The good news: TC20/21 should be back from the printers on Tuesday, so it looks likely that I will be sitting in front of the Scotland-Morocco match sticking envelopes and licking stamps. The bad news is that the main PC box here suffered an “upgrade” today — new memory went in, and it promptly stopped working, even when the old memory was put back. Thus I am reduced to a somewhat primitive level of functionality for this week’s editorial, and the weird news section will have to wait until things get fixed, one way or another.

If that’s not soon, it’s gonna make the task of sending out the subscriptions a little…interesting, because the current subs list which I can access was last updated, let me see, five months ago. I should still have a bunch of subs letters and stuff, but I’ll apologise in advance for any inconvenience caused. But, let’s face it, you’ve waited eighteen months for it to turn up, so what’s another week here or there going to matter?

Yes, I *know* it’s a feeble excuse, but at least it will allow me to spend hours playing Bust-a-Move 3 [the favoured Playstation game at the present moment] and watching the World Cup. It’s miraculous to find that Scotland are still in it somehow, though for 25 minutes against Norway, I felt like a certain bowl of petunias i.e. “Oh no, not again”. If you want a prediction for Tuesday night, here goes: we draw 1-1 with Morocco, Brazil beat Norway 1-0. Norway and Scotland then have to draw lots to see who goes through, and of course, we go out. Still, who cares, as long as England lose to Germany again — ideally on penalties…

Went out clubbing last night, for the first time in ages, with Rob Dyer of Dark Star [whose publication is about to take over the TC record for longest interval between issues!] and housemates Steve and Abigail. The venue in question was ‘Tenebrae’ — one wonders if it’s run by rabid Argento fans — and was…SERIOUSLY goth. I mean, like UTTERLY goth, in a “where DO these people go during the day?” kind of way. I like the Sisters of Mercy, and all, but was clearly not in the same league, being THE ONLY PERSON wearing a white T-shirt [I think there was one girl in white, but it was kind of a wedding dress thing, so doesn’t count…]

It was a TC-shirt, however — no chance for promotion left unfulfilled, me — and did lead to an interesting conversation with someone who knew the origin of the name (a Transvision Vamp song, in case you didn’t know) on the “whatever happened to them?” kind of lines. Which was one of the cool things about the club (apart from the skull cookies on entry, and the hand stamp that had clearly been nicked from a hospital and read “Patient Died: Date ________”): I had far more conversations with people I didn’t know than you would expect in a ‘normal’ club. Get past the somewhat disconcerting look, and goths are clearly a friendly lot. [Tenebrae: 3rd Friday each month, Gossip’s, 69 Dean St, London. Just don’t wear white]

Having completed TC, I now feel justified in taking some well-earned rest. I am thus winding up towards this summer’s little excursion, in which I wave goodbye to the other residents of TC Towers, leaving them in peace for a bit, while I vanish off to the Americas. This year, I’ll be crossing off a couple more bits: the south-east, in the shape of Florida, and Montreal, which I guess could wipe off all of Canada, though that seems a bit harsh. I’ve finally got a new passport, with a picture which looks SLIGHTLY more like me than the old one, though it more closely resembles my brother on Death Row in Arkansas. The tickets have arrived, and the next few days will fill in the blanks for money and insurance.

There is but one snag. I failed to look at the World Cup schedule when booking the tickets. It’s going to be bad enough trying to cope in a country where commentators still talk about “drawing a personal foul despite being double-teamed in the red zone” [hello…it’s football… not soccer…FOOTBALL], but I will be flying out on the day that Scotland play their second round match [yes, we’ll take the assumptions as read on that one, shall we]. First task on getting through immigration will be to try and find out what’s happened to

No doubt you will hear further reports in due course, but take this as warning that there will be somewhat limited updates for the next three weeks or so. Wish me luck, and serial killers permitting, I’ll be back in July…

As part of a new era of “accountability”, the BBFC have been having a series of public meeting, up and down the country, to…well, I’m not quite sure what the POINT of them was, but hey, let’s miss no opportunity to rip into our beloved censors. Thus, I found myself in the salubrious surroundings of the Institute of Child Health last Monday night, waiting to see what would ensue.

The big guns were out in force: James Ferman, soon-to-retire chairman of the BBFC, alongside Andreas Whittam-Smith, newly appointed president, whose initiative the evening appeared to be, as well as three low-life peons, sorry, BBFC examiners, allowed out of their cages for the evening, albeit still under the eagle eye of Ferman. And it was Ferman who got the evening under way, with an illustrated lecture on the work of the BBFC.

He began with the legal position, concentrating on the ban on animal cruelty material, illustrated with a spectacular montage of footage of horses being brought down by trip-wires. This was a frequent facet of the presentation, and it did seem somewhat duplicitous of the BBFC to take scenes out of context, and punch them together with rapid fire editing. It’s somewhat disturbing to see the censors using tactics which smack of those used by the campaigners against “video nasties”.

He then moved on to the various areas which were deemed to be of concern to the public at large: drug taking, imitable crime, bad language, sex and violence. This was the most interesting portion of the evening, as Ferman showed “before and after” examples, to illustrate what was done, for example to the sequence in ‘Trainspotting’ where Ewan MacGregor shoots up, which was trimmed to prevent people from learning how to inject heroin [the question was not addressed of whether it might be better for people to learn how to do it RIGHT, rather than get it wrong…]

Particularly interesting was the start of ‘Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves’, which begins in jail with a guy getting his hand cut of by his captors. In the US version, we saw the lead-up, with the victim cowering and yelling in terror, having his arm held down, the sword coming down, and the severed limb being pulled away. In the British cinema version (certificate PG), all the lead-up was missing, we got the sword coming down, and the severed limb. However, that was still deemed too much, after a flood of complaints (more on which later), it became the sword descending and the guy being taken away in the video edit…

It was disturbing to realise that the aforementioned “flood” consisted of no more than forty letters. That’s all it takes to influence the BBFC on a subject; I don’t think I really need to say any more, it should be obvious what you need to do the next time the Daily Mail is shrieking over the latest threat to the nation’s morality [isn’t it funny how they never do follow-up pieces, exposing the corruption caused by films like ‘Natural Born Killers’ or ‘Crash’? I wonder why…]

The “sexual violence” chunk showcased another chunk of editing, opening with a long sequence taken from anime schlock masterpiece ‘Kekko Kamem’. I think the three of us there were the only people giggling, but then, everyone else made the fatal error of taking it SERIOUSLY. Putting it just before ‘The Accused’ gives KK rather more credit than it deserves, I think.

Though the audience was definitely pro-choice, perhaps inevitably, there was a loony censorship advocate there, but even Ferman had to laugh when she described a love scene for ‘An Officer and a Gentleman’ (certificate ’15’ here) as “hard-core pornography”. I dread to think what she thought of the clip from ‘Highlander 3′, shown to illustrate the difference between ’15’ and ’18’ sex. Her brain probably spontaneously combusted.

The points to come up were pretty much the ones you would expect, but the entire topic is one which could, and indeed probably should, have gone on for an entire day, rather than a mere evening. About the only surprise is that people seem genuinely aggrieved at the lack of information on video releases, which I always thought people didn’t really care about much. To their credit, the BBFC representatives did seem to be their to listen, and I hope they came away with an appreciation of how much most of the people present objected to being told what they could and couldn’t watch.

They handed out a lot of informative leaflets, explaining their stance, and I also got a copy of the guidelines for film certificates (if anyone wants a copy, get in touch and I’ll sort it out). I’ll close by listing the categories of bad language, into which they classify swear-words:

• Very mild – damn, hell, God, sod
• Mild – bloody, bastard, piss, pissed, shit, son-of-a-bitch, bugger, bollocks, screw, crap, arse, shag, slut, whore, arsehole, tosser, Jesus Christ
• Moderate – wanker, prick, bitch
• Strong – fuck
• Coarse – stronger sexual swearwords are described as ‘coarse’

Now, why is “bitch” moderate, but “son-of-a-bitch” only mild? Answers on a postcard, please…

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…