the Catalogues of the Secret Museum

A NEGATIVE NARRATIVE: INTRAVIEW

2011-05-26T04:49:00.000-07:00

Night may have fallen on the Cities of Nifigance, but tentacles from his legend continue to grope about its backstreets.

Leeds-based site 'A Negative Narrative' seem to have managed to coax photos from the reclusive crooner. Much has been made about an alleged attack on the site following the 'intraview', rendering it offline or partially inoperable for the best part of a week, but the malfunction's origins have not, at the time of writing, been traced.

Authorities have not ruled out involvement from the Church of the Screaming Magnesium, Mexican Hells' Angels gang 'Jalapeno Wheels', White Supremacist group 'The Porcelain All-Stars' or even Nifigance himself, who it is believed would not have allowed photographs from 'the Black Archives' to be made public.

As yet his legal team have refused to comment.

View the images here.

Tea Splash Reviews: Album Review: Vincent Nifigance - The Shambolic Fu...

2011-05-10T14:06:00.000-07:00

My favourite writer. Tea Splash Reviews: Album Review: Vincent Nifigance - The Shambolic Fu...: "At some point in the past, Noel Edmonds’s anteater-head penis will have stood up at a 45 degree angle (as if sniffing for predators) and, ..."

Vincent Nifigance 2006-2011

2011-02-03T03:00:00.000-08:00

A maudlin dawn has befallen the Californian Mall in which we all report. I say 'all', but I'm the first to arrive as biblical Midwestern blizzards nullify the Highways. Vincent Nifigance himself is draped stationary over a lectern like a smashed Magpie in his black suit & tie, oblivious to my visage as I consciously opt for the middling rows of the seats it seems he himself has half-assedly assembled, judging by their heterogeneity and vaying levels of adherence to horizontal.

Rather than call a press conference themselves, The White Stripes rushed notification of the cessation of their Red, White & New versions of the Old Black Blues to plunder Nifigance's thunder. A few more journos squeeze into the makeshift auditorium and sit leaving ample space between one another to accommodate their egos.

Nifigance lifts his visibly thinning-haired head and scans us from 'neath a thundercloud brow, before hastily sighing out the following statement with a pained expression on his exasperated face:

"In return for anointing my Star atop the Rock, I promised you this in everlasting return:

To rock it with a Romulan opulence,
Cocaine sleigh bells, baptised in beer.
I promised you Rum, shit and pistols.

Swore I'd rather be giving-it aching than taking-it easy.

That I'd dispense with a concern for eternity.

I said: "Every vagina I whet will be tinged with regret."
Which I detailed in 3 minute Sex Epistles.
Shunting with such gumption the units practically shifted themselves.

I've paid the pork-mortgage.

Thank you."

And with that, he's gone.

Session for Manchester Scenewipe

2010-12-16T13:41:00.000-08:00

Vincent Nifigance from MCR Scenewipe on Vimeo.

Toby & Sam (they who be: Manchester Scenewipe) perpetually endeavour to showcase the city's local musical talent alongside some of the best and brightest that trundle into the Nuclear Free City.

Daydream Generation Xers

2010-12-16T06:33:00.000-08:00

"Like the Indie-Schindler… No, can't say that…

*Ahem* Like a flailing, sonorous multi-teated freak-beast of a whale, suckling all the Rockin' flotsam that drifts into its warm, transitory shores…(that's better)…Quixodelic Records' prescient tentacle: 'Daydream Generation' has been enveloping the burgeoning merchants of a better musical tomorrow, and redistributing their sonic offerings where needed most: smattering blissful kisses all over your quivering auditory cortex.

This benevelont leviathan deigned to grace our woeful solar system for a limited visit.

It's bow is now upon us. Don't miss out on your chance to suckle at the bosom of the musical muse."

Vincent Nifigance on the Daydream Generation compilations.

Toy Story 3's Ultimate "No"

2010-12-15T02:38:00.000-08:00

After having been dumped in a landfill, and wrongly assuming that no one; no matter how seemingly evil, is beyond redemption - they're stung by their own virtue, and flung into the furnace - an obliterating pit of the their world's ultimate animosity toward them.

Leader Woody clamours for Buzz's gumption, as he begs for a suggestion as to what they can possbily do next.

His stare into the void is reciprocated by the nothing Buzz's eyes reply, and his glance at the fury of the pit's all-annihilating heart.

Buzz, visibly shocked by his own impotence, but buoyed by his inherent courage instead reaches for Jesse's hand: spurring everyone-on to clinging onto the only available comfort - one another.

Which is disconcertingly scant consolation when facing impending immolation.

It evokes memories of the empathy invoked when filling in the blanks of the experience of those on the 9/11 passenger planes. There's a naked vulnerability, and pathetic defiance in admitting to a shared unavoidable end.

L'Amour

2010-11-17T06:35:00.000-08:00

L’Amour, (Love)
et La Mort (and death)
et le mort-gage. (and the death-pledge.)

‘One thing, worth failure and fall,
One thing to fill the cosseted hearts,
buoyant as an ocean bound ball,
One thing, from church steeple, to shopping Mall.
Love.
Love is all.’
Jeffrey Archer.

The Power Of Love: ultimate muse of poets, artists, and songwriters alike. How vacant our culture would be without the artistic and physical expression of love.

LOVE: The source of, and sometimes so tragically powerful as to cause the end of, life. The pop songs which we subconsciously compile to make the soundtrack of our lives. The special days, in which we buy a card to show mother, or father, or Saint Valentine our appreciation……

This…..is Love.

From the moment our heads are squeezed in reverse penetration, screaming from between the tumescent vaginal void of our mother, a bond is forged that is hard to break. The months of nipple sucking. Baths together. The kiss goodnight. Heavenly comfort we seek out the rest of our live-long days.

12 years later……………………………………We hate mother as we will our ex-wives.

A sticky wicket in science class when light breaches student-teacher’s blouse. A glimpse of knickers, when school sanctioned P.E skirts lift delicately in the springtime up-breeze. The shame that avalanches down when an auto-erotic rummage pops into orgasm, and you are left only with the 'for-shame' gaze of ghosts.

This...is SEX

Dorito Moon

2010-10-26T06:35:00.000-07:00

As you will have no doubt heard by now, Vincent Nifigance officially re-emerged last week, following his failure to emerge from Fort-Rack at his Schroedinger-Cast back in March, as part of the SXSW festivities. The disappearance threw his fanbase into an apoplectic frenzy as the release of his unfinished third album was shelved.

Meanwhile in a dilapidated lavatory in Guadalajara, Nifigance knuckled-down to writing his long-promised Screenplay for Sci-Fi Chiller: 'Dorito Moon'. Working title: 'Mech-Sicko': an allegorical tale about a homicidal, sociopathic American-Made android stalking the Mexican Border, arbitrarily butt-punishing would-be emigrés. (Based on his Short Story 'By the Light of the Salsa-Dipped Dorito Moon')

His return was heralded by a rather flaccid blog-post about an appearance on the 30th edition of sterling podcast:

Roll Call for podcast #30 -

Deerhoof
Vincent Nifigance
Justin Ripley
the sleepy trees
Frankie Rose and The Outs
Animal Magic Tricks, King Creosote,Meursault

Lyrics for The Seemingly Final Extraneously Titled-Album

2010-10-12T14:24:00.000-07:00

Establishment

“This one goes out to JFK, JFK, come-in…God Bless…”

Nest-Trestled, Truss Hung, on High, Sickly Branches, Reborn Beyond The Synagogue.

Hell awaits the owners of uncensored minds, for their designs on the wives of the dying,

Hell awaits the owners of insensitive minds for their designs on the wives of the dying.

I am the baby man.
Came out from Vaginasaur.

I am the baby man.
I hang out on the cancer-ward.

I never felt this much alive.
I never felt so much alive,
Serendipidity keeps me as such: Alive.
I never felt so much alive.

Hell awaits the owners of uncensored minds for their designs on the wives of the dying,

Hell awaits the owners of insensitive minds for their designs on the wives of the dying.

Hell awaits the owners of uncensored minds, for their designs on the wives of the dying,

In My Heart, I Am Afraid

The night of a hundred fingers,
And every one pointing at me,
‘cos I was the singer –
Performing for whores non-participatory.

I’ve come to a black-understanding,
About the Church of the Screaming Magnesium.
This guns for hire,
Even if we’re just Dancing The New Doom.

Protector of the wing:
John Lithgow
Detective on the fringe:
Tibetan rock throw

Mewling at the moon
Metal and spiders
Bawling at the dawn
Never to find you again

Ripping up a chicken corpse at 4 in the morning
Imbued with the greasiest feeling
I wouldn’t trade this for anything
Not for all the trampolines in Cleveland

I envy your cigarillo
You kissing some butt other than mine
Put it together –
Are we coal in the ground,
Or diamonds in the sky?

Defected from the kids
Bottle of cider,
Mewling at the moon
Devilz inside ya
Bawling at the dawn
As long as we know
We’re never going home
Never to find you again

O Superman,
Oh John

They said: They do burn themselves an unremembered penance,
An unremembered penance, and you my friend will never be remembered again.
It was an unremembered penance, the penance that you gave for the people who are standing in front of your grave.

This one’s called ‘The Doo wop diggity bibbity bom-bom (the bom bom diggity bibbity bom)’

Clandestine manouevres,
By the shakers and movers
Not even J. Edgar Hoover,
would stoop so low.

I don’t know how or want to,
Gain access to,
Your strange, date exchange,
Cheek-kiss kind of world.

‘The Theme From King Quay Waters’

Assailed by swarthy paupers
And left for dead at sea
A place called King Quay Waters is where we came to be

Caught between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea,
And little old me makes three

Ahoy from King Quay waters,
We’re marooned indefinitely…

The theme from King Quay Waters is playing on your TV

Plastic Surgery Girl

Plastic Surgery Girl
Never gonna feel free
Plastic Surgery
Lay your swollen head next to me
PSG
Raised in Nicaragua
PSG
Keep peeling til you find the answer

Love in the 90s

I’m gonna reach out my hand,
I’m gonna tell you the truth about love in the 90s
I’m gonna reach out my hand
I’m gonna tell you the truth about love in the 90s

‘Bout how they used to go all the way
‘Bout how they used to go down on their knees in the dark
‘Bout how they used to go all the way
‘Bout how they used to go walk in the park

I’m gonna tell you the truth about love in the 90s

‘Bout how they used to go all the way
‘Bout how they used to go down on their knees in the dark
‘Bout how they used to go all the way
‘Bout how they used to go walk in the park

The Coda From ‘Baby War’

You can’t ignore,
The BABY WAR
BABY WAR
BAY-BABY,
BABY WAR

The Little Man Song

Once Upon A Time
There was a little man
He went crazy
and everybody laughed

He went to his job
And told his boss the truth
His boss said
“Go home, and get yourself some booze.”

The man got some booze
he drank ‘til he was asleep
and he went laughing
in the land of dreams

he walked to the park
and talked to his Pa
they danced round and round
until the place got dark

he climbed into a car
they drove into town
But instead of stopping
He ran everybody down.

He went to jail
The jailor said
“You’re bad.”
They put him in the ‘Lectric chair
And that was his day had.

British Indie Anthem ‘98

I’m cumming blood,
The price of evil
Moster reasons
I’m cumming down thru the ground

And the world
Is just a weasel
A spoke in reason
That’s never coming around
So don’t give up
When you need me
Don’t deceive me
I’m coming down thru the ground
So don’t give up
The spokes of reason
Now’s the season
For you to give me your love in the dark

Pints of evil
Monster treason
Its sucking down on my love
Rokey posts
Croaky reasons
Time and feelings
I’m poking round in the snow

So don’t give up
When you call me
Don’t befall me
I’m cumming down on my knees
So don’t
Like a blow doll
Like a no-show
I’m begging down on my knees

How long can you keep breathin’ thru the heartache?

Louisa on my knee
How long…

I came to see you in the morning
Your shattered eyes were shattered blue

You rode a pony to the market
And took disaster with you too

You broke the vow we made
15 summers ago
you took the rck n roll
and made it heart of gold

How long you been saying you love me when you don’t rightly know
How long you een saying you been going out when I know you been staying home
How long you been going around there with that man with pony show

How long can you keep breathin’ thru the heartache?

Hug, Hug (Bleuch)

Drew Shapiro: Super Hero: “This one goes out to all my people on the front-line, check it out.”

Sad to say,
I’m going far away,
but please try not to miss me ‘cos I’m coming back someday.

Listen to your heart
(And you’ll know)

Someone, please, Leave Me Alone

Butterfly in vehicular turbulence peril,
Right into the paws of tobacco cat,
To paraphrase a friend of mine
Rose City on the 409

The steaks were high and the chips were low
And you were pouring gravy on my stereo

You looked me up in a rain-inflated Yellow Pages
Didn’t you, Didn’t you?
And in a display completely lacking accuracy
You tossed hot coffee at the moth

Someone leave me alone

First of all you’re fond of stroking ponies
Then you’re partial to a spot of punching horses
Then you go around riding donkeys,
Then you die.

Russell’s Key

“………………………………”

The Road To Rock N’ Roll

I’m on the road
the road to rack n’ ruin,
road to rack n’ ruin,
On the road to Rock N’ Roll.

The Character-actor Rapture

2010-09-17T07:22:00.000-07:00

Today was the day that people just stopped moving, and floated slowly toward the ceiling.

It was the character-actor Rapture, but the ceilings were in the way, and us sinners were absolved for not liking our lives so selfishly divine: our reward was simply getting to watch the whole thing play.

The androgynous pharmacist poured his clipboard on the floor, as his legs ascended beyond his head.

The tattooist's fluted-out their distinguished victory in solemnity.

A man whose feminist inclinations abound (when his libido allows) - alighted a train, eventually into bewildered pigeons in the station's glass rafters.

An ill-fitted crucifix cartwheeled into the sun, as the miraculous statues drank tears backwards into their eyes.

And a throbbing cock was seen burnt into confirmation wafer, just a second too late.

We had front row tickets to the character-actor Rapture, and to see it - beat the bleachers from under warm seaters in eternal sweetness.

2010-08-23T05:30:00.000-07:00

After having beeen deprived sleep via baby, cat, and a lame-ass party whose patrons were wailing 'Hotel California' at 4am, (ON A MOTHERFUCKING SUNDAY NIGHT/MONDAY MORNING) I found myself taking it out on an elusive prey.

A lone mosquito roused me from my umpteenth attempt at micro-sleep, and I set about engaging my reptilian brain, with an eye to sending that sucker to the insect Valhalla. Armed with the underpants I had recently removed due to a torrent of baby vomit that had splashed-down all over not only them, but my side of the bed, I crept stealthily about the slumber-tundra alive to every buzz, eventually discounting those of my gritty eyeballs, and the grinding of the base of my tired skull into neck's end like portar and pestle, as I whipped my head in its every bedevilled direction.

For a second, I caught a mental glimpse of my visage - absurd to the universe, a suburban Martin Sheen-alike, attacking a tiny bloodsucker with underpants soaked in his infant's sick. was this the meaning of life? Or at least it's most caustic metaphor?

It was just mad-enough to be a dream, but so appalingly mortal, it couldn't be.

I whipped at the curtains and heard it's disturbance. My tired eyes locked on the fucker as it hovered toward a wall.

I stood for what seemed like an age.

Knowing that this had to end now. It was as though we had been locked on a collision course since birth. I knew every hokey stripe on this little bastard's every leg. Still, I stood, unable to make a move until the impulse felt like the decisive one. I pulled the waistband taut, and baldly ignored the corner of my soul from where insect empathy was long since evicted. My undercrackers whipped past in a white flash like a rogue ghost fleeing the exorcist's lips, painting a mosquito rainbow on the haunted wall.

The world fell silent.

Even the Hotel California Dawn Chorus seemed to have been obliterated by this act of absurd murder. And as the last throngs of night gave way to dawn as it chalked it's abstract majesty across the naked sky, my heart was forever shaded a tone blacker.

Artistic Differences

2010-03-25T02:51:00.000-07:00

Neil Young and Clint Eastwood discuss last minute differences of script-opinion.

Secret Junior Inc. Press Conference - Transcript 09:04 March 23rd 2010

2010-03-24T06:54:00.000-07:00

Secret Junior Inc. Press Conference - Transcript 09:04 March 23rd 2010

Dustin Wooferson: Good afternoon. Thank you all for coming at such short notice. We are currently unwilling to comment on the rumours that Mr Nifigance failed to emerge from Fort Rack Studios following Wednesday night's world record attempt.
We are however addressing the assassination plot discovered prior to the performance.
OK, so I'm just going to list them, if that's okay with everyone?
Suspects in Nifigance Assassination Pseudo Coup, informed by the Columbo Theory of detection:

- The Porcelain Allstars

Means: Numerous. The PAS are a White Supremacist crack commando unit

Motive: Nifigance made a mockery of their legendarily exclusive shindigs, by stealthily infiltrating one of their annual clambakes, whereupon he probed a senior member deeply during a vulnerable moment, while suitably lubricated with Alcohol. The PAS believe Nifigance extracted information sufficient to thwart a planned sun-tan protest scheduled for 'Tan Masters' tanning Salon in Heaton Chapel in early 2010.

Opportunity: Operatives believed to have been in vicinity of Fort Rack Studios for routine bus-interruption detail.

- Tinyfolk

Means: Folk is predominantly imbibed by a library, giving him ample research materials to inform his assassination technique.

Motive: Egomaniacal tweed-sleeved hipster-cum-supervillain - Tiny Folk, Real name: 'Rustle (in the) Woods' has been Nifigance's mortal enemy ever since they clashed over opposing Library Indexing philosophies in 2005. Mr Folk prefers the safer, homogonised Dewey Decimal System, while Nifigance champions the Library of Congress Classification system. Tinyfolk could scarcely believe this, when he discovered it via Google alerts.

Opportunity: Tiny has been noticible by his absence on once-stomping ground - www.cllct.com . In a move uncharacteristic of any aspiring Indie darling, he also missed a concert by The Magnetic Fields despite having a ticket. His whereabouts over the last few weeks has not yet been accounted for. While this information does not in itself prove the Trans-Atlantic rowboat theory, it does not fully dispel it either. U.S. customs has no record of Mr Folk's movements over the last fortnight, making passage down the Mississippi, and across the Atlantic the most likely means of transportation.

- The Church of The Screaming Magnesium

Motive
Acronym Antagomism Abounds Theory: Nifigance erected the Headquarters of his Catalogues Of The Secret Museum opposite their headquarters. The church believe Nifigance did this as an antagonistic act, while Nifigance maintains that his Catalogues inception predates the Church's by a signifigant number of seconds. Nifigance has unabashedly bragged about embezzling funds during his clandestine stint as an intern.
Their financial clout gives them the Means, and Opportunity, whenever it takes their fancy.

- Catfish Rivers Esq III

Rivers offered Nifigance a guest appearance on his radio show. Talks for this exclusive sneak peek at Nifigance's new album came screeching to halt when Nifigance revealed that he would never ordinarily listen to Rivers' show, saying: "Why would I listen to Catfish Rivers when I could just take Ketamine, pour Tab Clear over my head and talk inbetween songs from my own music collection & a self-help relaxation CD playing on shuffle? It’s the same Golf-Verboten thing…"

Rumours that the pressing-ahead with the release of the new Vincent Nifigance album signal that this crisis is in fact an elaborate martketing ploy, will be met with categorical denial: Rather this is being undertaken in hopes that it might force him to re-app... er.. it might hasten a close to this episode.

The following quote published by Zeit-Heist magazine, allegedly culled from a telephone interview on the morning of the performance, are not yet credited to Nifigance. (The Journalist was challenged to produce the audio, and has so far been unable to locate it)

"Last night I felt kind of weird. Like the entire planet was people with NPCs. Everyone except for me. This thought had me teetering on the precipice of the insanity-chasm. If I had leant into the breeze of a feeling that I was wrong, it wouldn't have been blowing hard enough to hold me up. I had a fitful sleep. I woke up intermittently. When I did I felt as thogh I was being written into existence in my sleep, resplendent with bad grammar, by some bastard-hack."

That's all we are willing to say at this time. There will be no questions.

End.

Setlist from The Schrodinger-Cast
Twinkle Town Morning/Wake Up
Best Damn Thing Ever
The Synagogue
Earthquakes Segueway/Transistor
In My Heart I Am Afraid
Pepper
Telephony
O.D.(e) To The Attempted Suicide Girl
Dancing The New Doom
Hug, Hug, (Bleuch)

World First! Nifigance Invisible Gig @SXSW, Tonite!

2010-03-17T05:47:00.000-07:00

Vincent Nifigance plays invisible gig tonight, plots reformation of solo career, with himself as only original member.

Zap-Gasm magazine focuses on Vincent Nifigance's struggle to wrest his career back from the brink.

The same critics that had lauded his debut, were almost unanimous in immediately sounding the death-knell for his shorlived career. The SFSSP, which was to dispel any accusations of fluke engulfing his remarkable debut, was a spartan and tortuous road trip into the unknown. Based on a particularly portentous dream, the album was an alleged attempt to detail the journey from kismet love into an infuriatingly unjust death, for its two transient protagonists. The SFPEO had established Nifigance as a quirky acoustic singer songwriter, when in fact four of the album's ten tracks were predominantly instrumental. The SFSSP further built upon this trend with instrumentals intruding on 5 tracks, and seemed like more. Where the SFPEO though, had been lyrically abundant, the whispers that intermittently swept across this offering seemed far more sparse.

José Crayola gets under the skin of the reclusive crooner, in his last-ditch attempt to rescue his once good name from the annals of obscurity.

A botched dawn.

A dismal figure squats in a graveyard bush, attempting - in two ways - to fertilise consecrated ground.

Vincent Nifigance has hit rock bottom, and as if to metaphorically prove this point, his derriere is in close proximity to a tombstone, as he tries to simultaneously, well... this and that.

Staring into a flat grey sky. The very epitome of animosity.

"SFPEO was kismet, and SFSSP was death - I was trying to invoke what I believed was destined to happen me, therefore rendering myself master of my own destiny, unsurprised, un-f**ked. In charge. So what's beyond that? The Golden Nowhere. Which is where you find me on this record."

Which is surprising considering he has more cause to be concerned about his own personal safety now, than ever should have during the writing of The SFSSP. After having angered both white supremacist group - 'The Porcelain Allstars' and the allegedly nefarious 'Church of the Screaming Magnesium' in recent weeks. Rumour has it that Nifigance crashed a 'Porcelain Allstars' clambake incognito, and perhaps most audaciously, undertook a clerical internship at the COTSM, where he is rumoured to have embezzled funds abundant enough to complete the recording of The SFETA.

Friction between Nifigance and the Church emerged when his Catalogues Of The Secret Museum building was targeted by the Church's lawyers, unhappy at the identical acronym.

The SFETA finds him in Nirvana - free from the tortures of expectation, the earthly burdens. It has the same chimes of freedom that the SFPEO exhudes, while peppered (no pun intended) with the same gravitas of The SFSSP most emotionally burdensome murmerings.

Instead of trying to raise the dead, he's learned how to live his life.

"It's the end of an era for me.

I say that not only because I have reached a milestone in terms of my age, (Nifigance recently turned 30) but because this is the last record I will write as a single being. When I say single being, I'm not referring to my relationship status - I am very much betrothed, in a non-legal sense - but this is the last record I will write before having a child - Forever, and ever irrevocably changing my perspective on everything. Somehow that led me to thinking about the Chap-man's inexorable draw toward Lennon.

Imagine.

Someone has plotted a course for you. And somehow, unbeknownst to you, you were complicit in it." Vincent Nifigance

Tonight, Nifigance walks into Fort Rack Studios, to play SXSW - only his second ever show, to make history as he performs the world's first Schrodinger-Cast concert, begging the question -

'Who will walk out…

...if anyone?

REUTERS
Wed March 17, 2010 1:12pm GMT

Sources close to singer Vincent Nifigance have learned of a planned assassination plot against him, and have acted with all urgency to review all security arrangements prior to tonight's performance.

The story broke on controversial TV chat show 'Morgue Talk' forcing official announcement less than an hour later.

Details are at this point sketchy, but a representative from his press office announced that a credible threat on his life had been identified, and that as a result his current schedule was being overhauled in light of this evidence.

It isn't yet clear how these developments will affect the recording of his third and, it is rumoured, final album - currently underway at Fort Rack Studios, but word from close to the reclusive crooner reveals that Nifigance himself will make a statement to the press later today.

The sundown.

As the sun goes down on the Vincent Nifigance Trilogy, be sure to order your piece of history - a copy of The SFETA while stocks last. The SFETA is not available in any shops. Pre-Order yours today from Olive Juice Music.

The Seemingly
Final Extraneously Titled Album
VINCENT NIFIGANCE: YOUR ENDURING FORCE
FOR PURITY IN THIS INCREASINGLY HELL-ENVELOPED MESS

Side A

The JFK Radio Hour

1. Establishment
2. Truss-Hung, Nest-Trestled, Reborn Beyond The Synagogue
3. In My Heart, I Am Afraid
4. Udo
5. The Bomb-Diggity Bim Bom (Clandestine Manoeuvres)

INTERMISSION

Medley of Songs That Heretofore Have Not Appeared On The Album

6. a) The Theme From 'King Quay Waters'
b) Underground
c) Lovin' The 90s
d) Plastic Surgery Girl
e) The Coda From 'Baby War'
f) How Long Can You Keep Breathin' Thru The Heartache?
g) The Little Man Song
h) Trash (edit)

Side B

The Seminal Embezzlement Of The Church Of The Screaming Magnesium

7. British Indie Anthem '98
8. Bleuch
9. Someone, Please, Leave Me Alone.
10. Russell's Key

Because Your Penis Has Feelings Too...

2009-11-08T02:04:00.000-08:00

Love is...buckling-up til you cum.

I think mine needs to see a head-shrinker. It's emotions are all mucking fuddled. It only vomits when exceptionally happy.

Postcards From The Edge...of taste

2009-09-27T09:47:00.000-07:00

Matryoshka!

2009-09-21T08:29:00.000-07:00

A Matryoshka doll I bought from a Russian in Cornwall. Not actually called a 'Babushka' doll, which is a common misconception. Babushka is of course Russian for 'Kate Bush'.

2009-09-06T10:54:00.000-07:00

‘WHITE FIRE’ Dir:Jean Marie Pallardy, 1984

“…you know, it’s a pity you’re my sister...”

After The Ultimate Ninja, I feared I had soared too close to the sun. I had stared into the void, and the void had roundhouse-kicked me in the disbelieving cheeks, and snatched away my Black Ninja Warrior. That dark idol vanished into a night as black as videotape, but I frantically scrambled after it.

Long and hard have I searched, I travelled to So-Cal, and overcame the dweller on the threshold: Gene Simmons, where he was masquerading as a Hermaphroditic super-villain.

From there I sought refuge in the promised land of sleepy suburbia, only to be assailed by a screaming, nasal, closeted, homicidal Paperboy.

After finding myself interned in the High School from Hell, and pitted against the wits of a terrifying Mexican stereotype named Cinco, I emerged bloodied but unbowed, and suddenly spotted a glimmer, emitted from my prize, as the sun cowered behind the low-lying Los Angeles skyline after 3:15 had come and gone.

My burning desire brought me to territories exotic and new, but lacking in that concentrated quintessential crap-majesty. I needed video conditions so specific, and intense, that shit is compressed into diamond. Until finally I came to a land I cannot admit to fully understanding, but with enough friends there to anchor it in familiarity:

“Hey, isn’t that ‘Boss Nigger’ Fred Williamson?
And Robert ‘The Exterminator’ Ginty… is that you? What are you guys doing here?!”

This new place was like a house from a dream; architecturally sound, everything in its right place, but disobeying logic in a subtle-sort of way, a way that evades all attempts at a finger put upon it. And amongst all this, my prize was becoming ever clearer, growing from an intermittent spark, to a dancing flame, only now I realised it was not Black at all, but a brilliant, WHITE! A White Fire, too beautiful to resist, but far too dangerous to hold. I was no longer facing the black of the videotape void, but all colours at once. The black carbon, compressed into the WHITE FIRE!

The ‘White Fire’…that rarest of gems. What secret does its slow-metamorphosed, primordial mass hold?

Behold; a diamond, both supernatural and Turkish, oft-told in legend, but heretofore unseen, save for in the mind’s eye of those pants-shittingly insane enough to dare dream it. A hulking mass of unspeakable riches, that shines enticing-white, and burns the touch of those foolish enough to suppose they can possess it.

This Turkish delight…

What mad, craven lengths will it’s draw drive men to go?

In the beginning, there was Bo (Robert Ginty), and sister Ingrid (Has tits, is willing to show them, so it doesn’t matter), left orphaned, and immediately fostered by Turkish beach Gypsies, after losing their father and mother to flamethrown immolation and machinegun fire respectively, at the hands of soldiers of debatable allegiance.

Growing up on the mean streets of 'IstaMbul' (on-screen [sic]!), Bo and Ingrid survived the only way they knew how, making ends meet as lowly diamond thieves, until one fateful day, when a solo quarry worker uncovers the dormant ‘White Fire’. After reporting his discovery to the mine owner, he is swiftly thanked with a pick-axe to the back. Having also been witness to its discovery as an employee of said mine, Ingrid too is now in mortal danger.

Spying the ultimate prize, and a surefire retirement ticket, Bo and Ingrid decide to procure the White Fire for themselves and, after a hard day’s diamond smuggling, and dockside mutilation of the Italian terrorists that tried to rob them, Bo and Ingrid settle-in to their Foster parents mansion for the evening, to finalise plans for it’s clandestine removal.

Like all adult brothers, when confronted with his sister emerging naked from the swimming pool, Bo jokingly comments on how she doesn’t look like anyone’s kid sister, and playfully whips away the towel she is using to hide her modesty…

Wait a minute, let me rephrase that!

The way I retold it there sounds somewhat dubious!

Let me start again…

So, Bo goes out of the house to inform his sister that dinner is almost ready. He skeedaddles down the steps, to the pool, where his naked sister is towelling off, and (its completely innocent, and almost beautiful in its way), says: “You sure don’t look like anyone’s kid sister anymore, do ya?!” before snatching the towel off her, to reveal her naked body, after wresting the towel back, he clarifies his original intent by stating: “You know, it’s a pity you're my sister”…

…the whole house of yellowed cum-encrusted nudie-girl cards comes crashing down.

Who exactly is meant to be titillated by this, is unclear to me.

Perhaps this is some sort of Muslim justice reached by Turkish backers with western investors; Nudity allowed under the proviso that one is meant to feel suitably awkward enough to abstain from the fourteen knuckled-shuffle?

I for one couldn’t abstain, and instead stained my abs.

Just kidding.

Shortly after this scrotum-shrinking scene, Ingrid is swiftly murdered by a blow-dart to the forehead by those damned Italian terrorists, thankfully sparing us the repercussive aftermath of Bo’s playful advances…ON HIS FRICKING SISTER!

Understandably, a little bit upset, he heads to the nearest bar, to immediately drink conservative amounts of hard liquor. As fate would have it, a bleach-blonde named Olga lends a sympathetic ear, and offers him back to hers for the pube-encircled violet love-plunge. After igniting a bar fight Bo is taken home by the charitable barfly, whereupon his Gypsy Stepfather spots her Ingrid similarity, and together they decide that the theft can and must go ahead immediately (to ease the grieving process, obviously), following the simple formality of having this new filly decked-out with his dead sister’s face, naturally.

The re-construction of the cum-glued house of cards begins in earnest.

It is now clear that this Turkish diamond heist movie HAS to be far more of a weighty intellectual undertaking than the red paint-sprayed violence, and gratuitous tit and muff shots have led us to believe. I mean, why else the brother/sister incest subtext? Please God, why?

This continental director is some sort of arthouse genius, surely. The eponymous White Fire is emblematic of…Wait! Yes! The White Fire represents the fires of lust, burning so wrong and hot, that they are maximum intensity-white. You want so badly to possess this beauty (familial beaver), yet the ramifications for doing so are the flames of society’s ire, and the very heat of damnation and hell.

Bo’s new beau is instructed in the ways of Ingrid approximation, given that she had access to the diamond mine owner who laid his homicidal and spurious claim to the ‘White Fire’, So that, when resplendent with his dead sister's face, she can infiltrate the mine that houses the physical embodiment of his weeping cock's desire to 'bonsai' his family tree.

Unfortunately, Bo's flaming loins too are fanned by this extra familial female, and he begins to fall for her wiley charms...

..which, following his dead sister's face being cosmetically recreated on her decidedly legal body, will give his incestuous proclivities some breathing room.

The battle for the 'White Fire', against those recurrent Italian Terrorists, and Fred Williamson's rogue interloper is largely uneventful. All of which leads this reviewer to believe that the battle, and ultimate destruction of the much sought after stone, is simply battle candy for the eye, and, if one were being charitable, or sarcastic, the mimetic quashing, and subsequent justification of his fuck-lust for his sister.

'White Fire' is available on Region 1 DVD, and second hand videocassette NOW!

Bad Movie Rising

2009-08-16T09:07:00.000-07:00

BAD MOVIE RISING: ‘The Ultimate Ninja: A Fight For Ninja Supremacy’ Dir: Godfrey Ho 1986 / ‘Plughead Rewired: Circuitry Man II’ Dir: Steven and Robert Lovy 1993

Well, colour me Kung Fu-stupid, I am ashamed to announce that I’m a Ho virgin.

Celluloid mongoloid: Godfrey Ho that is: Mysterious identity-changing director behind a slew of some of the most flimsily assembled pieces of shit ever to see the light of a projector.

And these here trailers do give the impression that: in some monumentally fucked-up sub culture, these films did play on the silver…or at least aluminium screen…where you were less likely to be sat a few seats away from someone buffing the purple-headed spitting Cobra, but destined to be party to a series of abhorrent images of would-be actors, with dreams of Hollywood, being horrifically exploited in a poor excuse for a narrative, which serves only to steer toward (traditionally two, but more excitingly, three, maybe more) bodies’ repeated, hammering, away at each other.

Ordinarily I would attempt to relay the narrative to you, while taking sly, scatological swipes at the film and its characters, but I’ll be gosh-darned if I couldn’t understand a motherfucking thing that occurred in this film. I developed a mental aversion to certain overspoken, (seemingly random-born, repeated ad infinitum) sentence clusters. Upon hearing ‘The Golden Ninja Warrior’ or ‘Black Ninja Warrior’ for the 19^th time, my brain developed a coping-mechanism which resulted in cognitive shut down on subsequent hearings.

It seems like a cop-out to regurgitate the blurb from the back cover, but I submit that someone was paid to make sense of this film, with a concise and punchy summary…and could muster only this - behold:

A twenty year-old feud between Ronald, a benevolent village leader and Roger, an evil Tyrant, leaves Ronald dead and Roger running the village with an evil bunch of ruffians.

Ronald’s three children have been split up and are now young adults. Jimmy, the eldest, has been training for 20 years to EXTRACT revenge upon his father’s killer and retain control of the village.

Meanwhile, Victor and evil Ninja leader Victor has stolen the Black Ninja Warrior from Charles, the new leader of the Red Ninjas. Charles sets out to recapture the Black Ninja Warrior and prevent Victor from stealing the Gold Ninja Warrior.

Jimmy heads for the village to get Roger as Charles begins his quest to find and destroy Victor.

Jimmy has doubts: will he take back the village, will he be re-united with his brother and sister and will he deal with Roger? But Charles is confident that his good Ninja powers will defeat the evil power.

The final battle is between good and evil, right and wrong, Ninja clans and justice.

So, now you know what I’m up against? No, of course you don’t and neither do I. And even if you were able to make sense of that summary, to then watch the film itself would further skull-bugger you six ways from Wednesday. Godfrey Ho reveals that, even after about 319 previous stabs at the Martial Arts movie, his knowledge of Ninjas is conceivably derived from a second hand description from a 6 year old child with learning difficulties. Said child was possibly rewarded with a job in the wardrobe and prop department.

These ‘Red’ and ‘Black’ Ninja clans high-kicking mustachioed white boys with names like Charles and Jimmy, wearing ‘NINJA’ headbands with a poorly daubed drawing of a Ninja’s face thrown in for good measure, presumably a thoughtful springboard for language barriers. Godfrey Ho corrals a hoard of what appear to be Filipino peasants to populate the concurrently running story of feudal struggle for shit-hole supremacy, among warring pot bellied, bush-haired, black-pant-factions. That said, this film is so low budget, and so poor, it potentially contains more asphyxiating laughter spasms than the best Multi Million budgeted Hollywood offering, and that’s just the first 5 minutes.

Futurezone movie –‘Plughead Rewired: Circuitry Man II’ has more money and ambition behind it, but is a far more despicable film than anything Godfrey Ho has excreted. Plughead’s opening 5 minutes reveals the extent of its ambition. It looks like crap, but at least seems to have a level of ambition in its back-story, revealed in the opening dialogue, which for some reason, it then goes on to trash with intermittent instances of self deprecating humour, and the remaining running time of the film.

Plughead (Vernon ‘Hint of the Predatory-Homosexual’ Wells) is a human hard drive or some such ripped-off shit from ‘Johnny Mnemonic’, who…I don’t know what his back story is, to be fair, I haven’t seen the original ‘Circuitry Man’, but as far as I can tell, he is a badass cyber crook, and this time round he’s selling ten year, life-expansion pack chips to Senators. Meanwhile three sets of couples are setting off from their respective points of origin to seek-him out...for various reasons.

Circuitry Man, a fey Gigolo-bot has been commandeered from his padded cell by a power-suited FBI lady - Agent Kyle, who needs his knowledge. Also on their way are two bumbling cops, bent on apprehending Plughead because…well, because he’s a bad man. They spend the entire duration at the shoddy controls of an inconceivably speedy futuremobile, basically acting the twat. Their presence seems to serve only as comic relief for a film that already has enough it intends for you to laugh about, considering yet another comedy pairing are already bumbling across the desert plains of ‘BrazilAmerica’ in search of Plughead, following their jailbreak from a chain-gang planting trees in the arrid wastes.

Plughead is holding former child cum-bucket Traci Lords to emotional ransom, claiming to know the whereabouts of her daughter, while tormenting her by making light of her “sandy loins”, or infertility…

That's right: “Ha! You’re Infertile!...I know where your daughter is!”

(What?!)

He amplifies his menace, and alleviates the tedium of his childish teasing by coming out with lame ‘jack-in/jack off’ euphemisms, and/or pulling sex faces behind her back.

(The trailer can be seen only here, and is worth waiting the 30 seconds for the advertisement to pass, to see)

Circuitry Man and FBI Lady trek across the desert, eating yams that purportedly enable their bodies to process the harmful toxins in the desert air, but are basically part of a lame narrative device to save the makers money on actually making what looks like the Mexican desert appear futuristically hostile...much like when our heroes encounter a desert storm which involves a wind machine and flashing the film in and out of colour-negative.

Cop partners in their future-car keep acting like drunken uncles, while the bumbling criminal duo, and most endearing characters in the film, do…something…forgettable, seeing as I can’t really remember how they spent their screen time.

This basically attests to the fact that everything that takes place after the characters’ introductory scenes, are just a means of conveying the viewer to the denouement. Practically nothing happens. Save for the midway instance of tits when Circuitry Man finally wears down FBI Agent Kyle, in a scene that couldn’t have been more lacking in chemistry if it were actual CCTV footage of an alleyway rape.

Which pretty much brings us to the end, where we learn that Plughead has manipulated the life expansion chips, that have been sold to all the world’s most powerful senior citizens, and now has the option of mind control over them all, should the mood take him to bring about the apocalypse, AND it turns out that FBI Lady, Agent Kyle, is not only a vessel for tits, but also for the mind of Tracy Lords’ daughter in what is actually a synthetic body.

Upon finding this out, Agent Kyle is understandably existentially shaken, and rooting around for self-worth , while she and Circuitry Man are forcibly 'jacked-in' to play out the final battle on the hypothetical battleground of Plughead’s cheap looking mindscape. Once Circuitry Man convinces Kyle that she was made in the image of, and therefore IS, the love of his life, her child’s mind is suitably convinced that simply looking like her robot-boyfriend’s ex is reason enough to serve out her days as a "you'll do" screw…which touching display obviously causes Plughead’s brain to explode.

The End.

If you're so inclined, you can find all of the original 'Circuitry Man' here

Bad Movie Rising. Guild Home Video Double Bill : ‘Baby Comes Home’ (1980) & ‘Grace Quigley’ (1984)

2009-08-02T09:44:00.000-07:00

Colleen (Satan’s Voice, Exorcist III) Dewhurst stars in what I was duped into thinking would be a Menopause Holocaust. The jacket cover leads you to believe that an aged mother, shitting another one out after a lengthy hiatus, will return home to an increasingly indifferent family, find out her husband’s been cheating, and take baby for a vehicular high dive into the San Francisco bay. This unfortunately is not the case, despite indications to the contrary early on, when Colleen gives us a Satan vocal cameo during labour.

The Kramer Family consists of a bunch of sickening Yippies, that collectively play ‘Greensleeves’ of an evening, with their eldest son’s mixed-race girlfriend filling in on lute duties, naturally. Not satisfied with having shat-out a healthy baby in middle age, and three others over a spawning career spanning two and a half decades, Mrs Kramer begins to bemoan that fact that she is approaching 48, and as a 47 year old mother of 4, is feeling a little bit unsexy. Her genius husband (Warren Oates), while ogling some tennis-tautened buns over lunch and his eldest daughter’s shoulder, decides to buy his wife membership to a fitness club and spa, with predictable results. Despite having been married for at least 20 years, and being pussy enough to admit to liking, and even regularly playing Greensleeves, he fails to have learned some basic skills in chick manipulation.

Further problems arise when; at 47 years old, and 10 weeks after laying her fourth flesh-egg, she isn’t quite up for Warren’s Oats. Obviously, this leads to a fairly severe bout of Agoraphobia (what?!). It is worth pointing out that, at this stage, we have barely heard or seen anything from the eponymous ‘baby’ for about 40 minutes. Not since Colleen and Warren went to her yuppie friends’ vineyard.

It could be there still, mewling at the moon, and bawling at the dawn.

A despondent, Warren goes for drinks alone at some bar, whereupon a silk-shirted, bullet-nippled temptress verbally bends and spreads. Drawing on the scintilla of loyalty in his otherwise sweat-beaded and misogynistic heart, he momentarily makes as though to stand, but slumps back down. The fade to black here is strongly indicative of Warren shooting his pedigree seed into the love gulch of the aforementioned. When we fade back in, Warren arrives home late, missing a date with his eldest daughter for a classical jam.

While dithering over whether to leave the house one day, the police show up, and announce to Colleen that her youngest son has climbed a tower and is looking like throwing himself off. ‘Baby-machine’ Colleen immediately leaves the house, and rides with police to the location. It is here she finds that it is in fact Emil from RoboCop, and not her son who is monkeying around the parapet with suicidal intent. Emil (her son’s best friend) got lousy SAT scores, and doesn’t see the point in going on. Colleen winds-up the old Concrete mixer vocal chords, and lets-fly with what someone clearly assumed would be an award winning monolgue (unfortunately someone forgot to inform the writer). Convincing herself of life’s worth in the process.

Conversely….

...Grace Quigley is an altogether supreme breed. It being an actual movie, with theatrical release notwithstanding, Grace Quigley is a bad movie, but one that so desperately wanted to soar, and presumably, had it not had so many deadweight hacks attached, really could have.

First of all you have bona fide Hollywood Goddess Katharine Hepburn, in a late-career turn, (also attached as producer), and Nick Nolte, so, Box Office draw, despite Hepburn’s presumably dwindling appeal at 80, then you have the premise…

Katherine Hepburn’s Grace lives widowed and alone. When informed by her landlord of his shyster intentions for her rent manipulation, and his displeasure at Parakeet room mate Oscar, Grace ponders how she is going to cope. Serendipity provides an answer, when oblivious instrument of Karmic dividend: Seymour, (Nick Nolte) pops-up and assassinates aforementioned landlord. Witnessing this, and understandably afraid when Nolte heads in her direction, Grace flees, and dives into the back of the nearest car to hide, which turns out to be Nolte’s (and the reason he was heading towards her). As a result of secreting herself away in the footwell, Grace learns his address and identity, and formulates a plan to literally end all her troubles.

Having Seymour over a barrel, Grace makes enquiries into the going rate for a ‘rub out’. After haggling, she reveals herself to be the target of the hit, disclosing that she’s tired of living and has attempted suicide a number of times before. When it comes time for Seymour to do the deed, Grace has spread the word to other friends, who are also tired of their lives, but can’t face suicide.

Realising the good she is doing for other people, Grace decides that she has found her purpose, and after haranguing, and mothering Seymour, even a surrogate son.

Seymour:

I never knew any old people before.

Grace:

Neither had I, until one day I looked round and discovered I was one.

Seymour:

I guess I can do a lot of people some good can’t I?

Grace:

I’ve told you Seymour, think of yourself as a doctor; a doctor saves the lives of those who want to live, you take the lives of those that want to die…Seymour listen to me…they need your help, and your talents to free them from their misery…I was a good mother, I never told my children to do anything wrong & I wouldn’t tell you. So be a good boy…Help them. KILL them.

‘Grace Quigley’’s most intriguing attribute, is sadly also it’s undoing. Between the limitations in public openness to youthanasia during the period it was released, and it’s backer’s presumable desire for a hefty turnover, the film is pulled between two extremes, and never really allowed to fully explore the risque subject-matter. Failure is also perhaps due to the second most fascinating thing the film has going for it: Katharine Hepburn.

On the one hand, her being star and producer, makes for some intriguing reading between her lines, (even if her own survival into the early 21st century doesn’t bear-out the most morbid of interpretations) but it may also account for why the film is so neutered. In the hands of a Hal Ashby, ‘Grace Quigley’ would have been all it should have been, and Katharine Hepburn’s crowning achievement, rather than the curious footnote it unfortunately is.

There is apparently a longer cut entitled: 'The Ultimate Solution Of Grace Quigley' which suggests this version is not the intended 'vision'.

Watch it all: http://www.youtube.com/view_play_list?p=AB1C79331A582DC7&search_query=grace+quigley

Willy.

2009-08-02T09:22:00.000-07:00

Continuing with the sub-marine genital posts, here is a prize I won in Blackpool. Having spent a great deal of money trying in vain to win a Hannah Montana keyring, I turned my attentions to the glint of silver in my peripheral vision. No, not money, or silver...something far greater: FREE WILLY 2 trading cards. I must have pumped at least £7 of my hard earned cash into the penny-push machine trying to win these (or, to a lesser extent, the BATMAN FOREVER trading cards), and I am proud to unveil the jewel from the fruits of my labours today.

......

2009-08-01T03:02:00.000-07:00

I once hurriedly bought a disposable lighter on my way to work. I discovered at lunch time what it had on it.

KiDZ KOrNEЯ!

2009-07-29T07:47:00.000-07:00

"I swear to God, he was like that when I found him...."

This is Zombie Baby. Someone gave him to me after their Grandma had found him at a car boot sale. Although he has begun to putrify (his flesh is growing sticky, as the material is perishing) he was the same colour when he was near-new.

"Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere's PADDY!"

Say "Top O' the mornin" to 'Irish Character Doll'.

Bad Movie Rising: Oxford Blues (1984)

2009-07-26T13:04:00.000-07:00

Trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nVNuCm5Fl5M

OXFORD BLUES

“Heart-throb Rob Lowe cons his way into Oxford university having fallen madly in love with lady Victoria (Amanda Pays). His arrogant, brash American style does not ‘click’ with the serene Oxfordshire Character and it takes his skilful rowing abilities to re-establish himself and gain respect.”

From the back cover.

“You don’t know what loves about, trust this Yankee boy, and you’ll find out, Its true, When this All-American boy makes love to you!”

From the music accompanying the opening credits.

“Rob Lowe is in his virile prime, buoyed on raft of vintage American cheese on the historic waterways of Oxford, in pursuit of some aristocratic snatch.”

Vincent Nifigance

After having his Nerd-friend use the baby internet to shortlist him for the new term’s intake to illustrious Oxford University, we find Rocket-cocked Nick Angelo (Rob Lowe) valet parking at ‘The Dunes’ casino in Vegas, when a mothballed (i.e. glasses-wearing) divorcee, driving her ex-husband’s throb-red convertible accidentally flirts with him. She apologises, and immediately repeats her ham-fisted slit-invitation:

“Are you as good as you look?”

Taking a second-or-four to think about it, D’Angelo inevitably ushers her back to a hotel room. During after-sex-dressing he speaks of his noble dream to go to Oxford University (fuelled by his fuck-lust for some piece of upper-class ass, illustrated to us by a preceding scene of a hand (presumably Lowe’s) flicking through some newspaper cuttings of aforementioned piece of classy-ass, and himself: Nevada rowing supremo.

So-thrilled was the divorcee with her solitary night of Lowe-bone, that she removes her glasses, trades her grey sweater-in for a purple dress, haggles with herself from $100 to $1000 for his services, and they crap it away on the tables in Vegas, leaving significantly wealthier than they went in.

Being a Gentleman, D’Angelo allows her to keep her half. Being thankfully salvaged from the knacker-stack, the nameless divorcee secretes the keys to her husband’s car, in the pocket of his jacket, transferring her husband’s lost/deposited potency to him,

Cue self-congratulatory Whooping, and jump-cut to frosty Oxford.

Lowe’s leather and denim cut a swathe through the frost and cobwebs, just as he plunges his convertible red-extension between the walls of blah and blah respectively…

He jams his car between the walls of two buildings…

Look, the geography is not important, it’s a subliminal phallocentric narrative device/metaphor…

After an exposition of annoying proportions, whereby D’Angelo displays his Yankee brashness by elbowing antiquities, and being a complete cunt to Ally Sheedy, (who’s destined to be at the end of D’Angelo’s lips or cock by the end of the film, according to her joint billing on the opening credits and the way she immediately capitulates to his rat-baggery)

Nick wastes no time in tracking down ‘Lady’ Victoria and finding that despite what he read in ‘Rolling Stone’ or whatever, about her turning down an offer of marriage, she is actually on the arm of legendary English character (for character, read: ‘fag’) actor, Julian Sands.

After suffering a shocking racially-motivated scuffle (“Why don’t you go back where you came from?”) D’Angelo steals a boat and insinuates himself into an Oxford boat race in order to show-off his rowing prowess to Lady Victoria, eventually, tellingly, ‘coming second’ to Sands.

…After which he’s a shoe-in for afternoon drinks, and her dress, as they vacate Julian Sands’ arse-Soiree, and she’s revealed to be about as chaste as some cum-marinated lobotomette.

Meanwhile, following his triumphant emergence from a ‘Yard of Ale’ drinking challenge, Nick is accepted onto the rowing team, headed by Rhona (Sheedy), and a haphazardly crayoned-in bunch of forgettable stereotypes.

Nick’s knob-obsession sees him perpetually putting the noses of the obligatory antagonistic stiffs out of joint, one of whom Nick assaults, after finding out he’s been hitting-on his auxiliary quim, (Sheedy.) These Oxford educated geniuses finally decide to give him his comeuppance (literally), by delivering him to the object of his lust, with his dick swinging in the wind, when they pin an invitation to attend her house for dinner in a kilt on his dormitory door.

Nick immediately trims the wings off his front of his car, and heads to her castle for dinner on the eve of the big race…

Realising his agonising dinner-dress faux-pas, upon seeing the other guests seated at the dinner table, Nick flees rather than make good on the butler’s announcement of his arrival. Victoria chases him down, and invites him back to her room, where they have a supposedly humorous and awkward disrobing, before Nick finally wedges himself between another set of illustrious Oxfordian walls, which prove equally hard to dislodge from as he fails to show up for the big race the next day, whereupon his soulless team of buggering drunks, ceremoniously dump him out of the team and into a pond in the middle of the night.

After having lost the figurative medium through which he expresses his virility, he learns from the horse’s bitch-mouth, aboard a punt he is pushing in circles, that she is going to give Julian Sands another pop at her, and submit to his inevitably passion-bereft marriage.

The ‘obligatory antagonistic-stiff’ lying in wait for them to disembark, pounces on Nick’s temporary castration and gets a bunch-of-fives for his troubles, thus 86ing himself from Oxford U in the process (This being the selfsame stiff who tried to barge into second-best Sheedy’s beaver, finding himself on the business-end of Lowe’s ire as a result.)

Having completely jettisoned his life of it’s negligible worth, Nick finds himself left with no choice but to go back to his career in valet-parking.

But before he can do so, Julian Sands comes a-knocking and concedes that Nick is the better man, by offering him the opportunity to betray his home country by crushing the Harvard rowing team, and ending 25 years of Oxford’s continuous humiliating defeat at their Yankee hands.

Nick has a hard time seeing what he stands to gain, having already cuckolded Sands…That is, until Ally Sheedy encourages him into jumping into the breach, and proving he is more than a brash American, by momentarily submitting to England’s ridiculous traditions, while proving that the English need Americans to pull them out of the shit whenever ill-equipped to navigate the proverbial creek…even when its to fuck-over his own country.

After much soul-searching, Nick takes a moonlit walk to the boat shed, and masturbates the divinely carved, wooden, butt-cheek-accommodating seats, back and forth along their sumptuous runners.

What takes place next, is incredible…Nick, against all expectations SHOWS UP! And he rows so hard that he and Sands fly into the lead, leaving the opposition dead in the water…until WHAM! Nick’s paddle breaks out of it’s…paddle-lock, and suddenly, they are losing! Nick fumbles around, and manages to fix it, but at this point you can’t watch.

I couldn’t.

And so when it came to the end, when the Americans boat finishes ahead of Julian Sands, and Rob Lowe’s, I assumed they’d won.

But apparently not…

So Nick gets welcomed back into Oxford, and by the light of a flaming rowboat, kisses Ally Sheedy.

Nick:

“Why didn’t we do that before?!”

Rhona:

“I don’t know!”

Translated:

Nick

“Why didn’t I save myself all this hassle and just bang you?”

Rhona

“I’ve been dreaming about this since the moment you ignored me…
which lasted pretty much until you just kissed me.

To summarise:

• In 1984, it was simple to get into one of the world’s oldest, and most illustrious seats of learning if only you had $1500 and a nerd friend with a modem.
• Contrary to popular belief, many of the world’s greatest rowers herald from deserts.
• Irrespective of upbringing, airs and graces, all girls’ lower jaws and knees eventually succumb to gravity’s draw.
• You have to taste all variety of vagina, before settling on the correct, boring one…which will wait around for you through whatever prick-whim you happen-to be slave to.
• Rob Lowe has a bigger dick, with more thrills-per-inch than that faggy Julian Sands.