You poor fuckers.

SERVER:   Hi! How can I help you today?

CUSTOMER: Yeah, I’ll have a MegaBurger – no, make that a DoubleMegaCheeseBurger – large fries, onion rings and a medium Coke.

SERVER:   Okay, that’ll be… £5.39 please sir.

CUSTOMER: Oh… and one more thing?

SERVER:   Yes sir?

CUSTOMER: I have a rather… odd… request. I hope you don’t mind?

SERVER:   Hey no sir, I’m here to serve you! What can I do for you?

CUSTOMER: I’d like you to wank into my burger.

SERVER:   WHAT?!

CUSTOMER: When you make my burger, before you put the salad and top bun on, take it out the back and… wank off over it.

SERVER:   Sir, I don’t think so, sir.

CUSTOMER: Please! I’ll pay!

SERVER:   Thank you for the offer, sir, but I’m afraid Health and Safety regulations and my own personal sense of self-respect mean I can’t comply with your request however much you paid me.

CUSTOMER: Oh, go on!

SERVER:   Sir… can I ask… WHY?

CUSTOMER: Okay… I used to go to JezBurgers, across town, you know?

SERVER:   Oh yeah I know the place.

CUSTOMER: Well I didn’t realise at first, but I used to go to school with one of the guys who worked in the kitchen there. I used to beat him up a bit – well, a lot. Every day. Not just me – loads of kids did. He deserved it – he had ginger hair. Anyway, he saw me at JezBurgers one day and, as revenge for the beating up, he’d beat off over my burgers.

SERVER:   I see, sir.

CUSTOMER: And when he wasn’t working, he’d leave little vials of his semen in the fridge for his co-workers to… dress my food with.

SERVER:   Oh. How nice.

CUSTOMER: So you see, I’ve become rather used to the taste of cum on my burgers.

SERVER:   I can sort of see how that… COULD happen.

CUSTOMER: But JezBurgers – or should that be JizzBurgers – got closed down last month – some sort of HIV-related health scare – so I have to come – er, sorry – come here.

SERVER:   [FOLDS ARMS] Well I’m sorry sir, but I’m just not prepared to masturbate over your burgers.

CUSTOMER: Can I see your manager?

SERVER:   Mr Stevens!

MANAGER:  [COMES OVER] What’s the problem?

SERVER:   This gentleman here wants me to ejaculate over his food.

MANAGER: I see. Why?

SERVER:   He’s used to the taste. They used to do it for him at JB’s.

MANAGER: Really?

CUSTOMER: Yes! So come on! Make your server wank off over my burger!

MANAGER:  Well sir, I don’t think we can provide this service. Why don’t you simply purchase your food, take it home and – garnish it yourself?

CUSTOMER: Are you mad? No-one likes the taste of their own cum!

MANAGER:  I’ll take your word on that. Anyway, sir, we can’t help you, even if we wanted to. I’m impotent and Bob here has herpes.

SERVER:   Yeah. A big sore, right on the foreskin. Can’t even get an erection it hurts so much. It’s just beginning to crust over, thank God, but until it goes completely, I’m effectively a eunuch.

CUSTOMER: Christ on a bike! Oh well. I suppose I’ll take it without the man-sauce.

SERVER:   Certainly, sir.

CUSTOMER: Oh – but one more thing?

MANAGER: What is it now?!

CUSTOMER: Could you – could you spit on my chips and piss in my coke?

MANAGER AND SERVER IN UNISON: CERTAINLY, sir!

Yesterday afternoon, I watched Octopussy, and it was shite.

This never happened to the other fella

When the highlight of a film is looking out for Gary Russell and Ken Shinn, you KNOW it’s shite (and I still haven’t managed to clock Ken, which means buying the DVD, something I don’t plan to do any time soon). It’s overlong, slow, and dull, with a plot that’s somehow too simple and too complicated at the same time, some of the direst “comedy” moments in ANY Bond film (Tarzan, “Sit!”, gorilla suit, croc sub, etc), and Roger Moore’s worst performance.  He wanted to leave the franchise at this point, but Connery’s appearance in Never Say Never Again meant that they needed him for this, so it’s a money gig and his heart’s not in it – and boy, how it shows. He looks fat and old – he’s much fitter and leaner, somehow, in View to a Kill, a far superior movie and a worthy final bow for Moore.

In Octopussy though he’s a self-parody, an Alan Partridge, a Roger Mellie rather than Moore.  He dresses and acts like an ageing lecherous square – the scene when he checks into the hotel and all the bikini-clad ladeez’s heads turn is laughable. When the gorgeous Indian hotel lady offers her services and Bond says, “Maybe later?” you can see the defiance and anger in Moore’s eyes that he’s being served up such an utter turd of a script. For turd it is! For a solid 40 minutes of the film, EVERYTHING BOND SAYS IS A QUIP. It starts during the chase scene through the market and Never. Fucking. Stops! It’s like a Carry On Film rather than a Bond film, where, lest we forget, we’re meant to care about our hero, who is meant to be in mortal danger 99% of the time.

This gruesome charade culiminates in the obligatory Q scene which reaches its nadir when Bond uses a hi-tech camera thing to zoom in and out on a lady’s boobs. It’s horrible, unfunny, unsubtle, and undignified, and I would have applauded had Q kicked Bond in the bollocks. Instead, Q just utters a world-weary “oh do shut up, OO7″ , and the scene ends with the clear impression that everyone in Q Branch hates Bond (just look at the expression on the “boob” girl’s face!) and think’s he’s a cunt. Which he is, in this film.

Want more proof? The casino scene, where Bond hands young, capable and likeable Indian agent Vijay a wad of cash. “That’ll keep you in curry”, he quips. I don’t want to come across all politically correct, but how other does Bond come across in that scene as a sad, racist cunt? It’s redeemed later by his reaction to Vijay’s murder but  it’s pissing in the wind. Bond, in Octopussy, is a walking, quipping, embarrasing, anachronism, and it’s only Roger Moore’s charisma that saves it, cos we all love Sir Rog, and even here he’s better than the Brosnan mannequin. Interestingly, Moore’s sleepwalking performance here recalls that of Connery in the equally dire Diamonds Are Forever. Thank God Roger regained some enthusiasm for his swansong, the under-rated A View To A Kill.

Back to Octopussy in which Bond looks bored, and it never really seems like he’s in danger until the climax when he has to defuse the nuke. And even then he’s dressed as a clown!  Moonraker is always lambasted as the silliest Bond but it’s not, it’s great, with a good and cool SF plot that makes sense, okay there are still some silly moments but they don’t fall flat as they do in Octopussy, and the FX are, for the time, amazing.  Octopussy is just an unfocused mess with a really great plot (Orlov’s plan – a  great performance by Steven Berkoff) lost amongst the fluff and silliness.

All this got me thinking – what’s the best Bond? What’s the worst? Immediately I thought, Best = From Russia With Love, Worst = Die Another Day (whilst shite, Octopussy is at least not as offensively bad as that, and is redeemed by Moore).  And then I decided to give the films a score out of ten (I don’t count Never Say Never Again – it’s shit! – or the 60s Casino Royale, excellent though it is). This was the result:

• Joint first with 10 points:  Casino Royale, From Russia With Love, Licence To Kill, On Her Majesty’s Secret Service
• Joint second with 9 points:. The Spy Who Loved Me, For Your Eyes Only
• Joint third with 8 points: Quantum of Solace, Moonraker, Live and Let Die, Dr No, Goldfinger
• Joint fourth with 7 points: The Man With The Golden Gun,You Only Live Twice, The Living Daylights, The World Is Not Enough
• Joint fifth with 6 points: A View To A Kill, Thunderball, Tomorrow Never Dies
• Joint sixth with 5 points: Octopussy, Diamonds Are Forever, GoldenEye
• Last place with 3 points: Die Another Day

OK but that doesn’t tell me which one’s the best, with 4 films vying for the top spot!

So I decided to add in the “OO7 Factor” – rank the six James Bonds and award them points which are then added to each movie’s score.

So my OO7 Factor ranking is, top to bottom (those who consider Connery the best, please fuck off):

• Daniel Craig: OO7 Factor 6
• Roger Moore:  OO7 Factor 5
• Sean Connery: OO7 Factor 4
• Timothy Dalton:  OO7 Factor 3
• George Lazenby: OO7 Factor 2
• Pierce Brosnan: OO7 Factor 1

So for example Octopussy’s score of 5 taking in Moore’s OO7 Factor of 5 brings its total up to 10 – an instance of a favourite Bond improving the score of a mediocre film. Of course the opposite happens with OHMSS which only increases by an OO7 Factor of 2 bringing its total score to 12 – it still beats Octopussy, though.

So the rankings accounting for the OO7 Factor is:

• First with 16 points: Casino Royale
• Joint second with 14 points: From Russia With Love, The Spy Who Loved Me, For Your Eyes Only, Quantum of Solace
• Joint third with 13 points: Moonraker, Live and Let Die, Licence To Kill
• Joint fourth with 12 points: Dr No, Goldfinger, On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, The Man With The Golden Gun
• Joint fifth with 11 points: You Only Live Twice, A View To A Kill
• Joint sixth with 10 points: Thunderball, Octopussy, The Living Daylights:1 0
• Seventh with 9 points: Diamonds Are Forever
• Eighth with 8 points:The World Is Not Enough
• Ninth with 7 points: Tomorrow Never Dies
• Tenth with 6 points: GoldenEye
• Bottom with 4 points:Die Another Day

As I said Octopussy benefits from this system as do the two the two Dalton films. OHMSS is the biggest casualty falling right down the rankings and my dislike of Brosnan whacks The World Is Not Enough to the bottom just above the other 3 of his films. Deservedly, as Brosnan is the worst Bond by miles.  Casino Royale emerges as the clear winner as I think Craig is the best Bond, this also does QoS a lot of favours.

Of course, this could all change tomorrow as I could suddenly decide that Moonraker deserves 10 points. And there are times when I think it deserves 11 and is not only the best Bond film, but the best film ever made, pigeon and all.

What does all this prove? That after over a week off the booze, I’m going completely off my rocker.

Ken?

Still on the wagon. Boring, boring, BORING, but I have to stick with it. Last night was dreadful – I almost went to the pub, but made myself stay in and watch TV instead.

Anyway, today I will inflict upon the world one of the sketches I wrote for The Comedy Rocket, under the theme of “Behind The Counter” (which is also a Fall song). There were three of them set in various locations – sex shop, burger bar, and this one which is set in a garage shop. For some reason, the Rocket didn’t want to peform them. Can you see why!?

CUSTOMER: Hi.

CASHIER:  Yes, mate?

CUSTOMER: Look, can I use your loo? Please?

CASHIER:  Sorry. Staff only.

CUSTOMER: I’m really busting. Please?

CASHIER:  Sorry.

CUSTOMER: I’ve walked for ages! And I can’t last much longer. There’s nowhere else for miles!

CASHIER:  Sorry.

CUSTOMER: I can’t hold it in any longer! PLEASE let me use your loo!

CASHIER:  Sorry. Staff only.

CUSTOMER: I’m not talking about a piss here.

CASHIER:  Oh.

CUSTOMER: I could do that up against a wall! I need a dump. I really, really, very very BADLY need a dump. Now. Please, please, PLEASE, for the love of God, let me use your loo!

CASHIER:  Sorry. Staff only. Them’s the rules.

CUSTOMER: Christ. CHRIST! Fuck. Look – I’m desperate. I’m on the verge of crapping my pants. Can’t you bend the rules just this once? I’ll buy something! I’ll buy anything! A road map – a pork pie – a hundred bottles of Castrol GTX – but PLEASE let me use your loo!

CASHIER:  Don’t matter if you buy anything. Toilets on this site are for STAFF. USE. ONLY. Can’t break the rules, not for no-one.

CUSTOMER: So if the Queen came in here?

CASHIER:  I’d have to turn her away.

CUSTOMER: [ALMOST IN TEARS] What difference does it make whose ass sits on your precious loo? Shit is shit! Who’ll know?

CASHIER:  I’ll know. Now, please leave, sir.

CUSTOMER: No. No! I’m not leaving until you let me use your loo. [CLUTCHES STOMACH IN PAIN] Agh! Fuck! It’s coming! I can’t hold it back any longer!

CASHIER:  Please leave! NOW!

CUSTOMER: I’m going to shit myself. I’m going to SHIT myself! Is that what you want? Do you WANT me to shit myself? Because I am, almost immediately, going to shit myself. Shit myself in your petrol station. Do you really want that? Think of the health and safety implications!

CASHIER:  Get out of here NOW!

CUSTOMER: It’s a basic human need!

CASHIER: LEAVE!

CUSTOMER: It’s like you’re denying me the right to breathe!

CASHIER:  Eh?

CUSTOMER: It’s like I’m in hospital on a lung machine and you’re turning off my oxygen!

CASHIER:  Needing the loo is hardly a life-or-death matter.

CUSTOMER: It might not be from where you’re standing. Oh God. MERCY! MERCY! PLEASE LET ME USE YOUR LOOOOOOOO!

CASHIER:  No! For the tenth time, STAFF ONLY!

CUSTOMER: [GETS WALLET OUT] I’ll pay! I’ll pay!

CASHIER:  Are you trying to bribe me?

CUSTOMER: YES!

CASHIER:  It won’t work. I’m up for Employee of the Month, and if my boss finds out that I let someone bribe me to use our loo, I’ll be kissing that goodbye.

CUSTOMER: Got any jobs going?

CASHIER:  Eh?

CUSTOMER: Your loo is staff only, right? So gissa job – so I can do a job!

CASHIER: Sorry. We don’t have any positions available at this present moment in time. But you may be interested to know that staff benefits include access to the staff lavatory. That means that I can go to the toilet ANY TIME I WANT!

CUSTOMER: Argh! You bastard!

CASHIER:  Aaaah! I can pull me trolleys down and sit on that lovely cool seat, have a smoke, read The Sun, and have a goood looooong dump.

CUSTOMER: Stop it! STOP IT!

CASHIER:  Nothing like a good shit, is there! Oh the relief!

CUSTOMER: OH GOD! THAT’S IT! THAT’S IT! I’M SHITTING MYSELF! [SHITS HIMSELF] There. I’ve just shat myself. Satisfied?

CASHIER:  Yes. Yes… I think I am.

CUSTOMER: You FUCKING CUNT. I hope you die SCREAMING in a fire.

CASHIER:  Thank you, sir. Have a very, very nice day.

CUSTOMER WALKS AWAY. VERY SLOWLY AND AWKWARDLY.

Right, time for an overdue album review (one of a few I’m going to do this month):

Editors: In This Light And On This Evening

Editors’ debut album, 2005’s The Back Room, was a bass-driven, muscular, exhilirating if not terribly original effort which drew comparisons with Joy Division, Echo and the Bunnymen and other 80’s gloom-merchants. The follow-up, 2007’s An End Has A Start, contained some top tunes (Bones, The Racing Rats, When Anger Shows) but displayed worrying tendencies towards stadium-rock and unneccessary twinges of Coldplay-esque piano. So it’s something of a relief that for this, their third album, Editors have gone all Synth Britannia, ditching guitar riffery almost entirely for stabs and washes of gorgeous synthesisers. Again,  it’s not terribly original – everyone seems to be doffing the cap to 80’s electropop these days (see La Roux) – but it fits Editors’ “dark indie” style like a glove, makes for a better album than An End Has A Start, and shows that the band are willing to experiment.

Opening and title track is a throbbing, brooding affair which explodes welcomingly into a dissonant climax. It’s followed by Bricks and Mortar, the longest track (which I personally would have saved for later on in the album), a pummeling affair with a synth riff I’m sure I’ve heard before, and a doomy refrain of “I hope life is good for you.” It does sound remarkably close to Joy Division,  more ammo for lazy journos to dub Editors “Boy Division.” Ha ha, bet it took ages to think that one up, assholes. Single Papillon is up next, following on in the same style as Bricks and Mortar and this time sounding more than a bit like Gary Numan with a bassline straight off a lost Fall song. Which is all good! It’s only slightly marred by the ridiculous refrain, “It kicks like a sleep twitch.” Three tracks in, and guitars are noticeable by their absence, though Editors’ trademark propulsive basslines are present and correct, and the drumming is excellent;  martial and mechanical, really driving the songs forward.

You Don’t Know Love slows things down, a mournful little tune with a deliciously retro synth bass sound. Lyrics again ridiculous – “you ran with the dead today / With the moles from the CIA” – but they don’t really mar proceedings, and singer Tom Smith has a wonderful voice so it doesn’t matter that much that much of what he sings is bollocks. About half way through comes a guitar riff – the first time guitars come to the fore on the album – and it’s a good one, snaking itself round the synth bass like a thread of silver. Up next is The Big Exit, a weird affair with a throbbling bassline, intermittent drums, odd noises and waves of  synthesised strings. The song builds to a satisfying crescendo and is the centrepiece of the album.

The Boxer isn’t a cover of the Simon and Garfunkel song, thank God, but instead a rather forgettable tune with horrible Peter Gabriel electronic piano. Like Treasure shares its lyrical theme with The Blue Aeroplanes’ Bury Your Love Like Treasure (more coincidence than influence I reckon) and is the song most like something from And End Has A Start, i.e. a trad emo ballad; that said, it’s good, and rather pretty. Eat Raw Meat = Blood Drool is, as can be inferred from the title, the “experimental” track, and is a big, throbbing, pounding hellish mess, which must sound AMAZING live (note: must get to see these chaps live ASAP). Walk The Fleet Road closes the album and is a sweet little coda, but little else, leaving one with a feeling that the album is too short, and wanting more.

Fortunately, there is more – a second CD on the Special Edition entitled Cuttings II; but I haven’t listened to it yet so can’t include it in this review. Anyway In This Light… is itself a fine album and a relief after the worrying tendencies of An End Has A Start. Now if they could only work on those lyrics…

NOvember update: have a bleedin guess!

And for your entertainment today a dreadful poeaaaaam

[Both of those are Fall references, pearls before swine I know]

Ivor’s Sausage

Ivor had a sausage
It was past its sell-by date
Ivor had a sausage
Sizzling on his plate

Ivor had a sausage
It was made of bits of bull
Ivor had a sausage
Gristly, inedible

Ivor had a sausage
He bought it from a shop
Ivor had a sausage
Will he ever stop?

Ivor had a sausage
It was British through and through
Ivor had a sausage
But then so am I – aren’t YOU?

Ivor had a sausage
It looked like a horse’s cock
Ivor had a sausage
Old ladies it would shock

Ivor had a sausage
I bet you want one too
Ivor had a sausage
Clog your arteries like glue

Ivor had a sausage
It was swimming in grease
Ivor had a sausage
How it longed for release

Ivor had a sausage
He drowned it in brown sauce
Ivor had a sausage
It’s the only way of course

Ivor had a sausage
It was greasy, vile and brown
Ivor had a sausage
AND HE GOBBLED IT DOWN

NOvember update: I’m obviously still fat, but today, my trousers felt noticeably looser. Result! Maybe, one day, I’ll be thin again. Tonight I quite fancied a pint as the weekend draws near. Must be strong. Watched Watchdog and Road Wars instead of going out. If this is what the rest of the month is going to be like, I might as well kill myself now.

Today’s subject is Management Bastards.

YOU'RE FIRED!

This memo was circulated this morning to all inmates at the place in which and indeed where I (pretend to) work:

1. Junior staff must, on observing the approach of a Senior Member of staff, IMMEDIATELY and SHARPLY rise to their feet, SMARTLY salute, SMILE and say cheerfully and sincerely, “Good Morning/Afternoon, Sir/Madam!”

2. Junior staff must, on observing the approach of a member of Senior Management, perform the duties outlined in 1. above and then prostrate themselves in abject obeisance at the feet of the senior officer, only rising and returning to their desks when the Senior Officer has given them leave to Do So.

3. Junior staff must NOT talk to Senior Officers without written approval, signed by their line managers and countersigned by their team leader.

4. Conversations about anything other than work are banned. Should people wish to converse about their own private lives, the television programme they watched last night, or anything at all outside the remit of work, they should do so in their own time, provided that conversations are recorded and sent to Management for security purposes.

5. Private phone calls and e-mails are BANNED OUTRIGHT. Anyone found breaking this rule will be immediately fired. Out of a cannon. Into a brick wall. Studded with razor wire and broken glass.

6. Telephones MUST be answered BEFORE they ring. Staff should therefore seek to enhance their telepathic abilities. Drugs are available on prescription to assist with this; however, staff must beware of side-effects such as homicidal urges, shrivelling and detachment of limbs and external genitalia, gender confusion and lycanthropy.

7. Visits to the toilet are BANNED OUTRIGHT. Staff should either perform such duties in their own time, or undertake surgery to remove the necessity for defecation and urination.

8. Tea and coffee breaks are also banned. Caffeine is a dangerous drug which will contaminate the bloodstream of the loyal employee. Staff must instead consume Management’s approved stimulant: crystal meth. This is available freely from the dispensers situated on both floors.

9. Staff must learn, and be able to recite on the spot, even whilst at home or at 3 o’ clock in the morning when woken by Management phone call, the corporate Vision Statement. Failure to do so may result in personal grief, bereavement, and rescindment of individuality.

10. Staff are instructed to have fun at work. Failure to do so will result in immediate execution.

Have a nice day!

THE MANAGEMENT

(In case anyone from my work is reading this: IT’S A JOKE you CRETINOUS DULLARD.)

I’m going to change the format of this a bit as it will be stultifyingly boring for the 2 people who read this if I carry on as before. It also strikes me as horribly narcissistic to witter on about myself. So instead of slavishly reporting against those 5 criteria I am going to write about something interesting (I hope) each day.

Of course a brief NOvember update will still be necessary, so let’s get that out of the way first. Still on the wagon, feeling slighty less miserable and ill today, don’t even want a pint, hope I can keep it up.

Now for today’s subject – Nigel Kneale’s BEASTS.

This was an anthology of six hour-long dramas shown around the ITV regions in the autumn of 1976 and loosely based around the concept of modern man’s relationship with the primal, dark forces of nature, a favourite theme of Kneale’s.  The “beasts” themselves were rarely if ever seen, the focus instead being on the characters and their reactions to events. Shot on video with minimal music and effects, these are essentially “plays for television” and, though slow by today’s standards, they remain some of the most disturbing, terrifying programmes ever broadcast.

The first story (I’m going by the production order that the DVD follows, as the episodes were shown out of order around the various ITV regions), is Baby, in which a young vet played by Simon “Manimal” McCorkindale and his pregnant wife move to a house in the country, where they discover… something… walled up in the kitchen. This discovery leads to the gradual revelation of an ancient curse. It’s all done very subtly, with clues dropped here and there, and you are left to piece together exactly what it is that is behind everything, which is even more terrifying as your imagination is allowed free rein. Norman Jones (Hieronymous from Doctor Who: The Masque of Mandragora) pops up as a comedy yokel, and there’s an excellent cameo by T.P. McKenna as the whiskey-loving senior country vet which provides some much-needed light relief – though even his involvement furthers the plot; there are several twists and turns to the tale which you only appreciate after seeing Baby a couple of times. Jo Wymark plays the pregnant young wife who is the only one who truly senses the evil at work and it is an amazing performance, you are with her all the way right up until the FUCKING TERRIFYING ENDING. I’ll say no more about it other than the first time I saw it I had to watch 2 episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm to calm me down, and that people who saw it when they were children had nightmares for MONTHS afterwards. I’ll leave the last words to none other than Russell T Davies:

[Baby is] still the most frightening thing I have ever seen – it’s doom-laden from the start, and the misery and fear escalates until there’s no escape. It’s the most disgusting piece of television I’ve ever seen.

Buddyboy is next, and, on paper, it sounds risible: the spirit of a dolphin – the eponymous Buddyboy – haunts a derelict dolphinarium which a sex entrepreneur played by a pre-Professionals Martin Shaw wants to turn into a porno theatre.  Try pitching that nowadays! It is, however, an unusual and highly original piece of drama, with extremely dark undertones. Buddyboy himself is never seen but his presence is indicated by sinister clicks and whistles and the occasional, alarming crescendo of pipes, horns and drums. Kneale has done his research and drawn some disturbing conclusions about dolphins which form the explanation of the paranormal element of the story. Shaw’s seedy character, in his wheelings and dealings to obtain the dolphinarium at the cheapest price possible, deals with the terrified owner, Hubbard, who wants to get shot of the place ASAP for a grim reason that becomes horribly clear, and gets involved with Lucy, a rather simple girl, who befriended Buddyboy and still hangs around the abandoned pool. It’s never really revealed whether Lucy is just simple or mentally retarded; I think she’s meant to represent innocence and purity as opposed to Shaw’s character, who is truly vile; a manipulative, sadistic, money-motivated user of people, and a great performance from Shaw. Even though you hate him you can see why he acts the way he does, and even sympathise with his no-nonsense attitude. We’re on his side when he shows his loathing of the cruel, incompetent Hubbard; but the parallels with dolphins being taught tricks and girls being lured into the porn business are clear and it is this that leads to the tragic and highly upsetting ending. I must admit that it left me numb, beyond tears – we are some way beyond horror here, into raw human truth and pain. Lucy is played by a young actress called Pamela Moiseiwitsch, who I don’t recall having seen in anything else, and it is a very touching, affecting performance, which will break your heart. And people say that this is the “silly” episode of BEASTS. They haven’t got a clue what they are talking about.

Dummy is, if anything, more harrowing; but the pain is leavened by satire, for this is Kneale having a dig at Hammer Horror.  A trio of familiar faces from Doctor Who populate this story: Bernard Horsfall, who was – amongst other roles – Chancellor Goth in The Deadly Assassin; Glyn Houston from The Awakening and Clive Swift who was Jobel in Revelation of the Daleks and Mr Copper in that 2007 Xmas Special with Kylie on the Titanic in space. They’re joined by Lilias Walker who had a breif but memorable role as Sister Lamont in Terror of the Zygons. Horsfall plays an alcoholic actor whose only role is to clump around inside the ridiculous – but also oddly sinister – Dummy suit in a series of films which are clearly a pastiche on the Hammer genre: Revenge of the Dummy, Return of the Dummy, etc. Horsfall’s performance is so raw it is agonising to watch – he has a nervous breakdown right there on screen in front of you, sweating, sobbing, a broken man. The scene where his manager offers him whiskey – which he gladly takes – just to get him through the performance is ugly, and speaks cynical volumes about the vagaries of film production. The idea behind Dummy is that, like tribesmen wearing masks, an actor in a costume can become the costume, and something more… Comic relief is provided by Thorley Walters as a camp old thesp eternally waiting for his cue.

Special Offer is up next and is, in my view, the weakest. It stars a very young Pauline Quirke as a socially inept shop-girl bullied by her manager, who she blindly adores; this conflict brings about poltergeist activity in the supermarket, with tins flying through the air and boxes of cornflakes exploding everywhere. And that’s it, really. What makes the story is Quirke’s performance which is sometimes cute and sometimes quite disturbing, especially in the scenes where she appears to see “Brightway Billy”…

What Big Eyes is Kneale’s take on the werewolf legend. His concept – that millions of years back, mankind could have taken a lupine evolutionary path – is intriguing, and gives some weight to what is basically a “mad scientist in an attic” story. A young RSPCA officer (Michael Kitchen) is led to a pet-shop where he encounters old Mr Raymount (Patrick Magee) whom he discovers is conducting dangerous experiments in lycanthropy. I’ll say no more of the plot other than that it keeps you guessing right up until the final reveal! When people talk about this story they always rave about the performances of the two male leads, but it is Madge Ryan’s performance as Raymount’s daughter which really stands out for me. She totally owns the last ten minutes or so and her life story is horribly tragic. Once again BEASTS focuses on the human side of things, the human cost and pain, and makes for harrowing, upsetting television rather than merely horrific.

During Barty’s Party, the final episode and perhaps the most notorious, is a two-hander between Anthony Bate (who was Lacon in Tinker, Tailor and Smiley’s People) and Elizabeth Sellars as a middle-aged, middle-class couple whose house falls under siege from – that would be telling! Though if you’ve heard about it you probably already know. The invaders are never seen but revealed by sound effects, which is remarkably effective. The ending is chilling, though more in your standard horror genre vein than other entries in the series, so I don’t rate it quite as highly as The Dummy, Buddyboy or Baby.

The DVD also contains Murrain, Kneale’s entry into an earlier series of plays entitled Against the Crowd, which is remarkably similar to Baby in that it focuses on rural witchy goings-on. It stars Bernard Lee – yes! M out of James Bond! – and Una Brandon-Jones as old Mrs Clemson, who was Mrs “I DON’T CARE WHERE YE COME FROM!” Parkin in Withnail and I.

Stark, harrowing, full of truth and emotion and some startling, un-nerving concepts, BEASTS would never be made today, especially considering some of the subject matter in Buddyboy. In fact, one can readily imagine how the stories would be re-made today, resplendent with the latest effects with the action ramped up to 11 and all the depth and subtelty replaced by narcissistic melodrama. Let’s hope it never happens, and if you are a true fan of 1970s TV SF and Horror I urge you to check BEASTS out – but, be warned! Don’t watch it alone, late at night.

Especially Baby.

Seriously.

Every day in every way I’m getting better and better.

1. MOOD. Still feel miserable – but am not doing what I usually do to cheer myself up, i.e. drink.

2. HEALTH. Dire. Feel fat, itchy, achy, old and only partly alive.

3. WEIGHT. Fat. Still no scales.

4. DOSH. I’m managing. Found 20p on the pavement outside Tesco. WIN!

5. WRITING. Feel too depressed to write anything other than this bollocks.

This is the easy bit – the temptation will come with the weekend!

Nothing much to report, really.

This is going to be interesting reading!

1. MOOD. Feel miserable as fuck. Probably because it’s the first Monday in November, the shittest month of the year.

2. HEALTH. Feel like shite. See above. Though have started using E45 Bath, so skin feels better.

3. WEIGHT. Too early to say. Still fat. Obviously. Though I realise I don’t have any scales, so will need to get some to assess progress here.

4. DOSH. Too early to say.

5. WRITING. Also too early to say.

Right, I’m off to cook a curry (not giving that up!) and watch Deadwood, the first season of which my boss has kindly loaned me.

Apologies for lack of DTs.

Those who know me – and even those who don’t – know that I like a pint. Of beer. Or 8, followed by a curry. And then the same again the next night.

At my age (41!) I should really be cutting down.

Hence, I have decreed that November will be “NO”-vember, when I say No to booze for a whole month.

It will be an interesting experiment, as I have not gone without booze for more than a week for ages (my poor liver… what remains of it).

And it will entertain ghoulish fiends who watch me writhe in agony as I crave beer… beer… BEER!

I will be blogging every day, to chart my progress, focusing on 5 main areas:

1. MOOD. I feel mildly depressed most of the time. Alcohol is a depressant. So… will laying off cheer me up?

2. HEALTH. I’m pretty sure my eczema is made worse by the dehydration booze causes. Let’s see if removing it will improve my dry skin. And my health in general.

3. WEIGHT. I am a fat bastard. Booze is fattening, as is the shite you eat because of it (pie, crisps, curry, etc). I’ll be weighing myself every day to see if being on the wagon helps.

4. DOSH. It’s expensive – on average 3 quid a pint – so will a month of abstinence swell my coffers?

5. WRITING. I sometimes go to the pub instead of writing. That said, I have written some excellent stuff IN the pub! How will abstinence affect my creativity?

All those questions are no-brainers, really (except 5); the answers are YES to all. But it gives me something to report against.

So, here goes.