Movie Musings

Being off work means that I get the chance to watch all kinds of crappy old films on TV, often late at night. The other day I was amazed to find Red Dawn showing in prime time - on Virgin One. I suppose that by their standards it is big film. It certainly makes a change from the rotation of Double Impact, Fistful of Dynamite (actually the heavily cut US print, titled Duck, You Sucker) and Robocop 3, that they usually show in their Tuesday night movie slot. Anyway, I managed to get about halfway through it before remembering why I disliked it so much. It's not that it is badly made, quite the opposite. Or that I think that its subject matter - despite being far to the right, politically, than my own views - isn't fit subject matter for a film. People are entitled to their opinions. Besides, back in the 'good' old days of the Cold War, a speculative piece about the aftermath of the Soviets winning the 'war' and occupying the West and/or the US could, if done well, form the basis of an interesting movie. Unfortunately, Red Dawn isn't that movie.

That's one of the reasons I dislike it so much - it's a missed opportunity. Rather than an intelligent critique of the Soviet system, it instead opts for gung ho, jingoistic, war movie heroics. Indeed, the whole thing seems curiously time-warped - watching it again, I was reminded of those movies made during World War Two, where heroic GIs, or Brits, take on the might of the Japs or Huns, hopelessly outnumbered, but incredibly courageous, they triumph in the end, but only after terrible sacrifice. It had that exact same feel of propaganda about it - even down to the demonisation of the enemy as pitiless bastards. However, the tone of the older films was understandable - we were at war with an enemy hell-bent on destroying us. At the time Red Dawn was made, we weren't at war with anyone. (OK, I know that hardline conservatives would say that I'm just being naive if I think that we weren't fighting for survival against the Soviets). Consequently, the whole thing comes over as simplistic, reactionary and unpleasant nonsense, reducing a complex situation to simple black and white cliches.

Hitler's Dolls of Death

Well, I finally got a new story up on the main site - Sex Dolls of The SS is one of those stories which had a long gestation period. Originally inspired by a story claiming that the Nazis had invented the inflatable sex doll, which did the rounds back in 2006, it was subsequently filtered through the distorting lens of 1950s and 1960s men's magazines, after I read a book about them. Add to this the large number of 1960s British war movies I've caught on TV lately and you end up with Sex Dolls. Hopefully, this story will help the site's recovery in traffic terms. Since the Olympics ended, there's been a modest increase in traffic, but, it's still August and people are o holiday, so I'm not getting my hopes up too much.

Speaking of holidays, that's officially what I'm on at the moment, so posting will be a bit intermittent for the next couple of weeks. In between trips to the coast - it was overcast and blustery today - I'll probably try to make some more progress with the new page templates for The Sleaze. Like Sex Dolls, these seem to have been in development for years. It's been slow progress, but I'm getting there (at least, that's what I keep telling myself). In the meantime, I'm slipping my 'Kiss Me Quick' hat back on and going for a stroll along the promenade before having some cockles and whelks. Or something like that.

Under Siege

I feel like I'm under siege again. It happens periodically - the onslaught of the telemarketers. You know how it is; every time you sit down and start to relax, the phone rings. When you answer it, it turns out to be some numpty trying to sell you replacement windows, dodgy investments, fitted kitchens or financial services. None of which, of course, you are remotely interested in. There was a time that I tried to be polite to these pests, but I quickly found that didn't work - they just took it as a sign of weakness and tried even harder for the sale. So, rather than spend my time shouting abuse down the phone at complete strangers, I simply use my answer phone to screen all incoming calls. Friends and family know that if they actually say something after the tone, I'll pick up if I'm within earshot. Whilst this saves me the trouble of dealing with the telemarketers, I do resent the inconvenience of it all. Moreover, it doesn't stop the bloody phone from ringing every fie minutes.

Right now, I'm being besieged by my bloody bank. I know it's them because they actually had the gall to write to me, telling me they'd been trying to contact me to try and sell me a mortgage product! Quite apart from the fact that I'm perfectly happy with my existing mortgage, I wouldn't change to the one they're offering on principle. Not just the principle that I wouldn't want to reward them for making a nuisance of themselves, but also because it is an 'air miles' mortgage. I take it to mean that they encourage you to fly abroad in order to off-set interest, or something. Now, quite apart from the fact that, with global warming and rocketing fuel prices, it is surely highly irresponsible to be encouraging people to fly, the fact is that I don't like flying, and I don't particularly like overseas travel. Indeed, I've even let my passport lapse in order to do my bit in the fight against global warming. But this doesn't stop the bastards. You'd think that my failure to reply to their letter would tell the bank that I'm not interested. But no, they keep on calling, (even though they don't leave a message, caller ID shows their number). Even today, a bloody Bank Holiday! For God's sake, is nothing sacred? Twice today - once just after I got up, and again just as I came in this evening. I feel like I'm being watched. Why can't you just leave me alone?

Grope Around the Clock?

Apparently, paedophile rocker Gary Glitter is finally on his way back to the UK after being deported from Vietnam, and refused entry to either Thailand or Hong Kong. It's the 'paedophile rocker' description which gets me - what is that, some new kind of genre of popular music? You know, like hard rock, punk rock or glam rock. Actually, judging by the number of under-age groupies involved in them, perhaps they aren't that different from paedo rock. Joking aside, I really don't see why there is any need for the 'rocker' suffix. The man's a paedophile. Simple as that. After all, we don't go around describing non-celebrity nonces as - for instance - 'paedophile plumbers', as if they're a category you can look up in Yellow Pages, do we? But the media just can't help it when faced with a celebrity, even an old has-been sex offender, they just have to try and make out that they're somehow special. It's as if they're supposed talent somehow off-sets the kiddie-fiddling.

Whilst we're on the subject of pop performers, I was dismayed to read newspaper reports claiming that police had effectively baned Pete Doherty from playing at a Wiltshire pop festival, on the grounds that the audience might get 'over-excited' and pose a health and safety risk. In order to come to this conclusion, Wiltshire Constabulary apparently conducted an in-depth study of Doherty's music, even watching him perform. Consequently, they learned that he and his group deliberately varied the tempo of their beat so as to excite the audience. Well, no shit, Sherlock. And you had to spend public money to work this out? Make no mistake, I'm no fan of Doherty and think he's a prize twat. What concerns me, as a Moonraker (as we Wiltshiremen are known) by birth and upbringing, is that this farrago sets back the image of our County by at least a century. Our police have done nothing to dispel he impression that we're all a bunch of carrot-crunching yokels still living in the 1950s, by behaving in this way. I'm amazed that they didn't go on about the dangerous influence of those American beat combos, or the moral threat presented by Cliff Richard's pelvic gyrations. Believe me, as someone who grew up having to endure ignorant pillocks from London or the North going 'Ooooh Aaaarrr!' every time they heard my accent, this is exactly the sort of thing I don't want to read about! I really thought that we'd left that bloody image behind. But thanks to the boys of the Wiltshire Constabulary, we're back to square one!

Olympic Horse Pummeling

Still on the subject of the Olympics, I must admit that for a minute on Sunday I thought that they had introduced a radial new sport to the Games. I could have sworn that I heard the TV commentators say that a British competitor had won a bronze medal after his horse pummeling. I immediately had visions of blokes in gym kit beating up horses. Obviously, they'd start with ponies in the eats, before working up to full-size horses in the semi-finals. Maybe, I mused, the final consists of four blokes having to give a bloody good hiding to a series of successively larger horses, with gold going to whoever could take down a shire horse. But then I realised that they were talking about gymnastics and had been commending the British medallist on his horse pommel routine.

Before leaving the subject of the Olympics, I really must register my disappointment at the UK's lack of medals in the archery events. Even the French did better than us. The French, for God's sake! It really makes a mockery of Agincourt! Not to mention Robin Hood. Whatever happened to the good old days when all able-bodied Englishmen had to do archery practice every Sunday? Maybe that's the trouble - its become too elitist. Maybe we need to encourage more working class participation, not to mention getting young people interested in the sport. I was thinking that perhaps we could encourage the use of longbows by gangs, instead of guns. A spate of drive-by archery attacks might be just what we need to revitalise the sport .

Going for More Gold

With the UK riding high in the Olympic medal table, it occurred to me that, bearing in mind that it is in the less traditional sports which we seem to excel in these days, we should think about getting some more unorthodox disciplines introduced to the games. For many years now I've been a champion of buttock ski-ing. Now, it's not what you might think - simply going down a slope on your arse would hardly make for a challenging sport, now would it? Besides, that sort of thing would be better suited to the Winter Olympics. No, buttock ski-ing is a real test of skill - and a cross gender team sport to boot. First of all, you need a woman with a set of big buttocks. Now, I know this sounds suspect, but believe me, research has shown that female buttocks are best for this. The possessor of the buttocks must lie, bare arsed and face down, on the floor. The skier (who can be of either gender), should then smear the buttocks with salad cream, before mounting them in bare feet - one foot on each cheek. Grasping a coat hanger attached to a piece of string, held taught by being tied to a door knob, the skier now needs to try and stay on the buttocks. Slipping off leads to elimination. Trust me, it takes more skill than you might suspect to stay on those wobbly mounds. For best results, an electric fan should be set up to blow at the skier's face, completing the illusion of water ski-ing.

I really think we should start lobbying to have this one included as an exhibition sport for the London Olympics in 2012. We really need to start thinking about how we can encourage today's youth to participate in sports by introducing disciplines in which they can utilise their existing skills. Consequently, I firmly believe that knife-fighting should also be included as an exhibition sport in 2012. We also need to think about modernising some of the existing sports to make them seem more relevant to today's young people. Take shooting, for instance. All that blasting away with shotguns at clay pigeons means nothing to modern kids. Now, if they were to introduce a new shooting event - the drive-by - I think we'd see participation levels go through the roof. A team activity where half a dozen shooters have to hit targets from a moving car, firing Ingrams Mac 10 machine pistols, I think we'd be guaranteed a Gold medal. Forget track and field events, (unless we introduce a new version of the sprint where competitors have to carry a TV set for 200m without being caught by the police), the only way we're going to be able to maintain our current magnificent level of Olympic achievement, is through lateral thinking of this kind.

More Strange Stories

More from the wonderful world of local news stories. It seems that in addition to wig-wearing transvestite aliens, the Thames Valley has also seen a spate of animal molestations, with several flocks of sheep being sexually assaulted and a whole herd of cows buggered. Local farmers are convinced that aliens are behind these attacks. “What else could it be?”, ruddy-faced rustic Teddy Poon asked the Wokingham Friday Free Ads. “No normal man would have the stamina to molest an entire herd in only one night. Only a madman would attempt it - or an alien with superhuman sexual powers.” Poon also believes that sinister alien influences may lie behind the recent bizarre behaviour of his dog Rex. “I had to shoot him after I found him attempting to mount the local vicar’s bull mastiff”, he tearfully told the newspaper. “What kind of an evil mind is it that induces homosexuality in innocent animals?”

The idea that aliens are behind these strange phenomena has been reinforced by a series of UFO sightings over Caversham. Local pensioner Mabel Mott has described how she and her husband saw a strange craft hanging in the sky one evening around the time of the cattle molestations. “I’m convinced it was a spaceship - it was the traditional cigar shape, and there was no moon out, or any low flying aircraft around that evening - there’s no other explanation”, the 78-year old explained, as she scoured her false teeth with Vim. “It was pink and glowing”, her equally decrepit husband Percy added. “Also, instead of being horizontal, it seemed to hang at an angle, one end drooping toward the ground.”

Professor Bob Mincer of Balham University - South London’s centre of excellence of for Correspondence Courses - has an alternative explanation for these phenomena. “Its bloody obvious isn’t it? Its sex!”, he bellowed from the bar of a South London pub. “A pink and drooping cigar? Obviously the old boy can’t get it up and his wife isn’t getting a regular rogering - just prescribe him viagra and they’ll be at it so often they won’t have time for UFO sightings! Now piss off and let me finish my bloody pint!”

The All Too Predictable Truth...

...is that if you post a story called something like Sex in Space you'll suddenly see your web traffic spike. Which is exactly what happened yesterday. Whilst I'm actually quite proud of the story, which is genuinely satirical, I have no doubt that had I not given it such an obviously suggestive title, it would have passed by virtually unnoticed. Yet more proof, if any was needed, that sex is what drives the majority of web searches. The best we satirists can hope for (and I suspect it is a vain hope), is that some of these smut-seekers actually read the stories they click on and, before they know it, experience some satire. There's always the chance that they might even enjoy what they read and come back for more. It's unlikely, I grant you. But we have to cling to these slim hopes if we aren't to simply give up and start amateur porn sites instead. At least then we'd be giving the punters something they wanted.

Mind you, it's a minor miracle that Sex in Space ever saw the light of day after its first two thirds were trapped on my inoperative hard drive for the better part of Sunday. Luckily, as I chronicled earlier, I was able to sort out the problem and get my laptop up and running again. However, to add insult to injury, the keyboard then began to fall apart. Despite these travails having put me seriously behind schedule this week, I've finally managed to get back on track. Hopefully my laptop problems should now be behind me, with the purchase of a new laptop (a second hand IBM T43), although I'm still using my ill-tempered old Dell until I finish installing software and transferring data to its replacement. So, now that I'm back in business, you can expect to see a new editorial soon over at The Sleaze, to be followed by the last story of this silly season (subject yet to be decided).

Strange Stories

Ever since I mentioned my love of weird and whacky local news stories, I've been inundated with examples from readers. Perhaps the most perplexing of these was the tale of 42 year old Rose Millar of Bracknell, reported in the Surrey and Berks Free Advertiser, who apparently experienced a highly disturbing alien abduction experience. The petite divorcee told of how, after a night out with friends at a local club, she was awakened in the night to find her bedroom filled with an intense white light. “I was completely paralysed”, she claimed. “I could see two figures silhouetted in the light, then I blacked out. Next thing I knew I was lying on an examination table in this strange room!” Three strange figures then entered the room. “Two of them were tall, and walked as if they were wearing high heels, whilst the third was much shorter”, Millar recalled. “The short one approached me and I could see that its face was smooth and featureless. I could also see that it was wearing something on its head. With a shock I realised that it was wearing a wig!” Millar believes that the alien could have been wearing the wig, which she describes as being ginger and curly, to lessen the impact of its bizarre appearance and thereby reassure her. She claims that she recalls nothing more of the abduction, with her next recollection being of waking up the next morning with a splitting headache. “I don’t know what inhuman experiments they carried out on me, but I was throwing up all morning”, she informed the local paper.

Whilst sceptics might point out that, by her own admission, Millar had drunk in excess of five pints of Guinness and at least six cocktails prior to her experiences, there can be little doubt that the Bracknell area has recently become the epicentre of a series of strange occurrences. Around the time of Millar’s abduction, another Bracknell resident also claims to have had a close encounter with alien forces. Bricklayer Kevin Lipring told the Thames Valley Motor Mart of how, as he walked home from his local pub, clutching a bag of chips, he encountered a pair of strange beings at a bus-stop. “From a distance I just thought they were a pair of girls waiting for the night bus - they were wearing short skirts, high heels, the full works”, he recollects. “I walked over to them to tell them they had missed the last bus and offer to escort them home, when I realised something was amiss. As I got closer I realised that their facial features were simply not human. Without warning, one of them spewed a foul smelling liquid all over me, whilst the other one stunned me with a powerful weapon disguised as a handbag.” When Lipring came to, the aliens had vanished. “I knew I must have been out for some time, my chips had gone cold”, he mused. “I should have realised that there was something wrong earlier. I mean, looking back it now seems obvious that their legs were unfeasibly long and their breasts seemed to defy gravity.”

More of the same soon...

Going for Gold...

Jesus, what a weekend! I seemed to spend most of yesterday trying to get my laptop to boot after Windows decided to fail catastrophically without warning. Being unable to access the data on your hard drive is like being locked out of your house - you know all those goodies are there, you just can't get your hands on them. It's frustrating because it is a case of 'so near, yet so far'. Anyway, by yesterday evening I'd finally managed to find a way to repair the affected sections of Windows and was back in business. The upshot of this fiasco is that I'm now behind schedule with the next story for The Sleaze, the two-thirds of which I'd written, spent most of yesterday inaccessible on the hard drive. Unfortunately, there is also non-website related stuff I have to attend to this week. So, something has to give. Consequently, updates here are going to be a bit intermittent this week.

As if all that hassle with the hard drive wasn't bad enough, I'm also having to suffer wall-to-wall coverage of the bloody Olympics. You can't turn on the TV without encountering the men's 1500m transvestite cheese race, or other such mainstream sports, followed by highlights of this so-called action, then highlights of the bloody highlights. I don't know why they just don't rename BBC One BBC Olympics and have done with it. Clearly I'm not the only one being driven to distraction by it - the Russians have even invaded Georgia in desperation. Mind you, cynics might suggest that the Russians are merely trying to divert the world's attention from the number of Russian athletes failing drug tests in Beijing...

Suicide by Satire?

Back on the thorny subject of web traffic, or the recent lack thereof, to be precise. After speaking to other site owners, I was ready to simply put the last couple of months dreadful dip in traffic down to the 'summer slump' - a combination of good weather, people going on holiday, students being away from college and sporting events often result in people being drawn away from the web at this time of year. But then I got to thinking, I hadn't experienced this sort of thing over the previous couple of summers. So what was different this year? Well, most obviously, the stories I was running. So, I decided to remind myself of what I was running this time last year. The difference with this summer was startling - last year we had rampaging giant breasts, naked wrestling ex-Presidents, celebrity animal killers, smoking terrorists, swastika spankings and sado-masochistic secret agents dominating the front page. Sensational stuff that drew the in the punters in droves.

Compare that to this summer, when I made the mistake of running mainly straightforward (by The Sleaze's standards, anyway), political satire. Bad mistake! As I've noted before, the commonest search terms bringing visitors to the site seem to concern smut and perversion. These stories just weren't going to do it! Interestingly, the publication ofA Life in Pictures which kick started a modest recovery in traffic to The Sleaze. Whilst not a provocative title, and although it contains no smut, the story has proven popular. To capitalise on this success, I quickly followed it up with The Day the Earth Got Spanked, a heady mixture of aliens, abductions and flagellation. Again, a winner in traffic terms. Traffic this week has been much stronger (although today isn't too clever, so far). Consequently, another slice of satirical smut tentatively titled Sex in Space is currently in the works.

What conclusions can we draw from this? Well, I hate to say it, but we've pretty much confirmed that satire just doesn't sell to the great unwashed of the web. This is emphasised by the fact that, thanks to some tweaking of title and description tags, the site now ranks pretty highly in Google for searches like 'political satire'. Has that resulted in any new traffic? No. None at all. As if we needed reminding, the truth is that most web users seem to be searching for porn. A depressing truth. Still, at least my traffic seems to be improving (in terms of visitors, if not page views) after two utterly dire months. I'll just have to be satisfied with that.

On Her Majesty's Cash-Strapped Service

The past is another country - they do things differently there. I was reminded of this the other day whilst watching Octopussy for about the 300th time. It wasn't just the fact that the film was made at a time when the old Soviet Union was considered to be a super-sophisticated world power, waiting to deploy its massive and efficient armed forces against NATO, which dated it, but also the fact that Roger Moore spent an inordinate amount of time toward the film's climax searching for a public phone on which to contact London. "Why don't you just use your bloody mobile!" I found myself screaming. But, of course, this was 1983, and only the world's four wealthiest men had mobile phones. The depiction of the Kremlin's main operation room was mildly hilarious, with its rotating seating and giant electronic maps. The reality would probably have been a dank basement dripping with water, with the entire Politburo huddled around a one-bar electric fire. If they were lucky they might have a paper map. Mildewed at the edges. On first sight, the portrayal of the British Secret Intelligence Service seems equally bizarre - a technologically advanced organisation with apparently vast funding and super-efficient operatives. However, on closer examination, Octopussy is actually giving us a radically revisionist view of the Service.

They certainly seem pretty short staffed - Smithers, who is first seen driving a London cab sent by Bond to follow Khan, later turns up again as one of Q's assistants. Come to think of it, perhaps he wasn't on duty when he was driving that cab. Maybe he was moonlighting and being in the right place to follow Khan was purely coincidental - he was taking a fare to the airport, anyway. Not only that, but Q himself takes a turn standing watch for 007 in India. For God's sake - how thin on the ground do you have to be before you start using your chief technical expert - who must be one Hell of a security risk with all the knowledge he has - in the field? Surely you'd keep him locked up in your London HQ? Actually, while we're on the subject of Q - just why does he seem to turn up, complete with a fully equipped lab, wherever Bond is operating? Surely that can't be cost-effective? Not only that, but there are other '00' agents - does he do the same for them? Perhaps that's why he's always so irritable, ("For goodness sake, 007, stop arseing about and pay attention - I've got to fly out to Macao after this to sort out an exploding vibrator for 008.")

But it's not just Q who seems to be forced to carry out menial tasks - M himself appears in Berlin to brief Bond. Jesus Christ! Who in their right mind would send the head of the Secret Service to do a job a clerk could (and should) do? Those public spending cuts imposed by the Thatcher government were clearly biting hard. The penny-pinching is most obvious at the film's climax. Does the British government send the SAS or SBS to raid the villain's lair? No, they instead use a band of female circus performers. Does Bond arrive in a helicopter? No, he appears in a hot air balloon, piloted by the septuagenarian Q. Not just any hot air balloon, but one emblazoned with a huge Union Jack. Covert operations, eh? But like I said before, this was 1983 and things were different then - the world could still be saved by a middle-aged bloke with a public school accent who even wears a jacket and tie when he's in the jungle. (Actually, by this time in the series, Roger Moore was looking dangerously like a dirty old man as he raised his eyebrows and directed single-entendres at attractive young women).

How times have changed. Nowadays Bond wouldn't be saving the world, he'd most likely be trying to find one of those laptops the MoD keeps losing on trains. Maybe that will be the pre-title sequence of the next film: Bond is carrying out surveillance on a Starbucks, when he spies a suspicious looking character trying to sell a laptop to another customer, a furious chase through the coffee shop ensues, culminating in him beating the shit out of the thief before retrieving the computer. Of course, back in Roger Moore's day, he'd have tried to foil the theft of the laptop in the first place, landing on top of the hapless MoD official's train home, in a hot air balloon, probably piloted by Q. But then again, we didn't have laptops back then, did we? Haven't we come a long way? From hot air balloons and circus performers to Daniel Craig punching a laptop thief in the face. That's progress.

Blown Away?

Apparently it was the US that invented the car bomb. That is, according to programme on Channel Four I saw part of. Now, leaving aside the question of just why anyone would want to claim responsibility for a weapon of terror which, over the years, has claimed so many innocent lives, I was left marvelling at the audacity of the Yanks - is there nothing they'll try and take credit for? I wouldn't mind, but the claim was based on pretty shaky evidence. Actually, it was completely nonsensical evidence. It seems that just after the First World War, a device exploded on Wall Street in New York. Now, not only did the programme have to concede that said device was carried in a horse-drawn cart, but it was planted by an Italian anarchist. So, on two counts - it wasn't actually a car bomb, as no automobile was involved, and it wasn't built and used by an American - the dubious claim of US ownership of the car bomb falls down. Joking aside, this cavalier disregard for facts typified what was wrong with this programme. The presenter/writer was allowed to keep repeating his pet theories as if they were fact, regardless of the evidence to contrary given by other contributors.

What I really objected to was the programme's moral 'neutrality' on the subject. Former terrorists were allowed to trot out their dubious self-justifications for employing car bombs unchallenged. I found the section on the IRA particularly sickening, with nothing being done to challenge their continued assertions that their car bombs weren't intended to kill 'civilians' and they always gave warnings. If we were to believe this programme, their targets on mainland Britain were primarily economic, and it was the cost to business which 'forced' the UK government to negotiate with them. This conveniently ignored the Warrington and Victoria Station bombings which were clearly directed at shoppers and commuters respectively. But, of course, these weren't car bombs, so fell outside of the programmes remit. They did mention the bombing of the Arnedale shopping centre in Manchester, in passing, but glossed over the loss of life involved. Because it didn't fit its thesis, the programme completely ignored the fact that a major contributing factor to the IRA's abandonment of its bombing campaign and its decision to negotiate with the UK government, was the loss of support it suffered in Ireland as a result of the terrible loss of life caused in the aforementioned incidents. But hey, why should we let the facts get in the way of personal bias?

Turkish Delight...

So, somebody tell me, is there a Turkish porn star or movie called 'Doctor Sex'? Or perhaps Istanbul's top male stripper goes by that monicker? I only ask because for the past few months I've been seeing a lot of traffic to the story Doctor Sex, mainly from Turkey. Now, ordinarily I wouldn't be too worried at the source of any traffic to The Sleaze (particularly in these dead Summer months when traffic seems to flat line). However, bearing in mind the number of times the Turks are accused of being a bunch of buggerers, obsessed with sodomising anything with a pulse, be it man or beast, on the site, I'm a trifle alarmed.

That said, the kind of search terms (aside from 'Doctor Sex', 'Sex Doctor Stories' or 'doctorsexy'), which bring them to The Sleaze would seem to suggest that these allegations are well founded. They really do seem to be sex obsessed. To a very unhealthy degree. Mind you, they aren't the only ones - virtually every visit I get from India and Pakistan concerns 'Hollywood Sex'. You really are smutty little perverts in the sub-continent, aren't you? But, getting back to the original point, I'd be very grateful if someone could enlighten me as to what the significance of 'Doctor Sex' is to the Turks?