Going on Holy-day

Going away for a week and shit like that tomorrow.

It's Easter now, so here's a religious drawing what i did do. Meantime, see you in a week me old blog-sluts.

-Robert, I need a bigger rape scene. -Ok, ok. But only if we turn your dick into slime before she kills you. -Ok, cool.

I've just watched Planet Terror... or was it 28 Weeks Later...? Hard to tell. I haven't had as mixed feelings about a film for ages. Blimey.

Ok, so it was a thousand times better than it's Grindhouse counterpart (Tarantino's ersatz Benny Hill tribute Death Proof... actually, I've just typoed that as Death Poof, which would've been miles more lurid...) However, I need to rant about it because -well- he's in it again, isn't he. (Who?) You know- him. Him! That lantern-jawed, squirrel-eyed, movie-mong, shylock twat: Fucking Tarantino.

So there I was, watching all the zombies and doing a bit a of a yawn, then smirking a bit at Tom Savini being in it, and I was actually beginning to buy into it for a moment. But, then I realised that all the dialogue was the same as Sin City anyway and all the faux movie-trailer film-within-a-spoof-film stuff wasn't anywhere near as sophisticated as -say- Kentucky Fried Movie. So I squirmed and squrimed a bit more trying to figure out what was wrong with it. And I realised that Planet Terror's bullshit level is just too high.

See, it pretends to quote, parody, pastiche and hommage stuff like the Troma studio and all those 80's Linnea Quigley movies. It even pretends to laugh along with the audience but actually, deep deep down it desperately just wants to be John Carpenter film. It's even got it's own Carpenter-esque mono-theme soundtrack. So, for a vanity project, it's all very, very bashful indeed. Why be so coy about liking Carpenter? I mean, he aint shit is he.

So, obviously this dichotomy is why they decided to gift wrap it in dogshit and give Tarantino his own rape scene.

"Come on, Quentin. It's practically your film. Why don't you play a part?"
"Do I get the girl?"
"Sure you do."
"How do I get the girl?"
"Well, during the course of the movie, you kinda fall in love. She doesn't like him at first but-"
"No. I mean how do I get the girl?"
"I don't understand?"
"I mean how do I get her? Do I tie her up or kick her or... what?"
"Erm. I dunno. I guess you kinda charm her."
"With a knife, right?"
"Um..."
"Or a gun. How about I stick a gun up her cunt and call her a bitch?"
"I don't think that's really what we-"
"Cool! I fuckin' love being the producer!"

If you want to watch something that's knowingly dreadful, dumb and fun, watch the original source material instead. Sorority Babes at the Slime Bowl-a-Rama for example, or Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers. They're exploitative, sure, but I don't ever recall the producer writing in his own rape scene for fucksake.

Easter Cards

Spring is here. Cream Eggs and lamb chops all round!

Why not celebrate with my new Easter card. £2.99 each or free if you save the jpeg to your desktop and print it off -duh!

Hello Music

(ABOVE: the little known and deeply unpopular composer, Adolf Beethoven)

Music. It's a wonderful thing, isn't it. It can make you dance or it can make you sing. It can make you cry or it can make you wiggle. It's also a marvelous new design agency.

Music is the brainchild of ex-LOVE monkeys Dave, Matt and Ant. Dave was actually one of LOVE's founders. I thought I'd mention that, as I'm plugging their agency.

Anyway, I've just been very lucky indeed to work with them this week. They're smashing blokes. I can't gush about thm enough, to be honest. Probably the nicest people I've worked for yonks. I hope we can work together again soon.

In the meantime, go and ask Dave, Matt and Ant to design things for you. Go on. I insist.

Gordon Brown's Spunk-Web

Somewhere in London, in a dim-lit room, upon a good solid matress, lies the Prime Minister, Gordon Brown.

Wearing a dark suit, and an ugly expression, some tough things have been on his mind. He's been wrestling with them now for almost three minutes.

What will the answer be? What - if anything- is the question? Only he can know. After all, he's the Prime Minister.

Finally, in soundless agony, he ejaculates on to the back of his hand, a warm lump of grey spunk, which he nonchalantly scissors back and forth between his thumb and forefinger.

With a guttural sigh, he peers at it; he stares deep into the glistening spunk-web and thinks: I'll raise the minimum wage to £5.73.