And no, that’s not me.

That’s right, I’m pissed off my head on boozaholic drinks. But I’m also

SO

FUCKING

DEEP,

yeah?

Jesus shitty-tit-smearing Christ, I’m going to regret this in the morning…

Watch the film of the bard! No, it’s not Terence Davies again. Instead let us take a deep breath, dab ourselves at the celluloidal stoop and genuflect to Godard, whose Petit Soldat has verily reinvented through its transcendental vision our cinematic art. Because let’s face it, when pinned at literary luger-point by the brilliant criticism of myself and my very good friends (and terribly brave they all are too) in the Sunday supplements, you’d have to be some sort of Galahad to dare release a film that made people a bit uncomfortable. And yet with Soldat, for almost two hours, the man’s concrete coglioni brazenly inseminate his captive viewers’ unblinking eyes with black and white torture and suicide – with nary a flinch at the thought that audiences might not be quite so fist-clenchingly bold as himself!

The plot unfolds as messily as an origami water bomb, so instead of preamble we cut into the retrospection of a broken man, a fellow so psychologically crumbled that he’s jolly tough even to be walking around, if you ask me. And I have to stop here and marvel at just how brave Godard is – quick pans and shaky camera-work dominate the visual style already. In his own way, it seems Jean-Luc is reprimanding fellow auteurs with the stern reminder that ‘dollies are for girls’. We know that this is one director who’ll be getting an Action Man for Christmas – An Action Man, a box of knives and a smoking habit.

But is he dangerous enough? Certainly his romance lacks originality; Karina’s energetic but bland brunette, complete with ditzy morals and a penchant for espionage, is hardly a far cry from Honey Rider or Plenty O’Toole, seeming more suited to a Birkin bit-part in a Gainsbourg Union Jaxploitation TV special than a leading role in what is undeniably art cinema (did I mention that it’s in black and white?). Are Noirish Bruno’s five o’clock shadow, slight fatigue and eyeliner enough to build a fractured figure sufficiently convincing to seize the crowd’s emotional sympathy?

Possibly, I couldn’t say. But what would have been much better and super-brave is if there’d been more religious imagery. Because let’s face it, as a literature graduate and a critic in the nationals I would latch onto that like a pair of barnacles to an ark. Come to think of it, there’s one bit where Bruno has his arms stretched out a bit. That means he’s Jesus.

So bugger off and do something interesting, I’ll be back in a bit.

Yep.

SPREAD THE WORD!

YOU HEARD IT HERE FIRST*!

*Second

It’s late afternoon, we pan across a sunny scene of open countryside. An honest, hard-working beekeeper, white-suited, stands at the side of a field of oats sliding panes of honey from some hives.

But what’s this? Instead of a load of bees, this sheet has been cut out and cunningly fashioned into a cereal-box holder. This clearly took hours of sawing, nailing, cutting, sticking and the like. An improbable find.
At this point, two questions must be asked – what is this beekeeper (disguised in a net veil) doing out in the oats at dusk, sneaking out the Special K? And what is this box of cereal doing in the corner of a field, inside a beehive, anyway? The plot thickens.

The music swells, cereal flies through the air with Bacchinalean abandon, honey is dribbled. The tension is thrust up into the higher reaches. Who is this person? Is she, perhaps, some poor farm-girl, abused and thrust into a cruel life where the only way she can eat is to scrape together a few coppers, walk 3 miles to Londis then hide her dry and loveless food that she might live to endure another day of her lecherous uncle’s abuse? Or is it a man, perhaps a simple farm-hand, who fell amid the oats and hives, gave crunchy birth to a new cereal and, horrified at his creation, hid it away, fearful that his new product might be unleashed on an unready world?

Not so, dear readers. The hood is removed, the jacket is unzipped, the game is up. Oh. It’s only that bloody bird off the other adverts. The one with not much in her wardrobe but a full chest of drawers, know what I mean?

Then what’s she doing in a field with all cereal? We know from the other ads that she lives in a bright white, presumably metropolitan apartment, with any number of smiling children and a tanned Italian with a 5 o’-clock shadow. The answer is simple – SHE’S A BLOODY THIEF. Like some warped result of Gary Lineker and Goldilocks’ illegal bacon frottage, she has taken from these humble people, these good people. She is the sort of despicable scum that is dragging this country into the dirt – and she’s right there on the telly, in an advert, where she can influence OUR BLOODY KIDS. She leans on these poor farmers’ tables, she leans on their trees, she eats their oats, and then she has the audacity – THE AUDACITY – to expect us to let her off because of her admittedly tasty arse.

Oh, alright then.

Perkins

Parking the car at the edge of the close, I unplug the last sparks of the inner city and fade into suburbia. You’re there in the kitchen, Audrey, maid-cheeked and glittering like the glass in your hand.

Boss over tonight, promotion’s in the air.

I just love seeing old Perkins razzed up on red wine. Spoon and fork in hand, jiggling thighs well apart, laughing at your tedious little stories.
We’d clear the plates and then I’d signal to you.
Minutes later, I’d follow Perkins upstairs to the bedroom. Now the night begins.

Heaving his white, bloated gut out of his britches, scrabbling around to find his penis before the inevitable huffing and puffing, slaps, grunts that stink of blue cheese we had with dessert and the paltry moan as he spends himself, his eyes glaze over and he slumps back on the bed. There’s a silence, and then the loud snores surface.
I tuck you under the roll of Perkins’ flabby arms then snort throatily to myself as I abuse my unctuous, lipstick-smeared bits over by the dressing table.

I fall back, drowsy but burning, on the boss’ sweat-sodden clothes.
The anger whirls around in my chest until I can’t take the biting any more and it forces itself out as one hot tear. It seems to cut through my cheek like piss through butter, instead it pools on the buckle of Perkins’ trousers. Those pleated, huge trousers with the loose thread around the knee and the shiny britch-clasps.

In the half-light, I polish them with the back of my thumb, just as a newly-appointed Deputy Assistant Manager should.
Night, love.