The Future of the British Film Industry by Fotherington Blimey, Film Historian

A lot of time has been wasted in the tabloids lately about the axing of the UK Film Council and what this will mean for the British film industry, especially considering the success of The King’s Speech, which was partly funded by the UKFC.  Some, like Alex Cox, say it will be no great shakes to the industry as the funding body appeared to be mainly there to support major Hollywood product and costume dramas, while others say JESUS CHRIST, DANNY FACKING DYER!!

Sorry.  This was going to be a thought piece about how the future of the British film  industry may or may not be in jeopardy because of the cuts to funding, but every time the words ‘British film industry’ enter my head, all I can see is the great gurning face of mockney sparrow Danny Facking Dyer and his comedy cockney chimminey sweep cor blimey guvnor accent echoing through my head as he gurns and blimeys his way through another mockney role, and then fucks off into the next Brit Flik which probably caused the ConDems to cut the UKFC funding in the first place.  The fact that the majority of these films aren’t even funded by the UKFC doesn’t matter – anything anyone can do to destroy the UK film industry can be reason enough to stop the inevitable rollercoaster that is Danny Facking Dyer getting his barrow boy bollocks onto the screen once more.  Jesus, he’s even got an autobiography out called ‘Straight Up’ because, y’know, he’s a typical cockney mockney geezer and not like all the rest of them luvvies, like, because he drinks pints and supports West Ham and probably eats jellied eels as he does the Lambeth Walk around Buck House.

When challenged about any film he’s been in that was any good whatsoever a colleague of mine mentioned Severance, but I would argue that’s a good film DESPITE the appearance of Danny Facking Dyer.  And the cast and crew commentary are even fucking worse, as Monsieur Mockney bandies his way through a tedious slew of cheeky chappie banter, hinting he was a bit tasty with the old narcotics in his time, cor blimey, guvnor, apples and pears, chim chimminey BOLLOCKS SHITE!!

He’s probably a lovely person when you meet him.  As for the man himself, I cannot comment.  Although it doesn’t help when he goes on Britain’s Hardest Pigeons and cor blimeys his way through another load of old trough.  Or when he turns up on I Believe in UFOS and shows himself to be a man gullible beyond extreme.  The best part is when he meets Patrick Moore, spends about 4.2 seconds asking him about UFOs, and then starts banging on about how Patrick’s sitting down, watching the cricket and drinking some wine like a proper English gent, cor blimey, me old trouser cockney lumme o’crikey blimey.  Then he meets some people who tell him crop circles are really real and all that, honest guv and no mistakin me old chimney sweeping Victorian prostitute murderer, and he believes them.  And then meets up with some other people who tell him that crop circles aren’t real, lumme crikey norks a lawdy, and he believes them as well.  Which left the impression that if you dangled a paper plate in front of his luvvaduck eyes and told him it was the Martians there might be a good chance he’d believe you.

However, if you think about it rationally, Danny Facking Dyer is merely the mockney equivalent of the quota quickies they used to churn out in the 20s and 30s.  Forced to turn out a certain percentage of films by the Cinematograph Films Act of 1927 British production houses tossed off a load of sub-standard filler which were subsequently forgotten about, and Danny Facking Dyer films are basically the same.  Say, you reckon what the cinema going public really need right now is another film about, ooh, maybe some gangsters who go about being a bit tasty in a loveable mockney manner, cor blimey, and you need a name above the title to get some funding.  Who better to fill that role than everyone’s favourite cheeky monkey, Mr Facking Dyer, as he Pearly Kings his way through another sub-standard role winking at the camera, offering a cheeky mockney smile and talking in that fucking idiotic atrocious ‘Bwimey, me owld geezer matey, lumme’ fucking witless mockney twitter which can only be attained by a lifetime of being stuffed up chimneys and hanging around with rakish scamps as they steal the pocket watches of fops and their blousey women.

There is a phrase in the film industry called ‘Doing a Dyer’.  This means to take on any work that comes your way under the impression it’ll all dry up in the future and you’ll be left rolling around in your own filth, wracked with horrific memories of being a bit cockney in some old shite you barely read the script for, haunted for the rest of your life with the stark, terrifying reality that the endless stream of bollocks you’ve spewed forth into the collective unconscious can only come back to haunt you, and that the only repudiation from this soul sucking agony is to ignore it, screaming into your reflection in the mirror as you realise with horrifying uncertainty that you have denigrated all human life as we know.  It used be called ‘Doing a Michael Winner.’

Actually, that’s harsh.  Let’s face it, all he’s really done is turned out a few films, starred in a few plays, and presented a few TV programs, all in an irritating mockney accent.  There’s plenty of worse actors out there (thank you Rosie Wankington-Shyteworthy, the bint from Transformers 3) and it’s not like his films are as insidiously popular as anything that arse of a mullet-wearing-cyborg Michael Bay churns out.  It’s not like anyone actually goes to see his stuff anyway.  In a way, he’s probably acting as a decent weather vane in what to avoid.  “Ooh, Dead Cert sounds like a good B-movie horror pic, what with it’s combination of gangsters and vampires.”  “Yes, but it has Danny Facking Dyer in it.”  “Blimey, better avoid that one, then.”  So, in a way, his presence in the industry is a good thing, and anyone who says he’s merely a mockney stereotype cor blimeying his way through every role is only being churlish.


Oliver Letwin Is Great and Magic and Well Skill by Brigadier Richard Splash

At the weekend Oliver Letwin, the Conservative minister for Being a Bit of a Bastard, released an official statement saying that public sector workers need to feel fear about their positions.  This wasn’t some sort of off-the-cuff remark made to an undercover Johnny working for the daily fishwrapper, but an on the record viewpoint for public consumption reported by the media.  The churlish amongst you might wager that this was just the sort of thing the Conservatives might say – and Oliver Letwin especially – as they have a habit of coming across to Northern types and lower class plebs as heartless, soulless, private-enterprise obsessed money grabbing shallow ‘indifferent to human suffering and the long term effects of kicking the proles up the bum by taking away all support for anyone who doesn’t own a bank’ commercially and morally redundant unfeeling bastards of the highest order who need a serious kicking by Big Arms McPunchy for systematically taking this country down the toilet to proliferate their own individual monetary rewards.  However, they couldn’t be further from the truth.

You see, in this day and age, when people – allegedly – have to ‘tighten their belts’ due to some sort of banking crises (although to be honest it doesn’t appear to have affected me or the entirely legitimate black market trade in chemical weapons and dodgy firearms I definitely don’t run) there’s not the money out there that there used to be.  As a consequence of this people are starting to worry about the future as they lose their jobs, lose their houses, lose their family, lose their minds, kill themselves, etc.  As far as I’m concerned this is just the Tories way of thinning down the lower classes so they’ll eventually have no will of their own and finally obey all orders from our Lord and Master The Grand Pubar David Donkeybollocks Cameron The Third, High Bellend of the Order Of The DaVinci Egg and Spoon Order.  Anyway, I digress.

Fear can be a great motivational factor.  Myself and my chums learnt that back in private school when the vicar, Big Knob Tony, would come and pay us a little ecclesiastical visit after lights out.  That motivated everyone to wear concrete underpants.  But the main point is we learnt from our fear.  We used our fear as a way of motivating how we perceived the world and it empowered us to try as hard as possible to make something better of ourselves after obtaining a big hefty wedge of used fifties from Daddy.  I believe this is the sort of motivational stark terror Letwin was trying to get across in his ground-breaking fear broadcast.  The public sector SHOULD be afraid, as it will make them try harder.

Mrs Splash, who, unfortunately, is one of those Northern lefty types who remains staunchly pro-social welfare – no matter how many electric shock treatments she goes through – hypothethised the idea that Letwin was talking out of his stinky ring.  “But surely this will increase stress in the job and make more people ill,” she blustered one day to me as I was reading the illustrated copy of Mein Bumfluff (Hitler’s less successful follow up to Mein Kampf which mainly involved ruminations on his Gentleman’s Butler’s entrance.)  “Surely people should be encouraged in their jobs and not be terrified whilst within them.  If you make everyone scared productivity may increase in the short term but staff turnover is more likely due to stress related injury, therefore in the long term productivity goes down as through-job skills suffers.  And not only that, Oliver Letwin is a total and utter arsehole spewing out witless drivel-related toss from a privileged position of authority nobody really elected him into in the first place anyway.  The tosser.”

I think what she was trying to say was she didn’t agree with his statement, and was even more concerned that his statement may become official Conservative policy.  I pointed out to her that it already was the unofficial policy of this ruling monocracy, and that our glorious leader has already started to kick away the crutches of the welfare state that inhibit private business so much.  After all, a greater, more Englandy England can rise from the ashes of what was once a place where northern types could exist in the hallowed halls of Parliament when they should have been up the chimneys or being used as footstools.  Let’s face it, under this Conservative Reich we’re already diminishing the effects of the so called ‘national’ health service, demonising the public sector as the work shy layabouts we always suspected they were, destroying the very foundation of the educational system which was teaching far too many people from the more impecuinious backgrounds that they deserved access to knowledge, cutting back on probation and police so more ruffians can stalk the street nicking old ladies’ underpants and selling disco biscuits to single mothers on crack, and generally laying the foundation for enough discourse and strife in everyday life that the general pleb on the toilet will buckle under our Teutonic will and call for the institution of a totalitarian state, and then finally, FINALLY, we can legalise fox hunting again and then maybe I’ll get a chance to put a load of buckshot up Johnny Fox’s bumhole!

But life isn’t all about laughs.  Quite frankly I see nothing wrong with the promotion of big business over anything else ever in the whole wide world whilst destroying the public sector through fear and misery.  They’ve had it their own way for far too long anyway, what with all this ‘helping people’ malarkey.  The only people they’re helping are those who can’t afford to buy my chemical weapons, and quite frankly that’s not on.  And if Mrs Splash disagrees then we can go and indulge in some perfectly natural conjugal rights which don’t involve dressing me up as a gibbon and then nailing my testicles to the wall.

Editor’s Note:  Brigadier Richard Splash is clinically insane.