Prophecy by David Seltzer

Posted: October 19, 2017 in Books, Uncategorized

Prophecy

Prophecy by David Seltzer

A B-Movie in a book. Mutant bears chomping on campers, crazy arse beavers going mad in a cabin, and all wrapped in an ecological message about papermills polluting the environment. What’s not to love?

If anyone’s seen the film they’ll know it’s a guilty pleasure, especially the bear-monster which, in the long shots, looks like a tall actor with a big, wobbly head on. Fantastic stuff. It’s one of Stephen King’s favourite films, mainly because it IS so cheesy.

Saying that, the book’s not half bad, either, and just as cheesy. I read this before the film came out WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY back in the seventies, because I was far too young to see X rated films about unconvincing bear-monsters munching on people, and the British censors, being what they are back in the yesteryear, obviously missed the thigh-slapping hilarity of the pic. Back in those days – pre-video (Jesus, I am old!) – the only way to experience horror films was to read the novelisations, which is why my book-cases were bulging with the buggers. This was one of my favourites.

So, how does it fare after the decades have passed. Compared to some novelisations it chugs along pretty well, and the writing’s not half bad, but then David Seltzer is a pretty good screenwriter, and since he’s adapting his own screenplay he can get into the nitty gritty of the story and characters. Yes, we get some pretty cheesy dialogue about the environment, and a lot of ‘man has just shagged the arse off the planet’ style asides, but overall it clips along at a nice pace, creates a groovy sense of atmos, and there’s worse ways to spend a couple of hours.

For those on a nostalgia kick then this could be right up your alley (ooer, fnarr). It’s from the era when horror stories had a slow build – with a couple of squishy bits to keep the audience from falling asleep – before everything goes crazy apeshit bonkers.

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Not a lot to report on today. Not even the Mule can rile themselves up into enough of a bigoted fury to comment on Theresa May’s ruling that EU citizens can stay in the country, despite the best wishes of the most fervent eye rolling Brexiteer to rid the country of all foreign influence (besides which, the royal family would have to go for a start).

It’s left up to The Express to try flogging a dead horse. “Cor, lumme,” I hear you cry. “They’re not STILL banging on about immigrants and the EU, are they? Will they never learn?” But, just for a change, it’s a million mile-an-hour hurricanes the Arsepress is obsessed with now:

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Just to be even more dramatic they call it ‘a weather bomb’. It’s wind, you stupid arses! Much like the sort which comes out of Richard Desmond’s bottom whenever he has an idea.

 

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The Apprentice team line up for another episode

 

In tonight’s episode the money-grabbing tykes have to build a fortress made out of dicks and farts – ONLY JOKING! Nope, they have to do the usual witless shit. While they argue.

After being caught wanking in the shower the coiffured street urchins jump on a passing paup and head straight to London Museum of Facking Design Cants, where Bollockchops gives them the lowdown on today’s FASCINATING (note the sarcasm – see how sharp my barbs are, Shakespeare, and EAT YOUR KNOB OFF!) mud-slinging match – excuse me – task.

They have to sell robots to speccy twats – so the fackers need to concentrate on the sex-robot market – although that’s slightly scuppered by the idea that it has to be toy robots for spods.

Michaela is put in charge of Project Dicksplash (the men), who are immediately shown a dancing robot and spunk their minds with awed delight at the little mechanical man.

Jade English takes over Project (whatever it’s called – Graphite or some shit – it’s all a load of old wank anyway – the women, basically) and she picks Sarah Lynn to run the sub team. She burbles some bollocks about ‘not wanting negativity’, but you know it’s all going to go norks up as soon as they leave the office.

The task starts! BOSH! They’re in the taxi and they’re already having a bitch at Elizabeth because she’s a mouthy gobshite. The rest join in, and – WOLLOP – the spectre of a show ruled by Shouty McBastard looms over the proceedings. They haven’t even got out of the bloody cab yet!

The lads have a gander at a machine that tells them how to cook (like, you know, a cookbook would), and then they come up with great idea of making it do yoga, so James White (I think it’s him – they all look the same to me, the grease-back-haired cock biscuits) starts gyrating like John Travolta having a heart attack whilst trying to have sex with a walrus.

The women come up with a language robot, programmed in arguing pointlessly.

ROBOT PENGUIN! When the lad’s team look for a robot they come across a robot penguin and all is right with the world for a few scant seconds. They’re much more efficient than the fleshy ones and they won’t shit everywhere.

The women go for a balancing robot whilst the lads laugh, LAUGH, I TELL YOU, at a robot that delivers an orange. Fuck me, technology has moved on since the Spectrum.

Both teams go for the balancing robot but Team Blokey Scrote get it, and one of the team can ‘smell it already’. He’s probably talking about victory, but is probably talking about his own smug farts.

Team Tiny Tadge want to call their brand ‘Jeffri – your helping hand for life’ (until the batteries run out), and Team Gyno try ‘Flurn’ out, but it’s FUCKING SHITE, so they go for ‘E-bot – your interactive study buddy’, and I feel the strange urge to fall asleep with boredom and be sick at the same time.

A side note – no one on The Bloke Twats has yet seen the comedy potential of ‘your helping hand for life’.

Now it’s branding, and the women come up with a pitchboard for their Metal Mickey that looks like your mum did it on her etch-a-sketch. The men go for a name change to ‘Siimon’ (because Michaela doesn’t like ‘Jeffrii’) and scupper their time making up their pitchboard by staring at big, shiny keys, and end up with some blue writing on a black background that screams ‘I AM FUCKING CLUELESS’.

Next day and on Team Ladies the bitching goes Megatronic, as Siobhan The Square Faced Monster gets right in there with flicking the verbal V’s at everyone, ever, for fucking well existing.

Team Bloke unveil their pitchboard, and it’s utterly, hilariously, terrible. And they’ve misspelled their pitch, which now reads ‘You’re helping hand for life’, which is a bold advertising angle, I’ll admit.

Pitch time, and the robot upstages the women by interrupting, pissing about on the floor like a drunken sailor, and causing Bushra to lose her mind and talk over everyone else’s pitch. And they try and flog the little metal shits for a grand each because ‘it was a nice round number’.

Siobhan goes all passive-aggressive and IT’S ANGRY TIME AGAIN! There aren’t enough ears in the world to keep up with all this overlapping arguing, until the sub-team manager finally LOSES HER SHIT and tells the lot of them to ruddy well shut up and put their hands on their heads until they learn to grow up

Jeffrii The Robot does some tai chi moves, although they also call the robot Siimon, so basically no one knows what the fuck is going on. The business bods point out their shit pitchboard, and the sheer gall at asking them to cough up 750 a robot which tries to shag a table and doesn’t know its own name. It’ll have personality issues when it grows up!

Team Have a Bloody Argument For the Sake Of It try and pitch to uber nerds, one of which is wearing a shirt with a Wookie on it just to up the spod factor, and get the bums rush, and it’s outside for a MASSIVE ARGUMENT. They all hate each other. It’s hilarious.

One half of The Lads ditch the pitchboard and run around toy shops selling the mechanical bastards door to door, whilst the other half try and flog Jefftwat to Maplins, whilst the ladies get ready for a big slap down fight between Siobhan and Sarah Lynn, and it looks like the nunchucks are coming out. ‘I bet you’re a real joy to work with’ snarls Sarah, whilst Siobhan counters with ‘Yeah, I am’. NICE FUCKING RIPOSTE THERE, SIOBHAN! NOEL COWARD WOULD BE SHITTING IN HIS GRAVE IF HE HEARD THAT ZINGER!

Boardroom Time – Woo hoo! Bollockchops makes an uber-wank joke about ‘motherboard’ and comedy dies a little more. The pitchboard for ‘Jeffknob’ has been rescued from the bin and looks now like a knackered piece of minimalist art confronting the vagaries of commercialism in today’s society, yah?

Anyway, somehow the women’s team win again, purely through the power of hating each other (I think their orders were somewhere in the region of £57,000, whilst Team Bloke was more like 25p and a soggy biscuit), and they get sent off to kick the living shit out of each other via the form of Robot Wars. Is this episode made exclusively for nerdy virgins?

Yes.

Team ‘Can I Have My Ball Back, Mister’ are rightly knacker-slapped for trying to pitch a bloody robot to coffin dodgers and fucking around with the name, and they’re all fairly subdued in their negativity. Weird. It seems that to be a successful business shit in the world you have to be a screaming child with no morals or sense of proportion, which explains Donald Trump.
Anyway, Michaela forgets she’s not in the women’s team and starts having a go, even though she was the one who changed the name without telling the other team, and Elliot bites and claims he’s responsible for getting at least 5 grand out of the gullible twats out there. Elliot and Harrison get dragged back into the room by the short and curlies.

Crunch Time: Bollockchops – joke – “I’m the Terminator and one of you won’t be coming back” – fuck off, Sugar, you interminably clueless bellend. A lot of flannel as a confused old man with the visage of some knackers burbles incoherent catch phrases he’s learnt over the last 12 series, and Elliot ACTUALLY whines when he’s accused of being a lying scrote.

At the end of the day, Bollockchops does his usual fannying about before firing Elliot for something or other – does it really matter?

Next week: Spamming a short, bald man on the head for profit. ONLY JOKING (again). Laying on a VIP hospitality box (fnarr) in Wembley. Should be predictable.

Today we have a good example of why the tabloids seem intent on breeding stupidity within their own limited environment. Hark, weary traveller, and let me bastard well explain.

On the one hand we have The Daily Mule, erstwhile right-wing goose-stepping clang hammers*:

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Merely promoting the words of the MI5 chief, I hear you say, which is perfectly fine. Reading the bulk of the actual article shows it’s simple reportage. Yet, lurking underneath the surface, the basic message is “We can’t cope, there are terrorists all over t’web, and let’s go bury our heads under the carpet.” Which may seem like an exaggeration at first, but when you compare it with the rest of the usual Mule output then it’s merely bumping up the rhetoric that there is no safe place to hide, and it’s brown trousers for all unless the big tech giants stamp down on all the terrorism that’s on Simon’s Cat Crunch Time because even The Circus can’t cope!**

On the other hand, we get the Arsepress, erstwhile shit tickets intent on licking the far right’s knackers:

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Basically, BUY MY SNAKE OIL!

Flogging this kind of codswallop has been a perennial favourite of the Muslim hating, immigrant bashing Express journos for yonks. It’s almost like they have to try and justify the idea of all this blind bigotry, so just fling in the odd snake oil headline every now and then (usually about diabetes – fuckers are obsessed by it) to say ‘look, yeah, right, we do news. Now back to the racial ‘atred’).

But, finally, we have a paper that REALLY sums up what the UK tabloids are all about:

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Tits ‘n’ Gossip, with a piccie of a woman in a lingerie just to give the wanking spanners a workout.

Best journalism in the world, obviously…

*’Clang hammer’ – penis.
** Yes, technically ‘The Circus’ was MI6, not MI5, but I’m writing this facker and I can call it whatever I want, dammit!

The Son by Philipp Meyer

Posted: October 17, 2017 in Books, Uncategorized

the sonThe Son by Philipp Meyer

A sprawling book, taking in three generations of a family in the South. It has the blank, bloodthirsty reach of a Cormac McCarthy with the Texan contemplation of a Larry McMurtry. Not original, but soaking in atmosphere.

The writing is straight forward. No nonsense. There are passages of passion, but everything is hung on the expanse of the scenery and the contemplation of life. It’s hefty, but without the extemporisation which stop-started Hallberg’s City On Fire, but also lacking the egotistical verbiage which made Mailer so readable.

Strip away the blood, guts and intrigue and we have an Arthur Haley here – intrigue within the family; subterfuge and lies, all tied up in a soap-opera context. This is not to put the book down, because it’s incredibly well written, and manages to layer everything, no matter what, in a steady eye of disassociation to the subject at hand.

In the way that McCarthy writes pulp gussied up to be a Pulitzer, Meyer writes family dramas under the pretext of The Big American Novel, and it works. There are no revelations here beyond the standard ‘life is cruel and unthinking’, but it’s wrapped up in some beautiful passages despite the distancing style. I never felt involved in the characters, but did feel pulled into the story, and the slow dehumanisation and, for some, re-humanization of the characters.

The structure flits around between characters and decades, and the slow unravelling of each story strand leads to The Message. For anyone who’s read Americana before there will be no Eureka moment about the human condition, but it’s a deeply involving story nonetheless, and makes me want to search out American Rust, but only after steeping myself in something with passion first.

Highly recommended.

 

Where would the tabloids be without weather? Well, probably whinging about something else, but yesterday’s yellow sky and blood red moon was cause for a lot of ‘end of the world’ headlines, of which the most boggle-eyed was The Star:

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Bit more dramatic than ‘natural weather phenomenon causes natural thing to happen’.

The Scum, on the other hand, have decided to crack down on the concept of fun:

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This was probably some sort of publicity drive, because any moron knows the entire police force of Humberside wouldn’t drop everything for a bit of a jolly at the fair, but since The Sun are such a miserable bunch of whining little shitehawks, any chance to have a go a public service makes their trouser-parts tingly.

Best headline of the day has to go to The Torygraph:

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This is the newspaper equivalent of ‘yah, boo, sucks, why can’t we get our way, this is SO unfair’. It’s a teenage strop in the form of a story. It’s a big, sulking girl’s blouse of an article, jutting its lower lip out and saying it wishes it was adopted. No, you miserable dicks, the Tories have probably been denied a majority through democracy. Now, sit in the corner with your hands on your heads until you’ve learnt to understand the parliamentary system.

 

 

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Poncington contemplates the infinite, yesterday.

 

Time once again to take another journey into the world of n’s Number One laureate, Poncington von Dick.

With today’s current political upset, Poncington felt the need to step into the world of current affairs, and penned this searing missive to Donald Trump after 100 days of his regime:

“Oh, Trumpy, Trumpy, Trump,
Trumpy, Trumpy, Trumpy Trump Trump,
How, like the bottom, one doth reek,
How, like the toilet, one doth talk,
How, like the orange, one doth look.

Oh, Trumpy Numpty, one speaks of war and riches,
Yet one has tiny hands,
Like a child,
And carry the miniscule tackle of a tadpole,
So suitors need fetch their microscope to view,
It’s wiggly pulchritude.

Oh, Trumpy, Farty, Knobby, Trump,
If one speaks, the Bard shudders,
As would any girlie who got to see some of your action,
You dirty old man.
For, if one were to attempt at mating,
A bag would be required for one’s bonce.

Oh, Trumpy, Lumpy, Dumpty,
Many words are bandied about to describe your character,
Fool,
Cur,
Gimlet eyed buffoon,
But only need be used,
Bellend.”

Shocking satire, indeed.