Friday, December 15, 2017

Self Serving Sex Offending

It's all getting very bizarre now, with regard to these ongoing Hollywood sex scandals.  Now we've got people outing themselves as sex pests.  Presumably because they are desperate for the attention, jealous of the boost to their flagging profiles some of the other accused have received.  That's the only explanation I can think of for self styled documentary maker Morgan Spurlock (yeah, that hump), announcing that he has cheated on every woman he has been with and was once accused of rape.  I don't know quite how to break this to him, but being a serial cheat isn't the same thing as serially sexually molesting women on the pretext of a casting session.  Moreover, being accused of rape and, presumably, as he isn't in jail, having the charges dropped is certainly not the same thing as actually raping women, (on the pretext of casting sessions).   So I can only assume that Spurlock is desperate for the publicity.  I mean, he's no Michael Moore, is he?  When's the last time you remember a Morgan Spurlock documentary hitting the screen?

Yeah, admit it, you can't name a single one of his films other than Super Size Me.  I know I can't.  Indeed, it is that solitary film which encapsulates my problem with Spurlock - he simply sates the fucking obvious.  The whole premise of the film is that he spends a month, or whatever, 'super sizing' every fast food meal he has to see what the effect on his health is. Well, spoiler alert, it isn't good.  To which my reaction is: no shit Sherlock - who would have thought that a diet of fast food would be bad for your health, contributing to such things as obesity and heart disease?  Say what you like about Michael Moore - and most people say he's an egotistical fat fuck - at least his documentaries tend to be actual investigations of current issues.  Which is undoubtedly why he isn't currently outing himself as a sex offender.  But really, Spurlock's allegations against himself just smacks of desperation: "Hey, look at me, look at me everyone!  I'm a sex offender!  No, really, I am!  Even if nobody wants to accuse me!  Please publicly vilify me and get my name all over the media!"  But if we're lucky, he won't make a documentary about it.

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Thursday, December 14, 2017

Seasonal Musings

Are you feeling festive yet?  I'm certainly not.  I haven't had time.  Work, in particular, continues to eat up not just the time it pays me for, but my own time as well.  I haven't even had time to put up my Christmas trees (for which I've actually bought new lights this year), which constitute my seasonal decorations.  Elsewhere, though, the external Christmas lights are currently in full swing around Crapchester.  In fact, yesterday I saw a type of decoration I'd never seen before.  It seemed to be some kind of projection onto a blind or curtain of a window - it featured a moving, lifelike, image of  Father Christmas.  It was quite impressive, as decorations go.  The external light type which seems to be on the increase this year are those devices which projects lights onto the outside of your house.  Clearly, they must have been on sale somewhere.

Anyway, I finally managed to find some time to do some Christmas shopping this evening.  Much later than I would have liked but, like I said, I just haven't had the time.  The only bit I've previously been able to do is ordering my great nieces' presents via US Amazon (they are currently living in the States).  Yeah, I know that Amazon is an evil multi national corporate bastard that treats its staff abominably and doesn'y pay its taxes, but Hell, sometimes it is just easier and more convenient to use to get stuff to people overseas.  (Besides, DHL gave me a ludicrous ball park quote when I explored the possibility of buying their presents here and shipping them to the US.  Not that they are exploiting the Christmas period in indulge in some outrageous profiteering, obviously).

Not even the Christmas TV commercials are getting me in the spirit, they're so irritating.  Especially the Sainsburys' ones.  The one with the two twats playing ukuleles I find especially offensive.  Don't ask me why, it just does.  As for the BBC's latest set of Christmas idents - bland is probably too kind a description for them.  They don't even feel particularly festive.  They are probably worse than last year's, but they were so dire that I've completely forgotten what they were.  What they really need is some kind of  festive themed James Bond title sequence style idents, in the manner of Maurice Binder. (Preferably from his late Roger Moore period, when they simply consisted of lots of naked women in silhouette gyrating in front of psychedelic backgrounds, with nothing at all to do with the plot of the film). Either that or Danny Dyer dressed as an elf, eating a mince pie and saying 'Merry fucking Christmas.  You slags'.

But getting back to work's apparently insatiable appetite for my time, lately I've been looking at the figures with regard to reducing my hours.  So far, a three day working week is looking very feasible.  Particularly with the mortgage now paid off.  I'll make a decision on it all in the New Year.  The choice, though, is straightforward: I can carry on as before, banking the money I would have been paying out for the mortgage, or I could exchange some of that for more time to myself.  Right now, I think I'd rather have the time than the money.  Besides, reducing my hours and firmly ring fencing two days as entirely mine seems to be the only way of protecting myself from my employer's apparent determination to encroach on my time more and more.

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Tuesday, December 12, 2017

Frankenstein 1970 (1958)



Another obscure Frankenstein flick, the reference to 1970 in the title is simply there to give it a vaguely futuristic feel.  True, it is meant to be set in some vaguely defined near future, but Frankenstein 1970 looks like it is actually set in 1958.  The most notable thing about the film is the fact that it casts Karloff as Frankenstein rather than his monster.  (A modern day descendent of the Baron, who has been left horribly scarred by the Nazis, rather than the Baron himself).  Other than that, it is another cheap exploitation item from Allied Artists.  The futuristic aspect of the plot is Frankenstein's ambition to install a nuclear reactor in his laboratory as part of his scheme to create a new monster.  He pays for it by leasing out his castle to a film crew who are shooting a horror picture about his ancestor's monster making antics.  (The scariest looking part of the trailer, with the girl being chased by a large handed creature is actually part of this film-within-a-film).  Inevitably, various members of the crew go missing, destined to provide spare parts for Karloff's monster.

The monster itself looks like someone who has been mummified whilst wearing a bucket on their head.  It eventually turns on Karloff and they both perish in a blast of radioactive steam from the reactor.  After which, the monster's face is unbandaged to reveal the face of Karloff, but younger and unscarred: the scientist had made his creature in his own image.  Despite floating some interesting ideas: Frankenstein as a victim of the Nazis, who nonetheless carries out his own experiments on human victims, which are the equal of anything conducted in the concentration camps, for instance, but ultimately makes nothing of them.  In fact, the plot seems to be check list of fifties schlock movie traits: Nazis, radioactivity as the agent for creating monsters, people shooting movies in old castles (a trope which also turns up in several Italian horror movies).  Reputedly shot in only eight days on sets left over from another movie, Frankenstein 1970 is another of those films which has become next to impossible to see.  I've never seen it in its entirety and I don't recall it ever showing on UK TV.   I'd like to catch up with it, if nothing else because I'm something of a completist when it comes to both Frankenstein films and Boris Karloff.

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Monday, December 11, 2017

Extreme and Depraved?

You don't miss something until it has gone, so they say.  I was reminded of this the other day when I read how one audience member at the Old Vic was assaulted by another audience member after he'd remonstrated with their girl friend for talking on her mobile during a performance.  Damn, I thought.  If only Kevin Spacey was still artistic director there, he could have bent the miscreant over the stalls and bummed him senseless.  Allegedly.  Yes indeed, knowing what we now know about Spacey, I daresay that if he was still at the Old Vic you wouldn't see any of these instances of anti social behaviour, (which are allegedly on the increase in London's theatres) - people wouldn't dare for fear of getting felt up and having their balls groped by Spacey.  Allegedly.  I saw a headline the other day screaming about how Kevin Spacey had once groped some European Royal or other, (I take even less interest in other people's royalty than I do our own).  Is there no end to the man's depravities?  Because fondling the knackers of some minor royal without consent is far worse than doing it to ordinary people, multiple times, allegedly, isn't it?

While we're speaking of those accused of sexual misdemeanours, let us speak once more of Damien Green, the de facto Deputy Prime Minister, who stands accused of having used his official lap top to view internet pornography.  (And, by implication, wank off to it). Originally it was claimed that some of the stuff allegedly found on his laptop was so-called 'extreme porn', which begged the question as to what, exactly, constitutes 'extreme pornography'?  Does it involve naked people simulating sex on mountain tops (like extreme ironing or extreme breast feeding), underwater or whilst at the controls of  a speeding car?  Sadly, as I've noted elsewhere, the government seems to think that stuff like bondage constitutes 'extreme pornography', (despite the fact that Fifty Shades of Grey has made it pretty much mainstream).  Mind you, I think I might have devised a new genre of pornography there - the sort of dangerous sports of sex.  It could be the big new thing with which some of those digital channels can fill up their air time, (at least one of them is down to showing CCTV and phone footage of street fights in the guise of entertainment - which it obviously can't be as they've got George Lamb presenting it).  Remember, you read it here first!

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Friday, December 08, 2017

Blackmail!

So, did I mention the blackmail attempt?  Not me trying to blackmail someone, obviously, but rather someone's attempt to blackmail me.  Not that they actually had anything to blackmail me with, but Hell, that's never stopped the anonymous arseholes who inhabit the scuzzier reaches of the internet, has it?  For this was an internet scam which was being perpetrated against large numbers of people.  Unfortunately, I deleted the email before I decided to write about this farce, but I've managed to find a slight variation on it on the Feed Burner forums (the would be blackmailers were spoofing the Feed Burner email address, making it look as if that was where the email was originating from), which you can read below:

"You received this message because someone requested an email subscription for [redacted] to a FeedBurner feed. If you did not make this request, please ignore the rest of this message.
(Ps: If you ignore this message, all your privacy will be exposed, please read below carefully).

Hello, You do not know me and you're probably wondering why you're getting this email, right?

The answer is that I put a malvware on a site that has adult videos (porn) and you accessed the website to have fun (you know what i mean).

While you were watching the system began to function as a RDP (Remote Desktop) with a keylogger through which I had access to your screen and your webcam.

After that my software collected all your contacts from messengers, emails and social networks.

And what did I do? I created a double-screen video - First Part Your Screen Record (you have a nice taste, lol) and Second Part the recording of your webcam. And all your contacts.

So, what should you do? In my opinion U$350 is a fair value for our little secret.
you will make the payment via Bitcoin (if you do not know this, search "how to buy bitcoin", it's very easy)
My bitcoin address is: [redacted]

You will only have 1 day after reading this message to make the payment (I have set a special pixel in this email and I will know when you read it).

If I do not receive my Bitcoins I will send your video to all your contacts (including co-workers, family, etc ...).

If I get paid all the material will be destroyed.

If you want proof, reply with 'YEAH' and I will send your video to 5 contacts that I have collected from you."

Basically, what they are claiming is that they have a video of you wanking off to a porn video, taken via the webcam on your laptop.  Now, from the outset, this is problematic for them in my case - even if I do wank off to such videos, there is no way anyone would be able to video it in that way as I always put a piece of masking tape over the lens of the webcam on any laptop I own as soon as I unbox it.  Which isn't because I do spend all my time online whacking off, but because it is a sensible security precaution - there have been cases of webcams being used to spy on people.  As I don't use Skype (or similar messaging systems), I simply have no need for the camera.

Even if you have been whipping your top to online porn videos, there are several other tell tale signs that this is just some scumbag scammer chancing their arm.  Most notably, you'll notice that the actual site you are supposed to have been on is never named, despite the fact that doing so would add credibility.  Also, the whole business of providing 'proof' that the threat is real by posting the material to five contacts is ridiculous - doing that would put it in the public domain, negating any further threat, therefore nullifying the potential for further blackmail.  Absolute amateurs!  Also, speaking personally, I'm not sure that I still have five email contacts whose addresses are still valid these days.

Despite this being an obvious scam (the fact that my email filters put it straight in the spam folder is further proof that it is a widespread scam), some people seem to have fallen for it and paid up.  To be quite honest, even if I had been wanking off to internet porn and someone had a video of it, I still wouldn't pay up.  There's nothing wrong with looking at pornography in the privacy of your own home.  There's not even anything wrong with knocking one out to it, if that's your thing, in the privacy of your own home.  (Obviously, if you were doing it at work, or in the library, there would be a problem, but I don't think it would be illicit videos you doing it that you'd need to worry about).  They are the ones committing an offence and not just by attempting blackmail: the gross invasion of other people's privacy in the first place is probably even worse.

So there you have it: my brush with blackmail.  In a way I feel insulted that I was being targeted (along with countless others) by such a bunch of incompetent amateurs.  I think I've been around the web long enough to expect to be extorted by professionals!

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Thursday, December 07, 2017

A Bad Week

I received some very sad news today.  My fellow podcaster and friend over at the Overnightscape Underground, Jimbo, has passed away at his home in Georgia.  Jimbo was about the same age as myself and, despite having a long history of health problems, went far too soon.  It is strange that I feel such a sense of loss for someone that I never physically met, but, for the past few years I collaborated with Jimbo on a number of projects and came to consider him a friend.  He was a prolific podcaster - so much so that I couldn't keep up with his output - particularly in the months leading up to his death.  I was in contact with him until shortly before his death, partly in relation to my contributions to the regular group podcast the Overnightscape Central, which he had been editing for the past year, and partly in relation to another podcasting project I was working on with Jimbo.  That project, obviously, is now in limbo, although I have enough material to edit together a shortened version of it - I'll consult with the others at the Overnightscape and see if they feel this a good idea before proceeding.

I'll miss seeing his missives in my e-mail inbox and his Tweets in my Twitter timeline.  The news of Jimbo's demise came hard on the heels of learning that author Bill Crider, who runs one of my favourite blogs, Bill Crider's Pop Culture Blog, has been given only weeks to live by his Doctor's.  Bill had been battling cancer for some months now, but the news still came as a shock to those of use who follow his blog.  As with Jimbo, I've never met Bill Crider, or even corresponded with him, yet I feel a keen sense of loss - like many of his readers, I feel that I actually know him, so engaging has his writing been.  From a purely selfish point of view, I'm going to miss his blog with its daily selection of entries pointing readers in the direction of cool and interesting stories elsewhere on the web. Thank's to Bill Crider's blog I've discovered many, many other great web sites and been exposed to many news stories which would otherwise have passed me by.  So, all-in-all, not a good week.  Normal service will, hopefully, be resumed tomorrow.

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Tuesday, December 05, 2017

Beyond the Valley of the Dolls (1970)


Most definitely not a sequel to Fox's film adaptation of Jacqueline Susann's Valley of the Dolls, Russ Meyer's Beyond the Valley of the Dolls even carries a pre-title disclaimer to this effect.  To be sure, the studio had every intention of creating a sequel to what had been a hugely successful release, but a lawsuit launched by Susann against Twentieth Century Fox, alleging that the film had damaged her reputation, proved to be a fly in the ointment.  (The suit was settled several years later, in Susann's favour.  Unfortunately, by that time she was dead).  So, the title was kept, but anything else which might connect the film with the original was junked and the project handed to nudie movie king Meyer who had just signed a multi picture contract with Fox.  (In the event, it was only to last for two films - while Beyond the Valley of the Dolls proved a hit, Meyer's follow up, The Seven Minutes, was a flop).

It might seem strange that a major studio like Twentieth Century Fox should have offered a contract to a schlock film maker like Russ Meyer.  But the fact was that in the late sixties and early seventies, Hollywood's biggest studios were floundering around, badly out of touch with popular tastes. particularly the youth market.  They were desperately trying to tap into the latter and find the new 'big thing'.  Meyer's low budget movies, full of big breasted women and insane plotting, had found a degree of popular and critical success.  Most of all, they seemed 'zany' and youth orientated, so Fox were prepared to give him a chance, in the hope that he could give them that elusive 'credibility' with modern audiences.

In the event, Meyer was an inspired choice to direct Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, which, with a script by noted film critic Roger Ebert, emerged as a delirious parody, not just of the original film, but also the whole Hollywood sex and scandal sub-genre, (which included such titles as Peyton Place).  Meyer captures perfectly the glossy look of such movies (helped immensely by Fox's De Luxe colour processing), with the various sub-plots playing out against some familiar exteriors on the studio back lot.  But best of all the way the movie relentlessly satirises the whole way in which Hollywood liked to depict youth and the entire 'swinging scene'.  This is a film where people really do describe things as 'groovy' and use phrases like 'I don't dig' - all delivered perfectly straight-faced.  Much of the action centres around those 'swinging' showbiz parties beloved of middle aged film makers of the era, usually hosted by pop impresarios like the film's 'Z-Man', and flamboyant fashion shoots involving bizarre costumes and lots of naked female flesh.  Several frenzied montages - a technique often employed in would be 'swinging' movies - are used to link together sequences, providing a slightly surreal contrast to the seemingly 'realistic' events unfolding around them.

Superficially, the film's scenario bears some resemblance to that of the original:  a trio of young women (in this case a girl band) travel to LA in search of fame and fortune, but whilst achieving it, to a degree, also find themselves drawn into the seedy side of showbiz, including drugs, sex and porn.  The difference is that Meyer and Ebert exaggerate every scene and character to the point of ludicrousness.  The band's Svengali-like producer, Z-Man, for instance, is a full on weirdo encompassing aspects of Phil Spector and Charles Manson in equal measures, with a penchant for literary quotes and a flamboyant dress sense.  He also has a barman called Otto who is, we're told, actually Nazi war criminal Martin Boorman.  A vaguely Mohammed Ali-type World Champion boxer is portrayed as insanely macho, jealous and violent, trying to run down a rival in his car and later beating him senseless.  The wealthy Aunt of the main character has a lawyer who is stereotypically corrupt and villainous (even carrying the name of an actor who used to play such roles) while her rediscovered former fiance is ludicrously square jawed and decent. 

The plot throws in every cliche imaginable for this type of film: sexy parties, self absorbed porn stars, jilted lovers, unplanned pregnancies and back street abortions, not to mention a lesbian affair.  All of it is shot by Meyer in the style of classic Hollywood movies, using their typical visual shorthand to depict love affairs, passion, despair and every other imaginable character interaction.  It all builds to a Manson-inspired climax in which Z-Man goes mad during a party/orgy at his mansion and starts murdering the guests.  During the mayhem it is revealed that Z-Man is actually a woman ('You were a chick all along - an ugly chick!') and the heroine's wheelchair bound boyfriend regains feeling in his legs after a death-struggle with Z-Man.  An epilogue features an amazing voice-over summarising the fates of the various characters, ('Otto - an ending at last for Martin Boorman?') in the portentous, moralising manner of thirties and forties movies and climaxs with a triple wedding at a courthouse.  All done with straight faces.  

Beyond the Valley of the Dolls might not be be actual sequel to Valley of the Dolls, but it is certainly a spiritual one.  It pushes the kind of material found in such pictures to the limits of credibility and beyond, exposing the true ridiculousness of Hollywood sensationalism.  It is a glorious essay in pure schlock and, if you can't find a place in your heart for Beyond the Valley of the Dolls then, really, there is no hope for you.  I would caution, though, that pure Russ Meyer fans might be disappointed by the lack of enormous breasts in the film.  Not that there aren't plenty of breasts on display, but they are all of the normal proportions.  (I recall seeing an interview with Meyer on BBC2 many years ago in which he is asked, by Mark Cousins I think, what the significance of the huge breasted ladies who were a trademark of his films might be, to which Meyer responded: 'They make my dick hard'.  Which is difficult to argue with, really).  The film is currently part of Talking Pictures TV's regular late night rotation, so, for now, is readily accessible.

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Monday, December 04, 2017

People are Still Horrible Bastards

I've said it before and I'll say it again: people are such horrible bastards.  Especially online.  The other day I was given another reminder of exactly why I don't allow comments on The Sleaze and heavily moderate them here.  I was reading an article (originally from The Independent, but syndicated on Yahoo News) about how Christmas should be banned, when I was foolish enough to look at the comments.  Jesus Christ!  The outpouring of hate and Islamaphobia contained there was enough to make me lose all faith in humanity!  Now, I feel that I should explain the article itself a bit better: when I say that it was calling for Christmas to be banned, I'm over simplifying it.  It was offering a critique of the way in which Christmas has simply become a celebration of materialism, with a vision of the season which only the well off can afford being imposed upon us by advertisers.  What it was really saying was that Christmas needed to be returned to a simpler, more spiritual celebration accessible to all.

None of which is entirely unreasonable.  My main criticism of the article would be that it went off on a tangent, bringing in the author's memories of bad childhood Christmas experiences to try and back up their arguments, which not only is largely irrelevant, but makes the false assumption that there is some kind of universality to personal experiences.  But that still wouldn't justify the reaction in the comments, which, in the main, tried to use the article as a vehicle for extreme anti-Muslim sentiment.  "Just imagine the backlash if anyone suggested banning a Muslim festival" was a favourite theme.  Which, obviously, supremely irrelevant and completely missing the point of the article, which as about how Christmas is no longer a Christian festival in anything other than name nowadays.  (Not that it ever really was - it is a hijacking of much older Pagan midwinter celebrations).  It shows enormous ignorance as Christmas is, to some extent a Muslim festival as Jesus is recognised as an important in Islam - which is why Muslims actually have no problem with celebrating Christmas and actually aren't offended by Christmas decorations. 

But leaving aside the ignorance of these idiots, it is the tone of the comments which shocks the most:  they are all insanely angry and hate fuelled.  A hatred against a culture they clearly don't understand, making it utterly ridiculous. But that doesn't matter to them.  Muslims are an easily identifiable (so they think) 'other' onto which they can project their impotent rage.  Because that is what it is all about - a completely irrational rage which increasingly seems to grip certain segments of the UK's population.  A rage which seems to be rooted in their feelings of powerlessness and some vague idea that they've been 'shafted'.  But instead of directing their anger at the real causes of their peceived disadvantage - international financiers, multi national corporations, the entire global economic system, even themselves for continually voting into power the very people who oppress them - they focus on visible minorities.  Because hey, those with even less power than them, who suffer even greater disadvantage and discrimination must be the cause of everyone else 's problems, mustn't they?

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Friday, December 01, 2017

The Season to be Mystified

Well, here we are, December at last.  It's now officially Winter and the year is drawing to a close.  The season of selling us stuff for Christmas in full swing: you know we're on the home straight because all those weird and arty perfume ads have started playing.  You know the sort of thing I mean - they're usually in black and white, with noise of people on a beach and waves crashing on the shore, while someone whispers 'Rotting Fish by Dior' or something similar over the top of it all.   Actually, there's one with Johnny Depp which continues to mystify me.  It's the one where he jumps into his classic Mopar muscle car, (I'm afraid that I'm not enough of a Chrysler fan to tell whether it is a Dodge Challenger or a Plymouth Barracuda - they are both based on the same body shell), drives into the desert, pulls a shovel out of the trunk and starts digging a hole.  What the fuck is that all about?   Why is he digging that hole?  Is it to bury another victim of his domestic violence (allegedly)?  I mean, is an (alleged) wife beater the sort of person you want advertising a scent?  (It clearly isn't a very effective commercial, as I can't actually remember the brand it is pushing).  Then again, it is Christmas, traditionally the season of domestic violence as people are forced to spend time together under highly stressful circumstances.

But, talking of mystifying TV ads, the VIPoo ad I wrote about some months ago has been creeping into earlier and earlier slots on various digital channels, albeit in a slightly edited version.  Which isn't to say it is any better in this form: it is still utterly repulsive, but, thankfully, doesn't last quite as long.  Lately, it has been joined by another dubious ad for a dubious product: one for Durex gel which, apparently, gives you and your partner explosive orgasms (so powerful you both shit the bed - not really, I hope, otherwise they'll have to be using VIPoo to get rid of the smell).  Now, I'm no prude and, although I doubt the efficacy of the product, unlike VIPoo I don't object to the ad's subject matter.  What I object to is the inappropriate placing of the ad, which I've now frequently seen, barely after the watershed, on Talking Pictures TV.  For God's sake, I really don't want to be exposed to an ad peddling better orgasms when I'm in the middle of watching some creaky old black and white movie (the usual fare on Talking Pictures TV) made in an era before the orgasm was invented, let alone talked about in public.  Damn it, back then men didn't have penises and women certainly didn't have vaginas and nobody even went to the toilet, let alone have sex.  The ad is just so jarring when seen in the context of the kind of stuff the channel shows, I really find it quite disconcerting. Moreover, bearing in mind the average age of viewer the channel is aimed at, I can't imagine that Durex has much hope of hitting its target demographic.

To be fair, though, Talking Picture TV does show a fair amount of classic seventies British smut, during which this commercial wouldn't be out of place (they've recently added Russ Meyer's Beyond the Valley of the Dolls to their rotation, a film which could easily be sponsored by Durex).  But, at least when the Durex gel ad is showing it means that the VIPoo one isn't.   That ad really is both tasteless and objectionable on so many levels.

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Thursday, November 30, 2017

Behind Green's Door

Well, at least now we know why the Tories are so obsessed with internet pornography: they seem to spend a lot of their time looking at it.  Well, allegedly, in the case of Damian Green, the de facto deputy Prime Minister, who, according to the police, had porn on his office computer.  Not just any porn, but so called 'extreme porn'.  I say 'so called' as it is surely all a matter of taste as to what constitutes 'extreme' pornography.  Personally, whenever someone uses that term, I think of stuff like bestiality or child pornography, which, I'm sure, is what most other people would class as 'extreme'.  But the government seems to think that some types of bondage porn are also 'extreme' and need banning.  They really should get out more.  But to get back to the point, it isn't just Green who has been at it - I seem to recall cases of online porn being accessed on mobile devices inside Number Ten during Cameron's premiership, (it was an aide, rather than him, apparently).  They just can't seem to get enough of the stuff, it seems.

Which makes their continued attempts to restrict access to internet smut all the more hypocritical.  Of course, as I've argued previously, the supposed threat of children being exposed to internet porn is merely a Trojan horse, a convenient excuse for the authorities to place restrictions upon our web browsing.  It's the thin end of the wedge: pornography today, who knows what tomorrow.  Who decides what constitutes 'offensive content' on a web site?  Who knows what else will be 'accidentally' blocked along with the porn?  But do you know what I find most disturbing about all of this?  It's the thought that horrible old Tories like Green have probably been sat in their offices at Westminster wanking off over online porn.  I mean, really, can you think of a more horrendous mental image than Damian Green, behind his desk, with his trousers around his ankles giving it the five knuckle shuffle?  Just imagine the embarrassment of his staff in the outer office as they hear the groans as he reaches the vinegar stroke?  Mind you, it is the Commons cleaners I feel most sorry for - people that low paid really shouldn't have to deal with the sticky tissues, let alone the stains on the desk.  There probably isn't any kind of cleaning product strong enough to shift those.  Yes indeed, I shudder to think what goes on behind Green's door.

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