Tuesday, October 06, 2015

There and Back

I must be getting old - today's trek to a work 'training event' and back has left me exhausted.  Time was that two changes of train getting there and two coming back - a two hour plus journey each way - wouldn't have bothered me unduly.  But by the time I got back home this evening, I was fit to drop.  Whilst the event itself was as colossal a waste of time as I'd expected, the journey there at least took me back through parts of Bristol I hadn't seen in thirty years, or so.  Whilst a lot had changed, it was surprising how much I could still recognise from my student days - much of the journey between Bristol Parkway and Temple Meades stations is still dominated by the backs of old terraced houses, all with extensions of varying shapes and sizes.  Thankfully, quite a lot of them still retain the distinctive flat roofs I've always associated with Bristol.  In another blast from the past, two of the trains I travelled on today were Class 150 DMUs - coincidentally, the prototypes of these 'Sprinter' units were just coming into service thirty odd years ago, just as I was leaving Bristol.  Back then, they were meant to be the new cutting edge of local train travel.  Nowadays, they're the equivalent of the old first generation DMUs (which had been designed and built in the early sixties) which they eventually replaced: tired looking, noisy and rattling. On days like today, I feel much the same way.

Frustratingly, despite spending most of the day on the outskirts of Weston Super Mare, I never got to see the sea - the venue was just too far inland.  It was also pretty dull - the usual tangle of roads, roundabouts and business parks which seem to make up modern towns.  The most interesting thing I saw there was the local branch of Lidl, which was proudly proclaiming the fact that they were the first UK employer to implement the 'living wage', (the real living wage, that is, not the rebranded minimum wage that the Tories are trying to pass off as a 'living wage').  To get back to the event itself, it never ceases to amaze me that in the public sector, where we've had a pay freeze for over five years and suffer constant staff cuts in the name of saving money, management still seem to think that dragging people hundreds of miles for a regional 'event' like this, with all the travelling expenses it incurs (some attendees had to travel up the day before and make an overnight hotel stay at the department's expense), is a good idea.  Personally, I can't see how the loss of a work day and all those expenses can be justified (particularly in the present financial climate) for something that lasted barely five hours and included nothing that couldn't have been delivered via email!  But I guess that's why I'm not a manager.  Roll on the day (in approximately eighteen months) when my mortgage is finally paid off and I have the realistic option of walking away from all this nonsense.


Monday, October 05, 2015

An Interlude

Whilst I was hoping to push on with my write ups of the three low budget eighties exploitation movies - which I finally got started with the last post about Derek Ford's Urge to Kill - work-related activities mean that I'll have to leave the next one until later this week as I don't have time this evening to do it justice.  Apart from work currently inconveniencing me by dragging me halfway across the country for a time-wasting meeting tomorrow, things in general seem to be improving.  Certainly my stress levels have gone down over the past few days as various of the sources of my stress have been resolved.  My apparently AWOL friend has been in touch to assure me that she's OK and that I shouldn't worry - like that's going to happen: when it comes to those I care about, I'm a born worrier, no matter how flimsy the sources of that worry might be.  Moreover, a change in some working practices have reduced significantly my workplace stress.  Consequently, the stress-related stomach problems I was suffering a couple of weeks ago have vanished completely.

Consequently, feeling more relaxed than I have since I finished my summer break, I spent a large part of the weekend enjoying some more vintage exploitation movies.  Thanks to the marvellous Talking Pictures TV (now available on Freeview) I was finally able to catch up with The Trollenberg Terror and The House on Marsh Road, both broadcast using very nicely restored prints.  Whilst the former is a Quatermass cash-in, based on a now lost early ITV serial, the latter is an intriguing and very low key ghost story.  These were followed up with Hammer's quite bonkers 1968 Dennis Wheatley adaptation The Lost Continent (courtesy of the Horror Channel), which I haven't seen in decades, before I finished my viewing with 1970s continental Witchfinder General knock off Mark of the Devil.  Although a German production, the latter was , interestingly, scripted and directed by Michael Armstrong, who, after something of a false start writing and directing Tigon's Haunted House of Horror, before the film was taken away from him, became active in seventies British sex comedies, writing and appearing in The Sex Thief and scripting Adventures of a Private Eye, for instance.  So, not only an entertaining weekend, but also plenty of material for future posts.


Friday, October 02, 2015

The Urge to Kill (1989)

For some, the world of exploitation films is merely a stepping stone to a career in mainstream film making, for others, it represents the fag end of a previously higher profile career. Many others never escape exploitation, some these, like Norman J Warren, Lindsay Shonteff or Stanley Long, for instance, embrace this world, forging successful careers there.  Others, however, resent their sojourn at the lower end of the film-making scale, feeling that they should be doing something better.  By all accounts, writer/director Derek Ford (who often wrote scripts with his brother Donald) was one such individual.  According to Simon Sheridan in his fascinating history of British smut, Keeping the British End Up, colleagues described Ford as being 'generally miserable', only showing any real enthusiasm when directing the hardcore versions of sex scenes that he regularly inserted into the foreign release versions of his films.  Apparently harbouring ambitions of working in Hollywood, Ford started as a screenplay writer in the early sixties, notching up credits for various Compton films productions, along with a number of TV scripts for high profile shows like Armchair Theatre and Z Cars. Perhaps the high point of this phase of his career was the screenplay he and his brother provided for the 1965 Sherlock Holmes movie A Study in Terror.  But with the dawn of the seventies, Ford found himself fully immersed in the world of exploitation, making his directorial debut with 1970's Groupie Girl, one of three sexploitation flicks he directed that year for producer Stanley Long.

Throughout the seventies and into the early eighties, Ford's output, both as director and writer, was prolific, and included two movies he directed in Italy.  Most of his films were at the 'upper' end of the sexploitation market, including the likes of The Wife Swappers, The Sexplorer and Sex Express, and proved very profitable.  But by the late eighties, with the traditional British sex film (not to mention the rest of the British film industry) on its last legs, Ford found himself working for US exploitation producer Dick Randall, directing from his own script what was to be his last film: Urge to Kill, aka Attack of the Killer Computer.  Presumably intended as a direct-to-video release, Urge to Kill was made on what was clearly a miniscule budget, eschewing studio sets for the actual homes its star and producer, (it appears to have no exterior shots whatsoever, with, apart from the brief opening sequence in a recording studio and a scene in a female charcter's bedroom as she speaks to the main protagonist on the phone, the action taking place entirely within the confines of the main character's flat and garage).   A truly bizarre concoction, Urge to Kill seems to be an attempt to combine elements of the sex film, science fiction and the so-called 'video nasties' which had obsessed the tabloids earlier in the decade.  Clearly trying to exploit the 1980s upsurge of interest in home computing, the plot concerns a wealthy record producer, (played by the late Peter Gordeno, an actor and dancer probably best remembered for playing the regular captain of the 'Skydiver' submarine in Gerry Anderson's UFO TV series), who has his luxurious flat's functions controlled by a computer he calls S.E.X.Y (which, inevitably, has a female voice and 'personality').  In a gender reversal of 1977's Demon Seed, the computer develops an infatuation with Gordeno's character - Bono Zorro (yes, really) -  and attempts to take over his life, finding ingenious ways of disposing of his various female companions, which the computer perceives of as threats.

These methods include boiling one girl to death in a read hot shower, doing something similar to another one in a hot tub and frying another one to death on a sun bed, (this makes her breasts explode, for some reason).  In order to allay Gordeno's suspicions, in each case no trace is left of the unfortunate victim, leaving him to assume, initially at least, that they've simply left the flat.  Eventually finding himself trapped in the flat with his friend Jane by S.E.X.Y (who controls the door locks and external phone line), the film starts to take a truly bizarre turn, with the computer manifesting itself as a green-skinned naked girl. sporting a hairdo reminiscent of Paul Wegener's in Der Golem.  In this guise, not only does S.E.X.Y begin to influence Gordeno's mind, effectively brainwashing him, but also seduces him and appears to have sex with him.  I say 'appears' as at this point in the film it isn't entirely clear as to whether the green girl is an actual physical manifestation of the computer or simply some kind of hypnotically induced hallucination on Gordeno's part.  (During the sequence where she makes love to Gordeno, I was half expecting Jane to walk into the bedroom and find him in bed alone, masturbating furiously.  There is also a later sequence, involving Gordeno watching two prostitutes called up by S.E.X.Y wrestling in his living room, which is shot in such a way that it could be inferred that only he, and not Jane, can see the girls).  The matter is finally resolved later in the film, when the green girl is not only seen by Jane, but twice tries to kill her, demonstrating in the process that she is very real and very solid.  Which, of course, makes no sense whatsoever, but marks Urge to Kill out as an example of the highest order of schlock: a film so barmy that you feel that you've stumbled into someone else's fever dream. 

Indeed, with its lack of any external 'outside' world, bland eighties interiors and green skinned naked killer computer women, the whole thing develops a dream like quality, playing out as a sexual fantasy turned nightmare.  Which seems to be the key to the film.  The female characters are all portrayed as being, to one degree or another, predatory, seeking to exploit Gordeno for their own purposes, with S.E.X.Y being the ultimate expression of the controlling and possessive women.  Whilst it might be possible to give the film some kind of feminist reading - Gordeno's character is clearly a male chauvinist and serial sexual exploiter of women who has the tables turned on him by S.E.X.Y who treats him as a sex object, callously casting him aside when she's finished with him - it is doubtful that was Ford's intention: the film comes over as overtly misogynistic in its portrayal of women. 

Originally to be titled Attack of the Killer Computer, the title was apparently changed when producer Randall realised that he had the rights to a song called 'Urge to Kill', (which plays over the titles). Despite the obviously tiny budget, the film is actually reasonably well made, (which is only to be expected from a director of Ford's experience), with the murder sequences well mounted and delivered with a reasonable degree of suspense. In terms of overall production values and performances, Urge to Kill is very much on a par with other cheap direct-to-video releases of the era, with Ford's direction lifting it above the average. Adding to film's slightly surreal and disembodied feel, (the whole thing seems to take place in some kind of limbo with only a tenuous connection to the 'real' world), although shot in the UK with a British cast, all of the female characters have been redubbed with mid-Atlantic accents, (Gordeno sported his own mid-Atlantic accent as a matter of course).  Even the telephones have had their distinctive UK ring tones replaced with their US equivalent.  Despite this obvious attempt to prepare the movie for the US market, in the event it was never released, gathering dust on a shelf for decades.  Still unreleased in either the UK or US, Urge to Kill apparently had a French DVD release a few years ago.  Something of an ignominious end to Ford's long career, it seems to have precipitated his departure from the world of film making, exploitation or otherwise.  Re-inventing himself as a novelist - he had two roman-a-clef style novels set against a Hollywood background published in 1989 and 1990 - Ford eventually expired in 1995 in the Bromley branch of W H Smiths, the victim of a heart attack.


Thursday, October 01, 2015

Out of Town

That old Southern TV commercial break I posted the other week stirred up all sorts of memories for me.  I grew up with Southern Television as my local ITV regional franchise.  It wasn't as exciting as ATV or Thames, nor did it have the immense programme output of the likes of Granada, Yorkshire or even HTV.  It also didn't have the eccentric logos of Anglia (the silver statue of the mounted knight) or Westward (the silver metal ship).  In fact, it always came across as sedate and dull, its owners apparently happy to rake in the advertising revenues whilst confining its programme output to regional news programmes and children's TV, (with the odd foray into prime time drama such as the military series Spearhead).  Amongst its regional programming it hit upon a surprise hit with Out of Town, presented by Jack Hargreaves.  Spanning several decades (or so it seemed) each thirty minute episode would find Hargreaves sitting in his 'shed' (actually a studio set) telling us about fishing tackle, rabbit snares, horse brasses and the like, in between filmed inserts of him out in various bits of the local countryside, talking to rustics.

Clearly, this must have struck a note with viewers as the series was networked for part of its existence. My father hated Hargreaves, believing him to be a fake: a middle class suburbanite who had reinvented himself as some kind od country 'guru'.  He had a point.  Prior to Out of Town Hargreaves had been a successful London-based journalist, editing Lilliput magazine for some time.  Moreover, I can confirm through personal experience that he certainly didn't ride around in that gypsy caravan that featured in the title sequence - when I was a kid in Salisbury he nearly ran me over in his speeding Mercedes once, as I was crossing a road.  As the brief clip above will confirm, he was undoubtedly the inspiration for the Bob Fleming character played by Charlie Higson in the Fast Show.  Clearly Higson had, as a child, also been subjected to Out of Town.  Looking back, I don't know why I sat through so many episodes.  I can only assume that there was something on afterwards that I wanted to watch and that back in the days of three channel TV, there was nothing else interesting enough to turn over to while I waited.  But, as I said, the show was unaccountably popular, despite its dirge-like signature music and Hargreaves' tedious tales of rural life.  Its popularity can be gauged by the fact that after Southern lost its ITV franchise, Channel Four, very quickly resurrected the format, under a different title, for Hargreaves to carry on his rustic charade.  There's no accounting for taste, I suppose.

Labels: ,

Tuesday, September 29, 2015

Undercover Experts

Espionage is one of those subjects about which a lot of bollocks gets written.  'Intelligence experts' are forever taking to print or broadcast media to give us the 'inside' track on espionage related news stories - confidently telling us all about how our intelligence agencies operate and talking as if they have some kind of inside knowledge.  They can do this because they know that they are unlikely ever to have their 'facts' challenged by the real intelligence community, which, obviously, operates in secret and never comments on press speculation.  But it allows these 'experts' to give the impression that they are somehow associated with the supposedly 'glamourous' world of espionage, clearly hoping that some of its 'mystique' will rub off on them, enhancing their media standing.  We saw that recently with Frederick Forsythe's 'revelations' of his 'career' as an 'agent' for the Secret Intelligence Service (SIS), whilst he was a journalist.  The way the media reported it all, you'd have thought that he was James Bond, rather than a journalist and novelist trying to publicise his autobiography.  The reality of his claims amount to the fact that the Foreign Office sometimes approached him for information when he was a foreign correspondent in Africa.  Which would make him, at best, a 'source' rather than an agent.  He wasn't employed by SIS and received no payments from him.  It isn't uncommon for the intelligence services to tap up journalists for information in order to verify other sources, or simply provide a cover for their real, covert, sources.

Forsythe also claimed that later, whilst reporting from Eastern Europe, he was sometimes asked to convey messages to field agents.  Which, again, doesn't make him an agent, just a courier.  But hey, when you are trying to sell a book, what does a bit of embellishment matter?  But Forsythe hasn't been the only person of late pontificating on intelligence matters.  That whole business of the GCHQ analyst on secondment at the SIS who was found dead, zipped up in a holdall in his bath, has resurfaced, with so called 'experts' making the most ludicrous assertions.  As you might recall, the inquest into his death established that the deceased had experimented with bondage and was probably a transvestite, having a vast wardrobe of expensive women's clothes at his flat.  The conclusion drawn by most people was that he's either zipped himself into the bag in some kind of autoerotic ritual and suffocated, or that it was some kind of sex game gone wrong where an unknown partner had zipped him into the bag, then panicked and fled when the GCHQ guy suffocated.  Enter the first of our 'experts' who claims that the women's clothing was all part of the job and that the dead man had been used 'undercover' by the SIS, posing as a woman.  Leaving aside the fact that the SIS doesn't actually operate within the UK (that's the Security Service's job), I think you'll find that they use real women as operatives, rather than getting men to dress up as women. 

Moreover, the idea that a highly trained analyst, with access to all manner of sensitive information, would be risked as some kind of field agent is ludicrous beyond words. Speaking as someone who actually did once work (a long time ago) on the peripheries of the so called 'intelligence community' (I was am intelligence analyst for the MoD for a while), most people working for the likes of the SIS or CIA are actually desk bound.  Like me, they are simply analysts who spend all day sat at a desk poring over reports and trying to make some sense out of them.  No risk is involved.  Generally speaking, the only people in the whole process who face any real physical risk are the people who covertly provide the intelligence agencies with information about sensitive projects and operations in the countries in which they live.  As if this ridiculous story wasn't enough, more recently we've had some kind of Russian defector claiming that the dead analyst was being blackmailed by the Russian intelligence services over his transvestism and was 'eliminated' when he refused to play ball any more.  The flaw in this 'theory' is that in this day and age, dressing up as a woman and enjoying bondage aren't bars to working in intelligence, (if they were, we wouldn't have any intelligence services).   It's been a long time since admitting to such things would result in you failing the security vetting required for posts involving sensitive material.  Indeed, as far as the security vetting people are concerned, as long as they know about such things, then you are protected from being blackmailed over them.  They make no moral judgement.  So, having rubbished these stories, where does that leaves us?  Back at the inquest findings, actually.  The simplest explanation - a sex game gone wrong, whether involving just the deceased or an unknown third party - remains the most likely.  After all, the world of espionage is, in reality, far from glamourous.

Labels: , ,

Monday, September 28, 2015

Normal Service Still Not Resumed

I'm afraid that normal service here still hasn't been resumed.  To be sure the stomach problems which plagued me last week seemed to finally end early this morning, (believe me, you don't want the details).  However, I'm still preoccupied with trying to establish if my AWOL friend is OK.  On top of that there are all manner of other dramas developing at work.  All of which has left me with little time to prepare posts for this blog (I had hoped to draft something over the weekend, but other stuff intervened there - mainly sorting out the cooling system on my car, which had been playing up).  All that aside, courtesy of Talking Pictures TV, I was able to enjoy an especially seedy early seventies British sex movie on Saturday night: Not Tonight, Darling.  I had no expectations whatsoever of this movie, but found myself enjoying its tatty suburban ambience immensely. It's another one of those films vilified by the amateur critics on IMDB - which is usually a good sign, I find.  Their understanding of cinema is frequently non-existent and I'm often left wondering if they've actually seen the film they are lambasting.  As an example, one of the would be critics trashing Not Tonight Darling complains that it doesn't even feature any decent nudity - I can only assume there's another print in circulation which doesn't have Luan Peters baring all a few minutes in, or the orgy sequence, or the dancing strippers in the sex club sequence.    Hopefully, I'll find the time to discuss the film in more detail in a later post, when everything else in my life has settled down. 

I also finished reading a fascinating movie-related book over the weekend: The Lost World of Cliff Twemlow.  If you don't know who Cliff Twemlow was, don't worry.  He's someone else I'm hoping to cover in a future post.  Suffice to say that if you are a lover of low budget direct to video exploitation movies, then you really need to look Twemlow up.  Largely forgotten nowadays, back in eighties and early nineties, he and his associates succeeded in completing a number of such movies, running the gamut from crime dramas to science fiction.  As ever with the bottom end of the film making scale, distribution (or lack of it) was their Achilles heel, with several of the films barely released.  But that's no reflection on their quality.  On the basis of the one complete Twemlow movie I've seen and excerpts and trailers from most of the others, I have to say that, bearing in mind their miniscule budgets, largely non-professional casts and crews, they are not at all bad and actually pretty entertaining.  But, like I said, I'll be looking at Twemlow's Manchester based mini-Hollywood in detail later on.  For now, I'd just like to apologise again for the continued lack of proper posting here.


Friday, September 25, 2015

Commercial Break

As I'm too tired after a week of stress, worry and illness to be bothered coming up with a proper post, I'll just cut to the commercial break.  In this case, it's Boxing Day break from 1977, from the ITV regional franchise I grew up with: Southern Television.  It all seems so sedate and low key compared to today's in-your-face, all action sell-a-thons.  Being Boxing Day, there's an emphasis on Summer holidays (no foreign holidays, just holiday camps and canal trips - Freddie Laker and his Skytrain, tough, are a portent of the rapid growth of overseas holidays), Winter sales (funny how those top loading washing machines lost out to the front loaders, despite spinning faster) and alcohol.  There's even a public information film on the perils of drinking and driving thrown in for good measure.  Lots of familiar faces and voices are in evidence: Richard Briers, John Hurt, Donald Pleasance and Terry Wogan (on an elephant) in the days before he needed a hairpiece.  Happy days.  Enjoy.


Thursday, September 24, 2015

Swine Fever

Last call for Cameron pig gags - the mainstream media have done their best to deny the story any momentum and it looks like it has finally run out of steam.  Which is a pity.  I know that there are those out there who are of the opinion that the whole 'pig gate' thing is trivial and simply distracts everyone from the real issues.  But I disagree.  The fact that people are so willing to believe that our Prime Minister might have shagged a pig tells us something about the way he is perceived.  Moreover, after the relentless media attacks on Jeremy Corbyn in recent weeks - all based around equally trivial 'stories' - why shouldn't we on the left have something lurid and scandalous to hit back with?   If nothing else, now every time that some Tory twat comes out with some crap designed to discredit Corbyn, w can simply reply 'Yeah, but at least he didn't fuck a pig'.  It's effectively provided us with a new benchmark with which to measure the misconduct of politicians - if their misbehaviour falls short of porking a pig, then it isn't completely discreditable.

So, before leaving 'pig gate', let me just point out that Ed Miliband was probably pulling that face whilst eating a bacon sandwich because he'd just found some of Cameron's pubes in it.  I'm sure that there are lots more variations on that one, (Cameron providing the 'mayonaisse' comes to mind), but that'll have to do for now.  On a totally unrelated matter, I feel that I should apologise for the patchiness of this week's posts.  I had hoped to start writing up the three extremely low budget exploitation movies I watched a few weeks ago, but various distractions have deflected me from achieving this.  In the main, I've simply not been feeling at all well this week, with matters not helped by worrying over a friend who seems to have dropped off of the radar completely.  On a more positive note, Talking Pictures TV has now arrived on Freeview, giving me access to a treasure trove of rare and obscure movies, mainly of the b-movie variety.  My digital recorder has already been working overtime and the channel only came live on Freeview on Tuesday.  So, I have a new supply of schlock to talk about here.

Labels: , ,

Tuesday, September 22, 2015

Curse of Simba (1965)

Variously titled Voodoo Blood Death and Curse of the Voodoo, depending upon where when you saw it, Curse of Simba is an early Lindsay Shonteff effort.  Produced by Richard Gordon from a pseudonymous Brian Clemens script and starring Gordon regular Bryant Halliday, the film is one of those 'exotic' jungle adventures set in Africa but actually filmed in Regent's Park and padded out with stock footage of lions and other wild animals.  Playing on popular contemporary prejudices about black Africans (and, indeed, black people generally), the film's scenario of witch doctors and voodoo curses placed on white hunters might well appear shockingly racist by today's standards.  It's probably the sort of film that professional hand-wringing 'liberals' would like to see banned.  However, it is utterly pointless to demonise such films by trying to apply present day standards to them - they are simply products of their era and, as such, provide a fascinating time capsule of the attitudes, prejudices and perceptions of an era gone by.

Lacking the low budget quirkiness (and often sheer lunacy) of Shonteff's later, self produced, pictures, Curse of Simba was a disappointing follow up to his debut, Devil Doll (1964), also produced by Richard Gordon and starring Bryant Halliday.  An effective black and white horror film, played absolutely straight, with none of his usual off beat touches, Devil Doll was also atypical of the director's output.  Shonteff would finally get into his stride with his next film, Licensed to Kill, the first of his many low budget Bond knock offs. 


Monday, September 21, 2015

Pigging Out

I guess there's only one thing I can really post about today: 'Pig Gate'.  For those of you still blissfully unaware of what this is about, disgruntled former Tory Grandee Lord Ashcroft's unauthorised biography of David Cameron, serialised in the Daily Mail, claims, amongst other things, that when Cameron was a student, he committed an obscene sexual act with a dead pig's head.  That's right, he allegedly stuck his todger in a dead pig's mouth.  Or, to put it more crudely, he fucked a pig.  Allegedly.  For its part, Number Ten says that it won't dignify these claims with a response, other than to claim that Cameron was never a member of the society for which the pig business was an initiation.  Which, when you think about it, isn't much of a denial - he might have failed the initiation.  Maybe he couldn't get it up for the pig, or something.  It's a fascinating story, true or not, combining bestiality with necrophilia, thereby going at least one better than Jimmy Savile.  Moreover, the fact that it is the Mail running these claims might, at first sight, seem somewhat odd. After all, the paper is rabidly right wing and usually slavishly supports the Tories.  But, in truth, it has always been lukewarm about Cameron feeling, like a significant proportion of the Tory party (including Lord Ashcroft), that he's either too liberal, too pro European or just too much of a political opportunist, bending whichever way the wind of public opinion is blowing in order to cling to power.

Of course, the paranoid amongst us might suspect that some kind of conspiracy is at work here: while the world is focused on Cameron's alleged porcine porkings, his government is still doing all manner of other evil things unnoticed.  After all, he's said that he won't be contesting another election as leader of the party, so now's a perfect time for him to be 'taking one for the team'.  Mind you, that assumes that everyone is focusing on 'Pig Gate' - for a large part of the day the mainstream media have done their best to pretend that the pig allegations didn't exist, (hence my feeling the need to explain them at the start of this post).  As the day went on and it became obvious that social media was abuzz with the story and that this buzz was showing no signs of abating, that the rest of the media were forced to start acknowledging the Ashcroft claims.  Even then they were coy, with the BBC only referring obliquely to the allegations and even The Guardian trying to airily dismiss them as trivial. It's only now, nearly twenty four hours after the story first broke, that the media are actually taking the story more seriously.  Which is in striking contrast to the way in which they'll all happily trumpet any old made up bollocks designed to try and discredit Labour's Jeremy Corbyn.  Still, no matter what dirt they try to dish on Corbyn now, it can never match the Cameron pig sex scandal.  Whether it is true or not, the sad fact for Cameron is that, from now on, for many, many people, he'll just be 'that guy who fucked the pig'.  Inevitably, he will be met with 'oinking' sounds everywhere he goes and people in pig masks will turn up at every walkabout he does.  I have to say that the only thing about 'Pig Gate' which rankles with me is that it represents another case of real life rendering satire redundant.  I'd never have dared make up something like Cameron being given head by a dead pig - it would have been dismissed as being too ludicrous.   

Labels: ,