My career as a part-time trespasser was born out of two events, starting with a desire for a free lunch. I work for a multinational in the City, and while we had to buy sandwiches, at one of our sister companies, they got lunch supplied. Some bright spark eventually realised that you could hijack this facility by going in and flashing your pass; even though it was technically invalid, no-one would ever stop you, if you did it with the necessary cheek.

The second incident was getting sent to one of our other offices; I got the address confused and walked into the building next door. Again, a flash of the pass and I was in, even though it belonged to a totally different company. It took ten minutes to work out why I couldn’t find our office, but I got to wondering just where I could reach by sheer effrontery. Since then, I’ve explored many major buildings in the City, including Lloyds, the Nat West Tower and the Guildhall, and wandered round without real interference.

It’s a great way to spend your spare time, providing the necessary adrenalin buzz to counteract the dull afternoons, and you get a fascinating glimpse into the way the other 99.95% live. The odds are well stacked against any significant sanctions as a result of your actions, and really, it’s so simple that anyone with an average degree of common sense can do it. And much of what follows is no more than that, but it probably bears explicit repetition.

1. Selection of your target.

In general, the bigger the building, the better. With 1000 people, it’s hard for any guard to recognise everyone, and even the eidetically memoried will still have to deal with staff turnover and all those people who are there legitimately. A busy place is preferable to one with little activity. The more people going in, the better, as you’ll be exposed to proportionately less scrutiny.

Obviously, some places are more open and accessible than others, but the level of security at the front door varies surprisingly little: a couple of security guards are usually about all there is, unless the business of the building requires special protection. Eventually, even these may become viable for the experienced wanderer, but for the novice, it’s better to start with easier targets.

2. Advance preparation

You should be as familiar with the place as a “real” inhabitant — it’s a dead giveaway if you arrive, then walk into a broom cupboard! Most places have a foyer where you can wait, and sitting here will let you watch people going in, and learn things like: to whom they show their passes; what do they do after going past security; where are the stairs and the lifts? This will also allow you to check for internal security, such as turnstiles and passcard doors. The latter aren’t a problem (see below), the former are tough to defeat but are rare. You’re more likely to find them in offices that aren’t open to the public because they make that carefully designed airy atria look more like a football stadium, and distinctly unwelcoming.

Through observation, you will also learn which time of day is best. You want to follow the herd in, so early in the morning, or at the end of lunchtime are good times, allowing you to ride on the ratio of workers to security personnel. For this reason, evenings and weekends are pretty much ruled out; the building may be just about deserted, but you’ll have individual attention from whoever is on duty. Bear in mind that different buildings run to different schedules: stockbrokers start work earlier in the morning than bankers.

3. Appearance

This extends to a little more than the obvious; you’re not going to get far into the Stock Exchange wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but if you need to be told that, you’re not going to get far anyway. What this really involves is the stuff round the edges; if you are going into a building at lunch-time, carry a paper bag of sandwiches. If it’s morning, a briefcase may help, but at 3:20 will mark you down as a visitor. Perhaps there’s a standard sort of clothing, except on Fridays, which are dress-down days; a little care will establish what is the best approach to take.

4. The hit.

For the purposes of this introduction, we will assume a standard building where you have to present a pass to someone just inside the front door. There are four basic ways of getting in, which have advantages and disadvantages. In roughly increasing order of risk, they are:

• (a) Semi-legitimate access
• (b) A forgotten pass
• (c) Using dodgy ID
• (d) The fake visit

(a) is simply using a pass obtained previously, which you didn’t hand back when you left. Few have a date or other limitation on them; even one which says “4th Floor” can be taken off at an opportune moment as soon as you get inside. Rules about wearing these are rarely enforced with any firmness: it’s certainly better to wear no badge, than wear one which immediately marks you as a visitor outside his territory.

The next approach is to pretend you’ve forgotten your ID. This happens to everyone, especially on Monday mornings (“I left it in my other suit”), or after lunch (“It’s in my drawer”). You’ll probably have to sign in at reception instead, so have a convincing fake name and a mumbled apology ready. You may well get a temporary pass, which can be kept for a future visit.

While the above two methods are relatively safe, the next one is risky. You flash something on entrance that looks legitimate, but isn’t. The aim is to minimise the amount of time your fake ID is visible; ideally, zero. If you appear to have shown a pass, the guard may simply assume that you have done so, and will not hassle you. Certainly, you’ve a better chance than if he thinks you’ve tried to sneak past him. Timing is essential, if the guard is otherwise distracted, you can sweep past like a clipper in full sail. It goes without saying that what you flash should vaguely resemble the real thing, so it helps to have seen an example beforehand. In general, it should have your picture on it in the right place, and be roughly the same size.

The final method is really for the daring, and requires you to pretend you have an appointment with an inhabitant. It’s tricky because you have to know the name of someone in the building, and you must hope that you get sent up to see them, rather than them coming down to meet you! Of course, once in the lift, you can get off elsewhere, leaving them puzzled but not too bothered. If you do get held in reception, a rapid exit is your best option. One excellent, plausible alternative is claiming to be a photocopier repairman; just give a floor, and say there was no contact name.

For all of these, the key requisite is confidence. If you look like you should be there, you won’t have any problems. Seem unsure of where you’re going, and you stick out like a sore thumb. First impressions are crucial here: walk boldly past the entrance guard with a smile. Knowing his name, whether through prior observation, or his badge, is a major bonus; if he thinks you know him, it’s a major psychological hurdle to overcome.

5. Once inside

When you’re in the building, most of your problems are over; the chances of being stopped are slim, especially if you keep moving, and (as above) are confident about it. Best only to stop in communal areas, near coffee machines, lifts, or photocopiers, where hanging round is acceptable, and less suspicious. In terms of security, you may find passcard doors, whose locks require the application of a smart card or pass to open. The answer to these is the technique known as “tailgating”, in which you follow a legitimate worker through the door. Most people, placing politeness above security, will hold it open for you — especially if you have your arms full with a (possibly spurious) cardboard box. Smile gratefully at them as you head into the restricted area.

6. If you get caught

Even so, sooner or later, someone will become suspicious of your behaviour. Unless they are extremely sure of their ground, their reaction will probably be along the lines of “Can I help you?”, and it’s best to have an answer for this prepared. The ubiquitous photocopier is convenient, or you can claim to be looking for a spurious person — pick a less common name, as the last thing you want is to find there actually is someone called that around! If the building is occupied by more than one company, you can pretend to be on the wrong floor.

You have to be very, very blatant before an employee will even think about notifying security, and people are generally leery of mounting any challenge, as the potential losses outweigh the benefits. Most folk just don’t care. Of course, if you get caught at the front door, you’ll be face to face with security, and your tactics need to be a little different. It’s best to write off the occasion, and possibly the entire building (after all, there’s not exactly a shortage!), so make your excuses and leave. Pretending to be in the wrong building is good, just get the address slightly wrong, and affect surprise. It is, however, a bit tricky to do this if the foyer features a big logo for the company in question.

Almost certainly, the worst that will happen is that you will be asked to leave. Few companies want to create a fuss over simple trespass, and unless you’ve caused damage or broken the law in other ways, you’ll just be shown the door. It’s not worth the hassle for you or them, to extend the confrontation: just leave quietly. There’s little doubt that your face will be remembered, so don’t even think about revenge, unless you are incredibly fool-hardy.

7. And the point is…?

You may be wondering, why bother? This is the hardest facet to describe: it’s easy to teach someone how to elude security, but they have to come up with their own reasons why. I could, if I wanted, loot a huge pile of stuff, but I don’t bother — all offices are much the same, and if you’re going to boost stuff, it’s easier to do it from your own work-place!

If I had an axe to grind against a company, I could create chaos, by setting off the fire alarms, for example. [It’s also worth noting that after a fire drill, as the employees flood back in, security checks tend to be ignored] Realising just how lax most companies are, is something of a salutory experience. However, I am a good capitalist, and any such campaign would eventually backfire on me, as places started to get tough.

I do it merely for the excitement; it’s like exploring a new country, complete with the threat of hostile natives. I’ve seen brilliant views from the top of some of Britain’s tallest buildings; I’ve chatted to everyone from executives to cleaners; I’ve stalked the corridors of power in banks, newspapers, computer companies and hospitals. It is good to realise just how dumb the glorified bouncers in these places can be.

The next time you see a strange face lurking in a slightly suspicious manner by the photocopier, you never know who it might be. Go up to them, stare them straight in the eye…and ask them when the machine will be fixed!

“Arsene Lupin” was talking to Jim McLennan.

We’re now well into the run-up to the festive season, a time when everybody looks forward to a few days of merriment and good cheer. By doing so, we exhibit the memory span of a goldfish, forgetting all about the utter nightmare that last year was, and which this year will be as well. Because Christmas, as she is practiced, sucks.

The basic principle from pagan times – eat a lot, get drunk, fall over, sleep till spring – is sound. However, this has been warped into something totally different, which is a whole lot more trouble than it’s worth. Now, this isn’t the usual tirade against the commercialization of Christmas – excessive consumption is almost its only saving grace. No, it’s just the sheer naffness, hypocrisy and pointless effort that aggrieves.

It tends to start with buying the presents. The horror! The horror! The expense is not, personally, a problem. It’s the sheer effort involved in slogging to get the damn things, panic rising in your throat as the day progresses, until desperation proves the mother of invention and you shell out for any old tat. With hundreds of millions of presents to be purchased nationwide, the resulting log-jam of the rude, the mad and the extremely ugly, make buying anything more than a paper-clip a hideous ordeal of ferocious proportions.

At least I don’t have kids to demand Bulimia Barbie at any cost — if they don’t get it, their classmates will sneer, they will be psychologically scarred for life, and it’ll be all your fault. Tough titty, tots: life’s like that, you don’t get what you ask for and the sooner kids realise that, the sooner we’ll end the “I want” culture. Say Rudolf’s got BSE and offer them reindeer pies instead.

Then there’s the crap which clogs up almost eve, medium. When was the last decent Christmas #1? The top 40 is crammed full of novelty records which wouldn’t get house room the rest of the year, while grandmothers inflict Cliff Richard on their unwilling descendants.

In 1996, we had the Spice Girls (remember them? The correct answer to “Who’s your favourite Spice Girl?” was, of course, “They’re all talentless, ugly slags”), just ahead of a gang of kids mauling a Bob Dylan song, in order to wipe out one of the very few sports at which Britain is halfway good. As with music, so with movies and TV. Cinemas brim with “family entertainment”, which usually means Disney’s puerile moralism, and Arnold Schwarzenegger “comedies”; hell for the majority of the population who don’t have kids. On TV, it’s films that have been sanitised for our protection, more family dross, and wall-to-wall Christmas specials of programs that you didn’t watch the rest of the year either. If something is crap in half-hour chunks, it’s unlikely to be any better in feature-length episodes.

This is forgivable: after all, the difference between 99% rubbish and 99.9% rubbish is scant. Sadly, you’re not even allowed to slump at home in front of the television, you are expected to spread good tidings of comfort and joy. This can be safely done by sending a card, with some banal sentiment such as “Thinking of you”, which acquires an ironic charm when sent to someone about whom you don’t give a toss. If you actually care about someone, you contact them during the year; a sudden pretense, after ignoring them since last Christmas, is the sort of rudeness you only get away with over the festive season.

But if there’s one thing worse than distant relations, it’s close ones, people with whom all you have in common are a few chromosomes, yet you are expected to make polite conversation and smile genteelly as your uncle spews out his annual sherry-fuelled racist diatribe. And auntie is convinced that your idea of a wonderful time remains a game of ludo, rather than a session of torrid sex with your second cousin, who would appear to have not so much hit puberty, as been smashed headlong into it, propelled on a tidal wave of raging hormones.

Readers are warned that attempts to act on such urges are unlikely to be treated lightly, despite it being the time of year when “festive spirit” exacerbates the prevailing view that alcohol is an excuse for any atrocious behaviour. Those who decline to take part in idiotic rituals involving party hats, balloons and the office photocopier are labelled killjoys, as if there were any joy to be had watching your boss prove precisely what an obnoxious cretin he really is. Better to stick with the hordes of conveniently drunken secretaries that you will find in the gutter, assuming you can find an orifice free of vomit and other unpleasant bodily secretions. For this is the time of year when pubs that no-one would touch with a ten-foot pole for 11 months suddenly start employing Neanderthals on the door to say “sorry mate, those are trainers”.

However, this particular problem comes to a climax not at Christmas, but at New Year, when you queue up to have the privilege of paying an exorbitant sum for entrance into an overcrowded club, in order to listen to someone else’s choice of music at deafening volume, while paying over the odds for crap beer. The cloakroom will be full and they will run out of glasses behind the bar, because no-one with enough common sense to foresee such obvious problems works in a night-club. All of us are at home, with our own CD players and a stack of drinks of our own choice, drinking heavily to celebrate the end of another dreadful fortnight.

Whoever was responsible for Christmas should have been taken out and crucified. Indeed, I think you’ll find he was. Maybe the Jews knew somehow that they were letting their descendants in for years of misery, and decided to get their retribution in early. I, for one, don’t blame them a bit.

When the entertainment colossus which is The Simpsons finally hove into view on the BBC, the commercial network feared it’d take out Baywatch, which ran in the same slot. And so, instead they sent in a sacrificial lamb, in the shape of new American series, Sabrina, the Teenage Witch. But, verily, a miracle took place in the ratings: Sabrina improved the audience over what “the world’s most popular TV show” had managed, and pulled in better figures than The Simpsons too. So it was they who were sent packing from Saturday evenings, replaced by that popular icon of youth culture, Dad’s Army.

The reason for this was simple; Sabrina is far better than you expect. Indeed, there’s a good case to be made for putting it above the early Simpsons which the BBC screened. Video permitted a straightforward comparison on a show-by-show basis: about 70% of the time, I found Sabrina more entertaining. But perhaps a more accurate comparison is with another teen-com, the series based on Clueless, which appeared immediately before Sabrina on ITV. It is so stultifyingly unfunny, it might have been specifically chosen to make Sabrina look like a comedic supernova.

It’s a curiously subversive show, replacing the well-tested nuclear family unit with three women – a physicist, a concert violinist and a schoolgirl, all of them witches. The first two, Zelma and Hilda are Sabrina’s aunts, her parents being…elsewhere [I missed the pilot episode!]. The only man in the house is a cat: Salem, turned into a feline for a failed attempt at world domination. Hmm, pick the psychosexual bones out of that cosy little household.

Sabrina is coming to terms with her, um, witchiness, but rather than using magic to, say, stop world hunger, is more interested in getting boys to like her. Such disinterest isn’t really plausible; actress Melissa Joan Hart sets more than one gentleman of my acquaintance drooling — though we’d better draw a veil over the identities of those who prefer the younger Melissa from Clarissa Explains It All…

Anyway, putting teenophile lust aside, this scenario could be an excuse for patronising dogma of the obvious sort, but generally isn’t. While there may be a moral, it has a pleasing tendency to go against the grain: one episode could be summed up as “helping people isn’t necessarily a good thing”. For American TV, this is only marginally less revolutionary than “it’s okay to slaughter your parents in the name of Satan”.

It benefits from a rapid turnover in episodes. With The Simpsons, we get material the best part of a decade old, whose best jokes have already been repeated by every bastard with satellite TV. Instead, the gap between first American and British transmission for Sabrina can be as little as 48 hours, which helps the frequent cross-references to other pop culture. Like The Simpsons, there’s also usually a gratuitous celebrity cameo; some, notably Penn Gillette’s wildly OTT appearances as the witches’ boss, work better than the apparently random baseball or pop star appearances. Other highlights include Cary-Hiroyuki Tagawa (the bad guy from Mortal Kombat), and Raquel Welch in a costume definitely unsuitable for family viewing…

While by no means perfect, even its weaknesses seem to warp into something that approach strengths; the laugh track is dreadfully grating, but only bespatters the obvious lines, the more subtle, and better, humour is left for you to enjoy in splendid isolation. It has its fair share of naff episodes, but that’s inevitable when you take risks, especially in the sterile world of the American sitcom. And Salem is played by a moth-eaten animatronic puppet, yet the effect is charming rather than pathetic (and it improves drastically as the series progresses, to the point where a Frank Sinatra impression is plausible). For, as with all shows, it lives or dies by its characters, and in Sabrina, they are plausible and memorable creations.

The series is a notable prime-time hit on American television, regularly in the top 30, and reaching #14 over Christmas. But ITV decided to ignore the ratings on both sides of the Atlantic, and replaced Sabrina with, yep, Baywatch, largely relegating the superior show to re-runs during Children’s ITV on Wednesday afternoon. Doh! No matter; as far as I am concerned, the name ‘Sabrina’ is no longer exclusively linked with a large-breasted Italian singer in the Trash City Hall of Fame.

---

An interesting variant is the TVM which predates the series; while Hart still plays the central character, her aunts are different actresses and the overall feel is darker. The absence of a laugh track is a genuine pleasure, allowing you to pick up on little things like the sound of a jet engine, tucked in to accompany Sabrina’s magic-enhanced javelin throw.

The discovery of her supernatural powers is charmingly handled, with more deftness than you’d expect from Tibor Takacs, director of naff 80’s horror Hardcover. However, this is probably down to Melissa Joan Hart’s highly personable performance, which is sweet without ever slipping into schmaltz. This is the stuff of which teenage dreams are made: the ability to take on the richest, prettiest, most popular girl in school and win.

It’s surprisingly unfunny, though deliberately so, preferring to play things straight, and the lack of subversive elements does leave it occasionally suffering from a certain over-earnestness. This is mostly down to the aunts, wishy-washy, new Age characters, rather than the feisty eccentrics they became in the series. Add in a climax that keeps heading towards Carrie without ever getting there, and you do have a highly different view of the Sabrina-verse from the television show.

We get a Melissa with short hair, which I’m not sure about. I’m also deeply unsure about a sequence in which Sabrina and best friend try on swimming costumes for a pool party. It’s both fascinating, and disturbing-because-it’s-fascinating. Worse still, on the laser-disk – yep, I’m that sad – it’s even chapter-stopped. Chapter seven, to be exact. Though at least I didn’t do the accompanying frame grabs; maybe I’m not quite so sad after all…

Certain little things make life worthwhile, providing a warm glow and a spring in your step that lasts far longer than might be expected. The smile of a pretty girl can do this; so can a really good kebab; but both of these pale into insignificance besides the joy of getting a cheque for forty quid in compensation from Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise. Next to that, winning the lottery is but an everyday trifle.

This particular escapade started when I ordered a bunch of laserdiscs and tapes from Tom Routledge in the States. The package arrived here apparently safely, but on closer inspection, it soon became apparent that…well, it had encountered hostile forces at some point along its journey across the Atlantic. And looking at the evidence, it seemed likely that said forces were in the shape of our beloved guardians, HMC&E, clearly taking a swift break from more important business — like making sure no-one brings back too much beer from Calais.

A swift call to my local Customs and Excise office brought me a copy of Excise Notice 1000, which is well worth having, since it tells you who to complain to should they get things wrong. [Of course, not that they ever do, being utterly infallible, but in these Citizen’s Charter days, every public organization must maintain the illusion of being “accountable” and “caring”.] And so, the following letter went off:

Dear Sir,

I wish to register a complaint regarding the recent handling of a package by your department. The package, containing a number of laserdiscs and a video-tape, was opened for inspection — I attach a copy of the sticker from the parcel. The video-tape had been watched, not rewound, and crammed into its case the wrong way round, but worst of all, the officer responsible had lost the inner sleeve for one laserdisk. The disk had been put back directly into the cardboard outer cover, and as a direct result of this sloppy handling, it arrived here severely scratched.

I appreciate that Customs have to examine parcels, but this in no way absolves them from a duty to exercise reasonable care in their handling of the contents. It is clear in this case such care was not taken. According to HM Customs & Excise Notice 1000, “Complaints and putting things right”, reimbursement will be made when Customs “damage…freight or baggage during an examination”, and this case seems to me an obvious example of such carelessness. I therefore request compensation of £40, to cover the cost of ordering a replacement disc from America.I look forward to hearing from you shortly. If you need any more details, please get in touch.

Yours faithfully
Jim McLennan

3rd APRIL Get called by a Mr.Porter, who wants to know a) the Trakback number on the parcel and b) if I’m claiming compensation of 40 quid, why I didn’t pay duty on it, since the free limit is only 15 pounds. Ah. Good question. I promise to phone him back with both pieces of information. I suspect they may end up charging me back-duty, which will eat into the compensation. However, I’m not too bothered since the main point of this exercise is not to make money, it’s to aggravate and annoy our moral guardians. And I seem to be doing that!

4th APRIL Mr. Porter isn’t there (which I’m not really too sorry about, since he comes over on the phone as one of those hard-nosed bastard types — I had to keep reminding myself that it was they who screwed up), but I give the information to his colleague. The computer has no information beyond the fact that the parcel was released on March 7th — he suggests it might have been Parcelforce to blame: apparently, they are the ones who open the packages, and pass them on to Customs if necessary. Quite how this made the inner sleeve of a laserdisc vanish, I’m unsure — it seems a trick worthy of David Copperfield. But rather than explain it all again, I just ask him to pass on the details. I am forced to wonder whether pig-sticking Customs and Excise is a Good Thing, given that I’m off to Paris next weekend. On my return, I can foresee them queueing up to greet me warmly with a latex glove: “Let’s see if we can find any laserdiscs in here, shall we?”

12th APRIL I return from Paris – unmolested – to find a letter from C&E, asking me to give them all the information I phoned them up and gave them the previous week! I just about manage to keep a grip on my sarcasm and write them a polite letter giving them the details again. The stamp on the envelope is one of those humourous “Greetings” one, with the caption, “I’m writing to you because you don’t listen to a word I say”. I refrain, however, from putting on the accompanying sticker that says “Whatever it is – I deny it”. Otherwise, it might have been the first case of an envelope being taken down and used as evidence.

Thank you for your letter of April 8th. Some of the details you request were already supplied on April 4th, to a colleague of Mr. Porter, as he was not at work that day. The gentleman to whom I spoke told me that the computer system contained no details, beyond that the parcel had been released on March 7th. However, since this information seems to have been lost since then, I will say, once more, that the Trackback number on the package was 0022 4553 594 9.

With regard to the other material requested, I will endeavour to provide evidence of the value as soon as possible — since the goods were paid for in advance, no invoice was sent with them, and I will need to contact the supplier. All the documentation for the order went via electronic mail, so would a print- out of the relevant message be acceptable?

29th APRIL “Unfortunately our computer system has been out of action and I have been unable to retrieve details of your importation, and therefore have been unable to investigate the circumstances fully…it is the responsibility of the Post Office (Parcelforce) to open parcels and to repack them again after Customs examination. It is possible therefore that the damage may have occured at this stage”.

This is the second time they’ve said this. I can hear them whine, “It’s all Parcelforce’s fault!”, in what is very clearly little more than an attempt to pin the blame on the Parcelforce donkey. Next letter, I expect to read “while the parcel was being opened, the laser-disc sleeve spontaneously combusted.” I also note a sentence, “Thank you for your letter dated 14.4.97 which was received here on the 21st”. Seven days for first-class mail? This seems like a flimsy attempt to meet the standards set in the previously mentioned Customs Notice 1000: “we will aim to issue a full response to your complaint within ten working days of receiving it”. Let’s just pretend it entered a time-warp somewhere along the line, shall we?

15th MAY After a catalog of disasters, up to and including my e-mail box being corrupted (are HMC&E sneaking into the house and screwing up the computer?), I get a duplicate receipt from the vendor in the States. I enclose a copy of the receipt as evidence of the cost and, setting my sarcasm to stun, point out that I am not going to let them pass the buck to Parcelforce.

I fully accept that Customs and Excise are entitled to open parcels and packages, but this in no way excuses damage caused to the contents. I am also at a loss to see how Parcelforce may conceivably have caused the inner sleeve to vanish, if their responsibilities are merely to open and repack parcels. However, hopefully you should soon be able to establish definitely what happened, and I look forward to hearing from you in due course.

29th MAY “I am afraid our computers are still down, and as such we have not been able to investigate your claim fully but in order to avoid further delay we will proceed and authorise compensation for £40, as requested, in full and final settlement of your claim”.

I seriously contemplate going down the off-licence and converting said forty quid into rather a lot of Stella Artois. However, it’s not an entirely comprehensive victory. The sentence that follows reads: “I should point out that both duty and VAT should have been charged on this consignment but in view of the inconvenience caused we will not pursue the underpayment of Customs charges in this instance”. They’re not bad at this veiled threat thing, are they?

The other thing that comes to mind is that beyond a “please accept our apologies for any inconvenience caused”, worthy of British Rail on a wrong-kind-of-snow day, they haven’t actually said they were at fault, or explained what happened to the parcel. Could they perhaps be aware that every word they say is being considered for publication in TC?

They also enclosed a copy of Notice 143, which had some interesting sections. As mentioned, if someone from abroad sends you goods, you are supposed to pay duty if they cost any more than £15 — how the hell they thought three video discs and a tape were worth less than that, I don’t know. However, if they are “gifts”, the duty-free allowance goes up to £36. I don’t think I need say a great deal more on what this means vis-a-vis getting stuff sent to you from overseas…

So I waited, with baited breath, for my compensation to appear. And I waited. And I waited. And just when I was about to enquire politely what was going on, what should come through the door but another one of those brown, window envelopes that I’d come to know and love.

16th JUNE

22nd JULY The cheque has now been safely stowed in my bank account, and peace has once more descended. But I am still suffering nagging doubts over the lack of any decent explanation. I thus send their computer system a get-well card, expressing my fondest hope that it’s now feeling a little bit better and asking if they have managed to discover the cause of the damage and what they’re going to do to prevent a re-occurence.

29th JULY “Unfortunately, we have had a great deal of trouble with our computer system and have only just got it back on line… [Three months! Our users are peeved if their computers go down for three minutes] It was presented to Customs & Excise by Parcelforce on 7th March 1997 when it was selected for an anti-smuggling examination. I have spoken to the officer concerned who cannot recall this specific case I am afraid after this length of time. [Lucky it didn’t go to court then, isn’t it?] It seems likely that in this case that either the officer did not replace the laserdisk in its sleeve, or that the Parcelforce official did not repack it properly… [Yep, still trying to blame someone else]

It would be normal practice for Parcelforce and/or Customs and Excise to keep a record of any damage incurred, depending on who was responsible. I have examined both our records and that of Parcelforce and found no details of your parcel. That is unusual. [=”You are a lying bastard”] I have therefore reminded my staff of the need to record details of any accidental damage incurred… I apologise for any distress that our action has caused, and the damage sustained to your parcel, but hope that you understand our need to be vigilant against smuggling”

My goodness, if I didn’t know better, and that all HMC&E officers are required to have their sense of humour bypassed on joining the organisation, I would say that the last sentence was bordering on the deliciously sarcastic. It’s still not what you would quite call a grovelling admission of blame, but I guess it will just have to do.

I’m sure that readers will appreciate the satisfaction to be gained from the above saga — though I cashed the cheque, naturally, seeing how the disc is still playable, I haven’t bothered ordering another copy [The damage is quite easily visible: while it had actually only been watched once, it looks like a seriously ex-rental purchase] What makes it more ironic, is that the film in question was Hong Kong Category III classic, ‘Sex and Zen’, a film which has since had over four minutes hacked out of it by the BBFC — perhaps making it the kind of evil and immoral material for which Customs were looking. That they ended up paying for my copy, is a sweet victory indeed.

18 months. I suppose this is a small improvement over the nineteen that it took to produce the previous issue; is TC heading back towards being a quarterly? Don’t hold your breath. Not that I’ve been idle: well, actually, I *have* been idle, for quite long periods. But in between times, things have on occasion happened. Some of them have been enjoyable, others have been….oh, let’s say, like having the eyes of your favourite posters gouged out by a small, mildly psychopathic Japanese woman. [Any similarity in this editorial to real people is, of course, purely coincidental.]

But, returning to areas less painful. Firstly, there is now a TC Web Site: www.trshcity.demon.co.uk. This contains a steadily growing archive of articles from past issues, as well as new, exclusive reviews, plus additional items such as a weekly rant on the world in general, our top ten babes, and a major guide to strip-pubs in London. Go visit.

There is also, at long last, the long anticipated next generation of TC-shirts. Readers with long memories may recall the fabled “Nekkid Nastassja wielding a blood-spattered chainsaw” design (a shirt which, funnily enough, I can’t find any more – I suspect it suffered the same fate as my posters). This time, we’ve gone for a b/w design featuring the covers of 16/17 or 18/19 — see the illos at left and right respectively if you’ve forgotten what they looked like. On the back is an A-Z of TC-approved films: to give you some idea, it begins “Aliens, Blade Runner, Cat People…”. Shirts are available in XL only, and cost a mere eight quid including postage. Orders to the usual addresses, I’ve only got a limited quantity so get your skates on.

Finally on the merchandising front, after selling out of Trevor Brown’s postcards last issue, we’ve got an all-new set. This time, there are five full-colour cards, and the price is £3, again including p&p; a sample may be found on the back cover — yes, the one that the granny sitting opposite you on the bus is staring at, mouth agape. Believe me, the colour version is much more…arresting. And it’s not our fault if you do get arrested. Ladies and gentlemen, that brings us to the end of the gratuitous plugs.

Obscure technical department. In our never-ceasing effort to bring you even more, we’ve cut down the gap between lines. This should not impact the legibility, and gives you roughly another dozen pages of content. Let us know if you feel the strain though.

Interesting to note the sudden proliferation of movie magazines, following last issue’s “expression of dissatisfaction”, shall we say, with Empire. This is good. What’s not so good is that Neon, Total Film and the rest seem to be little more than wanna-be Empire clones, by and large clamped on the teat of the Hollywood publicity machine. There remains a gap in the market for a film magazine which is aware that there is much more to cinema than Jackie Brown, yet doesn’t disappear up its own posterior in a cloud of mise-en-scene.

Subscribers will (hopefully) have noticed the presence of a Mansplat in the envelopes, being this issue’s freebie. I think I should probably have a few copies of this fine magazine left over (barring an inconceivably large rush of last-minute subscriptions), so if anyone else wants one, write me a nice letter and we’ll see what can be done. Get it while you can, as rumours suggest that, sadly, t’Splat may not be around for very much longer – unless, perhaps, the editor is deluged with letters from Britain telling him what a fine job he is doing. Hint, hint…

TC cover-god Rik Rawling has unleashed another blast from his unfettered imagination – and believe me, he exercises restraint for us – in the shape of Hog #3. Hardcore violence and brutal sex (or is it the other way round?) combine in epic tales of apocalyptic noir-ishness. £2 from Rik Rawling, 4A Hardy Avenue, Churwell, Morley, Lancs, LS27 7SJ.

This issue’s thanks go first and foremost to Chris Fata for flogging TCs in America, as well as a perpetual supply of distractions, without whom… And while thanking Chris’s, of one kind or another: Chris W (last-minute scanner help), Chris P and Christine H (anime). Of those not called Chris, John Spencer deserves especial praise for his layout work — he’ll regret it when next issue sidles up (“Hello, John, fancy doing all 100 pages this time round?”). And also, in no particular order of non-Chrisness: Steve W, Rob D, Nicolas B, Miles W, Martin D, Brian B, Rik R, Trevor B, Steve L & Mike C, the gentlemen at the Cinema Store, Psychotronik Video and Media Publications, Michael G, Andy W, Gary C, Pam C, Ian A, Jim S. And that’s quite enough initials – I’d better stop before this begins to sound like an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.

Distractions

Favoured liquid this issue is Kriek cherry beer, a startling Belgian concoction which cleans the floor with your average alcopop. Chug it back to accompany your microwave popcorn (US only – the British stuff sucks), while watching Channel 5. Despite a cheapskate approach, it’s the TC channel of choice, thanks to Lexx + baseball — weirdo SF with people like Rutger Hauer, and the ultimate sport for stats freaks. About the only other thing worth watching has been on BBC2: Louis Theroux’s Weird Weekends; a Michael Moore spin-off with the best dead-pan comedy since Brass Eye. But keep an eye out for the imminent arrival of South Park, which will leave your jaw on the floor in shock: “That’s sick, dude!”. For slightly better quality animation, hunt down Beast Wars, easily the best computer-animated show yet screened, leaving Reboot far behind. Though I suppose Final Fantasy VII probably also counts, and has wasted far more of my time than I like to contemplate.

If you want to take in a movie, Starship Troopers will do nicely – if you don’t, why not spend your time baiting Titanic fans. Cuddle up with Marilyn Manson’s The Long, Hard Road out of Hell – likely to be the most amusing book of 1998 – while listening to Lords of Acid and tucking into the very pinnacle of Western civilization: low-fat condensed milk. This is what 4000 years of progress has been working towards. That and Hamburg, a great place to spend all those weekends when I should really be writing the next issue of Trash City…