought with which I will, of course, have no truck. None at all. No, sirree… Er, where was I? Ah, yes: this fantasy (that’s the cricket one, not the Buffy sidekick one) failed to take into account two things: the weather, and Zimbabwe’s woeful ineptness.

The former should really have been no surprise; English weather makes the planning of outdoor events a bigger lottery than the National one, with slightly more chance of winning the jackpot than of getting a dry day. This is why Test Matches are allocated five days to complete: foreigners find it impossible to understand how ANY sport can take that long, and still have a good chance of ending in an incomplete draw, but it’s simply because the odds are good that you’ll spend two or more of them sitting in the pavillion. The problem with cricket is that it so dependent on the ground conditions; baseball is largely an air-based game in comparison, with the ball only hitting the ground a couple of dozen times a game. [Mind you, they still have nifty stadia with retractable roofs; I’ve been round the one in Phoenix, and it’s the ninth wonder of the world, holds 40,000 and is air-conditioned]

Zimbabwe’s extraordinary failure to perform was a bit more unexpected, given they are actually ranked above England in the unofficial league table. But, blimey: England score 415 in their first innings; Zimbabwe managed 83, and will be doing well to get even to that in their second attempt. You have to allow for some dubious umpiring decisions, and the conditions being a little different from Zimbabwe (no black militants squatting the cricket pitches, for example), but to an amateur cricketer like myself, there’s something strangely gratifying about seeing internationals playing such crap. I’m toying with the idea of affecting a slightly nasal accent and phoning up to offer my services.

However, it’s too late to save them this time round, and so I am left in a dry, warm house, watching the TV coverage as Channel 4 attempt desperately to find something to occupy the time until the rain stops. They will probably soon be reduced to interviewing the producer’s cat — though I would not be at all surprised to find it purring with a slightly nasal accent, and offering its services as an opener for Zimbabwe… Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go watch some Buffy.