The Group Stages

It may have come to your attention that there is apparently a minor football tournament taking place in France. Now, in some matches it’s obvious who to support (Scotland or England’s opponents) but in most cases, you will have no clear allegiance. Chatting to my mate John, during the Austria-Cameroon game, it became apparent that loyalties could be decided by evaluating each country on several factors:

• What babes come from there
• Cult movies the place has spawned
• Any miscellaneous TC factors involving sex, violence, beer, junk food or a good laugh

Taking this Damascus-style revelation to its ultimate conclusion, why not run the entire World Cup on this basis. Discussion raged — could Cicciolina play for Italy, since she’s actually Hungarian? Was Ulrika Johnson Danish or Norwegian? Did we know ANYONE from Paraguay at all? But, finally, after much argument (and beer), we have come up with the following results. Please note that all referees’ decisions are final, no matter how arbitrary and factually wrong they may in fact be…

Group A:Brazil, Scotland, Morocco, Norway

This one always looked like being a tight, low-scoring group, with none of the countries greatly renowned as exporters of trash culture. However, Brazil does export large numbers of the artistes for the London strip-pub circuit — and VERY nice they are too — so this gave them the edge. All Scotland can manage on the babe front are Sheena Easton and C.P.Grogan, neither of whom are exactly world-ranked totty, though the Shallow Grave/Trainspotting cartel does give them a solid second place. The only Norwegians we can think of offhand are Ibsen and Grieg, but that is at least two up on Morocco…

1. Brazil
2. Scotland
3. Norway
4. Morocco

Group B: Italy, Chile, Cameroon, Austria

Italy are definitely one of the leading contenders for the trophy. Despite my severe reservations about much of their horror output, they are at least TRYING, and people like Michele Soavi put them well ahead in the cult movie category. They also lead for babes, with Asia Argento and the girl in Dellamore Dellamorte easily surpassing anything the other contenders have to offer. Austria do great pastries, however, and the double bill of arse-kicker, Sybil Danning and Arnold Schwarzenegger give them the runners-up spot. Cameroon come third, purely because I like the idea of a country named after a coconut-covered piece of confectionery.

1. Italy
2. Austria
3. Cameroon
4. Chile

Group C: Saudi Arabia, Denmark, France, South Africa

France hit heavy here, a front-line of Beart, Adjani and May proving more than enough firepower to take out the opposition. They are potentially weak in the field of cult movies, with only Luc Besson really pulling out of the “pretentious” category. But Paris is one of the world’s great cities and so their victory is solid. Denmark follow in second, with Lars Von Trier captaining their side. Besides, how can you NOT like a country which has an amusement park slap bang in the middle of the capital, and where people think sawing heads off mermaids is a bit of a lark? South Africa beat Saudi Arabia, simply because the latter don’t like you drinking alcohol. Bastards.

1. France
2. Denmark
3. South Africa
4. Saudi Arabia

Group D: Paraguay, Bulgaria, Spain, Nigeria

This one was known as the ‘Group of Death’, and from the TC point of view, it’s renamed the ‘Group of Bored to Death’, as only Spain has even the slightest pedigree, and Pedro Almodovar can’t direct traffic. Despite this, him and breast-obsessed Catalan Bigas Luna are sufficient to lead this group, simply because none of the other three contenders score any points at all. Bulgaria go through, being slightly nearer the beginning of the alphabet than the other two — that it comes to this, is some indicator of the weakness of this group.

1. Spain
2. Bulgaria
3. Nigeria
4. Paraguay

Group E: South Korea, Mexico, Holland, Belgium

Possibly the closest of the groups. Neighbours and rivals Holland and Belgium fought it out, toe-to-toe, right up until the finish. Belgium snatched the lead after cult films: Man Bites Dog, Rabid Grannies, Crazy Love and Daughters of Darkness are a four-pack any nation would covet, while Holland only have the early works of Paul Verhoeven (now playing for the US team, of course). Holland do fight back under babes, with Renee Soutendijk and Audrey Hepburn, but Belgium clinches it thanks to multiple scores in the “food and drink” category, notably chocolate and beer [I’m sitting here with a Stella as I write this], and this pushes them to victory. S.Korea pip Mexico, but so far back it’s not worth discussing.

1. Belgium
2. Holland
3. South Korea
4. Mexico

Group F: Yugoslavia, Iran, Germany, United States

Germany, of course, have the TC equivalent of Ronaldo, in a certain N.Kinski, backed up with C.Schiffer and a bevy of other babes, as witnessed on the recent Hamburg trip. On the cult film front, Werner Herzog and Jorg Buttgereit team up as an effective force, and the staple diet of beer, sausage and more beer naturally endears them to us. But America virtually INVENTED trash culture, and are still among the best in the world; behind Fred Olen Ray and Roger Corman, you’ve got Las Vegas, Jerry Springer, and Pamela Anderson, all of whom are TC icons. Such a performance naturally installs them as among the favourites. Yugoslavia are third, beating out perhaps the second least TC-esque country in the world, Iran. I don’t think Afghanistan took part this time…

1. United States
2. Germany
3. Yugoslavia
4. Iran

Group G: England, Tunisia, Romania, Colombia

Of course, as a true Scot, it pains me to see England winning ANYTHING, but it has to be said that they do deserve their place here, if only because few of the other teams have anything much to offer. Oddly, the strongest suits of Romania and England tie in: the coolest thing about Romania is the vampiric traditions of Transylvania, and the best-known cult movies to come out of England are the Hammer films. Perhaps this will allow Romania to claim Ingrid Pitt and Winona Ryder as honorary Rumanians, but even so, they can’t really compete with the likes of Jenny Agutter. Colombia beat Tunisia for no readily apparent reason.

1. England
2. Romania
3. Colombia
4. Tunisia

Group H: Argentina, Japan, Croatia, Jamaica

Finally, one of the most lopsided groups, with Japan strolling to the title, a country mile ahead of their rivals in every way. The Godzilla films alone would be enough to give them victory in this group, and that’s discounting anime, women’s wrestling, Gunhed, Yukari Oshima, selling schoolgirl saliva, techno-obsession, and all the other facets of life there which delight and entrance (at least from the safe distance of 8,000 miles, it’s a lot less pleasant to have it living with you, let me assure you). Nobody else is even in the same park, Argentina just edging it, largely for being next to Brazil, and being the home of corned beef.

1. Japan
2. Argentina
3. Croatia
4. Jamaica

The Second Round

Brazil vs Austria
Italy vs Scotland
France vs Bulgaria
Spain vs Denmark
Belgium vs Germany
United States vs Holland
England vs Argentina
Japan vs Romania

At this stage, we take a pause. The first two knock-out phases will take place next week, and we welcome all comments as to who should win these games. These will be taken into account, along with our own prejudic…er, opinions, to decide the eventual winners of the tournament. Mail me at jmclennan@trashcity.org.

Yours, Ref Hunter J.

On to the next phase!

After last week’s little diatribe, I find myself in a mellow mood, unwilling to vent my spleen too excessively. This is probably partly related to this week NOT having to be into work for 7am, but rather with an officially-sanctioned 10am start. though heaven knows there are certainly plenty of targets, notably…well, what’s the difference between Gazza and Ginger Spice? One’s ugly, overweight and past it, while the other is…er, can you repeat the question? Once again, it was an embarrassment to be British, as far more important things were going on elsewhere.

The nastiest surprise of the week was on Thursday night. As mentioned previously, a couple of weeks back, I was in Hamburg (photos now back from the chemists, so a report on the fine time had there will follow real soon), and we did notice the industrial-strength ICE trains in the railway station. It was something of a shock to watch the news and see one of them wrapped round, under and through an overpass. Makes me kinda glad that the train I get in the morning never seems to go faster than a slug on beta-blockers. Technology provides mankind with the ability to self-destruct in ever more spectacular ways.

Otherwise, though, it’s been a good week. Not really much specific at which a finger can be pointed, just a lot of little things combining to make it a satisfactory event. Things like lobbing a video tape across the living room towards the row of unwatched tapes — only for it to land, right-way up, neatly aligned on the end of the row. The ability to take pleasure from simple stuff like that is disturbingly gratifying.

And, miraculously, the next issue of TC finally managed to slide its way off to Juma, our printers. I’d been getting paranoid about this getting done before my looming holiday, not least because Juma were also shut down — head dude Martin was off in the Bahamas [I’m clearly paying too much… ;-)] However, it seems they do a lot of football stuff, and with the season just finished, they always have a quiet patch this time of year, especially because every self-respecting fan will be warming up to watch the World Cup. Though you could save yourself the bother, because England will go out in the quarter-finals. To Germany. On penalties. Again. Snigger. Mind you, Scotland will fail to qualify from the group stage. On goal-difference. After a shock result against some minnow. Again… So it’s all looking good for a large chunk of my luggage being a box of TCs, and I can go back to pursuits other than proff-reading for typong errirs — at least for a month or two.

Life could, naturally, be a little bit better in minor ways, mostly involving Nastassja Kinski and a family-size blackcurrant cheesecake. But for once, it seems that the static electricity of everyday existence has temporarily dispelled, so no tingly fingers when I touch doorknobs. However, I can’t help but feel a strange sense of…unease. This can’t last. In dramatic terms, things like this are but a mere precursor to, oh, disaster, insanity, death, y’know, the usual. However, the fact that I am ready for this hopefully means that it won’t happen, because under the same dramatic rules, things only ever happen to those who are not expecting them — this applies to both disaster/insanity/death and Kinski/dessert things. One imagines few people on the ICE were thinking “Hey, we’re about to lose a wheel and slam into a road bridge”.

I’m sure this proves something. Probably that it’s 1:57 am, and I really should be in bed. Just time for a slice of cheesecake though…

Well, first I was going to use this week’s editorial for an update on my blister — scarily, I got more response from last time’s ramblings, than just about any other item! Then, I was going to apologise to the Japanese emperor for the behaviour of a tiny group of bitter and twisted ex-servicemen unable to let go of the past — it’s not often I agree with Tony Blair (in fact, this is probably a first), but here, he’s right. Their incessant bleating for cash is like a vagrant demanding spare change, and demands for precisely the “right” wording in the apology does neither them nor Britain any credit. It’s pathetic. But, hey, that should be patently obvious to anyone without a Burma-sized chip on their shoulder, so let’s turn our attention to an even bigger example of idiocy.

I like hate mail, providing it’s thoughtful, intelligent, or even coherent. I’ve printed an example of the other sort here before, but at least the writer on that occasion came from South America, so can perhaps be forgiven a little unfamiliarity with the native language. Mr Wayne Fabra, on the other hand, comes from America — perhaps we can instead blame too many generations of inbreeding for the following, which is presented exactly as it was received here, poor spelling, flawed grammar and ‘original’ punctuation intact:

who the fuck is this guy anyway bad mouthing evilspeak and texas chainsaw. you realize that your brain has no conception of what true horror is i guess you like scream and godzilla better its assholes like you who keep the real scary shit off the silver screen.the actors in texas chainsaw went through more hell making that film as realisitic as they could totally involved in their characters.there was so much authenticity in that film especially the acting.how dare you bad mouth such a master peice.you  rag it at first in your pathetic review then you praise it critics have to be hypocritical to be someone i guess dont review horror at all if you bad mouth it.thousands of true horror fanatics laugh at your uninformed ability to degrade everything in your path fuck you you weak geek sucking faggot die in the name of satan

Oooh, I am SO scared. I am tempted to treat this piece of excrement with the appropriate contempt — as well as his mail. But, hey, I’m feeling in a generous mood today, so I’m merely going to point out the flaws in his ill-written and badly thought out comments.

“Don’t review horror at all if you bad mouth it”

I can imagine him sitting there, some spotty-faced teenage oik in his bedroom, with his Ozzy Ozbourne records and black candles. To someone like that, I suppose that ‘Texas Chainsaw Massacre’, or even [giggle] ‘Evilspeak’ might seem like the greatest thing since he discovered how to masturbate. But this doesn’t mean everyone else has to share his views. the POINT of reviewing things is that you say what you think of them. Not even an idiot would claim that all horror films were great – as is proven by the fact that Wayne didn’t like ‘Scream’ – and so, I call ’em how I see ’em. And ‘Evilspeak’ is a turgid pile of stinking garbage, with few redeeming features. I ain’t going to call it a horror classic!

“The actors in Texas Chainsaw went through more hell making that film as realistic as they could.” [I’ll be kind, Wayne, and tidy up your spelling and stuff…]

No, they didn’t. They were making a cheapjack horror movie, that’s why the conditions were hell, it wasn’t some kind of artistic statement. If they were all so talented, why have they none of them done anything of merit since? It would probably be closer to the truth so say that Tobe Hooper couldn’t direct a stream of piss, and I speak as someone who loves ‘LifeForce’ dearly.

“Thousands of true horror fanatics laugh at your uninformed ability to degrade everything in your path.”

Yes: FANATICS. Look up the word in your dictionary, and you’ll probably find something like “unthinking devotees”, and I couldn’t give a single toss what people like that think. I don’t write for people like you, Wayne, I prefer those who have at least the minimal intelligence necessary to deal with criticism.

“Fuck you, you weak geek sucking faggot. Die in the name of satan”.

Hmmm…I don’t think the Lord of the Flies is going to be impressed by putting his name in lower-case. But let’s just see how tough you are: abuse@webtv.net informed. That should be about your level. Have a nice life.

Wayne Fabra may be contacted – at least until his mummy takes his Net access away – at antichristreign@webtv.net.

Currently, I feel like a character in a David Cronenberg movie, watching his body mutate around him. The reason for this is the blister, roughly the size of an egg, on the inside of my left wrist, due to a close encounter with some superheated lasagne last night. I’d just completed a hard evening’s work on the next issue, and stopped for dinner — a nice tray of the aforementioned foodstuff, which had been cooking in the oven, at 200 degrees centigrade for the past 45 minutes.

I opened the oven and took out the lasagne, which was bubbling away in a ferocious manner. I distinctly remember thinking “My, that looks HOT”, as I added the essential parmesan cheese, and took it upstairs for consumption in a more relaxed setting. Unfortunately, half-way up the stairs, I clipped a step and stumbled. I recovered with the agility of a lasagne-carrying orang-utang, but a wave of sauce sloshed over the top of the bowl and coated my left hand. In the next two-tenths of a second, four thoughts crossed my mind:

1. My, it *IS* quite warm, isn’t it.
2. FUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!
3. Put the plate down, Jim.
4. Water. I want water. LOTS of water.

There then followed a near-teleport back to the kitchen, to slam my hand under the tap. Which is where I stood for the rest of the evening. But too late, since the damage had already been done. For not only was the sauce at, or very close to, 200 degrees C, it also had the curious STICKY consistency. You spill hot water on yourself, just flick your hand and it will fly off. Not so cheese sauce: we are dealing with the culinary equivalent of napalm. It remains firmly attached, chewing its way through the flesh until you hose it off — along with your skin.

The only question was whether this was going to be one of those red skin and a bit painful for a while burns, or if we were talking the full-blown reaction. It took about an hour of throbbing pain for the question to be answered; we were heading deep into Blister County, stopping en route at Painsville. Now, there’s something life-affirming about pain: it’s nature’s way of telling you to STOP DOING THAT AT ONCE! In our modern, molly-coddled society, actual physical pain is not something we have to encounter very often, and when you do, there are remedies. At least, there are, if it’s not 9:30 pm at night, and the medicine box contains an opened packet of lint and some expired ear drops.

The night that followed was best described as somewhat restless. Fortunately, the injury was on a spot that it proved difficult to put any pressure on, thereby preventing the nightmare of rolling over onto the blister, splitting it open like a ripe tomato, spilling…well, we’ll take THAT imagery as read, shall we? But I woke up this morning. with a dull throb in my left hand, and a more than usually distinct sense of “don’t want to go to work”. I phoned in sick instead, and have spent much of the rest of the day coating the hand in soothing lotions, and trying to work out if the swelling had stopped expanding (“The Blister That Ate Tulse Hill”).

I *think* it has, so now all I have to do is wait for the damn thing to go down again. As someone to whom scab-picking is a source of infinite pleasure, I’ve been very good and not attempted any deflationary surgery of my own [visions of punctured beachballs from ‘Dark Star’ come to mind]. But when it DOES go, it ain’t gonna be pleasant; I can see myself carting round the sterile swabs for the next few days, just in case a tidal wave of …uh, okay, I think that imagery goes on hold too.

Time for dinner. Pork pie and salad, methinks, or at least anything that doesn’t involve ovens. Though the way I’m going, I’ll probably drop the pork pie on my foot and fracture a toe. LONG live the new flesh…

It’s hot. Too hot. That’s only been one week of ‘summer’ temperatures, and already, things like slush and frost have taken on a nostalgia value right up there with Frank Sinatra. Coming, as I do, from the far North of Scotland, I think that my hatred of the sun is possibly genetic in some way. Though, to be strictly accurate, it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity. I’m pretty sure it was warmer last weekend in Hamburg (don’t worry, full report will follow later, when the photos return — I’m damned if I’m going to get less than two weeks’ worth of editorials out of that trip!), but it was a dry heat, and so was not too unbearable. London, however, seems to specialise in the sort of heat where you can feel the moisture condensing on the insides of your lungs.

Of course, other factors did come into account. The fact that we were never more than fifty yards from a pub probably helped, as did wandering round in the lightest T-shirt I could find, as opposed to the nightmare which is a suit in a London summer. This is especially true when you have to get on a crowded train, with people for whom the concept of personal hygiene is apparently a bit tricky. But at least that does go above ground, rather than descending into the bowels of the Earth for a brief glimpse of what life after death will be like, if you’re not good.

This, so far, is but a mere precursor — after all, it’s only mid-May, and things will get a LOT worse before they get better, I can confidently state. Still to come, we have those hot summer nights, where you lie there on the bed, with the blankets thrown off, and the windows wide open, praying alternately for unconsciousness and a breath of air, but being disappointed on both counts. These are the sort of days where the slightest movement leaves you sweating like a bad dose of flu, ruling out any activity more energetic than getting another cold drink. [I would just like to record that during the creation of the above paragraph, I disposed of a pint of lemon Tango, and a chocolate and cream trifle. It’s 23:30, and it is still FAR TOO WARM]

Part of the problem is that air-conditioning is still often viewed as an optional extra, because it’s something that will only be of use for two or three months in the summer. If you go somewhere like, oh, Arizona, then you’ll find that everywhere has it as a matter of course. Instead, about the best option here is to chuck all the food out of the fridge, clamber in yourself and pull the door shut. Though I imagine the imbecilic chief executive who abolished our dress-down days at work, is no doubt comfortable in his carefully climate-controlled office, rather than having to endure a mutual agreement between thirty co-workers with differing metabolisms — the end result being a sort of tepid compromise which pleases no-one.

But no matter how bitterly we complain, it ain’t gonna make any difference. The weather will probably keep getting hotter — blame El Nino, or global warming, the Earth falling into the Sun, or the Sun falling into the Earth, or whatever. And so, when a pretty girl, in summer-inspired minimal clothing, walks past lasciviously sucking on an ice-lolly, it is a fact of life that I just can’t help drooling — but it’s a sad reflection on what this weather does, that I’m probably thinking about the lolly…