The Basement

Another Poundland cheap scary film. This is one of those ‘film within a film’ ones, in which a lousy film maker goes off the rails and decides to make a horror film using real horror. A snuff movie.

This one is called ‘The Basement’. Amazon have the NTSC/USA version but Poundland have the PAL/UK version, and a lot cheaper too.

It looks terrible throughout, mostly done with shaky camera shots where the main character is holding the camera. He does have a few hidden cameras around the place so there are some other point-of-view shots.

The main character himself is rarely clearly seen, which is understandable. He does plan to release this film so does not want to be easily identified. When he speaks to the camera near the final scenes, he is masked.

The acting is pretty good, the plot is believable but it feels dull and predictable throughout. There is very limited gore and you see no deaths.

Until the end. That made the film for me. The end was entirely unexpected and a work of genius. I can’t say anything at all about it without spoiling the film completely but that ending made slogging through the rest of the film absolutely worthwhile.

One pound well spent, I’d say.

Out and out lies.

The Mail claims that Electrofag is ten times as carcinogenic as smoke.

This is not even based on the findings of the original paper. The work, sponsored by the government of Japan (which incidentally owns and runs the Japan Tobacco company) found that they could get a fair bit of formaldehyde in vapour by running the heating elements overhot – and running them until they were burning dried-on e-juice.

Even then, they couldn’t get anywhere near the levels found in real smoke. And formaldehyde is not the terrifying chemical it is made out to be. Especially not at the trivial levels found in smoke and the inconsequential levels in Electrofag.

It’s late and I’m tired and tomorrow I must endure a haircut (it’ll be a load off my mind) so I’ll leave you with a good takedown of this rubbish reporting by the Ashtray Blog.

The Mail aren’t twisting the facts on this story. They have entirely discarded the facts and gone straight into propaganda mode.

The entire story is a bunch of lies.

We have a pill for that too.

The weekend has started. For me anyway. Friday and Saturday are non-drinking nights now that most of my job-time is compressed into Saturday and Sunday. The  rest of the week is drinkietime and write mad stuff time because I don’t start until 6 pm for three days then I have two days off. So things have become a little blurry around here now and it will soon be time to hit the oblivion pillow.

I definitely qualify as what the NHS calls a ‘problem drinker’ because – Friday and Saturday aside – their 7.5 unit limit is in the first glass.

But – where is the ‘problem’? I drink at home or at Smoky-Drinky. I am sat at a keyboard, not roaming the streets with drunken pals singing loud and off-key renditions of songs from ‘The Sound of Music’ (that hasn’t happened since Christmas 1980). I do not smash things other than, occasionally, myself. I cost the NHS nothing beyond a few doctors’ ground teeth and suicidal despair. They have tried and tried to find something wrong with me and failed. The only ‘problem’ I see is affording the whisky.

Aldi and Lidl have been a great help with that. Glen Orrin (Aldi) and Glen Orchy (Lidl) are decent malt blends, far better and slightly cheaper than the supermarket low-end grain blends. If you’re on a tight budget and are looking at Whyte and Mackay in Tesco, get to Aldi or Lidl and try their malt blend for less. Do not buy their ultracheap grain blends. Those are terrible.

I digress.

There is a pill to eradicate the enjoyment of alcohol just as there is one to eradicate the enjoyment of smoking. Same pill, really – it eradicates enjoyment. Of anything. So you become one of the Puritan drones, incapable of enjoying life and just doing it to earn tax for the Righteous to spend on oppressing you.

Come on. 7.5 units a day is children’s portions. It’s a snack. A starter. A taste. Tonight’s bottle (Glen Orrin, but parents are visiting soon and might bring a Penderyn if they want to sleep in a bed) contains 28 units and it’s nearly finished. The NHS can offer me their silly little pill if they like, I will flush the lot.

I do not want to become one of their pucker-lipped disapproving drones whose lives are so empty they act like black-hole vampires, sucking the life out of anyone who strays too close. I have one life. One go at this. My time here is not an economic unit, not some Government-controlled tickbox exercise to pay off the money they borrowed. My life is not anyone else’s concern.

As for the national debt, well that is Government debt. They can pay it back since they borrowed it. I didn’t borrow billions. If I had I would not be able to see the keyboard now, much less type on it. Instead of spending it on more and more vicious ways to control everyone else I’d have spent the lot on smokes and booze and I’d be dead long before the repayments started. They can reclaim whatever they can get back on recycling all the bottles.

We are not here to pay off other people’s debts. We are not here to live under the control of idiots. Whether you believe in a God or not, doesn’t matter, we are not here to do as other humans tell us to do.

We are not the 99%. We are not the collective. We are not the property of ‘Public Health’ and we are not the property of government. We are individuals.

Some people have no lives. They are empty shells soaked in misery and loathing. They hate everything because they are incapable of feeling any form of pleasure beyond the torment of others. They have no life. They want yours.

And now they have pills to make you as miserable as they are.

Take the pill and wake up to a long, tightly controlled drone life of misery and hate.

Or pick up the glass, the ciggie and the lighter and take the (maybe) shorter life of happiness and delight.

Make your choice.

The Fat Grim Reaper.

Ah, the image. Fat Boy Grim, the skeleton in the stretchy tracksuit cowl. Chubby phalanges gripping a scythe dripping with bacon fat and gravy. The ultimate in doublethnk – an obese fleshless skeleton.

This is the lunatic mind of Stanley Blue, a name I could not have made up but wish I had, who lectures in social totalitarianism in Manchester. This makes him an Expert who Says and the drones will follow every contradictory and logic-purged word he utters.

Smoking and drinking alcohol are social habits that must be tackled by public health officials.

No. They are personal choices. Fair enough, tell people that most of them are likely to suffer ill effects if they overdo those things but the choice of whether or not to do them remains with the individual. Public health officials are, by definition, pompous, self-important and utterly useless in any real situation morons. If they could do a real job and/or had any self respect at all they would not be public health officials. I will not be dictated to by self-defined gits.

Warnings are fair enough when they are backed by real science. However,  you eventually realise that all this new obesity has been caused by the NHS telling people ‘fat is bad, eat cereals’ while knowing all along that pig farmers fatten up pigs for market by… feeding them cereals.

Also, with a bit of the old 70’s real-education school biology, knowing that animal and especially plant fats are not human fats and will not go straight to your hips…

Still, there are warnings that could be given out. If you have a sedentary job you don’t need to eat as much as someone who carries a hod of bricks up ten floors of scaffolding for eght hours a day. Eat more than you use and you get fatter. It’s basic arithmetic. It’s not even pocket science.

None of it is the same for everyone. I need a lot of salt in my diet. Many people need a lot less. My little job has me moving for the entire shift. The previous job had me siitting down all day. I burn off a lot more daily calories than I used to. There is no ‘British Standard Human’ even for an individual. On that basis, ‘Public health’ and its insistence on one-size-fits-all is not only completely bonkers, it is actually dangerous.

Fortunately the Religion of the Standard Body will only kill the stupid. Those of us with enough intelligence to be able to point both eyes in the same direction will ignore it all. Only the drones will listen and die. The obedient they want to keep are the only ones they will kill. There is a flaw in the plan…

So now we are on to food control using the tobacco template that was only for tobacco and had no slippery slope attached. The dopes believed it and supported it.

Fatties enjoyed picking on smokers. Well  I hope you foilks had fun because it’s smokertime for you now. You are going to experience all that we have experienced. Even if your only transgression is fish and chips once a month.

Eventually, and soon, you will turn to the smokers you hated and say ‘You learned how to deal with denormalisation. Help us’.

We’ll whisper ‘No.’ We saw it all coming and we are prepared. You are not – your problem.

Repeal the smoking ban. No compromise, you never wanted any. Repeal it entirely.

Then maybe we’ll talk.

Find the idiocy.

There is so much of it in this story. In fact it’s hard to find anyone in it who isn’t an idiot.

Woman goes to jail when Monopoly turns violent.

Okay, Lefties are now trying to use this as proof of the inherent violence of capitalism. They are idiots anyway, we knew that but…

1) Boyfirend and girlfirend play Monopoly and she slaps him. Perhaps he bought the shoe shop on Park Lane and wouldn’t sell her any. So far so ordinary. Quarrelsome kids have a little slap-match.

2) Someone (perhaps the boyfriend or another idiot) calls the police. Over a slapped face. If I called the police every time my face was slapped they’d all know me by name by now and I’d be included in training. “Now, cadets, sometime during your career you are likely to meet this red-cheeked guy…”

3) Police actually attend the slapped face incident. Since it’s in America they probably brought along a couple of tanks and were all wearing anti-slap cheek pads.

4) Woman is arrested for slapping her (I bet, now) ex-boyfriend because of a reason. Don’t ask. I can’t come up with anything that makes any sense.

5) Court decides to charge her with domestic assault.

Meanwhile, in a place called Ferguson, shops are burning and people are getting a lot more than a slapped face.

Girlfriend slaps boyfriend over a game of Monotony and ends up in court?

I’d bang my head on the desk but they’d probably arrest my desk.

The Facebook Phish.

Facebook are removing anyone who has registered with a name they don’t believe is real. They haven’t come for my account on there yet but it’s only a matter of time.

Names like Bingo McSprocket will no longer be allowed. They weren’t really allowed in the first place but as long as Bingo caused no trouble, Facebook turned a blind eye.

No longer. They are systematically ‘cleaning up the site’ but that’s not quite what they are really doing.

Stimpy, my co-worker, has a Facebook account. In his real name. A perfectly ordinary real name. Not quite ‘John Smith’ but really not that far from it. Facebook targeted him and demanded he prove who he is – even though they take money from his bank account monthly for a game he subscribes to on the site. I have no idea which game since I ignore all those invitations to waste time on a cartoon farm or any other game. I am a deadly procrastinator anyway, I do not need added distractions.

The receipts for payments to Facebook from a bank account in his name were not enough to convince Facebook that he was using his real name. They want a lot of personal details or they will close the account.

Stimpy is not as daft as he looks (nobody could be) so his last message to them was along the lines of “How do I know who you are? I am not keen to give all these personal details to ‘the facebook team’ because you could be anyone”.

He is right. This is a phishing-scammer’s dream come true. They will be sending out messages from ‘the Facebook team’ insisting that they don’t believe your name is real and demanding you log on through a link to resolve the matter. The link will look like it goes to Facebook but will in fact go to a subdirectory in a Russian tractor factory website.

Scammers are at this sort of thing all the time anyway but now that Facebook are doing it too, it gives their fake emails legitimacy.

And why are Facebook doing this? They aren’t targeting troublemakers. They are picking out random individuals, including those with perfectly ordinary real names. They are not cleaning up the site.

They are collecting data on their members. Data that would be of enormous value to targeted advertising. Sure, the Government have insisted that Facebook clean up the internet because Government believe that Facebook, Twitter and Google run the internet – but for Facebook, this opportunity to boost their ad revenue while claiming ‘politicians made us do it’ is too good to miss.

They will come for me eventually. When they do, they will get a short reponse in two Geldofian monosyllables and I won’t be on Facebook any more.

I might re-join as John Smith, a newsagent born in 1956. If everyone they erased did that, it could turn out to be very funny indeed. A sort of electronic version of the Monty Python ‘Bruces’ sketch but on a vast scale.

Every ‘John Smith’ who is queried for personal details can then send the Geldofian response and re-join later as John Smith, a newsagent of 1956 vintage. We could even all use the same profile pic.

Are they going to wipe out all the ‘John Smith’ accounts? Most of them are real. There are a lot of John Smiths out there.

When they do that, we simply all rejoin as John Davies or another common name which we’d have to agree on before our John Smiths get wiped, and do it all again.

If we keep it up, one day there will be thousands of us.

And then we all rejoin, co-ordinated so we all join within the space of a few minutes, as Dimitri Batguano and see what they make of that.

Yes, their gaffe, their rules, but when they use their ‘free’ service to phish for personal details, I say that makes them fair game.

In this game, it’s Facebook’s move next. When they do finally root me out I will let you all know when John Smith, Newsagent, goes live.

It might be tomorrow or it might take them years to get around to me, since they are working their way through every name on that site, not just the obviously bizarre ones.

When they come for you, have a John Smith ready to go.

Sell sell sell.

(Note, Bob Gelding is in this one so there will be lots of swearing otherwise he won’t understand it. It’s in his native language, fuckanese)

Malcolm McDowell has been in some great films. ‘A Clockwork Orange’ might be his best known especially as it seems to be coming true but a firm favourite of mine is ‘O Lucky Man’. Not least because the soundtrack is by Alan Price.

Also because it is a tale of a touring coffee seller. Yes, that is really its basic premise. However, on his way he meets absurdities Salvador Dali couldn’t have imagined. If you haven’t seen it (shame on you!) there is a nice 10-minute summary on YouTube. It really doesn’t give the story, just a few key clips. You’d have to watch it all to put them together.

Songs like ‘Sell sell sell’, ‘Poor people’ and ‘Justice‘ really hit home in the modern world.

Songs like ‘Do they know it’s Christmas yet again even though we’ve told the dull fuckers three times before fer fucksake give us yer fucking money and then fuck off’ by a one-time songsinger who used to be fairly good, on the other hand, just twang a violently twisted nerve.

Applying this song to a largely Muslim part of the world to whom Christmas is as relevant as Saturnalia is to Christianity is beyond silly and borderline (in modspeak) offensive. While council twats all over the UK deny Christmas in case it offends the Muslims who don’t care about it, here is Hairy Bob singing ‘Do they know it’s Christmas?’ Well of course not, you small-dicked shrew. Your Leftie pals are denying its existence. Duh!

Oh, and Bob, no you can’t fix it. The cure for Ebola is not money. And buy a fucking comb, you scruffy waster. I can afford to have two and I’m a fucking part-time janitor, you fucking  fucker, for fuck’s sake. Give me your fucking money. How’s about that for a new approach, eh, Bob? I doubt you like that idea very much, somehow.

Do you think Bob was brought up on Derek and Clive? I am increasingly thinking so. Then again, I was brought up on fucking Derek and fucking Clive and I don’t fucking swear anything like that fucking scruffy fucker.

Maybe it’s the combed hair. Brings order into your brain. Bob ‘exploding head’ Gelding might want to try that. Then again, combing his hair will probably need a three week risk assessment and a barber in a HAZMAT suit. And Rentokil on standby in case something crawls out.

There has been criticism of Bob’s rehash of a song for poverty into exactly the same song for an incurable disease. What next. Bob? ‘Doesn’t the impending asteroid strike know it’s only five months to Christmas, the rocky racist fucker? Oh wait, it’s landing on white people so it can’t be racist after all’.

Bob, you know, if you ever had a wash you might find out you’re white too. You honky racist fucker.

 One of many criticisms of Bob’s recycled ‘Song about Nothing’.

Bob says criticisms of his Righteous warblings of the same shite over and over again are ‘bollocks’

Interesting that he uses the coarse word for a gland involved in the generation of new life as a support of his raising of a  long dead song.

But then he is Fucking Bob. Not Fucking Craig but Fucking Bob.

Bob Christ. The one even the alternative Kafka version of the Bible keeps quiet about.

Look, Bob, if you want our attention then write a new song. It’s supposed to be what you do for a living, you idle fucker. Try a more upbeat tune too. Something not so bloody miserable. Something with a bit of hope for the future sewn in.

Hey mister tally man, tally me Ebola
‘Fast shits come and me cannot go home’

 Best not touch this.
Stop! Shittytime. (he has the trousers to cope with it)

Or how about some 1977 Motown?
Well it’s a Shit House

One more. A really killer one. How did all those music experts miss this?

So many music options and the Expert in the Field just does what he did last time and the time before. How utterly pointless.

All the criticisms of Bob the Blunder are most definitley justified but none of it matters anyway. Sending money to ebola victims is pointless and, at the base, very cruel.

Imagine you have a week of extraordinarily shitty life left to live and a hairy idiot gives you a million dollars.

Wouldn’t you want to spend that last week poking every single dollar up his arse, one by one, and lighting rthem?

You want our money, Bob? Do what everyone else who needs money has to do.

Do some fucking work, you useless scruffy idle fucker.