tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75776908420156680532024-03-19T12:31:09.952+00:00Island of TerrorPaul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.comBlogger1270125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-82110109422770336082015-09-05T00:00:00.000+01:002015-09-05T12:26:29.393+01:00A-hem<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><a href="http://innovationsinentertainment.blogspot.co.uk/">INNOVATIONS IN ENTERTAINMENT</a></b></div>
Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-36441373467294353232015-08-02T00:00:00.000+01:002017-01-19T19:22:30.447+00:00Interesting Postcards<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">'Bing bing bong, this is <b>Radio Butlin</b>'. Yes, it really happened. We used to go on holiday to Butlins in the seventies, an</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">d always had a brilliant time. I'll tell you about it someday, as well as posting more of my surprisingly extensive Butlins postcard collection. Bet you can't wait.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> But you'll have to, as I'm now on holiday for a bit. Reheating a soufflé is a pretty tricky operation. </span></span></div>
Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-92184186775526603812015-08-01T00:00:00.000+01:002015-08-01T00:00:01.553+01:00What We Call The Most<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">'Look, Mary, no hands!'</td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: justify;">There's no question in my mind that </span><b style="text-align: justify;">Cliff Richard </b><span style="text-align: justify;">has made a lot of good records, but very few of them have the immediate dance floor appeal of his very groovy version of </span><b style="text-align: justify;">'The Girl Can't Help It' </b><span style="text-align: justify;">as released on his </span><b style="text-align: justify;">1970</b><span style="text-align: justify;"> LP </span><b style="text-align: justify;">'Tracks 'n' Grooves'</b><span style="text-align: justify;">.</span><br />
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The Little Richard cover puts Cliff back in touch with his rock and roll roots, of course, but it's a slightly daring move as the lyrics are ridiculously and comically lascivious, with numerous metaphors for sexual arousal and climax.</div>
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To complement the saucy words, Cliff is given a loping, slightly sleazy arrangement to emote over, full of dirty bass and, yes, prominent horns. In an attempt to temper the relentless smut, a middle eight is inserted where a Hammond organ goes all churchy and Cliff suddenly declaims 'OH, HEAR ME NOW!' as if he were a hysterical evangelist working a tent full of gyrating snake handlers.</div>
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Nice one, Clifford, nice one, son.</div>
Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-19850215186267772302015-07-31T00:00:00.000+01:002015-07-31T00:00:01.482+01:00The Nanny<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As you might expect from a film that is about the death of a child and the devastating impact it has on a family,<b> 'The Nanny' </b>is a rather somber affair, by far the most restrained of the psychological thrillers that Hammer used to supplement their various horror franchises. There are very few twists and turns, just a slow piecing together of the true circumstances of what may or may not have been a tragic accident.</div>
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<b>Bette Davis</b> stars here as Nanny, ably supported by extraordinary eyebrows. The only child in the house hates and fears her, but that's irrelevant as her real duties are to stop the Mother of the family unraveling completely, which she does by treating her like a baby, obsessively brushing her hair and feeding her steak and kidney pie from a spoon (yes, Social Services, I am aware that does not necessarily constitute responsible child care). Davis' performance is mannered and slightly grotesque, without ever being ridiculous. As things begin to unravel, Ms Davis resists the chance to go full psycho-biddy, as if her character is already at the extent of her strangeness. </div>
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The lovely<b> Pamela Franklin </b>pops up<b> </b>a<b>s</b> a lonely teenage neighbour who pretends to have loads of boyfriends but mainly sits in smoking and watching westerns on the telly, and is by far the most sympathetic character in a film filled with emotionally damaged and psychologically distant people. </div>
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It's all a bit depressing, really, but it's well made and directed and doesn't rely on cheap shocks to tell its ultimately rather sad story. I fancy some steak and kidney pie now. I'll have a bath later. </div>
Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-51567385291903673242015-07-30T00:00:00.000+01:002015-07-30T00:00:00.471+01:00Check Four<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Driving</b> used to have criteria, things that you had to do before embarking on a journey. There were special clothes to wear, equipment you needed to keep in your boot, sweets you needed in the glove box: there were gloves. It was also a time when men were expected to be useful, and so a series of mechanical checks were expected to be made before every trip. Now people just jump in and piss off at high speed in the same casual way that they might sit on a chair, or a toilet.</div>
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So, next time you need to use the car, humour me. Check the lights; check the steering; check the tyres; check the brakes; put on your car coat and pull on your driving gloves. When you've done all these things, light your pipe, make a hand signal and set off. The drive-thru KFC will still be there in a few seconds time.</div>
Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-81924056366449181392015-07-25T00:00:00.000+01:002015-07-25T18:48:50.010+01:00Sucked To Death<div style="text-align: justify;">
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As a child I had a morbid fear of quicksand. I'd probably watched too many Tarzan films*, and PIF's like<b> 'Keep A Grid On It'</b>, a warning about the dangers of children dying in grain pits ('drowning without water') didn't help. Come to think of it, as an adult I'm still pretty scared of quicksand AND grain pits, I'm just wise enough to know that if I don't go looking for that sort of danger, it certainly won't coming looking for me.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">*There is no such thing as too many Tarzan films.</span></div>
Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-38385715191416065082015-07-24T12:00:00.000+01:002015-07-24T12:00:08.983+01:00Dracula, Prince of Deadness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's a convention of vampire films that Dracula starts dead, and ends up dead. In Hammer productions he is usually ended by a member of the Van Helsing family, but his nemesis can also be a callow youth or a monk who likes to warm his arse on an open fire. In <b>'Taste The Blood Of Dracula'</b> he just gets giddy from being in a church and falls off a ledge. Fact is, Dracula is very much a bully. He's cock of the walk when biting young, vulnerable girls, but he crumbles when faced with any real opposition. Literally. That said, he'll be back. He always comes back. </div>
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RIP, Sir Christopher, you pompous old marvel. See you again soon.</div>
Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-43621055119050713752015-07-24T00:00:00.003+01:002015-07-24T01:28:51.140+01:00Interesting Postcards<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Dolphins at Brighton Aquarium, </b><b>Sussex</b><br />
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<span style="text-align: justify;">I know what you're thinking, 'yeah, dolphins are cool, Paul, but they're not </span><i style="text-align: justify;">that</i><span style="text-align: justify;"> interesting'. Well, wind your neck in, mate, because these clever little bastards are Dick and Delilah, the dolphins the CIA trained to sabotage Soviet submarines during the cold war. And you can't prove otherwise.</span>Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-45789147690782578632015-07-20T00:00:00.000+01:002015-10-06T00:04:01.732+01:00The Evil of Banality<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The writer, theorist and academic </span><strong style="font-family: inherit;">Mark
Fisher</strong><span style="font-family: inherit;"> recently set up a Facebook page called </span><strong style="font-family: inherit;">‘Boring Dystopia’</strong><span style="font-family: inherit;">, and invited the submission of photographs of Britain in the 21</span><sup style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">st</span></sup><span style="font-family: inherit;"> century to illustrate the
concept. I’ve already uploaded a few snaps, as manifestations of dullness and decay have long been an interest of mine, particularly the
places where the banal and the broken intersect, and the true, terrible,
tedious horror of modern life is revealed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We’ve all read <b>‘1984’</b> and seen
the implications of totalitarianism: the endless war, constant surveillance,
the relentless propaganda machine, the purges, the torture, the executions, the
mind boggling twists and turns in ideology, in language, in life under the heel
of the system. But this is a very different dystopia that lacks even the charm of the police state: there
are hardly any police for a start (the phalanx of coppers in the picture below dates from 2012, and the procession of the Olympic Torch). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This dystopia is held in place by
neglect, by apathy, by a lack of resources, by a lack of interest. Everything
is falling apart, but we lack the money and energy to make it right. Newly
built things look half-dead even as they are unveiled, MDF where wood used to
be, bricks made out of old bricks, slates and glass made out of plastic, all
covered with a single coat of watery pastel paint. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">New housing is prohibitively
expensive and resembles a series of bird boxes split into quarters, sixths, eighths depending on how many newly weds are expected to cram into them.
The pity of the boring dystopia is that these poorly and hastily constructed pens are sought after. It has come to
this: we are so desperate to live somewhere that we will settle for a Lego
house with a tiny consolatory patch of polyurethane lawn. There are some
townhouses near to where I work. Each of them has one large window that has a tiny
balcony attached to it, like a fancy fringe on the bottom of a sofa. You cannot
stand on it, sit on it, or even dangle a child over it. In any event, it just looks
out onto a dirty, busy road. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Local authorities and other central
civil organisations are not instrumental in the boring dystopia, they
are subsumed by it, just like everybody else. Lacking money, resources and motivation, their interventions
are confined to putting up signs, or erecting fences and barriers to keep members of the public away from areas that they already have no interest
in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Old and empty buildings are no
longer demolished, as that costs too much money, and the boring dystopia has
put too many rules in place about blowing things up or setting fire to them. Instead
these buildings ossify with pigeon droppings, and stalactites form like spindly
toxic fingers. After a while the buildings become invisible.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Yet, despite the underpopulated office blocks, in spite of the abandoned buildings, we keep on developing and constructing because we are not able to stop, perhaps because we want to fulfil the life trajectory we expected when our world was not so dystopic, not so boring. Or perhaps it’s to see out the job that our distant ancestors started several centuries ago: to carve up and chop down this land until every inch of it has the brand of civilisation upon it, until there is no corner or parcel of space that does not have a foot print or a retail unit or a trampoline upon it.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There are CCTV cameras everywhere,
but they simply provide a continuous flow of unmonitored images that flicker
through the night in unmanned offices. If something happens, someone will
review the footage, in exactly the same way that a store detective might rewind
the day’s video surveillance tape to check out a shoplifting incident – in 1990. We’ve
spent billions on replicating a process that already existed. We’ve lost the
whirring noise and gained blurred footage of Michael McIntire shopping. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Who runs the boring dystopia? The
answer is no-one. There is no-one driving. The government are too busy to
bother with little things like the administration of the country now. They are
like burglars who have meticulously planned a precision raid on a gold warehouse,
only to get there and find all the doors open and the alarms switched off. They
wander around, taking what they want, not quite believing their luck. After a
while, they take their masks off. They know no-one will stop them, and they no
longer care who sees them. </span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We can obey a dictator, respect an
ideologue, fear a tyrant. These individuals lead by bending parts of the world
to their will, and, whether we go along or fight against, we live or die in the shadow
of their monstrous ego. But this dystopia is boring, and it is run by boring
people, with boring motives, except for Ian Duncan Smith, the previously underestimated 'quiet man' who is apparently a sociopathic maniac. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So, yes, thanks to Mark Fisher, the Boring Dystopia has a name now, and Facebook users can participate in its cataloguing.
It is unlikely to spark a revolution, or challenge the parameters of this
society that we have created. We are too tired and disengaged to
throw a brick, so we press a button to ‘like’ a picture of something that,
actually, represents our cultural penury and societal subjugation, like condemned
men unknowingly shaking the hand of their executioner, who uses the contact to
estimate the length of the drop. We should be ashamed, really, mortally ashamed,
but this dystopia has made us all boring, and we are too stupefied to do a fucking thing
about it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-82315680540162463492015-07-18T00:00:00.000+01:002015-07-18T14:05:27.819+01:00A Million Horns<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
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<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">It’s <strong>1970</strong>, and <b>Cliff Richard</b> faces up to the challenges of a new decade and a less than inspiring recent sales record by teaming up with<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>his old pal <strong>Hank Marvin</strong> and releasing a single that is not only rockier than his usual output, but also exploits a topical theme: the unstoppable rise of the car, and the damage pollution is doing to the environment. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Written by Hank, <strong>‘The Joy of Living’</strong> features an interesting guitar effect that seems to evoke the grinding futility of a traffic jam, and lyrics that are both deeply sarcastic and rather angry and are redolent of <strong>J.G Ballard</strong> (who would have thought lots of big, sexy, deadly cars a good thing) or even <strong>Patrick Hamilton</strong> (who would have thought it disastrous*). In this dystopic version of the future where the motor car is King, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>man is reduced to living in state appointed high rises, looking down on the world and remembering what it felt like to breathe clean air, like a scene from the credit sequence to 'Soylent Green' come to life.</span></div>
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In the end, however, a strong ecological message and a jaunty chorus were not enough to propel the song higher than number 25 in the charts and the backlash against the dirty bastard car didn’t take place after all. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As someone who was stuck in a lovely multi coloured crocodile for twenty minutes this morning, I wish the world had listened to Cliff more closely. He was also right about young ones not being young for very long.</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">* Hamilton had more reason than most to hate the motor car, having been knocked over and nearly killed by one in the late 1920's. In 'Coleoptera', the last chapter of his 1953 novel 'Mr. Stimpson & Mr. Gorse', he predicts a Britain over-run by cars, created by man to serve but now completely in charge of their inventors and 'pitilessly exacting' in their demands. 'The beetles were not magnanimous in victory', he notes.</span></span></div>
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Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-26852852312762015332015-07-17T09:00:00.000+01:002015-07-17T09:00:13.986+01:00F*** Me, It's Freddie!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>FMIF</b> as Philip Proudfoot in <b>'Otley'</b> (1968).<br />
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We've actually done this film before, but it is well worth revisiting, especially with facial expressions this good. Freddie plays what is called in olden days parlance 'a flaming homosexual', i.e. he isn't scared of what you think of his sexuality. He's also quite a dandy, and at the centre of the intrigue, like a camp mod spider. It's a broad performance, but it works - after all, as you can see from the second screen shot, Freddie has his tongue firmly in its cheek.</div>
Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-34962586509984318592015-07-17T00:00:00.001+01:002015-07-21T00:22:18.974+01:00Otley<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>'Otley'</b> is about fifteen minutes too long, but it's a fun film about the rather shabby world of espionage that features a stellar cast of British character actors, led by the great <b>Tom Courtenay</b> as Gerald Arthur Otley, a shiftless moocher and compulsive pincher of ornaments who, by sheer idiocy, finds himself at the centre of a web of slightly incomprehensible intrigue.</span></div>
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A nice mix of comedy and drama, 'Otley' is <i>very</i> sixties (never a problem in my book - or on my blog, anyway), but gives us a glimpse of the 'real' London behind the swing: the markets and bedsits, cafes, pubs and tube stations, people in polo necks and socks that need darning. The grooviest person in it is <b>Freddie Jones</b>, who is so sharply dressed it makes Beau Brummel look like Worzel Gummidge. </div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Tom Courtenay is excellent, as always. His light Yorkshire accent, bony face and slightly camp delivery are miles away from the usual leading man, and he's not afraid to appear cowardly and pathetic, which is probably why he never made it big in action films. He's also very funny and, at times, the self-obsessed, duplicitous Otley is reminiscent of a (slightly) more grown up Billy Liar, which makes you wonder sometimes if all the running around and gun play is simply part of some elaborate, extended fantasy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The rest of the cast is a veritable who’s who of contemporary
character actors, including James Villiers, Alan Badel, Leonard
Rossiter, James Cossins, Ronald Lacey, Frank Middlemass, Geoffrey Bayldon and,
of course, our beloved Freddie Jones. The last two on the list are still with us (aged 91 and 87, respectively) and, I hope, will remain so for a good few years to come. Romy Schneider makes an attractive female lead, but then she always did, particularly when sporting thigh length white pvc go go boots as she does here. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Light hearted and full of twists, it’s the sort of film that should be
on TV right now but, for whatever reason, never is. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Bloody nowadays TV.</span></div>
</div>
Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-43068493426226021272015-07-16T22:50:00.001+01:002015-07-16T23:03:47.354+01:00Adieu, Aubrey<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The purring, sinister, wonderfully eccentric <b>Aubrey Morris</b> is dead. He lived for 89 years, and was acting up until a few months ago. Here he is as an utterly bonkers psychiatrist Dr. Putnum in Hammer's <b>'Blood From The Mummy's Tomb'</b>. Adieu, Aubrey.</div>
Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-61387740004568873782015-07-16T00:00:00.000+01:002015-07-16T00:00:00.304+01:00What Might Have Been<div style="text-align: center;">
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It's February 1979, and Punk is moribund enough for <strong>Legs & Co</strong> to get involved and start clod hopping about in plastic sandals and party wigs. If they'd only flipped the record over they would have encountered 'Frigging in the Rigging', a puerile chant full of explicit sexual imagery that is crying out for literal interpretation in dance by five ditzy dancers. Can you imagine the hand gestures?</div>
Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-46867656366070893812015-07-12T12:00:00.000+01:002015-07-12T17:19:31.050+01:00Christ Almighty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Art therapy is an essential part of prison for those serving long sentences: they've got to do something, after all, and smearing a load of paint all over a canvas can be cathartic.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Ronnie Kray</b> was a keen amateur artist, and his paintings (not all of which are as good as his 'Crucifixion' above) now sell for several thousand pounds each. Good news, Ronnie, wherever you are: people are still fucking mugs when it comes to your tawdry legend.</div>
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A tip of the cap to<b> Jonny Trunk</b> who originally posted this on Instagram and made me aware of it. Now I can't think about anything else, so, yeah, thanks a lot.Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-69652429329310604682015-07-12T00:00:00.000+01:002015-07-12T12:41:47.078+01:00Keep It Broken!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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While we're thinking about shotguns, rural settings and sudden, violent death, remember --</div>
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'A gun should be broken and unloaded whenever it's not being fired, and especially when getting through a fence or over any obstacle. If you don't follow the rules, sooner or later there'll be a - BANG! - tragedy'.</div>
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Look at the geezer being shot. Is it just me, or is he hamming it up a bit?</div>
Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-80642089994871765802015-07-11T00:00:00.000+01:002015-07-11T00:05:56.223+01:00House On Straw Hill<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>‘House On Straw Hill’</b> has either an illustrious history or a
terrible reputation, depending on how you look at these things. It was the only
British film on the 1984 list of banned video nasties, mainly because of its fairly
explicit mix of sex (some consensual, some not) and violence (some consensual,
some not). Made in 1975, it exists in any number of different versions, and
under several different titles, although a more or less definitive version has
recently been released on Digital Versatile Disc.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The always odd Udo Keir plays Paul Martin, a successful
author who rents a remote cottage in Essex in order to work on his second book.
He has an on-off relationship with porn
star Fiona Richmond, i.e. he gets on, then off, then sends her packing. Their ‘love’
scenes have a rough and ready quality that makes them seem more explicit than
they really are, but then some of that might be due to him putting on latex
gloves every time they get it on. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Paul hires a secretary over the phone to help type up his
masterpiece and is delighted when she turns out to be Linda Hayden, who brings
her usual blend of jailbait precocity to the role, and forgets to bring a bra.
Linda is a compulsive masturbator and, when she is caught fiddling with herself
in a field by a couple of bicycle riding 'youths' (including an already balding Karl ‘Brush Strokes’ Howman), an unpleasant
rape scene (is there any other type?) ensues. This young woman is not quite the pushover she
seems, however, as the yokels who assault her find out to their cost.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The last half hour explodes in a frenzy of rough sex and
sharp knives and a soap opera plot twist which makes enough sense to validate
all the huffing, puffing and intimate touching that has gone before. Unlike the BBFC, I
wouldn’t describe the film as nasty, rather as an adult psychodrama that
occasionally gets a little too adult for comfort: if Ingmar Bergman had made it,
it would have been hailed as a masterpiece (it’s worth remembering that Bergman’s
film ‘The Virgin Spring’ was the inspiration for ‘Last House on The Left’). Probably.<br />
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I enjoyed the rural setting (it was filmed near Chelmsford, the furthest extent of 'my' Essex), and the scene where Keir
drives a brakeless Morris Minor into a pond. I liked Linda Hayden, who always does
an excellent sexy psycho, and I was intrigued by Fiona Richmond’s lissom body
and bricklayer’s face. Most of all I enjoyed hearing extracts from the book Paul
is working on, which sounds like it’s going to be truly fucking awful. <br />
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Music lovers will be pleased to hear that the film has a rather good soundtrack, but you needn't take my word for it as my friend and colleague <strong>Fearlono</strong> has made a custom soundtrack for it that you can download at his smashing website <strong><a href="http://cottageofelectrichell.blogspot.co.nz/">Cottage of Electric Hell</a></strong>. One thing: you will need to pretend to be an adult to gain entry, as there are grown up themes and some sexual swear words. </div>
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Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-70930894114225153982015-07-10T00:00:00.000+01:002015-07-09T10:24:28.266+01:00Baby Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<strong style="text-align: justify;">'Baby Love'</strong><span style="text-align: justify;"> centres around the familiar plot device of a stranger who enters a supposedly perfect household and shags (or is shagged by) everyone, subsequently exposing how damn dysfunctional they all are behind the smiles and soft focus. </span></div>
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Lucy is a fifteen year old strumpet in training who is suddenly orphaned when her sluttish mother (<strong>Diana Dors</strong>) kills herself. Mum's last wish was that Lucy go to live with Keith Barron, one of her few old flames to have actually done well for himself. Lucy's arrival throws the house into turmoil, not least because she has been trained to exploit her sexuality at every opportunity, and spends most of her time flirting, walking around in her bra and letting seedy strangers feel her up at the pictures. After a while, however, Lucy begins to long to be part of the family, only to find that the family rather like her as she is - a sex object that they can project their hetero and homo sexual fantasies onto.</div>
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'Baby Love' simply wouldn't get made today, if only for the fact that frequently nude star <strong>Linda Hayden</strong> was only fifteen years old at the time of filming. This role propelled her into a career in which she almost exclusively played, for want of a better term, <em>jailbait</em>. In the various retrospective interviews I've seen with her she seems remarkably well-adjusted and good humoured about her ten years as a baby faced slut but, as she went out with Robin Askwith for <em>a number of years</em>, her critical faculties may be slightly impaired.</div>
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Some interesting guest stars in this, by the way - the aforementioned Diana Dors, right on the cusp of turning from pneumatic blonde bombshell to frowsy Earth Mother, and, in a small but sleazy role, dirty old Dick Emery.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ghost of Diana Dors.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'Ooh, you are awful', etc.</td></tr>
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Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-6820476591360204462015-07-09T00:00:00.000+01:002015-07-09T00:16:36.789+01:00Bloody Hell<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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What do these randomly selected band of Dickensian grotesques and cheeky urchins know about blood? Nothing. One bloke in a bowler hat even thinks that you can keep it for up to a year! Surely everyone knows it only lasts three weeks, which is why it is used immediately, and why the NHS needs so much of it. So, do as the gingerbread man made flesh says: ring the Blood Transfusion Service and GIVE BLOODY BLOOD.</div>
Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-24324610704556597712015-07-04T00:00:00.001+01:002015-07-04T00:00:02.251+01:00F*** Me, It's Freddie!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-8aAdxwy_8zSQm7qIBLhFV5GicLqJ1SUj4Se_E88z81ccEYyKAbGr_zxVGHbvHMZSavxmpLFfau55ABVGbDjR13ElEY7_sLQeC_pjDXS3HA8dfnJcBtF3WxvFfUrwpJ_Sr9R44Vmo-nE/s1600/vlcsnap-2015-06-26-00h27m44s753+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-8aAdxwy_8zSQm7qIBLhFV5GicLqJ1SUj4Se_E88z81ccEYyKAbGr_zxVGHbvHMZSavxmpLFfau55ABVGbDjR13ElEY7_sLQeC_pjDXS3HA8dfnJcBtF3WxvFfUrwpJ_Sr9R44Vmo-nE/s400/vlcsnap-2015-06-26-00h27m44s753+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>FMIF</b> as Harry Field's Dad in 'Who Killed Harry Field?', a 1991 episode of 'Inspector Morse'. If you're wondering who did kill Harry Field, you'll have to watch the show, but, believe me, he definitely had it coming. Freddie gives a great performance, by the way, but then that's Freddie's stock in trade, isn't it? He's a great hero of mine, and it feels good to be paying tribute to him again.</div>
Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-64613259204725409902015-07-03T00:00:00.001+01:002015-07-16T22:51:37.832+01:00Lifeforce<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuT_d1fDnVai_QvSug1Y87tFLX4elRj9FCqBSv7KES0z8x7myyvO4CqQ2bM89ffX-1ACXPwIUCflnsA3JtCkWTVFU7wiz5fE_G9tgHO2Vuvf4xGPGNA85wbDqkD3cdyVNT9DYyXaKcSJA/s1600/vlcsnap-2015-06-24-17h12m55s888+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuT_d1fDnVai_QvSug1Y87tFLX4elRj9FCqBSv7KES0z8x7myyvO4CqQ2bM89ffX-1ACXPwIUCflnsA3JtCkWTVFU7wiz5fE_G9tgHO2Vuvf4xGPGNA85wbDqkD3cdyVNT9DYyXaKcSJA/s400/vlcsnap-2015-06-24-17h12m55s888+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihTlsUAntlYAFF_XAv3SA6SPQA_FrAycSfgw8lqpcVULTkRkGz0mqP57HKf8slPb62v0NF6GxXRxE-9dO59NKla5BAbkRFLclJgn5Z8VCZIHbDUzAt36ve0MxzcSUSUYp60288-j08OJk/s1600/vlcsnap-2015-06-24-17h24m52s240+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihTlsUAntlYAFF_XAv3SA6SPQA_FrAycSfgw8lqpcVULTkRkGz0mqP57HKf8slPb62v0NF6GxXRxE-9dO59NKla5BAbkRFLclJgn5Z8VCZIHbDUzAt36ve0MxzcSUSUYp60288-j08OJk/s400/vlcsnap-2015-06-24-17h24m52s240+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>'Lifeforce'</b> is a mostly enjoyable adaptation of Colin Wilson's <i>classic </i>novel 'Space Vampires'. In it, a space shuttle mission is interrupted by the discovery of a huge, seemingly abandoned space craft of alien origin. When the crew board the hulk, they discover hundreds of dead space bats and three naked humanoids in a state of suspended animation. Their genitals are thoughtfully obscured but the sole female (Mathilda May) is very beautiful indeed and has perfect breasts, and we are allowed full sight of these, which is a fatal mistake as they become pretty much all we can see and, when they disappear about forty five minutes in, all we can think about is when we will see them again. Indeed, if I close my eyes I can see them now *closes eyes*<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ul3wstXiPYw44Ve8iqvuaYiNtV7TwZP31UvJR3lWgl3OOKg2o7opzTOFeoKrHLt7MsegUtv956DrdmbgRIDSxA5v9trLUDXU0bcsDIG1Q0IzfwpUqa_Zecaj91gPvADOtl3ZOXRR5io/s1600/vlcsnap-2015-06-25-13h14m48s660+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ul3wstXiPYw44Ve8iqvuaYiNtV7TwZP31UvJR3lWgl3OOKg2o7opzTOFeoKrHLt7MsegUtv956DrdmbgRIDSxA5v9trLUDXU0bcsDIG1Q0IzfwpUqa_Zecaj91gPvADOtl3ZOXRR5io/s400/vlcsnap-2015-06-25-13h14m48s660+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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As it goes on, the film becomes less interesting and slightly chaotic, especially in the semi-hysterical finale in which vampirism has infected London and is driving people to barbaric acts of public unrest, and our uninspiring American hero (Steve Railsback) has to strip off and kiss the sexy naked vampire lady a lot in order purely to get her into a position where he can stab her with a special anti gorgeous bloodsucker sword, killing her, saving the world, but sacrificing himself. Good, the man's an idiot.</div>
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There are some excellent actors in the cast (Jerome Willis, Frank Finlay, Patrick Stewart, the superb Aubrey Morris), although Peter Firth is miscast as a tough SAS officer. There was also clearly some money spent on the production, and the special effects are generally very good if rather derivative of both 'Alien' and 'Raiders Of The Lost Ark'. There's even a promising plot line about the vampires having visited Earth on a cyclical basis for centuries but this doesn't really develop into anything interesting. Ultimately, however, all of those positive points are totally irrelevant in the scheme of things: this film is all about the ancient space vampire's stupendously attractive chest and the rest, a mysterious celestial body well worth getting bitten on the neck for.</div>
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Thinking about it, perhaps not the best film to come back with. I don't want you thinking I've had some sort of breakdown and am now obsessed with knockers, especially as a couple of next week's posts are about Linda Hayden.</div>
Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-76719320068647407002015-07-02T00:00:00.001+01:002015-08-17T23:12:29.774+01:00From Just This Side Of Midnight<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ94Sm4dKKLO3zZBxpe6GZDAfPOFDf6Omlsjyw27D303hFyuMB1szsiCTG2-aQRWVpOJBBMQNmFyN-9BgxQKAaf_JrUuxtJMORe9bXR3MNTktfdLJed8OH5M6-aYA_no1rgjA119zgrvA/s1600/vlcsnap-2015-07-01-19h09m57s276+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ94Sm4dKKLO3zZBxpe6GZDAfPOFDf6Omlsjyw27D303hFyuMB1szsiCTG2-aQRWVpOJBBMQNmFyN-9BgxQKAaf_JrUuxtJMORe9bXR3MNTktfdLJed8OH5M6-aYA_no1rgjA119zgrvA/s400/vlcsnap-2015-07-01-19h09m57s276+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmqoBy91ikmbZuHLnoQu_SUqxZ3bdJGzlqTpvOWstIhnEGwkbPMEZlBxrBbvm2Sov6LheZTqVPzT0xBFprT-C2FaktkXX2OEnOJxSUuyoogPaZ4agsUVfDksGOJAhSguidnBjUgunzJqU/s1600/vlcsnap-2015-07-01-19h10m19s237+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmqoBy91ikmbZuHLnoQu_SUqxZ3bdJGzlqTpvOWstIhnEGwkbPMEZlBxrBbvm2Sov6LheZTqVPzT0xBFprT-C2FaktkXX2OEnOJxSUuyoogPaZ4agsUVfDksGOJAhSguidnBjUgunzJqU/s400/vlcsnap-2015-07-01-19h10m19s237+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQXiKwMtrlJpIPzYGmhyphenhyphenHIH9gBND44LRhM7v7o1ISQE_n7LMwiqbGIW4x4Jh6_Ef-R5OB1IlNsOfK0M1XhWdAncRVuugWreqUnq9__8uksw9C07_tbTdG8HUI6VuAlvd7amAtztRZ-Ea8/s1600/vlcsnap-2015-07-01-19h11m14s819+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQXiKwMtrlJpIPzYGmhyphenhyphenHIH9gBND44LRhM7v7o1ISQE_n7LMwiqbGIW4x4Jh6_Ef-R5OB1IlNsOfK0M1XhWdAncRVuugWreqUnq9__8uksw9C07_tbTdG8HUI6VuAlvd7amAtztRZ-Ea8/s400/vlcsnap-2015-07-01-19h11m14s819+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9EPDQdExAE38gaE4CCdDr0FJCpbt3qFFnQZeIEGD2b2Y4M74limr20gxgqZ9JNcuIPdK7xRs1M1rTzA1NNhokdrS5j4Z7PHt1cOEzxIbtkGEQX2pakWvbiojBqQRiD0kAu9XEd_DcleI/s1600/vlcsnap-2015-07-01-19h11m55s167+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9EPDQdExAE38gaE4CCdDr0FJCpbt3qFFnQZeIEGD2b2Y4M74limr20gxgqZ9JNcuIPdK7xRs1M1rTzA1NNhokdrS5j4Z7PHt1cOEzxIbtkGEQX2pakWvbiojBqQRiD0kAu9XEd_DcleI/s400/vlcsnap-2015-07-01-19h11m55s167+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0APfrNaFv2Us5S3eDq1gufnfH6XpGheryCwcaaYco3D6mcrKDYh-CG_EQa_ggOsozFZlfMqk_BvHPUeY8yhnUkrgSF4hlKgxZX4dXraLICWS8tiHLs-dJm9of7STQ6cYRkkbdXnFtyQ0/s1600/vlcsnap-2015-07-01-19h12m04s331+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0APfrNaFv2Us5S3eDq1gufnfH6XpGheryCwcaaYco3D6mcrKDYh-CG_EQa_ggOsozFZlfMqk_BvHPUeY8yhnUkrgSF4hlKgxZX4dXraLICWS8tiHLs-dJm9of7STQ6cYRkkbdXnFtyQ0/s400/vlcsnap-2015-07-01-19h12m04s331+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t know whether recent
allegations about </span><strong style="font-family: inherit;">Cliff Richard</strong><span style="font-family: inherit;"> are true. My only response is that it wouldn’t
surprise me, not because I have reason to particularly suspect him but because, in a world
where </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rolf Harris</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> has been unmasked
as a serial sex offender, I now lack the capacity to be shocked by further revelations.
Anyway, Cliff fascinates me, and always has done, so I thought I’d look
at some of his occasionally very odd </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">oeuvre</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">, today arriving in 1979, already twenty one years into his seemingly endless career. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="275" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ZxJ4C_fhXiI" style="font-family: inherit;" width="350"></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Here, Cliff<strong> </strong>is
searching for a green light. He’s been looking for it all night. It’s one of
his sleaziest records, ably complemented here by the addition of Hot Gossip in
this performance from a 1979 episode of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">‘The
Kenny Everett Video Show’</b>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Cliff appears to be lost in a sensuous reverie but, ever the innovator, has clearly worked closely with
choreographer Arlene Phillips to invent dogging. The torch wielding, goggle wearing, balaclava clad dancers bring an additional sinister note to the balefully lit proceedings. Cliff, clad all in black, is both victim
and voyeur. He’s found half a dozen green lights tonight,
and, one way or another, he is going to get fucked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's good to be back.</span></div>
Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-70266495495943327992015-07-02T00:00:00.000+01:002015-07-01T23:00:36.162+01:00I Had No Luck With Her<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6yijtodjh21rJLnlwl1-RLYlycS4tjo7qeVtnGvTMDbpY4h5XwaiY5Z5ia9Rg3ibkR5eIpr9LfbiXvDMDHDkOqo-CMNuxvZsW1-Jex1mTXf7N72N37p7UXxkvJOKhI-wdyC7QkYZY26g/s1600/DSC_0623.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6yijtodjh21rJLnlwl1-RLYlycS4tjo7qeVtnGvTMDbpY4h5XwaiY5Z5ia9Rg3ibkR5eIpr9LfbiXvDMDHDkOqo-CMNuxvZsW1-Jex1mTXf7N72N37p7UXxkvJOKhI-wdyC7QkYZY26g/s400/DSC_0623.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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To kick off, here's a screenshot from a recently repeated episode of <b>'Top of The Pops'</b> originally broadcast in 1980. It features the backing singers for a performance of Jona Lewie's quirky electro pop hit 'You'll Always Find Me In The Kitchen At Parties'. </div>
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Left hand lady is the much missed Kirsty MacColl, of course, but I have been unable to identify her co-worker. This task has been made harder by the fact that neither of them actually sang on the record, they were just in the vicinity when needed for the telly. They really remind me of the girls I used to like as a young man: attractive, feisty, <i>not interested</i>. </div>
Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-1964386566295444462015-06-29T21:00:00.000+01:002015-06-29T21:41:37.365+01:00The British Esperantist<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This is Issue 6 of <b>The British Esperantist</b>, the 'mix tape of books' that I have been working on since I left The Island a year ago. It's been pretty successful and, now I have returned, I would like to suggest that you purchase a copy if you can as it is not only very entertaining, it is also informative and really cheap. This issue's contents include: Hawkwind; Ben Weber, International Ventriloquist; William Blake's horoscope; trouser trends and lots, lots more.</div>
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More details here --</div>
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<b><a href="http://thebritishesperantist.blogspot.co.uk/">The British Esperantist 6</a> </b></div>
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Don't linger, though, they generally aren't around for very long. Thank you for your attention.</div>
<br />Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577690842015668053.post-40318188060236605252015-06-21T00:00:00.000+01:002015-06-21T12:19:57.740+01:00Island News<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's been nearly a year since I last posted here, and I still miss the place. There's no point fighting it so, I'm going to come back. Might take the opportunity for a bit of a reboot and to revisit some classics. Just give me a few days to break the news to my other blog.</span></div>
Paul Barehamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00762414985401425426noreply@blogger.com8