It's the Narrative...

It feels like it is becoming increasingly difficult to disentangle what's really happening in the world from the narratives being propelled by the media.  Take this whole circus surrounding the Labour leadership.  I make no claims of having any inside knowledge or insight into the situation, but what is clear is that the media has decided upon a narrative which has only one conclusion: that Keir Starmer either steps down or is forced out.  It is built upon all those opinion polls showing support the government being eclipsed by other parties and the recent unfavourable local election results.  Added to this edifice is the right-wing press's current obsession with the state of the UK's armed forces, (which conveniently ignores the fact that the present situation is the result of fourteen years of swingeing cuts in defence spending by a series of Tory governments that these self same newspapers supported, endorsed and helped sustain in power), the usual nonsense about immigration and the ever present cost of living crisis (also a product of the economic mismanagement of those same previous governments).   The problem with this narrative is that it doesn't necessarily conform to reality - those local election results weren't great, but sitting governments often receive such setbacks mid-term. Plus, they have to be taken with the usual provisos that local results are not necessarily directly translatable into national politics - people frequently vote on different issues locally than they do at national level - and that they actually have no bearing upon how the national government operates.  

In reality, Reform UK's momentum at national level is stalling and the government are beginning to regain some ground.  Moreover, the government has sufficient majority that it doesn't have to go the polls until 2028/29, when the situation could be very different.  Furthermore, it remains to be seen how many Labour MPs actually will be willing to translate their dissatisfaction with Starmer's leadership into concrete action to try and force a leadership contest, bearing in mind how difficult it is to remove a sitting Labour Prime Minister under party rules.  (Notably, all the figures given by various media outlets as to how many Labour MPs who have supposedly called for his resignation is caveated by the fact that these figures are merely based upon MP's having made some sort of public utterance that could be taken as dissatisfaction with the leadership, rather than reflecting actual actions to trigger a leadership challenge).  So it isn't as clear cut as the media would have us believe.  But the media loves a story.  In fact, it demands that real world events neatly arrange themselves into some kind of narrative with a predictable outcome.  But as we all know, real life simply refuses to conform to such artificial forms.  Just look at the way in which the Iran-Us war refuses to adhere to the constructed narrative that the US has tried to impose upon it, with Iran stubbornly refusing to capitulate and give Trump the victory he so craves.  Much the same can be said of the war in Ukraine, which has likewise refused to follow the Russian narrative which culminates in their swift victory.  Of course, these are state driven narratives, not necessarily supported by the media, but all too often, as in the case of the current Labour leadership problems, political narratives are driven by the press, who persist in trying to impose them upon the public, regardless of the actual facts, buoyed up by their feverish speculation.  You don't just see it in politics.  Here in the UK, the press like nothing better than trying to construct narratives concerning outcomes in the premier league and don't like it when clubs refuse to conform to them, by winning matches they aren't 'supposed' to.  

Ultimately, I'm not trying to deny Starmer's problems, or the fact that the local election results are, to say the least, challenging, for the government.  In truth, this government has done itself no favours, missing opportunity after opportunity to actually do something radical to galvanise its electoral base.  Because that's their biggest problem: a failure to deliver on their manifesto promises.  It's no good Starmer announcing yet more policies today in an attempt to shore up his position - he has to start delivering on the policies the government promised in its election pitch.  Just pick a handful of policies which would be popular and are achievable and use that parliamentary majority to push then through, regardless of whether the right-wing press like them or not.  Because that's what will attract voters - the idea of a government that might actually make decisions and do something beneficial to them.  It doesn't matter who the Labour leader is, it matters whether or not they can actually deliver on their promises, regardless of the media's narratives. Which, in spite of what they would have you believe, are not set in stone.

The Displaced Dump

I can't deny that when I saw those tabloid headlines today about the former Prince Andrew being chased around his home by a masked man, I simply assumed that this was another revelation from the Epstein files.  I mean, there seems to be no limit to the sort of kinkiness the Epstein crowd got up to, so male rape fantasies would be no surprise at all.  But no, it turns out that it happened only recently and that the guy in the balaclava has been arrested.  Then we have this business about FBI director Kash Patel forcing staff to take lie detector tests in order to ascertain who it is that keeps leaving those huge floaters in his private toilet.  Apparently, it has been going on for weeks, but Patel finally snapped when the perpetrator left a huge turd in the wash basin.  Of course, staff at FBI headquarters know that it is actually Patel himself who is doing the shitting - but he's too drunk to remember his own unsanitary exploits.  He's allegedly drinking a whole case of his own brand vodka - the one which carries the FBI badge on its labels - every day.  So, he's wandering around the FBI building pointing at random people and bellowing 'It was you, wasn't it?  You keep shitting in my bathroom and not flushing!'  But he becomes ever more frustrated as, every time someone is wired up to the polygraph and asked if they did it, they reply 'I did not shit in the director's bathroom' and pass the test.  The continued denials simply reinforce his obsession with pinning his own toilet crimes on someone else.

It's all reminiscent of when Boris Johnson was PM and kept trying to blame his chronic farting on other cabinet members - usually Michael Gove, who, everyone agrees, looks like the sort who would fart furtively in public.  Johnson even kept up the pretence when he broke wind so violently in a cabinet meeting that he blew a hole in his trousers and followed through - he rushed from the room, stained trousers in tatters, before returning trouserless, with a towel wrapped around his waist, pointing at Rishi Sunak and shouting 'You filthy bastard!  I've told you before to go outside before you do that!'  Much to relief of Gove, who had himself just released a sneaky one cheek lift fart under cover of Johnson's ear-splitting postern blast.  Johnson, though, was knowingly practicing a deception, attempting, as ever, to deflect blame for his own uncivilised behaviour, whereas Kash Patel is seemingly oblivious to his own disgusting misconduct.  But just why is Patel shitting in his own bathroom, not flushing or even sometimes not even using the correct receptacle for his bowel movements?  And why is he apparently oblivious of his own unacceptable behaviour?  Could it be that is a sign of his subconscious self-loathing?  That at some level he is aware of the fact that he is completely unqualified for the office he holds and is seen by others as a drunken incompetent?  So, he literally shits on one of the symbols of his conscious self's success - the private FBI director's bathroom, with its gold fittings?  Just what, one wonders, would his predecessor and founding director of the FBI J. Edgar Hoover make of it all?  Hoover, after all, merely dressed in women's clothes and pursued homosexual affair with his assistant while publicly persecuting homosexuals and other alleged 'deviants'.  He never took a shit in his own sink.

Eyes on the Prize

I was reading about that French academic who awarded himself a non-existent international prize for philology.  The truly amazing thing about it was that it took years for anyone to call him out, so accomplished was his deception - he created a whole fake institute, (which, in reality, was nothing more than a website), to nominate himself (and other candidates), then award him the prize.  He even had a fake physical trophy created to award to himself.  It was amazingly elaborate and amazingly successful.  For a few years, at least.  Anyway, as I was reading about this guy, I couldn't help but think to myself that this was the sort of thing that I might do.  In fact, I sort of have done it in the past.  Way back when, there all manner of utterly spurious online 'awards' for websites going around, including some for satire sites.  Now, I have utter contempt for awards of any kind, (not just because I never win any, but on a matter of principle - they are setting up false competition between entirely unalike entities on the basis of highly dubious criteria), so I never entered The Sleaze for any of them.  The fact that many of them required a fee just for entry was a big clue as to their spurious nature, (plus, I'm a notorious skinflint).  Yet others seemed to be setting great store in these awards and were happily trumpeting how their site had 'won' one or other of them.  Which pissed me off no end.  So, I invented my own 'Sleaze Satire Awards', which, naturally, went to The Sleaze.  Now, there was never any physical trophy, (as already note, I'm a notorious skinflint, so spending money on this venture was out of the question), and nobody ever really noticed that I had won my own award (I really couldn't be arsed to publicise it in any way), but it amused me.

Getting back to the French dude, one might argue that he was actually some sort of trendsetter, as fake awards have, nowadays, become fashionable.  After all, what is that FIFA 'peace prize' they awarded to Donald Trump other than an elaborate piece of fakery designed to flatter and assuage a notoriously temperamental head of state whose country is jointly hosting your main international competition?  Will this 'peace prize' ever be awarded again by FIFA?  I somehow doubt it.  Were there other possible candidates to win it?  Again, I somehow doubt it.  Was there a clear set of criteria for candidates to be eligible?  I refer you to my earlier comments.  Who actually decides on who will win it, a panel of worthies, an academy of some sort?  Who knows.  It has absolutely no legitimacy.  Less legitimacy, in fact, than that French academic's fake award - at least he only gave it to himself and claimed that his motivation was merely to bring more attention to his academic discipline.  But it isn't just entirely fake awards that are the problem - nowadays the entire concept of having to earn an award is being undermined.  I mean, Trump seems to think that he should be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize simply because he feels that, as Obama once won it, it must be his turn.  Sadly, there seem to be plenty of spineless politicians prepared to pander to him on the issue by nominating him.  In the meantime, of course, he's been happy to try and purloin the prize awarded to that Venezuelan opposition leader - who has had a hard lesson in Trump's fickleness, with him effectively abandoning her in the wake of the US's illegal kidnapping of Maduro, favouring his deputy as new Venezuelan leader instead.  So now she has given away her prize and is still no closer to toppling the current regime in her own country.  Which all goes to reinforce my belief that all these awards are utterly pointless and of questionable value.

Local Election Madness

I can see that it's going to be one of 'those' weeks.  Much as I enjoy bank holidays. (although, as noted elsewhere, they are technically meaningless to me, as I'm no longer part of the regular workforce, so can take off any day I damn well please), they are disruptive to my normal schedules.  As, per most bank holidays, I spent Monday mainly on the sofa watching old films and eating peanuts, my normal Monday activities had to be deferred until today, making today feel like a Monday.  It won't get any better as the week goes on - with local elections on Thursday, my routines will be disrupted again, as I'll have to find time to vote.  But the elections will cause wider disruption - the BBC, along with most of the rest of the media, have decided that, this year, the local elections will be VERY IMPORTANT.  Which means that on Friday, most of BBC1's viewing time is to be given over to various so called 'experts' poring over the results as they trickle in and telling us how, if these voting patterns were repeated in a general election, would lead to Nigel Farage being PM.  The problem with all such analyses being that voting patterns at local level aren't necessarily indicative of voting intentions nationally.  Particularly when it is highly unlikely that there will be a general election before 2028/29.  Moreover, turnout at local elections is, traditionally, far lower than at general elections.  Not to forget, also, that not the entire country votes in local elections, meaning that results can't be perfectly be mapped to possible national trends.  

Of course, having said all that, we might actually have a high turnout this year, just to prove me (partially) wrong.  While, obviously, I hope that the expectations for these elections of the media are frustrated, not just because I'd like to see their attempts to propel Farage into Number Ten suffer a setback, but also because I'd like to see their overblown coverage fall flat on its face.  But even if this doesn't happen, I still expect the reaction of the viewing public to be 'where the fuck is today's edition of 'Bridge of Lies'?', or 'why the fuck was 'Pointless' on BBC2?  I bloody missed it because its BBC1 slot was full of boring bastards talking shit about politics!'.  The BBC even seem deluded enough to believe that primetime audiences will share their local election obsession, scheduling an edition of 'Question Time' - ignorant berks asking ignorant questions of a bunch of third string politicians - in the evening.  Even 'Have I got News For You' gets shunted to BBC2 - although not because of the local elections, but instead because the Beeb think that a Friday evening, after hour upon hour of local election bollocks which will have driven off most of the audience - is the right time to schedule a celebration of David Attenborough's hundredth birthday.  Madness, sheer madness!  Not to mention a severe disruption to my regular routines, (although, to be honest, I don't actually watch much of BBC1's Friday evening schedule on a regular Friday - but it's the principle that counts).  

The Avengers (1998)

Sometimes - and usually against my better judgement - I revisit a movie that, when I first saw it, I thought was an irredeemable mess.  So, I recently sat down and rewatched, for probably the first time in twenty-plus years, The Avengers (1998), the largely forgotten and largely unlamented attempt to reboot the classic sixties TV series for the big screen. One of the reasons that the film has been largely forgotten is that, for decades, with Warner Brothers not releasing it in any form for home viewing for years and only a brief TV screening (on UK TV, at least), it simply vanished from sight.  Recently, however, The Avengers resurfaced for a couple of showings on ITV4.  Well, it hasn't improved with age.  Although, to highlight the positives, a second viewing did allow me the better appreciate the film's production design and cinematography, both of which are excellent.  The production design does its best to replicate something of the feel of the original, with its exterior shots of largely empty streets rendering the London background almost abstract and lots of sixties British motor cars, giving it all a timeless feeling.  Even the high tech hardware used by the villains to control the weather has a somewhat anachronistic, sixties, feel about it.  Arguably, though, this attempt to recreate the visuals of the TV series is also one of the film's problems, effectively denying it an identity of its own, instead giving it the feel of an embalmed relic.  

The film's real problems, though, lies elsewhere, namely with the script and the casting.  The former never seems sure of what it is trying to serve the audience - an episode of the TV series or something entirely new - let alone who that audience might be - fans of the original or new viewers to whom the TV show and its characters mean little or nothing.  Hence, it gives us a half-hearted 'origin' story for Steed and Mrs Peel, with the film purporting to chronicle their first meeting (something the TV show skipped over, with one series ending with Cathy Gale as his sidekick, the next opening with Mrs Peel, with no explanation offered as to the change).  Now, as I have ranted on about at length, I find Hollywood's burning need to provide 'origin stories' for well established TV show characters and scenarios the bane of my life - most fundamentally because they represent bad writing.  Audiences should be thrown in at the deep end and background details filtered through things like dialogue as necessary.  So it is with The Avengers, regardless of whether the viewers are established fans or new to the story, this 'origin story' is completely superfluous, slowing down the story and altering the dynamic of the Steed/Emma Peel relationship, which was central to a large part of the series' run.  The script also feels very shaky on what tone it should be aiming for, seemingly unsure as to whether it should play it for laughs, as some kind of parody, or present a more straightforward action orientated adventure.  The lightness of touch that the TV series had evolved by the time that Diana Rig joined the cast as Mrs Peel is entirely absent.

But, when all is said and done, the script could have been brilliant, but the final film, as presented for distribution, wouldn't have reflected it.  The Avengers suffered savage pre-release editing from the studio, cutting it down to just under ninety minutes from a reported director's cut of one hundred and fifteen minutes.  (Some reports also claim an initial hundred and forty minute cut, making the release version effectively an evisceration).   Consequently, the film, as available, feels completely disjointed, jumping between scenes and characters in a way that is often barely coherent.  Combined with an already confused script renders the film barely watchable as a narrative.  It looks as if most of the movie's middle section is missing, with a lengthy introduction crashing into a frenzied climax, skipping most of the plot and character development that you'd ordinarily expect.  On top of all of this is the problem of the casting.  Ralph Fiennes seems perpetually uncomfortable as John Steed, far too stiff and formal, entirely lacking Patrick MacNee's relaxed charisma.  (To be fair, though, Fiennes is still better casting that Mel Gibson, who previously had long been associated with the role).  Uma Thurman brings her icy beauty to the role of Emma Peel, but little else, again failing to deliver the sort of charismatic and seemingly effortless performance provided by Diana Rigg on TV.  Jim Broadbent fares better as 'Mother', capturing Patrick Newell's performance from the series,  Sean Connery seems to be having fun as the main villain, relishing his various Roger Moore-style double entendres and bringing some much needed flamboyance to proceedings although, overall, he feels underused.

Ultimately, my biggest problem with The Avengers is that it all too often feels like it is somebody who isn't that familiar with the original idea of what series was about.  It takes various ideas, characters and tropes from the TV show and rather randomly tries to mix and match them in the hope of creating some kind of rough facsimile.  In which respect it reminded rather of that equally unsuccessful recent movie version of Fantasy Island, which similarly plucked ideas and characters from the entire run of the TV series and tried to assemble them into an entirely unnecessary 'origin story'.  So, while a second viewing of The Avengers didn't make me re-evaluate the film and change my initial impressions of it, it did leave me feeling frustrated at what a missed opportunity it was.  With a better script and casting, it might have been a halfway decent re-imagining of the TV series for the late nineties, (not to mention becoming the start of a franchise, which was the producers' original plan, but the film's failure at the box office led to the cancellation of these plans).  Still, if you want to know what those fifteen minutes of missing footage contained, the film's novelisation was apparently based on the script used for the hundred and fifteen minuute version.  So, if you can find a copy, reading it might well make for a more satisfying experience than watching the film, as released by Warner Brothers.

In the Midst of Life...

There's nothing like a funeral to remind us of our own mortality.  Having attended one this time last week, I've spent the past seven days, not obsessed with the subject, but certainly feeling more aware of my own mortality than usual.  Not in a morbid way, but just contemplating the way our awareness of the fact evolves over time.  I mean, when we're young, we think that we are invincible and immortal - death is something that happens to other people.  Usually old people, elderly relatives and the like and when you are young, old age seems an impossibly long time away.  Sure, like everyone else, I had contemporaries whose lives were tragically cut short - but we rationalised their deaths as simply being 'bad luck'.  They were, after all engaged in dangerous activities at the time, of the sort that we'd never do, my peer group reasoned.  In my couple of years at school, I lost one friend and two acquaintances to road accidents - two were on motorcycles, one in his old man's fast car that he'd borrowed having only just passed his test.  That was the only way young people could come to grief, we told ourselves.  So, it was a sobering experience when I lost a contemporary to cancer when we were both still our twenties.  It felt as if death had shuffled just a little bit closer.  But heck, we all thought, the odds are still in our favour.  But as the years passed, the casualties started to become a steady trickle and the words we kept hearing at funeral services - 'In the midst of life we are in death' - resonated more and more.  

Finally, you reach an age when you have to accept that your time is finite, that death, once just a distant. Largely invisible, presence in your life, is a player in your prospects.  You start to see death more, still not close, but lurking in the background, peering out at you from behind parked cars or from shop doorways, giving you that knowing look, reminding you of its inevitability.  Yet, strangely, this is reassuring, in a way.  At long last it is tangible presence that can't be ignored or swept under the carpet, which, in turn, makes us focus more on the fact that we are still alive.  Still have a life, albeit finite, to live.  You start to ask yourself how best you can use this precious gift of life in the years you have remaining.  You start enjoying the world around you more, knowing that your time in it isn't permanent.  Which, I know, all sounds like it could be pretty depressing and a real downer of a way to head into a bank holiday weekend.  But, luckily, this past week has been mainly bright and sunny, giving me plenty of opportunities to get out and about, enjoy the sunshine, enjoy nature and just generally enjoy things.  Just yesterday, for instance, while driving back home from a country walk through some country lanes, I found myself being raced by a hare.  I know that I was going fairly slowly as I was passing through a village at the time, but he still kept up with me for a while, before he veered off at a junction, running in front of a cyclist, who was so startled he nearly fell off his bike.  God, I loved that hare for doing that!  Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say is that my brush with mortality has actually been quite uplifting.  

If nothing else, the funeral at least allowed me to reconnect with some of my younger relatives and I now seem to have an ongoing correspondence via text and email with my Number One great niece, (I hasten to add that this epithet doesn't indicate favouritism - I try hard not to have favourites amongst my nieces, nephews, great nieces and great nephew - merely that, like Charlie Chan's Number One son, she is simply the eldest of the great nieces, (her sister is Number two great niece, her cousin Number Three great niece - I obviously love them all equally), and look forward to each of hem, in turn, assisting me with my investigations into bizarre murders).  Despite being reminded of my own mortality, I still don't have any intention (or expectation) of going anywhere for a good many years yet - I'll just try to appreciate my time more, going forward.

Spam in French

Ever had that sneaking suspicion that, somehow, you've inadvertently transgressed some online law and are now getting paid back over it?  It's what I've been left wondering of late as not only has the amount of spam I receive been increasing, but increasingly, it's in French.  I mean, why?  Sure, I watch French language movies with subtitles, but I can't recall the last time I visited a French language website, well, apart from one about Playcraft Railways, the now defunct UK subsidiary of Joueff, but I only looked at the English version.  Moreover, I certainly didn't give the site any email details.  Clearly, my email details, most specifically the email address I use for The Sleaze, (which was publicly available for many years), has found its way onto some French spammer's list, despite the .co.uk suffix clearly indicating that I'm in the UK.  Spam, in general, tends to come in waves, following particular themes, according to which spammers are active at any one time.  Prior to the French language wave, I'd recently weathered a lengthy phase of 'warnings' as to how all my files were going to be wiped from cloud storage if I didn't settle my overdue invoice.  Which would be quite a feat as I don't use cloud storage - it's inherently insecure and open to hacking.  Then there are the phases of fake cyber-blackmail threats, which I've discussed before.  Actually, the latest of these was incredibly dumb, even by spammer standards, sending three identical e-mails, each winding up by demanding a different amount or those non-existent videos would be released.  What a stupid prick.

But getting back to the French language spam - it isn't the only weird internet phenomena afflicting me at present.  Facebook has taken to slipping stuff into my timeline that has no relevance to my interactions there, or my general browsing history.  Now, most of it, though irrelevant, is at least relatively harmless - people doing DIY and the like.  (Although, what is irritating is that I keep clicking on the 'not interested' option and Facebook assures me 'You'll see fewer posts like this', but guess what?  That's right, the very next time I check in, it is more of the same, often the same accounts, to the point that I have to block them entirely to stop seeing them).  But of late, it has taken a distinctly sinister turn, with them interpolating various extreme right-wing UK politicians and 'personalities' into my stream.  Over the past couple of weeks I've been forced to block Rupert Lowe, Nigel Farage, Reform UK and, just today, Darren 'Crafty Wank' Grimes.  I mean, really?  I'd love to know exactly which of my contacts on Facebook or what activity I've engaged in which might suggest that I might be interested in following neo-Nazis?  Really crap neo-Nazis at that.  Is it part of some sinister strategy by Trump-supporting Meta to use its platform to promote his local buddies?  Or, as I noted at the start of this post, is this some kind of bizarre payback for my having unknowngly transgressed some online law?  If so, which one?  Or maybe it is just some more general form of cosmic karma for something I've done?  (Although, obviously, these days I lead an entirely blameless life, doing good deeds and being nice to furry animals and small children - not to mention regularly feeding the local ducks and swans, geese too, if they turn up).  So just why are the Gods of the web trying to irritate me to death with French language spam and British fascists?  Who knows?  I certainly don't.

The Happy Hooker Goes Hollywood (1980)

Cannon Films, while they existed (which was for a surprisingly long time), were always reminiscent of Universal or Columbia Pictures as they existed in thirties and forties.  Almost, but-not-quite, major studios adept at turning out mid-budgeted pictures or grinding out series spun off from such a successful film, with ever decreasing budgets and ambitions, yet all the time still striving to be taken seriously by turning out the odd, higher budgeted, 'prestige' picture.  While both Universal and Columbia eventually succeeded in elevating themselves to the status of 'major' studios, (a status they still hold today), Cannon never really achieved the legitimacy they so obviously craved, instead being remembered for their seemingly endless series of mid-budgeted action films starring the likes of Charles Bronson and Chuck Norris, various dodgy low budget science fiction and fantasy films, (not to mention big budget science fiction disasters like Life Force) and would be sex comedies.  Which brings us to The Happy Hooker Goes Hollywood (1980), aka Hollywood Blue, the second of two cheap and quick sequels to one of their most popular films, The Happy Hooker (1975).  The first film was loosely based on the autobiography of Xaviera Hollander, a Dutch sex worker and madam, who found success in New York, and starred Lynn Redgrave in the lead role.  Naturally, Cannon wanted to spin it off into a series, but as cheaply as possible.  Which meant that Redgrave was replaced with less expensive and recognisable actresses for the two sequels: Joey Southerton in The Happy Hooker Goes to Washington (1977) and Martine Beswick for The Happy Hooker Goes Hollywood.

Now, Martine Beswick might well have been less recognisable to general audiences than Lynn Redgrave, she is still a talented and hugely attractive actress (and later enjoyed success as a novelist).  Indeed, I can't deny that she was a major teenage fantasy for me, fuelled, not so much by her appearances in two Bond movies, but rather her genre appearances in a number of Hammer films.  She often seemed to play sultry cave women in various states of undress and, most notably, was the female half of Dr Jekyll and Sister Hyde (1971).  The latter film was a late night TV favourite for young men of my generation, as you could tell parents and other adults that you were watching it for educational purposes, as it was a feminist take on a literary classic.  In reality, of course, we were watching it for Beswick, who not only gave us some flashes of side boob, but also bared her shapely bottom in one scene.  In retrospect, bearing in mind the effect that her behind alone had on our libidos back then, it is probably just as well that The Happy Hooker Goes Hollywood didn't appear a few years earlier than it did, as her appearance in it leaves nothing to the imagination.  Seeing the fully naked Martine Beswick would probably have induced fatal seizures of ecstasy in those of us of a certain age.  All joking aside, these scenes are actually a large part of what is wrong with The Happy Hooker Goes Hollywood.  Not that I have any objection to Martine Beswick getting naked.  The problem is the context.  Despite its subject matter, The Happy Hooker didn't actually give the audience much in the way of explicit sex and nudity, focusing instead upon the comedic aspects of the story, a trend that continued with the first sequel.  But third time around, Cannon had clearly decided that what they needed to protect the box office was an injection of full on sex and nudity, which ultimately shades the whole movie over into softcore pornography, rather than sex comedy, territory. 

Beswick has a number of lengthy sex scenes with, of all people, Adam West, (allegedly, one actress had turned down the lead role on the grounds that she had watched West as Batman on TV as a child and simulating sex with him on camera would be just too freaky for her and Beswick herself was somewhat taken aback by the number of sex scenes she was required to film).  These feel increasingly jarring in the context of the rest of the film which plays out as a very broad satire of Hollywood, featuring the likes of Phil Silvers and Richard Deacon, giving the whole film a disjointed feel, as if scenes from a completely different movie were being inserted into an otherwise harmless comedy.  The plot, such as it is, concerns Silvers' struggling studio optioning Hollander's book, with studio executive West seducing her so as to get the rights over the line, then use just the title to create a fictional story.  Objecting to West's plans, Hollander instead strikes a deal with West's rival executive's son to produce the film independently with a script she approves.  The rest of the movie concerns their attempts to finance it, the studio's attempts to sabotage it and climaxes with the only print being stolen before the premiere and a car chase to retrieve it.  To be honest, as jarring as they might be, without those sex scenes, The Happy Hooker Goes Hollywood really wouldn't have had any sort of unique selling point.  A thin script and lacklustre direction from Alan Roberts ensures that the film largely wastes its cast and never really manages to make anything out of its set-pieces.  If you are a completist Martine Beswick fan then, yes, it is probably worth a look but otherwise is hardly a must-see.

American Amateurism

'Washington in shock after Trump press gala shooting' blare the headlines today.  Shock at what, exactly?  The fact that this is the third (alleged) attempt on Trump's life?  Or that the US, a nation renowned for its gun nuts, who have been brought up to shoot from the moment they can walk, has produced so many bad shots and just downright incompetent would-be assassins?  It's like a metaphor for the whole Trump administration: professionalism is constantly side-lined in favour of amateurism.  I mean, just look at the state of their diplomacy: where once they had an entire State Department full of trained diplomats and negotiators to resolve international crises, the US now relies upon sending out inept real estate dealer Steve Witless and Trump's creepy son-in-law, Jared Kushner.  With a marked lack of success.  In fact, Witless is so intent upon living up to his name that I'm amazed that during recent negotiations with Iran, he didn't turn up in, say, Tajikistan rather than Pakistan, because both countries have names ending in '-stan' and are therefore easily confused.  Which brings us back to these (alleged) assassination attempts which all seem to be carried out by utter and complete amateurs.  In the latest case, the idiot is so amateur that he couldn't even get past reception.  You'd really think that a nation of psychopaths like the US could come up with at least one efficient crazed killer?  

It's clearly the influence of the Trump regime, dumbing down even would-be assassins.  After all, just look to history - John Wilkes Boothe and Lee Harvey Oswald both took out their presidential targets.  Even John Hinkley managed to actually hit and seriously wound Ronald Reagan, even though he was so dumb that he was infatuated with a lesbian.  But nowadays - the best we get is some dude supposedly shooting Trump in the ear, (a wound which has, astoundingly, left no apparent scar).  I've said it before and I'll say it again: what we need are professionals on the job.  The rest of the world needs to club together and put a bounty on Trump's head, thereby ensuring that every professional assassin mercenary and bounty hunter in the world will be trying to get the fat bastard in their sights, (which shouldn't be difficult, bearing in mind that we're talking about a giant ambulatory tub of lard here - the failure to hit him where it hurts is another testament to the amateurism of these clowns).  The only alternative to the idea that the US can no longer muster anything but incompetent amateurs to try and assassinate the president is simply that all of the so-called attempts on his life have been staged.  Whilst I'm not a conspiracy theorist (quite the opposite, in fact), just looking at these incidents, it is tempting to think that they are all publicity stunts, designed to bolster Trump's standing, or enable his extremist policies, with those killed or injured in the process seen as collateral damage.  This latest attempt though, was the most pathetic yet - the alleged would be assassin wasn't even on the same floor of the building as Trump when he started shooting. Yet the incident is being used as an argument as to just why Trump needs that secure White House ballroom to ensure his safety at such events.  Utter bullshit.  Anyway, right now I'm pinning my hopes on the idea that King Charles has been set up as human bomb during his state visit to the US and is prepared to sacrifice himself for the good of the world by exploding while addressing that joint session of Congress.  He could take out the whole bloody lot of 'em in one go, that way.  God Save the King!

After Hours: The Man Who Fought Hitler's Ghost

The latest episode of 'After Hours', which can be heard here:

After Hours: The Man Who Fought Hitler's Ghost

This is episode three and I'm somewhat happier with this one than the previous edition.  It could still do with a slightly shorter running time, but overall, it is far more streamlined than its predecessor.  Most of the segments were recorded as the scripts were completed, which was a far more satisfying production process than the hurried scrabble of the the previous episode.  I did encounter a couple of glitches, the main one being that Google AI Studio decided that it didn't like something about one of the scripts, but wouldn't specify exactly what, resulting in some trial-and-error rewriting on the fly.  Whatever the problem was. some aspect of my rewrites must have eliminated it.

As ever, some technical credits:  ‘After Hours’ was created using Google AI Studio and GPT Reader.  Music and sound effects by Freesound Community and Simplesound – all via Pixababy.  

Actually, for the benefit of the knee-jerk AI-haters out there, I should emphasise that the AI part of After Hours' is simply the AI generated voices that provide the dramatis personae.  The words they speak are entirely scripted by a human being: me.  So think twice before you go off on some rant about 'AI Slop'.