Death Becomes Her – Love, Death and the Internet (And Interesting Combinations Thereof)

It’s not just Gary Glitter who discovered that a) the Net was there to cater for all sorts of whims and b) you should definitely do any hard disc repairs yourself. As the availability of PCs and web-access increases ever more, people with fetishes they consider less than normal (a relative term if there’s ever been one) are discovering they’re not alone, and that the Global Village contains maybe just a few like-minded yokels. And no, we’re not talking about people who value interesting views through coffee tables here. Now that really is weird.

Games of ‘bang-bang-you’re-dead’ played a part in many childrens’ early days, and while in these post-Michael Ryan times it’s a form of recreation now on a par with the dodgier version of doctors and nurses (you know, the one where they shag, rather than complain about lack of staff and funding), it’s no surprise that for a small minority this informed embryonic sexualities. Before the Net this would have resulted in a few solitary people who considered themselves stranger than most, mainly men who got off on tiny parts of Argento films, or women who imagined being discovered sprawled dead while covered in gold paint. But now there is worldwide communication; there is the discovery (as with many of the self-perceived extreme fetishes) that people are not alone. And, yes, there are the websites.

The Death Fetish has a variety of representations, depending on a wide range of factors. It’s difficult to make absolute statements about any of the people involved, and pinning them down to definite demographics is nigh on impossible. Yes, most of the women involved in the scene fantasize about being dead, but for every one who wants to be hacked apart by a mask-faced serial killer, there’s another who just wants to be discovered after some fatal domestic accident and then lovingly fucked by a partner. And yes, most of the men want to be the killers, but for every one who wants to gently asphyxiate a naked woman, there’s another who gets his rocks off from machine-gunning a jacuzzi full of bikini models. The Death Fetish is a particularly large umbrella, and those sheltering beneath it often have more differences than things in common, which makes for an interestingly divisive community with more flames than the Outback in the dry season.

The Web content of all this began in the mid-90s, with a newsgroup comprised of a few souls who’d managed to discover their crucial similarity. In 1996 the first actual website was formed – Necrobabes – run by a Washington-dwelling woman named Vicki. Had she not been brave enough to not only start the site but put up images of herself in various death poses, it’s possible this trend would have (ahem) died here. Certainly it gave her an accessibility – this was a real person practicing what she preached, rather than a website being set up by an opportunistic adult company – which gave people the courage to pay up and become members. It also meant that Vicki’s job and marriage were put at risk, and that she became the focus of much unwanted attention from men who define their ideal relationship as one in which the partner dies at the click of the fingers. Somewhat unsurprisingly, although Necrobabes continues to go strong, Vicki’s role is now considerably more background.

As its name might suggest, the Necrobabes site was founded for those into fantasy Necrophilia. Vidcaps of movie morgue scenes were popular, stories were written and shared, the message board got bigger, and eventually photostories were commissioned with glamour models and ‘adult entertainers’ hired to pose. The IRC chatroom for the site became a popular place to come and play. Or indeed vice versa. But Vicki was also into the fantasy of being killed (her pre-Columbine website details fantasies of being killed as a spy or soldier, Native American massacres, workplace gun sprees and so on) and as this aspect started to appear in Necrobabes, the dynamic began to shift. Many who’d been dissuaded by the fantasy Necro aspect (that joke about ‘some rotten **** splitting on me’ is never far away, is it?), or who simply just fantasised about killing, were suddenly attracted, and as the Necro aspect itself became less prominent, the membership increased massively.

This is where interests began to diverge, and resulted in the creation of a number of spin-off sites. For a start, those more into what happened after death than the act of killing itself began to feel they were being left behind. If they were lucky, a photoset had some handling or stripping after the death, but that was about it. In the other camp, few were happy with the deaths themselves, which is where it became clear that while many there were into roughly the same thing, they were different enough for it to cause problems. For example, shooting has its fans – unsurprising, seeing as many were turned onto this fetish by scenes in 70s’ cop and spy shows (Kojak and The Man From Uncle often quoted inspirations) as well as war movies and Bond. Knifings are a close second (all those hack-n-slash 80s films), with asphyxia not far behind. To this add the other interests: decapitation, electrocution, cannibalism, death-by-shark, and it’s soon clear that although as an abstract concept the Death Fetish is shared by a group of people, the specifics vary wildly. And even then we’re not through: the shooters will disagree wildly over where to shoot (head-shots or stomach hits?), the stabbers aren’t sure what weapon to use, and there’s no consensus about whether a body’s eyes should be open, or the tongue hanging out.

Naturally enough, no one wants to be linked to this fetish. Everyone’s there under assumed names, and attempts in recent times to make the memberships more accountable (to prevent anonymous posters sparking flame wars) have been resisted simply because they might make it possible to trace people. It’s interesting to note that the phenomenon is acknowledged beyond these websites. A recent Cosmopolitan interview with a Hollywood madam spoke of a successful male actor who pays to have sex with call girls who have to play dead the entire time. There have been suggestions that singer Sheryl Crow might have leanings in this direction, with her cameo in The Minus Man ending in death, Tomorrow Never Dies lyrics (‘Darling I’m killed, I’m in a puddle on the floor, Waiting for you to return’) and several Necro poses in videos, though it’s all circumstantial and – in the main – wishful thinking. Even the work of some directors has come in for scrutiny, with suspicions that B-movie man Andy Sidaris has indicated Death Fetish leanings in many of his boobs-out Bond parodies.

Even in the brightest of times, there’s a sense of guilt lurking in the background of the message boards and stories. What had started off as a single woman’s interest has been taken over by the male membership and they’re not entirely sure what to make of it now they’re the majority. One of the most common postings is that ‘we respect and love women’ although you would argue that fantasizing about killing and then screwing someone is registering rather low in both areas. Many of the stories (both textual and photo) have the victims drawn as hookers, femme fatales, drug dealers, spies or bad girls, so that the murder aspect has an aspect of justice which absolves these feelings. Whenever the real world looms into these fantasies, the responses are always the passionately-stung reactions of the guilty-minded. For example, Columbine resulted in near radio silence on the boards for weeks after, and the presence of accounts/links about real world deaths (actual crime scene images, for example, or Jill Dando’s death, or shot policewoman Yvonne Fletcher) results in the sort of flaming not seen since London of 1666. There was, however, worse to come.

With mainstream film and TV coming under ever-increasing fire (excuse the pun) for any violence they portray – especially with George W jumping on the bandwagon pre-election – and moves to restrict material on the Internet all the time, obtaining new material is becoming difficult, and serving to strengthen the feeling within the community that society is Clearly Against fantasies like this. Twenty years ago shows such as Mike Hammer or even Hart to Hart were a source of furtive delight to those into aspects of Death Fetish. Now, the enthusiasm which greets the report of a moment in Xena or X-Files indicates how rare these sequences have become. Indeed, it’s the ‘if you want something done, do it yourself’ dynamic this created which has led to a number of the sites working to make such moments easier to find. Several contain MPEG libraries of death scene clips, from the swimming pool massacre of Magnum Force to death-by-broadsword in Hercules, while others have utilised the power of the PC to provide images created entirely by computer graphics, or custom scenes filmed using a combination of both old and digital techniques and then distributed electronically.

It was in late 1999 that police raided and arrested two Canadian brothers who had been filming scenes for sale through their own website. Their technique – the digital alteration of frames of custom-filmed footage – had created some incredibly realistic death scenes, and the site was doing a good trade in them. The raid was supposedly actioned when rumours of snuff movie making arose (despite several clips using the same model!), but this then mutated into charges of Hate Crime against women when the initial reasons fell apart. As accusations of police harassment were bounced around, the brothers found publicity deliberately being brought to bear on them such that family and friends were all made aware of what the police felt they’d been doing. Ironically, the server was located in the States and so – protected by freedom of expression laws – couldn’t be shut down, allowing this ‘evil’ site to get ever increasing hits as news spread. It’s not quite accurate to say that you can’t buy that kind of publicity; it just costs your entire social life.

Most interesting to note however was the Death Fetish community’s reactions to this attack against one of their number: it resulted in the sort of embarrassed silence you normally associate with a fart in a lift. Although a few people (largely people in charge of similar sites) started talking about Freedoms and Amendments, what became clear is that the strength of interest in pretend death is matched only by the sheer horror of being revealed as interested in it. It’s not often you get to see someone else experiencing your worst nightmare first hand, and the incident dominated all the sites for months. Even now, well over a year later, there’s a muted quality to what used to be boundless enthusiasm, and a suspicion of the future and all it holds. It gives a good idea of how much these people view themselves at the extreme-taboo end of the Fetish spectrum. Certainly it’s something you wouldn’t bring up in conversation (“Hi babe, fancy coming back to my place and lying on the bed with ketchup coming out of your mouth?”), and even those involved who are married or in stable relationships have rarely told their other half for fear of how it would be perceived.

Of course, being based on the Net presents that central dilemma; of wanting to have new blood (okay, so we won’t even ask for forgiveness on that one) but not wanting to be found out; a best-kept secret that you want more people to know. It’s ironic that something with its roots in games that many of us played is now seen as very, very wrong, so totallyevil. One’s tempted to suggest that the anti-violence moves in present day society are reaching further than we suspect, such that now even the thought of it is wrong. Alternatively, it could be that anti-misogynist measures are finally finding the right people and all their freedom of expression stuff is just guff. Who’d ever have thought that ‘bang bang you’re dead’ would ever get so complicated?

[“William Blake”]

Links

Cereal Killers

There was a time when breakfast cereal was a simple affair, and the endorsements were just as plain. You had Rice Krispies, with their trio of noise-making munchkins; the cuddly Tony the Tiger and his Frosties; and Corn Flakes, which has a pop-art rooster, surreal enough to make you wonder precisely what it was that made Mr. Kellogg rise and shine. But a recent stroll through the supermarket here revealed that cereals have become a good deal more…well, hardcore. Needless to say, TC sallied forth with an armful of the best, and bravely risked hypoglaecemia to bring you the following test results.

The Big Unit Breakfast
Sugar content: 37%
Best ingredient: Pyridoxine Hydrochloride

Randy Johnson is the star of our local baseball team, the Arizona Diamondbacks, and is known as the Big Unit, a somewhat obvious name given he measures up at 6’10”. He’s known for an intense demeanour, and has been voted the best pitcher in the league, three years in a row. Despite this, and a glower on the box stern enough to turn milk sour, his cereal is a meek-looking creature, being small and blandly O-shaped – shouldn’t it be K’s? [Explanation for British readers: baseball strike-outs, at which Johnson is the undisputed master, are known as K’s]

Their fine taste and excellent crunchy texture – even after soaking – thus came as a pleasant surprise. Admittedly, I’m not sure how much of it was due to the fact that we’d run out of regular milk and had to use diluted condensed milk instead. Attempts to replicate the experiment later with normal semi-skimmed failed, as the kids had already consumed the rest of the test subject. Which I guess is something of an endorsement in itself.

The cereal also provides a good workout, as from about half-way down, you have to expend serious effort, chasing the damn things round the bowl. I believe the baseball term for this is “a nasty slider on the corner of the plate”. [Explanation for British readers: a slider is a type of baseball pitch which…er, don’t worry about it – there will be no more obscure baseball jokes in this review] The box offers an opportunity to purchase an exclusive Big Unit T-shirt and hat; not very exciting, but some of the proceeds are going to help the homeless – and looking at the shirt, you’d probably have to be homeless to want to wear it. Still, Randy never claimed to be a fashion icon. Packaging D, Visual Appeal D-, Flavour B+

Sting
Sugar content: 42%
Best ingredient: Partially hydrogenated vegetable oil

In all likelihood, this will be coming soon to a remainder aisle near you, given the recent conversion of the WCW into a patsy for one member or another of Vince McMahon’s clan. But the mere presence of a breakfast cereal is perhaps symptomatic of the cancer which eventually ate the federation up. Never mind merchandising tie-ins, they failed to focus on basics, including the fact that stars such as Hulk Hogan were well past their sell-by date. Veteran wrestlers are fine when they’re good – the Hulkster was palpably not.

So what about the cereal? Much the same, I’m afraid. The early signs are good, the words “cocoa frosted flakes” promising an intense sugar rush, and it turns the milk an intensely chocolate shade in short order. But the taste… Whatever it is, chocolate doesn’t appear to be involved: reading the ingredients, I see “cocoa (treated with alkali)”, and it would appear as if rather more of the latter than the former made it into the finished product.

Indeed, as I write this, I notice on the bottom of the packet the words, “100% Recycled Paperboard”, and can’t help wondering if that figure includes the actual cereal as well as the packaging. You can also get it in Goldberg flavour (similar, except without the chocolate), but I imagine our packet of that will be stored away in a safe place. Five years down the line, we’ll hopefully be able to auction it on Ebay (“mint – in original box”) to some collector, and make our money back. Packaging C, Visual Appeal B-, Flavour E+

The Powerpuff Girls
Sugar content: 30%
Best ingredient: Carbon dioxide

If it came to a steel cage death-match, there’s no doubt that Blossom, Bubbles and Buttercup would take down those noisy pixies, Snap, Crackle and Pop. The merchandising monster behind the Cartoon Network’s biggest stars rumbles steadily on, with this double-barrelled sound machine, which takes Rice Krispies to the next dimension. These don’t only pop in the bowl. By incorporating Pop Rocks (a.k.a. Space Dust) – in colours which somehow manage to be both garish and pastel simultaneously – they also pop during actual consumption. This provokes some interesting scientific questions: how do they distinguish between milk in the bowl and saliva in your mouth?

Nutritionally, this is probably the most dubious of the three, with any dietary benefit being outweighed by the additional candy elements. One also wonders whether your stomach would explode if you ate too much, though the ratio is low enough that you’d probably keel over from a Krispie overdose first. Tastewise, they’re not significantly different from regular RK’s, since the Pop Rocks seem to have no taste of their own.

Nice box though, brightly coloured, and with the shiny patch at bottom left an attention-grabbing beacon. It is also the only one of the three to offer any non-commercial activity, with a comic-strip on the back and a couple of puzzles, as well as a code for the EETandERN website (www.EETandERN.com); in this case, “2JM2-NQMK-K9R2-798”. Packaging B+, Visual Appeal B, Flavour C-

Meet the Peeps

“More, faster, sugarier, marshmallowier!”

Strolling through a dollar store here in Phoenix, earlier in the week, my attention was drawn to a stack of brightly-coloured boxes. On closer inspection, they contained uber-cute marshmallow chicks, almost fluorescent in their artifical yellows and blues, oozing succulent sweetness from every centimetre of their lovableness, right down their little edible-wax eyes. This was my first encounter with Peeps.

But certainly not my last brush, for come Easter, they are omniprescent as Cadbury’s Creme Eggs are in Britain. At that time, they are the biggest non-chocolate confectionery item in the United States, and while efforts have been made to extend the range to other times of year, with Christmas trees, pumpkins and hearts, it is at Easter that Peeps really come into their own, both as chicks and bunnies.

“You bite their heads off,” informed Chris helpfully. I was aghast. How could anyone be so cruel to something so innocent, cute and adorable? Particularly when made by a company with the decidedly double-edged name of Just Born [I later discovered that the company was called this, not as some kind of sick joke, but after its founder, Russian immigrant Samuel Born.] But biting their heads off is not by any means the worst fate that can befall a Peep.

Certain twisted individuals, in the name of “science”, have performed animal experiments on both avian and rabbit varieties. Popping them in a microwave is the most common method of testing, causing them to blow up to a grotesque parody of their former selves. Liquid nitrogen, bricks and lasers have also been used in this senseless torture. I was, however, more than a little worried to discover that peeps are insoluble, not just in water, but in sulphuric acid, which does beg the question – what the hell happens to them in your stomach?

Nutritionally, they are intense. Although they are pleasingly free from fat, they are pretty good at leading to fat, with each Peep being 32 calories of sugar-blitzed madness – and you can never just eat one. For some, even an entire packet isn’t enough. Now in it’s fifth year is an annual ritual called the Peep-Off, where participants compete to see how many they can cram down in thirty minutes – plus a five-minute post-Peep period where vomiting will disqualify a competitor (or at least, “If you puke, you have to eat the puked Peeps to stay eligible,” according to the organiser). The record is a frankly-disturbing 88.

There’s no doubt that Peeps have been big business, ever since 1953, when Just Born took over another sweet-maker, Rodda, and began streamlining their process for Peep-making. Nowadays, their factory in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania is capable of turning out 3.8 million of the little critters a day, with some six hundred million being sold over the Easter period. The process takes six minutes from the first squirt of marshmallow, throgh the dotting of the eyes, to the last rustle of the cellophane.

Why it’s such a hurry is a mystery, given they have a shelf-life of two years, and it’s estimated that one in five consumers prefer them stale, with some even liking them frozen solid. Roast, or used as a pizza topping are other ‘unusual’ possibilities. More generally, yellow Peeps are the most popular, followed by pink, lavender, blue and white.

While Just Born have a fan-club, it’s the unofficial devotees who are perhaps the most interesting, with the cult of the Peep continuing to grow. The Internet has provided an outlet for all manner of individuals, from the sublime to the ridiculous – even the NASA web site has Peep content. Art, science, cuisine – there’s almost no area of popular culture Peeps have not touched, though they have yet to achieve the level of movie product-placement as Twinkies – despite the efforts of some Netizens.

Speaking of which, like Twinkies, they remain an almost exclusively American product, though an attempt was made to introduce them to Britain in 2000. As part of the promotion, Just Born ran a website survey to find out “which notable British personality best illustrates the Peeps character and style.” The winner was Benny Hill, with Sir Elton John in second place. I confess I would be interested to discover whether the latter swells up to four times his size in a microwave oven…

Selected Links

The Trash City World Cup, Part 4

The Final: Germany vs United States

Readers with long memories may recall that these two teams met each other before, back in the group stages, when America came out on top. However, past performance is no guarantee of future success, as they say (very quickly) in the best financial product advertisements. For the group stages were based on nothing more scientific than a quick finger in the proverbial, see which way the flag runs up the gut feeling. Or, to put it another way, I guessed.

Now, however, after the tense excitement of the semis, I feel that a more quantitative method is required. So what we have are six categories, which are all important facets of the trash experience. In each of these, we will pit the finalists together, like giant rubber-suited actors in a mid-60’s Japanese monster movie, and see who comes out on top. We will use a boxing-style scoring system i.e. the winner gets ten points, and the loser gets zero to nine, depending on their contribution.


Sex
How beautiful are their women? Some correspondents chose to question Germany’s strength in depth in this area, but this objection was rejected by the jury i.e. me. Don’t forget, I went to Hamburg not so long ago [look, it IS all written up, I just need to scan in the pics to illustrate it], and so can state that Misses Kinski, Schiffer and Habermann are merely the tip of a large, cute iceberg. However, we did accept the following impassioned plea:

reneeoc

How can any nation rank high on the International Babeometer Scale when the ‘Pro-Lifer licking sperm off a dog turd’ impersonator Steffi Graf can become such an object of obsessive lust to her countrymen that one of them is prepared to perforate the porcine Monica Seles to demonstrate the depths of their deranged desires?

Clearly some strength of feeling there. However, the same contributor rather blotted his copybook by going on to list Renee O’Connor — that’s the ugly one out of Xena: Warrior Princess (right) — as one of the reasons why America should win. Rather shot yourself in the foot there, didn’t we? A disturbing tendency in American towards teeth, tans, and tits means that victory in the first round goes to Europe

GERMANY 10, United States 8


Food
The main problem in this area is one of proving origin. The archetypal American meal consists of hamburger and French fries — whose names would suggest they are German and (fairly obviously) French respectively, but this may be some kind of cultural myth. They may just have been invented by Messrs Hamburg + French. I don’t know, I just eat the freakin’ stuff, after all.

Let’s just rely on gut feeling here as to such matters. Pizza is American, and we’ll give Germany the benefit of Black Forest Gateau (or Schwarzwalder Kirschtorte, to give it its proper name — one of the few words I remember from O-grade German, along with “Kugelschreiber” — ball-point pen…), though we could argue either of these are being about as authentic as Vindaloo. The relentless nature of German cuisine (1001 interesting things to do with sausage) gets even to this hard-core carnivore, though America is penalised for being the origin of “health” food.

UNITED STATES 10, Germany 9


germany2

Drink
Not so long ago, this one would have been a foregone conclusion, with Germany romping to victory through the contribution of Bavaria alone. However, this is no longer the case, as America is slowly discovering the delights of real beer, as opposed to gnats piss cooled to the approximate temperature of liquid helium. Some of these are good. Very good. Indeed, probably good enough to challenge the best of the German beers. Patchy distribution of these is definitely a problem, and the consistency of the Bavarians, thanks to those fabulous purity laws, is unbeatable.

However, a bonus point to the Americans for taking the soft drink and raising it up to an art form. You don’t get Coke, you can get it with or without caffeine, sugar, or colour, and in “Original” or “New” varieties. And then there’s Jolt Cola (quadruple the caffeine, and twice the sugar, or thereabouts), to be found in discerning 7-11 stores up and down the land. Given it’s just past 2am, I could do with a bottle here right now.

GERMANY 10, United States 9


Movies
Wim Wenders, Werner Herzog, Jorg Buttgereit and Fritz Lang — strange bedfellows, but they are the ones whose names comes to mind when I think of the German film industry. Wenders deserves respect as the only director to work with Nastassja more than once, Herzog as pretty much the only director to work with Klaus more than once, Buttgereit for producing some of the grossest yet thought-provoking films in cinematic history, and Fritz Lang for ‘Metropolis’. Not bad, but…

You have to plough through a lot of half-heartedly trashy efforts to find true trash in the US. However, it is out there as witnessed by, for instance, this website [sadly no longer active, ten years later, so I removed the link] which specialises in women in peril (and wet T-shirts) movies. The custom videos are quite intriguing: supply a script, and for about $20 a minute, they’ll stage it — and admittedly then flog the tapes, but you do get a dollar for every one they sell. In the light of such…entrepreneurial imagination, it would be hard for any country to stand up, and that is aside from the vast slew of independent film-makers beavering away these days.

UNITED STATES 10, Germany 8


Music
On the popular level, America wins hands down, largely by sheer weight of numbers — great though Kraftwerk are, they aren’t quite sufficient to stem the tidal wave, of Papua New Guinean proportions, which is the past forty years of American rock ‘n’ roll. Oh, there is more to it than that; I would personally point to KMFDM and Rammstein as being easily the match of your average Yankee band, although I will probably get shot if I fail to mention Kim Deal at this point.

However, it is in the realm of straight-faced absurdity that the Germans truly excel, and just about manage to pull off a stunning victory. Take the Eurovision Song Contest, for example: back in 1982, it was Nicole, with ‘A Little Peace’, one of the most sickening pieces of driviel you will ever hear. This year, it was Guildo Horn, a post-post-post-ironic parody of all the oompah music. And Mike ‘Womble’ Batt wrote their World Cup song. Against this, all the Americans can offer is a fondness for letting celebrities massacre the National Anthem at baseball games: first Roseanne, and now Caroline In The City star Lea Thompson, in her greatest contribution to popular culture since a certain scene in All The Right Moves. Or indeed, Howard the Duck.

GERMANY 10, United States 9


jerry-springer

TV
The biggest problem with German TV is that it is, understandably but still unhelpfully, in German. And sadly, they don’t discuss Black Forest Gateau and ball-point pens often enough for me to able to appreciate it. This limits its appeal, and indeed its distribution, though things may change when digital television brings in 500 more channels to be filled…somehow. On the plus side, they are remarkably unfettered about what they show: when we came back to our apartment in Hamburg, we’d bet on how many channels we’d have to go through to find some naked flesh. The answer was, almost inevitably, no more than three.

American television comes in three distinct flavours: network, syndicate and cable, in increasing order of pleasantness. Network TV possesses all the flavour and appeal of vanilla blancmange; syndicated television has moments of charm and originality, while on cable, your are talking a free fire zone as far as concepts like ‘good taste’ are concerned. Which is precisely the way it SHOULD be — something for everyone, even if they are depraved gun-freaks with an interest in rubber. That’s a TRUE minority interest, Channel 4 please note. But you can hardly go against any country where it takes half-an-hour to channel surf, and the variety is a telling blow for the land of the free.

UNITED STATES 10, Germany 7


And the final score is:

United States 56, Germany 54

leaving the winner of the inaugural Trash City World Cup as:

The United States

Congratulations to them and their 250 million inhabitants.

And I can assure you, it will certainly be another four years before I will even contemplate repeating this little exercise. Thank you for bearing with me!

Yours, Ref Hunter J.

Thanks are due to Mal Aitchison and John Spencer, for service above and beyond the call of duty. Even if, curiously, both of them do like Renee O’Connor.

The Trash City World Cup, Part 3

The Semi Finals

After last time, 28 of the 32 teams who had taken part were elimated. Just as in the real competition, the Asian and African teams had all taken an early bath — looking at the pairings, there was still the possibility of the TC World Cup having the same final line-up too. But not everyone has been quite as impressed — witness the following email from Tom, presumably located somewhere in America:

The only reason you Scotspeople (and everyone else in the world, according to you) don’t like basketball is, you can’t play it – it takes athletic talent. I suppose non-American football is good for something: war vets with no arms can play. American games require arms, legs, and often brains.

Hmmm. The World Cup is the biggest sporting tournament in the world. More countries take part than in anything else, and the Final is the most watched sporting event. How does this compare to the NBA finals? Or the “World” Series (snigger — America and Canada!). I’ve never denied you need athletic talent to play basketball. However, the problem is that at the highest level, you almost inevitably have to be freakishly tall, and this reduces the game to a farce.

There’s also no such thing as ‘non-American football’. There is football, and there is American football. We’ve been playing the game of football since well before your Civil War, so we kinda have rights to the name. As for American games requiring brains, it that why American football scholarships have to get their results fudged so often? Oh, and “war vets with no arms” would have problems playing in goal. 😉

Right, having disposed of that little matter, on to this:

evalexx

Brazil vs Germany
To quote one reader, “In view of what actually happened perhaps Brazil should win through if only in the interests of maintaining Anglo-Brazilian relationships (or relationships with Brazilian babes?) and continuing supplies of corned-beef! However, don’t try the one that contains sweet pickle – bought by accident and fairly disgusting. Tastes more like tinned salmon (ie vinegar) with the occasional lump of turnip.

I suppose getting the pickle already WITH your corned beef would save a few seconds in preparation time, but in general, the warning above is probably somewhat superfluous. But I am also impressed by Drugstore, whose Brazilian singer performed her World Cup song (one long piss-take of England/paean to Brazil) live on Radio 1 for a room full of drunken Scots in St Etienne last week. It was ‘warmly received’.

Against this, however, we have the following in favour of Germany: “Lexx, particularly Eva Habermann (Zev). Incidentally, do you know Jorg Buttgereit is working on the new series? I’m not sure in what capacity, but this has the potential to be Trash TV par excellence. Claudia Schiffer. Okay, this one is a bit vague (spot the understatement) but I’ll call the next entry ‘Germany’s answer to Traci Lords’; I once saw a German porn film with a blonde, school uniform-clad Teuton (at this point I’ll quickly point out that although she was *playing* a school student she was about as convincing in the role as Janet Krankie – how come *she* got left out of the Scottish entry? – and that the comparison to Traci Lords is purely based on physical appearance!) whose large, but completely natural, breasts wobbled in such a mesmerising way during the more vigorous ‘action’ scenes that, for that reason alone, my heart (if not a certain other part of my anatomy) has a soft spot for Germany, penalty shoot-outs notwithstanding.”

Brazil have managed to get through this far with a limited squad, consisting of some strippers and a tinned meat — which must prove something, and it’s probably not how much I love corned beef. However, despite the callous disregard for English sensitivities (not to mention the gratuitous reference to Janet Krankie — quite put me off me kebab, that did), Germany get the nod, for strength in depth, tactical superiority and, yep, Eva Habermann.

francemay

France vs United States
The host nation always performs above standard, and here we find a nation famed for good food, good wine and good women, even if they couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery, if selling tickets was involved. [Though since they got to the final, they can probably claim that keeping all the seats for themselves worked out okay in the end…] But despite the babes – an area in which they are unrivalled: Beart, May, Adjani, Cash, Miou-Miou circa ‘Les Valseuses’ – you really have to ask very, very serious questions (this works best if you say it in an Alan Hansen voice) about their trash capacity. Even their film-makers…Besson, Jeunet + Caro, are they just too COOL? I do recall seeing a rather disturbing film called ‘SexAndroide’, but that was probably Belgian: every other gross and icky film in French seems to be.

Such worries are unlikely to pose any threat to the cultural vacuum which is America; I love the place deeply, but never cease to be amazed how tacky, shallow and banal the place is. Which is probably *why* I love it. Just spent five days in Orlando, which proved my point perfectly; our attempt to head for the coast was somewhat screwed up by bush fires, providing the local TV stations with superb opportunities to ask people incredibly dumb questions. I almost found myself wishing the firestorm would spread, just so that the po-faced panic coverage would continue. And our readers apparently agree:

I’ll pass over the scurrilous reference to J.J.L. being “fucked up” and just mention; Frederic Brown (pulp fiction writer without whom Dario Argento’s early works could have turned out rather differently – ie plagiarism free), particularly for ‘Night of the Jabberwock’. Bill Hicks (RIP), Michael Moore. Going to ValleyURL, typing in the URL of a Diana tribute site and watching the heartfelt expressions of grief turn into vacuous valley speak; “It was, you know, grody to the max when Diana, like, croaked. Totally.”. Minutes of fun for the whole family.

Well, it amused me. Works quite well with the TC home page too. But that’s not important right now. America’s problem lies not in its breadth of trashness, but more its depth, or lack thereof. A lot of stuff is *fairly* tacky, but there isn’t much that stands out of the mire. It’s a volume thing: for example, given the sheer number of films put out by Hollywood, it’s inevitable that some of them will be good — at least in a TC sense. But is this any more than the cultural equivalent of Brownian motion?

On balance though, we here at TC Towers simply don’t CARE. We cherry-pick the best stuff, and the 99% of everything which is shit just doesn’t concern us. America may have produced more of said excrement than anywhere else, but when even the remaining 1% is pitched against the charms of La Belle France, it is with much regret that we must sent Beart and Co. to the showers for a rub-down with a moist towelette. And so, we reach the final pairing:

Germany vs United States

I was going to sit and do the final now, but it’s 02:35 on Sunday morning, and I’m thus about to get even more incoherent. So, instead, I’m going to finish with the usual plea for comments, votes, suggestions and input, to be sent to the usual address, and we’ll wrap up this whole sordid affair next weekend.

Yours, Ref Hunter J.