“Superheroes – I Shit ‘Em.” by The Mighty Bastard

You know, as a superhero myself, one of the questions I’m always asked is, “Dear Mighty Bastard, what is your opinion on all the superhero films out at the moment.’ Well, it’s simple. They’re all a bunch of namby pamby whimpering blouse wearing bed wetting tree hugging old women. If they spent more time actually superheroing and less time having personal bloody crises then they might actually have some reflection about what the real world of being a super hero is all about.

Case in point – take the X-Men for instance. Yes, I’ll agree it was nicely filmed and well acted and all that malarky, but if my Super Bastard sense deceives me (which it doesn’t, as I’m so great), there was an awful lot of ‘overcoming personal problems’ in the trilogy, and even more in the bloody First Class film. For instance, if that Magneto chap and Dr X had actually met up, they would have had simply ignored each other. ‘Why?’ I hear you ask with my otherworldly Bastard Hearing. Well, the last thing you want to do at the end of the day is hear some other bugger going on about all the super hero jobs he’s pulled. There’s an in-built trigger inside every super hero which makes them bang on endlessly about all the people they’ve saved, worlds they’ve sorted out, and villains they’re punched on the conk. I recently bumped into The Amazing Bellend the other day and made the mistake of asking him how he was. It took three hours before I could extricate myself away from his bloody self-aggandisement. The truth of the matter is we super heroes are a bunch of massive egotists, and I include myself in that. There’s nothing we like better than banging on about ourselves. Like I’m doing right now. (Note to self: remember to include a bit about how bloody great I am, how much tougher than anyone else I am, and rub in the fact that I can fly to the ‘proles’ and they can’t.)

And another point – because we’re so egotistical there would never be an occasion like in Superman Reborn where we’d hang around some totty’s window wondering if we’d created a superbaby out of our super man-fat and then moping about it for hours. Chances are we’d fly right in, give her a wink, say “Get in” and then bugger off to Venus where the women have eighteen knockers and twenty seven orifices and will do it for a space quid.

The reality is there are too many super hero films out there, and they’re all full of crap. We don’t whinge, we don’t moan, we don’t suffer from identity crises and we enjoy punching bad guys in the love blobs. The ACTUAL embodiment of what a super hero really acts like is this: Take the Flashheart character from Blackadder, give him the ability to knob bullets and fly, and there you go. And the next time you see a superhero emoting on screen remember this – I can fly and you can’t, so knob off, earthling scum.


“The Tories Are Too Soft” by Squadron Leader Test I. Cles

There’s a major problem with the Conservative Party at the moment, and that’s their inability to invade Poland. I didn’t fight through no world wars to see this country taken to the dogs by what was once a strong and powerful party committed to the sterilisation of the poor and the dismantling of the north of England.

Now, I like to see myself as your average Tory voter. I own my own dungeon where the wife ties me up, straps on her jodhpurs, and re-educates me in the finer points of having a pineapple shoved up your nether regions. I own a small two-up, two down detached house at the end of a huge mansion, also owned by me, and I attended Eton with most of the chaps in government, and many of those in opposition, where we all played the biscuit game until matron came to spank us. And quite frankly, I’m worried for the future of what my old pal Lord Windowcleaner once called ‘The most reasonable excuse for a lawn mower I’ve ever seen.’ Mind you, he spent most of his life in a lunatic asylum before choking to death on a marmoset, but he had a fair point.

See, we all have to ask ourselves a fundamental question. Does this country really need the NHS, public transport, charities, and anything else which public money goes on? And by public money I mean my taxes specifically. I’m not against the welfare state – well, no actually, I AM against the welfare state. All you have to do is pick up the local copy of Pravda – by which I mean The Express, Sun, Mail, etc – to see that this country is going to the dogs because of an influx of foreign types, welfare scroungers and people of a dusky hue. And some of them don’t even have the common decency to have a dusky hue. Basically anyone who can’t speak the Queen’s English and trace their families back to the Wehrmacht is flooding into this country, leaving a burnt trail of death and destruction in their wake, lining the borders of this Sacred Isle, waving their human rights in our faces and demanding to be treated like human beings rather than the foreigners they are. And it has to stop!

Which is where the Tory party come into play. Or they would, if certain leftie types like David Cameron and Attila the Hun (hotly tipped for the next Transport Secretary) keep refusing to bring back public executions for Yorkshiremen. And I blame the so-called Liberal Democrats, with their flower-smelling ideas and skirt-wearing policies. They were fine at first. All they needed was a sniff of power and a chauffeur driven car and they were eating out of our hands like the dungaree wearing, lentil eating turncoats we always knew them to be. And now they’re still that way, except Smeggy Clegg has to rattle a few cages or the proles won’t vote for him anymore.

But I say enough of this betrayal, Call Me Dave!! Bring us back to the party we know and love. Do not disguise your monetarist, hard left, lower-class hating, reactionary ideals in liberal tree hugging verbiage. Reach into the trousers of Thatcherism, grab the love truncheon of Conservative doctrine, and slap it onto the table of Destiny!

Now you’ll have to excuse me, I’m going to have a small shed rammed up my bottom.


Why Michael Bay Is Better than Tarkovsky

I was settling down with Mrs Git the other day to watch this film called Stalker by some Russian bloke called Tarkovsky. Now, I figured the film would be about a bloke who goes around stalking birds and then gets done by some tough nut detective on the edge who’s only got 48 hours to solve his case or it’s his badge. And what about HIS rights. You’d think the way the law coddles these psychos they were a protected species. Etc.

Anyway, it turned out to be about a bunch of blokes sitting about, talking in foreign languages, and staring at stuff. And this is the fundamental reason why Andrei Tarkovsky (who can’t even spell ‘Andrew’ correctly) is a load of old rubbish when compared to the genius which is Michael Bay.

For example, in something like Transformers 2 you haven’t even got time to sit down before big robots are kicking ten barrels of metal crap out of each other. You have to wait a good twenty minutes in Stalker before anyone even gets a gun out, and then nobody gets shot. It’s not good enough.

Michael Bay knows the audience. He knows they don’t like people talking or making sense or anything like that. He knows they like big robots beating each other up. Or wise cracking cops being shouted at by people with moustaches and then making jokes about stuff which isn’t funny like in Bad Boys 2. And he’s also a dab hand at comedy. In Transformers 2 there’s a robot with a massive pair of great old metal dangling testicles. Now that’s funny. Bad Boys 2? They run over corpses and say things like “Blimey, that’s what I call a dead bloke” or something. I can’t remember. They’re all the same, anyway, which is what is so great about Michael Bay. There Will Be Blood would have been a lot better if he’d have been in charge. There Certainly Will be Blood, Mate. And Probably Car Chases As Well. And Gun Fights and Not Much Talking And Stuff.

It’s all very well for Tarkovsky to fool the people into going to see Solaris, which I figured was made in the seventies so it must have a load of spaceships and laser beams and that, but instead it had a load of things happen which I don’t understand while a planet did nothing in the background. Then he makes Mirror which, unlike the modern classic with Kiefer Sutherland in it which had ghosts and stuff in it, was about some women and a lot of water and not much else. People don’t want to see that. Maybe the Guardian reading tree hugging hippy who eats macrobiotic beef and farms lentils Lefttionista, but not the average man in the street. They want guns. They want violence. And they want racial stereotypes.

So come on Bay, sort it out. Re-make Stalker. Instead of some poncy journey about blokes standing about and looking at things, have a giant robot go into The Forbidden Zone and start kicking ten barrels out crap out of a planet and then have an asteroid crash into a prison while Will Smith says something funny about stuff. And then I won’t have to think anymore.

Say What You Mean, Hollywood

By guest writer Barry Git

One of the things that’s always annoyed me about the cinema is how come the film titles don’t reflect the actual films they’re meant to be advertising. For instance, take a look at the Dirty Harry movies. For a start he isn’t dirty at all. He’s actually quite smart. Quite Smart Harry would have been a more representative title. And then, to compound the problem, they went and made a sequel, Magnum Force, and yet at no point in the film does a tasty ice cream make an appearance. Yeah, The Enforcer did what it said on the tin, so I’ve got no problem with that, and yet by the time Sudden Impact turns up we’re fully prepared for whatever impact Quite Smart Harry inflicts on Sondra Locke’s acting. Fully Prepared Impact should have been the title, or maybe Quite Clean Harry Kills Some More People. And The Dead Pool doesn’t feature any pools that are dead, which – on the face of it – is a practical impossibility anyway, or even feature any people called Paul who are dead. There’s nothing pool related in it whatsoever. Dead people, alright, but no pools. Bloody ridiculous.

But it’s not just the Dirty Harry films which take the parson’s bellend. Now, with something like Transformers, the evidence is there on the poster. What is the film called? Transformers. What do the robots do in it? Transform? Bish, bosh, bash, job done. However, Green Lantern – what the bloody hell is that all about. Some nonce in a suit poncing about like a prize turnip slapping people with a giant green fist and basically being a bit of a wanker. No lanterns in it. Lots of green, though. More green in the bloody film than you can shake a bloody skip full of Kermit’s at, but not a bloody green lantern among the lot of ‘em. I tell you, it makes my blood boil! And it’s not even the modern stuff. It’s old stuff as well. Star Wars? I don’t recall seeing Bobby Davro and Joe Pasquale having a punch up at all – they’re the only sort of stars who matter, mate, not some poncy nobodies in black helmets and disco trousers knobbing about on spaceships.

It does my heart proud to see something like The Searchers. What do they do? They search. Anything else? Not really. Citizen Kane. He’s a citizen, and at one point he even has a cane in it, although that doesn’t turn up until later in the film but it’s there nonetheless. Boy Meets Girl? Yes, he certainly does. Of course, she does take him back to her flat and torture him for a couple of hours, but at least they actually meet. Maybe it should have been called Boy Meets Girl But Probably Shouldn’t Have.

But Mutiny On The Bounty! Do me a favour. You can’t have a mutiny on chocolate bar. That’s bloody ridiculous! Mutiny On A Ship – put your money where your mouth is, Hollywood. Stop confusing me with all your clever titles. Eternal Sunshine Of the Spotless Mind? Where? I don’t even understand that one. All I’m seeing is that bloke from Ace Ventura who made his arsehole talk poncing about with that bird off of Titanic. Doesn’t mean anything. The Confusing Film About Stuff Barry Doesn’t Understand – there’s your bloody title. Chelovek S Kino-Apparatom – that’s not even bloody English! SORT IT OUT, HOLLYWOOD!