The night was an excitement vacuum.

I pulled up the collar on my trenchcoat to exclude a greater part of the winter chill. Also because it looked real mean in the shop window across the street. So there I was, sucking the end of this pen, which would have been OK had I been the first person to do so. It was the kind of pen that runs out when you’re writing important cheques for impressive people and it’s previous owner was clearly the kind who leaves two million personalized Biros as a legacy. But then, who cares? You leave your mark, where is not important…

Anyway, I was still there, in the neon glitter and the Mazda glare, washed up above the city’s tidal restlessness and questions were forming themselves in my mind. Kinda irritating questions. The kind that grab your foot when you kick them. Questions like why most people trade their dreams in for security. Why nothing makes sense when you look at it hard enough. And why I couldn’t get the cling wrap off Travellers Fare sandwiches in under a minute.

Ghandi, when asked about Western civilization, replied that it would be a good idea. Nice turn of phrase, but this close to the ground it was alive and kicking, you could hear it breathe, and read it’s droppings. It had a heartbeat too, the kinda slowed down sound you hear on Hammer horror film soundtracks as Dracula creeps up on the girl. Or at least, the cameraman does.

I rifled through the absurdly large number of pockets in my trenchcoat, seemingly designed so that whatever you leaned against or sat on coincided with some lumpy object secreted beneath, looking for a pen to chew, when I realised that really big inside pocket was designed for a Filofax. Somehow, I figured that the average private investigator would rather walk around with his trousers rolled up than carry a personal organiser.

I reckoned that the more you classified, pigeon holed, timetabled and generally scheduled your life, the less you lived it, the more of a passenger you became in your own existence and the less likely you were to actually spot any patterns, any outline to the big picture. That would, I guess, be a nice theory if the obverse were true, but it would be like saying that because BR trains always seem to be late it would be a good idea to turn up late to catch them.

Thankfully, I was rescued from that train of thought by the girl in the short leather skirt I had been tracking walk down the street to her car. Her body reminded me of the Porsche 911, whose curves seemed to be a triumph of form over function. Not exactly Nietzche, but exactly nice. She was hotter than leather underwear, more provocative than Cadbury’s and it wasn’t difficult to see why. Hobbling was sexy.

But which car was hers? It was not the BMW, that much was certain. After a decade and a half of relentless marketing, a BMW gives off very safe aromas. It’s drivers inhabit a world of ski holidays and dry cleaners. The pleats and folds perfectly complement the executive suit.

She got into the BMW. Good name for a band that, Blue Mercedes, smooth and sensual, the dolphin of the automotive zoo. All I needed to know was how dolphins give birth underwater or for that matter why all the lightbulbs I replaced said “Woolworths” on them. As she drove off in a car that holds the line like a yuppie with a straw up his nose and sticks to the road like eggs on a supermarket shelf, I was left with an itch I couldn’t scratch. I may have more flaws than the Empire State, but something was telling lies, and I didn’t mean the hands on my Timex.

But what I couldn’t see was how images differed from reality. If instant coffee sex, spring-fresh (what?) fabric softener and pension plans were real then there was no distinction, and it won’t be long before cars are sold in supermarkets next to microwave ovens, probably with modular interiors by brand names like Benetton, Next, Levi’s. Reality was no better, as that guy who paid a prostitute to stand naked on the other side of the room while he threw cellophane wrapped kippers at her would surely agree. Something round here smelt mighty fishy.

If the battle for our minds was being fought in the videodrome, where the spectator is inside the arena, then who was fighting the contest and whose side was trash on?

Perhaps trash set out to peddle an aesthetic, a notion that the colourful, the cheery flux of symbolism (guns, stars & stripes, peroxide) represented a victory over the grey, the product marketing world where you are what you drive because you drive what you are. Trouble was, that the high impact multi-sensory overload / multi media infiltration ended up functioning blankly, without recourse to discourse, no statement of intent and no hairs in the bath. I reckoned what I needed was a drink. I also reckoned that a nation of kids consuming other people’s technicolour imaginations was one hell of a timebomb.

The girl in the leather skirt, now I had time for her. A friend of mine said once that she wanted the kind of guy who looks like he has just got out of prison, and has a lot of catching up to do. I replied that I wanted the kind of girl that would get you IN prison.

The guy who approached with a puzzled expression on his face was looking for something too. He was looking for his car.

No mess, no padding, no flimflam, no sell-out, no chance! TC3 will contain, if all goes more or less to plan, the following :

• A bit on Linnea Quigley. We tried to get a bit OF her, but the chainsaw wouldn’t start, so you’ll have to make do with a filmography – we were pretty surprised at how many movies she’s been in, though not at their quality…
• Bad films. “Revenge of the Teenage Vixens from Outer Space”, a movie that adds an entirely new dimension to the word ‘juvenile’.
• Steve’s comics piece, if he isn’t being tied to the bed post for the entire three month period.
• Possibly something about ‘The New Avengers’. Joanna Lumley is soon to be seen in a film where she plays a high-class prostitute. Say no more.
• A lot of lists, covering every subject from my ten favourite T-shirts to the most disgusting female nude scenes. We’re looking for plenty more, though – any and all subjects, film and non-film, welcome.

And lots of stuff as yet unwritten…

He was known as Dickfixer Lawkins but, needless to say, that wasn’t his real surname. His Christian name was passed down from his father (and from many generations before him) who followed an occupation which, until recent years, had fallen into disuse, subsequent to its earlier malpractice.

Some thought the job must have been something to do with baiting our loyal servants the police, whose powers, because of their monopoly in legally stopping people in the street for no reason at all, once needed curtailing by the Dickfixers. Others, in their wisdom, often though he derived from an arcane stock of statue trimmers, since market squares in the Vind Valley catchment areas advertised their conveniences with prominent mock-ups of the male form.

If the truth were known, the Dickfixers WERE a secret society, but one of sharp medical practicioners learned in the Ancient lore of venereal disorders affecting those of an indiscriminate cast.

Our man Lawkins, at the end of his line of such fiddlers with the enthighed sanctities, was only too pleased to come out into the open at the very same time when the range of such nagging recoils again invaded, with renewed force, prized areas of carnal existence. He knew he would have to do a good job for, being of a fastidious nature himself, he had no son to carry it on. Either rid the Vind Valley in one fell swoop or just let the police have their own way and keep everyone indoors. He has been seen often traipsing the high-sided alleys, where even the kerbside gutters were overflowing with a substance he suspected to be more than just melting snow… You couldn’t miss his characterful presence.

Arriving now at the sadness of the tale, Dickfixer Lawkins was, however, clean mad, but equally sane enough to conceal his background for shame of such madness, with the alias Lawkins. The statues outside the public letting-houses bore the brunt of his single-minded surgery (some said it was needful for him to practice first and the stone appendages were as good as any). But, it did tend to make him a trifle heavy-handed when it came to the real men upon whom he pounced within the dripping walls that the statues seemed to guard.

The thaw had set in. The spring was just round the corner. And it dawned on Dickfixer Lawkins that his job must be at an end. The lambing session was an area of time when he could hibernate, perhaps forever, sheep shears on the pillow beside him. In his fruitful madness, he began to consider other worthy causes (like doctoring the town’s drainage systems) – and, as he aimed against the brown-mottled enamel wall with his own stiff-brushed luggage, he placed the blades of his scissors at the optimum angle and snipped proudly with the merest crunching sound just once, like all good surgeons worth their salt (without even first testing the lie of the land with the more precise tweezers).

“Joe Bob Goes to the Drive-In” – Joe Bob Briggs. Penguin Originals. 5.95.

‘Let’s take a look at “The Evil Dead” on the old barf meter and I think you’ll agree that this is the paint-the-room-red vomit champion of 1983. Cherry Dilday went along for the ride, lost her lunch in the first half hour, tossed her cookies all over the upholstery, ended up so trashed she forgot to take her clothes off until the second feature. This baby is off the scale.’

The drive-in is a strangely American institution, with no real British equivalent. Even cinemas like the Scala, in London, which show a lot of sex ‘n’ violence, mix in a good few ‘classy’ films. Joe-Bob Briggs is a connoisseur of the drive-in – his criteria for deciding how good a film is include breast count, whether heads, or other body parts, roll and the number of monsters. This book is a compilation of his newspaper columns, which were syndicated for a few years in the States, until numerous complaints and letters to the editor forced it’s death.

If it was just a straight review column, it might be pretty dull reading, even given Joe Bob’s, er, innovative style. However, about half of each column is devoted to his latest escapades, whether they involve a trip to France for the Cannes film festival or, more mundanely, the hassle he has with the various “bimbos” in his life (Cherry Dilday, May Ellen Masters and Wanda Bodine); this moves it from the realms of film into that of soap opera.

As a pure film book, there are two severe problems. A lot of the movies he discusses will be unavailable in this country or have a different title, and the censor will have (literally) ripped the guts out of those you can see. It’s therefore of limited reference value, but as a fun read and a guide to life in the Deep South, it’s highly recommended – T.C. says check it out!

“Republican Party Reptile” & “Holidays in Hell” – P.J. O’Rourke. Picador. 4.99.

These books remind me a little bit of Ben Elton, though with the big difference that P.J. is roughly as far right as Ben Elton is left. This is a breath of fresh air; it’s a nice change to see someone slagging off trendy lefties, etc rather than the continual socialist whinging that too many ‘alternative’ comedians try to pass off as humour these days. He writes on a variety of subjects – the first book contains essays on, amongst other things, driving a Ferrari across America, getting stoned on Ecstacy and living in a small country town while the second is a collection of travel articles from assorted trouble spots; the Lebanon, Northern Ireland, South Africa and anywhere else where man is currently being inhuman to man.

His style is abrasive, none the less well-written for it. In the introduction to “Republican…”, he cites his dislikes; they include “aerobics, being a pussy about nuclear power, seat belts and all tiny Third World countries that don’t have banking secrecy laws”. Meanwhile, his likes include “guns, drugs, fast cars, free love, a strong military with spiffy uniforms and Nastassja Kinski” – how could I possibly fail to like this man?

I think I prefered “Holidays in Hell”, since it seemed to be more international in outlook, while “Republican…” was a little too American for me. Both books did entertain me, however, and got the supreme accolade of being read at other times than my journey into work. Probably the best way to decide if you’ll like them is take a look at the list of likes and dislikes and see how many you agree with!

Firstly, a quick return to ‘Repo Man’, discussed last time. I shot a letter off to the BBC complaining about the hatchet job they’d done on it, and I received this reply, which is exactly the same one they printed in the Radio Times in response to a similar letter:

“It is BBC policy to remove certain words considered unacceptable from the sound- tracks of films, and in the case of “Repo Man” there were over 70 uses of ‘f…’. This work was done with the approval of the director Alex Cox, who personally found the substitution ‘flippin’ melon farmer’ surreally funny”

I remain unhappy. Clearly BBC policy isn’t fixed (as in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”) – what decides when it is acceptable? Why did the BBC bother to buy a film with over 70 naughty words in it? I daren’t think what “Blue Velvet” would sound like – “Don’t you flipping look at me!!”. Shudder.

Onto better things. I’m not a great fan of George Bernard Shaw, though I do like “My Fair Lady” [??]. I might be converted now, having seen “Arms and the Man” on BBC2 a while back – cynics might suggest that the presence of Helena Bonham-Carter and Patsy Kensit (in a dark wig) have something to do with this… Naturally, I dispute these vicious slurs, even though I have to admit that Miss Kensit in a maid’s uniform has been one of the brighter points of recent TV.

Almost as good as Annabel Croft, up to her neck in a pile of foam balls. “Treasure Hunt”, for our foreign readers, is a game show where the contestants, in a studio have to solve clues and direct a runner around a scenic stretch of British country- side, to try and find the prize. The program has taken on a whole new interest since Anneka Rice left and was replaced as the runner by Annabel Croft, former number one British ladies’ tennis player (and thus, about 581st in the world). She adopts a Dr Who assistant approach (pre-Bonnie Langford) – running about a lot and screaming. This is what they (or at least, I) want. The director seems to have the right idea – barely a week goes past without Miss Croft getting wet…

A letter from Dave Goodfellow asks for a beginners guide to trash films. I’d be interested to hear how everyone else got into them – personally, three things got me involved : my parents’ purchase of a video, seeing ‘Re-Animator’ at the cinema and reading the “Incredibly Strange Films” book. As for suggestions, most of the films in Incredibly Bad Films would do – ‘The Hitcher’, ‘Return of the Living Dead’, ‘One Million Years B.C.’ and ‘The Hidden’ (when it appears!) would also do and should be easyish to get hold of. Anyone have any other thoughts?