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    TALES OF THE JOLLY ROGER by "JT Dogg"'



    ...and a one-page panel gag, plus a two-page SLUG toon by "Randy"

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    MY MAILBOX doesn’t bulge like it did 20 years ago with zines, but my heart still skips a beat when a small package or envelope arrives filled with Xeroxed (or professionally printed) self-published goodness. Let’s dive in and see what I’ve got lately.


    I miss One Thousand Feathers. There was a coherence to that zine that I appreciated (even if certain issues were more miss than hit). Rojonekku Word Fighting Arts 2 is Raven Mack at his most mystical and stream-of-consciousness state of mind. It’s free-form jazz in an essay and there are times when I can go with the flow and appreciate what he’s saying. And there are times when I just go, “Huh?”

    Unfortunately, RWFA2had more of the latter and less of the former.


    Wanting to keep things positive, I’ll focus on the article I enjoyed most, which was a surreal wrestling-themed piece called “New Earth Wrestling”, which reminded me of those old fantasy matches between rasslin’ legends that Gold Belt Wrestling magazine would print in the late 80s, pretending the results were calculated by a super-computer. In this instance, however, EVERYTHING is fictional, including the names of the wrestlers. This is a trippy but accessible piece. It’s sad that I can’t say the same for much of the rest of his zine.


    I love Raven’s writing style and much of what he’s trying to convey, but I worry that his writing is heading to a plane that I just don’t understand anymore.


    Rojonekku Word Fighting Arts 1: Raven Mack, PO Box 270, Scottsville, VA, 24590, USA. www.rojonekku.com[email for prices, 40S, :70]



    Kamuke #8: You love ukes? You’ll fucking love this magazine. Still no feature on my fave uke player Amanda “Fucking” Palmer, but other than that…this is pretty uke-tastic.
    Cameron Murray; editor@kamuke.com; www.kamuke.com[email for price, 36 x A5 pages, reading time: 20 minutes]

    Unbelievably Bad#15: The Melvins…Herschell Gordon Lewis…and the curious case of Kenneth Pinyan, who took horseplay a little too far. If you know any (or all) of these characters, then THIS is the zine for you. Funny, informative, irreverent – UBis so ziney it’ll make your anus bleed tears of joy. Oh and the piece on the Hottentot Venus was great – now THERE was a chick with booty!
    Unbelievably Bad, c/- Von Helle, 9 Ross Street, Dulwich Hill, NSW, 2203, AUSTRALIA unbelievablybad@optusnet.com.au[AUD$8 or e-mail for details if from overseas, 68 x A4, 60+ minutes]

    OF COURSE, not all zines are zines. Some are self-published comics. In the past month I received the following…



    Totentanz by Marcel Ruijters; A stunningly drawn, beautiful printed mini-comic about a naughty nun dancing with a skeleton. But things turn disastrous when another skeleton tries to cut in on the happy couple. I kept waiting for something blasphemous to happen, but this wordless strip is joyfully silly and trippy. Page after page is just highly kinetic illustrations of this very odd couple “cutting a rug”. A delightfully endearing tale. Contact Marcel at www.xs4all.nl/~troglo for ordering details.

    #takedown by David Blumenstein: A factual account of the huge protest that terminated the short stay in Australia of pick-up “expert” Julien Blanc (watch one of his odious videos at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iULxmr2je8w). David was there the Melbourne seminar – working undercover as one of the seminar attendees. This simply told tale is both amusing and surprisingly fair towards the protesters and the people who attended the event…although not to sleazebag Blanc himself. I liked this comic a lot.
    Order it from Pikitia Press (www.pikitiapress.com).

    My friend Adam gave me Good Dog, Whiskey, an Aussie comic by K. Kobi about a dog who takes loyalty to his master to an extreme level. I found it quite moving, although the art (based heavily on photo references of people) was patchy in parts.
    You can order Good Dog, Whiskey from Book Depository (http://www.bookdepository.com/book/9781481076463?redirected=true&selectCurrency=AUD&w=AF45AU96QHCMF0A8ZRS5&gclid=Cj0KEQjwuLKtBRDPicmJyvu_qZMBEiQAzlGN5jpK8_od8PwdiQd4v88vbb3xAeYGjlsQRl2cbM4UbAcaAvNe8P8HAQ).



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    WELL, another footy season is over and the mighty Hawthorn Hawks achieved a THREE-PEAT of AFL premierships over the hapless West Coast Eagles.
    Leading up to last Saturday's grand final, it seemed the perfect time to reflect on the glorious past of my beloved Richmond Tigers, who got knocked out of the finals race in the first week.
    The Tiges were great once - back in the 1960s and 70s - but they haven't been a force in the AFL (or the VFL as it was known in the good ol' days) for 35 years.
    What better way to reminisce about Richmond than read autobiographies (well, sorta...both are of the "as told to" variety) about my two favourite Richmond sons, KEVIN BARTLETT and MATTHEW RICHARDSON.
    It's ironic how similar both these players were - in talent and on-field demeanour - and yet how different their career trajectories turned out, purely due to circumstance.
    Bartlett was a member of five premiership-winning teams (1967, 1969, 1973-74, 1980), played a whopping 403 games from 1965-83 and kicked 778 goals. He also won a ton of club best and fairest awards but never a Brownlow Medal, the ultimate personal achievement for a footballer.
    Richardson played in 282 games from 1993-2009 but never played in a grand final, let alone won a premiership. He kicked 800 goals but probably could have kicked a lot more if he'd been accurate. He won a ton of B&Fs for the Tiges and came heartbreakingly close to winning a Brownlow in 2008, but wound up equal third to Adam Cooney of the Western Bulldogs.
    Bartlett was ridiculed for his receding hairline and inability to handpass to team mates. 
    Richardson was ridiculed for his incredibly poor kicking for goal and his constant spitting the dummy on the field: at umpires, opponents and team mates.
    Bartlett was nicknamed "Hungry" because of his selfishness on the field. But fans loved him because he was a champion player in a team of champions. 
    Richardson was plain old "Richo", but he also found it difficult to share the ball around, trying to do everything himself to lift his hapless team to victory week after week. Fans hated him for years, but eventually grew to love him because they could see he was a champion player trapped in a shit side.
    Bartlett and Richardson would never have survived playing in the modern game of 2015. Coaches would have quickly banished them to the B grade, then traded or delisted them at the end of the season because they weren't willing to follow set plans and be team players.

    KEV (pictured above with champion Richmond coach Tommy Hafey, left) was my idol growing up as a Tigers fan in the 1970s. He was probably the sole reason I stayed a fan after they started sliding down the premiership ladder in the early 80s due to one management cock-up after another.
    I picked up KB: A Life In Football  (as told to his son Rhett Bartlett) a couple of weeks back for next to nix in a Mildura bookshop. I didn't realise till I started reading it that the low price was because the photo-heavy memoir was four years old.
    Still, it was a fun and easy read, full of fantastic action shots and pix of Tiges and KB memorabilia. 
    It's just a pity it wasn't written five years earlier - by 2011, Kev was reconciled with the Richmond Football Club and a beloved Tiges legend. But it wasn't always that way. He'd turned his back on the club for the previous 20 years after he was sacked as coach in 1991 (after a less than stellar four-year coaching stint, I might add). Bad blood ran deep and I'm sure an autobiography in 2006 would have been darker, more bitter and would have had a few well-aimed barbs at key management figures who paid a part in his coaching demise (and also tried to sabotage him at times during his playing career). But that was all water under the bridge by the time Kev co-wrote KB.
    In the end, the impression of Kev I got from this book was that he's a funny, self-deprecating raconteur who adores the Tigers, even if the relationship has been rocky at times.
    Some classic KB moments

    Richo (as told to Martin Flanagan) has been in my bookcase since its publication in 2010, but I finally finished it last Sunday.
    This is a more traditional autobiography and a pretty mediocre one at that. The problem is that Richardson is a taciturn guy; he let his footy do the talking. Which meant he has little to say.
    Questions about his career are met with stonewall replies. You can sense Flanagan tearing his hair out in frustration on every page. Anecdotes are shot down before they can start, facts are confused or dismissed with one-line answers - Richo is actively unhelpful in trying to tell the story of his life.
    Flanagan is forced to fill chapter after chapter with stories about Tasmania (Richo's home state) and the even the history of football. And there are numerous comments from Richo's friends, family and former team mates and coaches to give us a picture of the big man. They all say the same thing: he's a loyal, hard-working guy with a good heart, who was completely untrainable and selfish on the oval because of a single-minded desire to try to win games by himself.
    It was only late in his career - after he'd been publicly lambasted for a 2002 incident where he abused a first-year footballer, a team mate no less - that Richo made any effort to become more of a team player. Not that he succeeded, but at least he tried.
    Eventually, the fans - from Richmond and opposing teams - began to realise what a phenomenal talent Richardson truly was. In another team or era (perhaps playing alongside KB and other greats) he would have been a legend. As it was, punters knew he was in the wrong team at the wrong time.
    That fact still didn't stop me - when I received an email invitation to fill in a club survey at the end of every season - to get to the question, "How can we improve the club's on-field performance next year?" and I'd each time I'd write, "Sack the coach. Sack Richo."
    Please don't misunderstand me, I loved the guy, but it was obvious to me (and pretty much everyone else) that Richo was a bad fit for the Tigers and vice versa.
    But just like his premiership-winning dad Barry, Matthew was a Tiger through and through. Started with the club, ended with the club. More's the pity.
    Ironically, this book would have been better if it had been written five years later. Nowadays, Richo has developed into a respected TV commentator who adds great insight to the footy games he covers. He's opened up and is very comfortable chatting to players with a microphone in his hand. One can only wonder how much more insightful and entertaining his autobiography would have been in 2015 now he's had this media training.
    Perhaps Richo will think about penning a second autobiography down the track - it couldn't help but be better than this one.

    Some classic Richo moments

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    I got turned onto these indie horror fillum via the magic of YouTube where following one movie preview link can quickly send you tumbling down a rabbit hole of celluloid "delight".

    The problem with trailers is that they can make you think you're watching the greatest film ever...till you watch the ACTUAL film and realise that you've already seen all the best bits in the trailer. Or, worse still, that what you saw in the awesome trailer is NOTHING like the actual movie.

    The trailers for Unfriended and Cooties (both USA, 2014) promised good things, so when I scored free preview discs of them at work a few months later, I eagerly popped them in my DVD drive and checked them out.


    What’s the guts?Six high school friends are chatting online one evening when their group conversation's gatecrashed by a mysterious person using the online accounts of a dead schoolmate, Laura, who committed suicide one year earlier. Despite their best efforts to get rid of the intruder, they can't shake her and they soon reach the awful realisation that the mysterious person is the vengeful ghost of Laura. Before the night is over, the friends will be forced to reveal their darkest secrets to each other or face horrible deaths. 

    Anything else? The unknown cast are very good in maintaining the fear and tension in this innovative movie shot essentially in real time. Using just Skype, Facebook and text messages, the movie's cheapness isn't apparent and the brief scenes of violence are shocking and potent. Death by blender, gun, knife, curling iron and bleach - enough is shown to be very nasty. And, to be honest, by the end of the flick you realise that these teens - who all seemed so innocent and nice at the start of the flick - are a bunch of cunts who deserve everything they get from the demonic Laura.


    Final word: With friends like these...



    And then........


    What’s the guts? A lethal virus spread by tainted chicken nuggets turns a bunch of schoolkids into fast-running zombie cannibals who attack their teachers with intestines-flyng results. Adults are immune to the virus, so you wind up with an incredibly un-PC scenario of the teachers having to bash, burn, stab and annihilate a bunch of pre-teens to survive the apocalypse. It's fucking wrong and fucking hilarious.

    Anything else? Elijah Wood, Rainn Wilson, Jorge Garcia and Aussie Leigh Whannell have a field day with the ludicrous material. It's dumb, blood-spattered fun.
    Final word: These zombie nuggets are pure gold.





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    THE video is called Blank Room Soup and recently it’s been an internet sensation of sorts, believed by some to be some kinda perverted home movie.

    While it is genuinely unsettling, the video is fake. Disturbing but fake.

    Let me backtrack a little. Three months ago I’d never heard of the Deep Web and now it’s ALL I hear about. This is the buzz term to describe the dark underbelly making up 90% of the internet that the vast majority of users never see – a vast labyrinth of encrypted, secret sites featuring everything from drug-dealing hangouts, snuff porn messageboards, conspiracy theory nuts and just plain craziness.

    I wouldn’t check out the Deep Web myself, because it’s too scary for my liking. But I’ve watched a few YouTube videos where folk regularly update viewers on what they’ve found there.

    One such explorer is SomeOrdinaryGamers (aka Mutahar) and it was on the August 30 episode of his Deep Web Exploration series that I first saw a short film he’d uploaded from the Deep Web.

    It was a video that could actually be found quite easily on YouTube, which isn’t particularly deep. There, it’s known as Blank Room Soup.

    In the film, which runs for little over a minute, a man (with his identity obscured by a black bar superimposed over his eyes) is dressed in a singlet and sits at a table in front of a video camera. He looks haggard as he gorges himself on a bowl of what appears to be ramen noodles. He eats with a wooden ladle.

    Behind the man is an open door. After a few seconds, a person wearing an oversized human head appears and walks towards him. He looks like a mascot.

    As the mascot touches him, the man starts to cry. Laughter can be heard in the background.

    The man continues to eat and cry while the mascot comforts him, stroking his back. After a few seconds, a second mascot appears from stage right and also comforts the man who now sounds hysterical. Both mascots are nodding as the video ends.

    Now, I think Mutahar tends to over-react to a lot of stuff he unearths in his Deep Web series, even when it’s fairly benign shit.

    So him dry-retching and acting all freaked out over this film, which he assumed was some weird torture fetish tape, seemed a bit OTT to me.

    That said, it IS fucking creepy and I soon became obsessed in learning more about Blank Room Soup and the people who made it.

    It didn’t take me long at all – in fact, the links were in the comments below Mutahar’s episode.

    Turns out this film could be found on a Daily Motion channel belonging to RayRayTV.

    The freaky mascots appear in several videos where they dance in a studio, wander around Hawaii and even go clubbing. They’re odd but mostly harmless – the videos reminded me of a weird cross between the 2014 cult movie Frankand the surreal skits that appeared on 1990s British comedy The Smell Of Reeves And Mortimer. Y’know, the kinda comedy that’s more dada than haha.

    The duo even appear in a 2006 music video, Push Button, for a punk cabaret band called Stolen Babies.

    Yet the site also contains Blank Room Soup and a follow-up video known as Soup Torture, both uploaded in 2008.

    Soup Torture is also a minute long and shows the two mascots standing silently in the background, watching the soup-eating man as he shovels ramen noodles into his mouth till he’s nearly retching. After 30 agonising seconds, one of the mascots runs full speed towards the man before the video cuts out and we hear brief audio of the man screaming.

    Both videos have a completely different vibe to the other RayRayTV fare in both content and tone. Maybe RayRayTV was exploring darker comedy material – if so, the comedy is lost on me (and many others).

    Curiously, comments had been added by RayRayTV beneath both films. Next to Blank Room Soup is written, “A clip of people who look like us doing something to someone that we would never do. We promise.”

    And with Soup Torture: “What’s happening in this clip and why do these people look like us!”

    Clearly, something was not right here. But I could glean little more from RayRayTV’s Daily Motion page, which didn’t seem to have been updated for seven years. There was just a name attached to one of the “safe” videos, a director called Raymond Persi.

    I did more research...

    ...AND THE MYSTERY WAS SOLVED.

    Persi is a Californian artist, animator and voice actor, who’s directed episodes of The Simpsons and now works for Disney. His storyboard credits include Wreck-It Ralph and Frozen.

    He has a Tumblr page (raymondpersi.tumblr.com) featuring animated videos and illos of his mascot character RayRay.

    If you check his page on Wikipedia you learn that Persi’s younger sister is Dominique Persi, the lead singer of Stolen Babies. Which explains that connection.

    So there you have it – the creator of Blank Room Soup and Soup Torture is NOT a snuff torture film sicko.


    It still doesn’t explain his motivations for making these short, disturbing films. But hey! It’s art innit. Probably as good a reason as any.



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    HELEN and I did this podcast last month, so technically it's from 2015 and therefore a year old. Or not.
    In this edition, we relate tales of terror culled from years of long drives in the Australian outback. We've had a few unsettling experiences.
    Forgive the sudden conclusion. Listening back, I realised the last six minutes was just waffle about the dangers of driving at dusk in the outback when the kangaroos emerge (which happened to us again that very evening, funnily enough). But it wasn't particularly spooky conversation, so I cut it out.
    Enjoy the rest HERE.

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  • 01/17/16--21:39: Feeling groovy
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    REVIEW: Tammy Lynn Sytch: Sunny Side Up: In Through The Back Door (Vivid, 2016)


    THE reviews haven’t been kind so far, but I was still keen to see what former WWF/E superstar and Hall Of Famer Tammy “Sunny” Sytch had to offer. Times have been hard for the former No. 1 sexual fantasy figure of male wrestling fans around the world since her heyday of the mid-1990s.

    She was a soft-core porn model in the early 2000s on a web site run by Missy Hyatt. More recently, photos leaked online of her efforts as a webcam gal.

    In between, there were regular reports of Tammy getting arrested and doing brief stints in jail.

    Physically, she packed on the kilos and appeared to be heavily into the recreational drugs.

    When Tammy announced late last year that she was starring in a hardcore porno for Vivid, most observers weren’t really surprised. Vivid supremo Steve Hirsch gave her $100K (allegedly) in exchange for her Hall Of Fame ring and this video, Sunny Side Up.

    Whether they were disappointed by her decision, excited or just plain curious, I’m sure a lot of her old male fans were keen to see her “workrate” in the XXX world.

    I was no different, so I sat down in front of my computer and popped the disc in. Here are my thoughts in real time while watching it.



    SCENE 1 (approx. 6 min)

    TAMMY is going solo on bed. Time has not been kind to her as she sports a pooch belly and a double chin. This wouldn’t be an issue for me if the DVD didn’t kick off with a trailer just beforehand featuring a (most likely) stolen WWF/E pic of Sunny in her 1990s prime.

    You can’t do that, guys, then jump straight to her 43yo self. That’s just cruel to both the watcher and the woman herself.

    Anyways, Tammy’s in a hotel room, wearing purple lingerie and clearly out of it. She attempts to seductively rub her body, but it comes across as just sad. She then bends over facing the camera, pulls down her panties and shows us her raggedy vagina. No subtlety here, folks. Tammy’s gone straight to the meat-and-no-potatoes.

    Brief fingering action. Jump cut. And Tammy’s now on her back, pulling off her knickers and rubbing them on her face. Ewwwwww.

    Jump cut. And now they’re in her mouth. Double ewwwwwwwwwww.

    OK. Have you ever seen a really drunk older woman trying to crack onto a young guy in public? The chick thinks she’s hot as fuck, but she’s having trouble standing or staying conscious? That’s who Tammy reminds me of right now.

    There’s no talking, our gal’s just doing that heavy breathing that drunk people do late at night. Tits out, shaved vagina out and we have some heavy-duty fingering action. Jump cut and now a double-ended dildo’s come into play.

    Tammy’s grunting like a pig in a slaughterhouse and we’ve barely gone 2½ minutes into this scene.

    Three minutes in and Tammy has a shuddering orgasm. OK, I call bullshit. I don’t want to think of her as “Sunny the worker”, but this bitch is working us. That orgasm goes on forever and she acts like she’s dying.

    First words spoken on the tape: “GNNNNNNNGHHHH! OH MY GOD! God yes!”

    Jump cut. We’re back to a gynaecological view of Tammy’s spread cheese sandwich and the fingering continues. I want to tell her to stop, but I’ve lost the will to live.

    A second orgasm is more violent than the first – Tammy punches the pillow. I feel sorry for the guys who are gonna plough this chick in the next two scenes. They’re risking serious injury.

    CONCLUSION: I don’t have an erect muscle in my body right now.



    SCENE 2 (35 min)

    WE’RE in the same hotel room I suspect and Tammy’s kissing a bald guy in T-shirt and jeans. He doesn’t seem too keen to undress, but he’s being a professional, nursing those puppies and making small talk. Tammy’s back in her purple number and she already sounds like she’s one good rub away from Orgasm No. 3.

    She’s very animated and writing around, even slapping his head just from him sucking on her nipples.

    Her fake groaning and deep baritone voice is off-putting.

    It looks like Tammy – no, fuck it...she’s in working mode so I’m gonna call her Sunny from now on – watched a few stick flicks and is now copying what they do to sound like a “real” porn star.

    Similar to how backyard nuffies pull on those stupid wide pants, dye their long hair different colours and wear stockings on their forearms on their arms, then think they’re Jeff friggin’ Hardy.

    Anyway, back to the “action”.

    Sunny looks set to explode from the guy licking her inner thighs. To be honest, he doesn’t seem too keen to dive into a snatch once pumped by HBK and God knows who else in the WWF, WCW and ECW locker rooms.

    But like a trouper he does and she reacts by saying something drunkenly unintelligible. Orgasm No. 3 kicks in at the 3:30 mark. Really?

    She gets bossy, tells him to “calm down” and even pushes his head away from her crotch.

    But the dude has a job to do, y’know? So he ignores her rudeness and keeps sucking away at those used beef curtains. Hell, if you’re gonna get an STI, do it with gusto, right?

    “I have multiples,” she declares. No shit, Sherlock!

    Now he’s kissing her – hell, if he has to taste that cunt, then she should suffer, too!

    Seriously, I can barely understand a word Sunny says.

    Finally, the dude has no choice but to start undressing. I hope he took a shitload of Viagra.

    Fuck, he has a semi-mongrel. Well, that makes one of us.

    Sunny goes down on him but keeps posing badly, blocking the camera’s view of her vadge. The guy gently, but repeatedly asks her to spread her legs, but she keeps forgetting and closing them up again. Finally, he physically spreads her legs.

    Jump cut. Now Sunny’s on top of him. The dude and the director must’ve just said, “Fuck it. This bitch doesn’t know how to work the angles. Let’s try something else.”

    Sunny’s blowjob technique is very theatrical. It looks like she’s doing a lot, but it’s more sizzle than substance. Eventually, she settles down to a solid rhythm. But it doesn’t last long.

    Dude is loudly directing her, so he’s clearly not happy with what she’s doing. Actually, I don’t think he’s erect – he just has a long, fat cock.

    Jump cut and we go straight into missionary position.

    I assumed there was a fluffer on set to get the guy stiff.

    Christ, we have another 26 minutes of this shit to get through.

    PUMP PUMP PUMP PUMP PUMP

    Sunny has fake Orgasm No. 4 (yeah, I’m totally calling them FAKE) at the nine-minute mark.

    She’s being really fucking bossy and tells him to stop: “That was a fucking intense orgasm! Motherfucker!”

    Sunny’s face is bright red – she’s blown up already?

    Meanwhile, dude is just PUMPING PUMPING PUMPING.

    The whole of her body is shaking and rippling like waves crashing on a shoreline.

    Orgasm No. 5 at the 11min mark.

    “Fuck my life!” Yes, fuck your life indeed, Sunny.

    These are literally the only things she’s saying that makes sense. Half her sentences trail off into garbled nonsense or just stop mid-sentence.

    Dude is choking her now, and I’m not even bothered by it. It’s like when dastardly heel Triple H attacks babyface Roman Reigns, but the crowd cheers the heel anyway ’cos he’s way cooler than the face.

    Orgasm No. 6 at the 12min mark.

    PUMP PUMP PUMP PUMP PUMP

    This is an unflattering position for Sunny – there’s a huge roll of fat beneath her bodice. Did the director not notice this?

    Listen, I don’t mind chubby cougars, but you can disguise the fact, y’know?

    Jump cut. Now, Sunny’s on top, but the dude’s doing all the work. You can hear his balls methodically slapping against her ham-hock thighs.

    SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP

    “Fuck the shit out of me. Brutalise me!” (??)

    Dude is choking her again. Does he hate her? Or does he just want her to shut the hell up?

    “Whatchoo want? Tell me whatchoo want,” she growls in that cigarette-thrashed voice of hers.

    Orgasm No. 7 at the 14min mark.

    “I gotta stop. I gotta stop.”

    “No, you don’t,” he says, calling Sunny out on her crap.

    “I need a little rest.”

    Dude is directing her again. He’s had enough and just wants to get it over with. He’s fingering her arse to get her ready for the big anal scene.

    He’s slapping her arse cheeks till they’re red. I think most viewers would wanna slap Sunny, too, right about now.

    Orgasm No. 8 at the 16min 30sec. mark.

    This is not erotic or horny in any way, shape or form. I’m now sacrificing part of my day off to review something that hasn’t given me even the slightest tingle in my groin.

    “Hold up! I’m dead-tired right now!”

    Jump cut. Sunny does the job. The headjob, that is.

    Dude’s stiff now – he’s probably thinking of Charlotte Flair to get it done.

    “Please fuck my arse.”

    OK. Now, let me sidetrack for a moment. I’ve been a pornographer for 20 years and I’ve seen how this goes.

    When a porn star starts out in her chosen career, many of them say they’ll only do lezzo. After a while, they progress to boy-girl (it might only be with their boyfriend). Soon, they announce they’re doing their first DP. And then their first ANAL SCENE. After that it’s gang bangs, blow bangs and bukkake. And then their careers are OVER.

    What I’m saying is, it takes a porn star (one with any brains) YEARS to do anal, because that’s practically the final taboo. After that, you either get out of the jiz biz or you progressively travel further down the path of no return. Not judging these ladies, just saying I’ve seen it time and time again.

    But not Sunny. Noooooo...she gets BUGGERED in her first fucking movie! I really hope she got paid the supposed $100K for this film because there is NOWHERE for her to go from here but down.

    Now, back to the scene.

    More sex, this time a reverse spooning thingy. Sunny seems happy, but I’m not.

    Dude has stamina, I’ll give him that.

    Orgasm No. 9 at the 20min mark. Yawn.

    END THIS SCENE! END THIS SCENE! END THIS SCENE!

    Sunny’s O-face is distressing.

    Jump cut and we are STRAIGHT INTO ANAL. Sunny appears to be stunned. I assume lube was involved.

    Now, apart from the fact that I’m watching 1990s WWF/E Diva Sunny getting ploughed up the poop chute, this is still the single least sexually stimulating thing I’ve ever seen since I watched that Chyna porno where she cried at the end.

    It’s a weird missionary position, too. Oh...wait for it...Orgasm No. 10 at the 22min mark.

    Dude isn’t listening to anything she says now. He’s just pumping away knowing he’s less than 13 minutes away from popping, collecting his pay cheque and heading to the nearest bar to drink away the shame.

    ANAL PUMP PUMP PUMP PUMP

    This looks uncomfy, y’know?

    PUMP SLAP PUMP SLAP PUMP SLAP

    “I need a break. I need a break. Hhhhhhhh! I need a break.”

    I assume she means cocaine break.

    Still 12 minutes to go? Holy fuck, I may have to tap out.

    Is this rape now? Sunny keeps saying she has to stop and rest – probably because he’s pounded her rectum into minced meat – and the dude is just ignoring her. It’s all very...disturbing.

    Jump cut to doggy-style butt-fucking. Someone’s talked to her between takes, because now Sunny’s deliriously clamouring for the dude to “Fuck dat ass! Fuck me so hard that I can’t walk anymore. Fuck dat ass. It’s all yours!”

    Please, dude, just cum already!

    No, wait, Sunny’s decided to do it for him.

    Orgasm No. 11 at the 26min mark.

    The dude seems incredulous. NOBODY has ever come that many times with him. He thinks he’s a SEX GOD right about now.

    Sunny’s gonna be wearing diapers for a week after this is over.

    Orgasm No. 12 at the 28min mark.

    She demands an anal cream pie, but the director knows the money shot (as it were) is a facial.

    Jump cut. Now comes the type of porno shenanigans that I hate. We’re back to vaginal sex, but the bit where the dude pulled out his shit-stained dick and washed it off before reinserting said dick into her pussy has been edited out. So any ill-informed person watching this scene will assume he just pulled straight out of her bum and straight into her smoo. Which is misleading and potentially dangerous to the health of anyone watching it who’s under the misapprehension that you can safely swap from anal to vaginal sex (short answer is YOU CAN’T). God, I hate that in porn. OK. Enough of my ranting. I guess I have to go back to watching the end of this never-ending scene.

    Sunny looks off camera to the director as if to say, “Are we done here yet? I have to go to a wrestling convention.”

    Orgasm No. 13 at the 30min mark. And possibly Orgasm No. 14. Maybe it was just the same one stretched out over 60 seconds?

    Dude is making Sunny earn her $100k, that’s for sure.

    “Y’know you’re fucking a Hall-of-Famer right now, right?”

    God, don’t remind us, Sunny.

    Orgasm No. 15 at the 33min mark.

    I finally worked out who the dude reminds me of: Tito Ortiz.

    Jump cut. We are on the home stretch as we pan up Sunny’s sausage legs and are confronted by Tito’s genitals as he desperately tries to squeeze out some drops on Sunny’s upturned, expectant, age-ravaged mug. Finally, Tito’s fantasies about Jenna Jameson pay off and he shoots some ropey strings of gonad sauce onto Sunny’s face.

    THAT’S A WRAP EVERYBODY! Thank Christ!

    CONCLUSION: My eyes! They burn! They buuuuuuurn!!!



    SCENE 3 (36min)

    THIRTY-SIX minutes?! No! No fucking way. I am not sitting through another half-hour plus of this shit. I will fast forward through the “highlights”.

    We’re in the same hotel room, but for a change of scenery we’re on the couch now.

    A different bald guy turns up and we get the opportunity to see Sunny “act”. She’s playing a chick whose boyfriend is a cop. He’s away, so she’s called this stud over for a bit of extra-marital bliss.

    The “storyline” part now over, we get to the mind-numbing fucking.

    We get some very mild bondage with handcuffs followed by oral sex. Guy looks like Dana White on steroids. Y’know, an older guy who works out, gone to seed but still on the juice. He’s even got bitch tits.

    Sunny’s in pink lingerie, while she enthusiastically deep-throats Bitch Tits. In fact, it never comes off, which is a good thing as we can’t see that belly fat roll.

    Jump cut. The cuffs are off. Back to oral and Bitch Tits is barking out commands. He’s kinda annoying.

    Jump cut. Sunny’s getting some doggy-style attention. No orgasm yet, sadly. They’re...ahem, coming, I’m sure.

    Bitch Tits won’t shut up. He’s more obnoxious than Sunny.

    He gives her a thumb up the date (or the “John Hopoate” as it’s known) for good measure. Then Bitch Tits gets bored and sits back while Sunny goes back to slobbering on his wang.

    Finally, Sunny climbs on board for some cowgirl. We get a close-up view of her dimpled butt cheeks and a rather appropriate tramp-stamp tatt that reads, “Badass”. You said it, lady, not me.

    The orgasm count is zero by the 13min mark (maybe I missed a couple through my fast-forwarding?). I can only assume that Bitch Tits is a lousy lover compared to Tito in the previous scene.

    Or maybe Sunny’s not working us anymore.

    They change possies to reverse spoon so we can get a full view of Sunny, which is really unnecessary. Bitch Tits sounds like he’s been on the verge of cumming for the past 12 minutes, but we know he’s still got 20 minutes to go. Shut the fuck up, cunt!

    At the 15min mark Bitch Tits snaps mid-thrust, “Watch those nails! Watch those fucking nails!”

    Guy’s getting his cock scratched up and is probably terrified of having an open cut as he enters that STI-riddled pussy. Can’t say I blame him for being panicky.

    Orgasm No. 16 at the 16min mark. But fuck it, who’s counting anymore, right?

    Orgasm No. 17 at the 17min mark is a doozy, however, as Sunny FALLS OFF THE COUCH mid-climax and Bitch Tits can’t even be bothered catching her. Learn how to work, fella! Great bump though, Sunny.

    Segue to more blowjob action and a weird, half-arsed doggy position.

    I wish I was drunk right now. I think this film would be much easier to take if I was as fucked up as Sunny.

    Twenty minutes in and even SHE wants out. She tells him to come inside her and he whines, “Not yet, baby.”

    God, could Vivid have found two more irritating people to feature in a sex scene???

    At 22min, Bitch Tits can’t take Sunny’s chatter any longer. He shakes his head and reprimands her with, “Don’t! Don’t say anything!”

    He gives up and demands more oral.

    We jump cut just as he’s saying, “Just be mindful.” I assume he’s telling Sunny to stop scratching his knob with her fucking long fingernails!

    Learn to work, woman!

    Jump cut to more fucking.

    “I got you, baby!” snarls Bitch Tits. Oh, really? Well, where were you five minutes ago when Sunny fell of the couch, dickhead?

    Sunny trots out some more tired bullshit like, “Fuck my pussy.” To which Bitch Tits hilariously replies, “Shhhhhh!”

    I get the feeling they both hate each other now, which is why Sunny can’t even be bothered to fake climaxes.

    25 minute mark and Bitch Tits is complaining again while Sunny fingers her clit as he fucks her: “Watch those nails. Watch those fucking nails!” He then forcibly grabs her hand and throws it away from him. His anger is palpable.

    With less than 10 minutes to go, Bitch Tits finally decides to munch and finger some pussy.

    He spits on it first, which is either really hot or really contemptuous.

    Did you know that as Sunny sobers up she only has two catchphrases: “Fuck that pussy” and “My pussy’s all yours!”

    I believe it’s now Orgasm No. 18 at 27min 30sec, which is arguably the best one yet, because Sunny FARTS mid-way through it. Although, to be fair, I think it’s a fanny fart.

    He quits in disgust and we’re back to Sunny on our knees, sucking his tool for like the eighth time this scene. Yawn.

    More energetic missionary-style fucking.

    “Please make me come.” That’s a worry, Bitch Tits, if Sunny has to beg you.

    No, wait, she’s climaxing. Orgasm No. 19 at the 30min mark!

    He tells her to “Shhhhh!”, then goes back to rooting her flange.

    More doggy. Sunny’s ready to explode again for Orgasm No. 20!!! This is unbelievable.

    And we finally (Thank fuck! Finally!) get the pop shot...and it goes RIGHT IN HER EYE!

    What a perfect ending to this clusterfuck.

    CONCLUSION: Does anyone have some bleach I can drink?



    FINAL WORD: This is literally the worst porno I’ve ever seen...and I once saw Ron Jeremy fuck an 87yo woman. Hearing that great grandma’s pelvis creaking beneath the pressure of Ron’s fat belly was far more sexually arousing than this movie. You watch Sunny Side Up at your peril.




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    I MAY be a pornographer, but after staring at gaping fannies and cum shots every day, there's something nice about soft-core tease once in a while. Sometimes, we need a bit of sizzle without the steak, know what I mean? And that's what Frivolous Lola is all about.
    There's a storyline here, but let's be honest, the film's all about the arse...and INCEST. 
    Bum shots galore...like this one:


    And incest. Played for laughs.
    And attempted rape. Also played for laughs.




    And pissing. Don't forget the pissing.
    Veteran erotic film-maker Tinto Brass wore his obsessions on his sleeve…or is that IN HIS UNDERPANTS?

    The dirty bugger LOVED women’s arses and he spends much of Frivolous Lola focusing on them, especially the bare butt of highly rootable starlet Anna Ammirati (above).

    Allegedly, Tinto met Anna when he accidentally ran her over on her bicycle. She threatened to call the cops unless he put her in his next movie. And so he cast her in the lead role in this carnal comedy.

    Anna can’t act, but she doesn’t need to – she plays horny virgin Lola whose uptight baker boyfriend won’t bust her cherry. So she spends all her time flashing her furry minge, succulent boobs and – thanks to Tinto’s extreme fascination with the body part - her huuuuuge BADONKA-DONK to everyone around her, including veteran Brit actor Patrick Mower, who may or may not be her FATHER.

    Of course, the blokes are chuffed but the village women hate her. We don’t know why, though…how can anyone hate a chick with arguably the finest mudflaps ever to grace a mainstream movie.


    Frivolous Lola is frothy, silly and light-hearted but you’ll have a SERIOUS erection after watching it! 
    Except if you think too much about the INCEST subplot. Then it's all a bit icky.


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    LAST year, I reviewed a dumb-as-fuck 1991 action fillum titled Samurai Cop. That should have been the end of the story, but no.

    While we were taking the piss – and ogling some fine boobage – a group of…well, CRAZY PEOPLE got on Kickstarter and raised $62,000 to make a SEQUEL starring as many of the original cast as they could find.

    The end result was Samurai Cop 2: Deadly Vengeance, an insane sequel featuring some of the most ridiculous fight sequences in movie history.

    Leathery muscle-head Mathew Karedas returns as samurai cop Joe Marshall, who teams up with his old partner Frank Washington (Mark Frazer) to take down some evil crims.



    And that’s about as much sense as we could make out of the flick, which features rival Yakuza gangs warring with each other for no logical reason, porn stars – Kayden Kross (above), Lexi Belle and more – masquerading as assassins, plot holes so huge you could drop Rebel Wilson down them without her hitting the sides, and some truly horrendous scenery-chewing from Bai Ling and the world’s worst actor Tommy Wiseau.

    Making matters worse, Bai doesn’t even flash her nips once during the film…although Kayden and friends make up for that terrible oversight.


    If you want to simulate the effects of an LSD overdose, then you could do no worse than watch Samurai Cop 2.





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    FANS of “Women In Prison” (WIP) flicks will bloody love Bare Behind Bars, which is regarded by some critics as the granddaddy of this sicko genre.

    If you like lesbian sex – inmate-on-inmate, inmate-on-female-guard, inmate-on-nurse-on pineapple (don’t ask) and inmate-on-prison warden – then THIS is the moving picture for you.

    Made in Brazil and starring NOBODY you’ve ever heard of , the story focuses on a corrupt prison where the horny inmates face constant beatings from the evil guards led by sadistic warden Sylvia (Maria Stella Splendore).

    Desperate to escape this jungle hellhole, a new inmate makes plans with two cellmates to break out. She seduces the insane nurse – an ether-huffin’, Marilyn Monroe look-alike played by Marta Anderson– and convinces her to help them get away.

    Soon, the three jailbirds are on the run, but it isn’t long before the cops catch up with them, especially after they start killing innocent folk.

    Yep, Bare Behind Bars is kinda nutty – and the poor dubbing doesn’t help make sense of proceedings – but it’s filled with wall-to-wall nudity and hard-core sex scenes.

    It makes TV’s Prisoner (even the recent remake) look pretty bloody lame by comparison.
    Only in the movies would a women’s prison be entirely populated by hot lesbian prisoners and staff. Seriously, there’s not a single Bea Smith or Joan “The Freak” Ferguson to be found. 
    Which is a pity…Lizzie Birdsworth always gave me the horn!




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    LAST month's Horror Block took its own sweet time getting to my Sydney PO box, but it finally arrived last Friday. Sooooooo.....let's get started.


    Ooooooh......the anticipation.......

    Hmmmmmmm.......looks promising......

    OK. Well, I'm not a fan of the HELLRAISER series, but I *do* love Pop! Vinyls, so I'll hang onto this one. :)

    Yes!
    OH MY FUCKING GOD!!!!! 
    I love love LOVE this 28 Days Later T-shirt. This right here makes this month's box worth getting.

    These are quirky. They're currently on display next to our spice rack above the stove.


     I'm not a big fan of patches, but this is kinda cool as a keepsake.


    Normally, I'd be over the moon about getting a Blu-ray. That's fantastic value in the Horror Block. Sadly, I did a big giveaway for this movie in my magazine a few months back, so I kinda know what it's about and it didn't really grab me at the time. I tossed it into my office "freebie" box, but I've just had a change of heart and will retrieve it, so I can watch The Editor as part of my "Halloween Month of Horror" project in October.


    There's usually at least one good article in this mag, so I'll flick through it, then pass my copy onto AW

    OVERALL RATING FOR THE APRIL HORROR BLOCK: 
    A solid B. The T-shirt definitely elevated it from a B- or C+.

    If you want to order your own Horror Block, head to https://www.nerdblock.com/.


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    Biblio-Curiosa #6: Bad poetry (William Nathan Stedman), sick perversion among the upper classes (Ride The Nightmare byWard Greene), murder and madness in Sydney (Twisted Clay by Frank Walford) and the tragic story of Fergus Hume, who wrote one of the 19th century’s most successful detective novels, The Mystery Of A Hansom Cab. Yes, it’s another instalment in Chris Mikul’s endlessly fascinating series that covers the most obscure, bizarre books ever published. Thanks to Biblio-Curiosa, I now own my very own copy of Hume’s first and greatest book. Chris Mikul, PO Box K546, Haymarket, NSW, 1240, AUSTRALIA, cathob@zip.com.au [AUD$5/email for overseas prices, 48S, :60]

    Unbelievably Bad#18: A Ross Radiation cover kicks off another fine effort from the UB crew. I didn’t get much out of most of the band interviews (as I’m just not into metal, hardcore or punk), but there was plenty of other grubby goodness to keep me satisfied. A comprehensive checklist on Chopper Read merch was informative and probably revealed waaaay too much about me. I have collected a disturbing amount of it over the years. His children’s book Hooky The Cripple is actually quite good, I liked The Smell Of Love CD (I wish I hadn’t given away my copy because it’s next to impossible to find nowadays), and Choppper Heavy was a surprisingly tasty dark beer. The Never Plead Guiltyboardgame was physically harmful (courtesy of the electric shocks administered to unlucky players), so I give Chopper credit for that – I sent my copy to a friend in Chicago. I never tried Chopper’s Nuts, which makes me sad. That said, the article forgot the Chopper Read bobble-head, which I bought in a toy shop in Parramatta, so that makes us even.

    Unbelievably Bad, c/- Von Helle, 9 Ross Street, Dulwich Hill, NSW, 2203, AUSTRALIA unbelievablybad@optusnet.com.au [AUD$8 or e-mail for details if from overseas 68M :40]


    Rojonekku Word Fighting Arts 3&4: #3 offers more thoughtful, poetic, dense thoughts and essays by West Virginian redneck philosophyer Raven. If you get into the rhythm of his beat-poet stylings, it is quite eloquent and beautiful, but it’s also hard work. #4 is more accessible as it’s short essays on his favourite songs playing on a mystical jukebox hooked up to a tree in Raven’s backyard. It’s strange, but it works. Each package I receive (they’re sent to me in lots of two) feature original haikus, which are the highlights for me.

    Raven Mack, PO Box 270, Scottsville, VA, 24590, USA. www.rojonekku.com [email for prices, 40S, hours…literally hours]


    Long Gone Loser #15: Damo returns with tons of reviews and pix of all the good things in life. Y’know…Debbie Harry, Elvira, Rene Bond, punk rock bowling, France and Kitten Natividad! The zine’s highlight is a very funny piece on Damo’s teenage punk band Spiders In the Biscuit Jar. Part Unbelievably Bad, part Betty Paginated, all good. Welcome back, Damo.

    Damien Hughes, PO box 411, Hahndorf, SA, 5245, AUSTRALIA. https://longgoneloser.wordpress.com[email for prices, 24S, :40]


    Stratu’s Diary Comix Nov. & Dec. 2015: The mad bastard finally did it! A year of diary comix detailing the day-to-day existence of the talented Sydney artist during 2015. Equal parts compelling and mundane, Stu’s yearlong project inspired me to do the same this year. The fact I could only manage two months before giving up shows how much dedication and commitment it takes to undertake such a huge project, so kudos to Stratu. It’s not for everybody and I agree with the criticism that perhaps it’s a little too superficial at times, but let’s be honest here: it’s Stratu’s diary comix and he can write about whatever the fuck he wants. Which he did. More power to him.

    Stratu, PO Box 35, Marrickville, NSW, 2204, AUSTRALIA. blackguard23.livejournal.com [email for prices, 10M, :20]




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  • 07/23/16--08:28: Rockin' Jellybean: The Zine


  • I DIDN'T want to pay $120 for one of his art books, so I made one myself. It's way cheaper. The PDF is HERE. :)


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    THRILL me, Nerd Block. Your horror sampler box sucked, but let's see if this box - the first of a new three-box subscription - has anything that grabs my attention.

    Pandora's box is opened.

    The house from Psycho! Oh my fucking god! This T-shirt is amazing!

     A Camp Crystal Lake hat. My friend Kami will love this!

    Dean Cain? This DVD should be AMAZING. I'll save it for my Halloween Horror Month project.

    Return Of The Living Dead meets The Simpsons? Kami's gonna love this, too.

    I never expect much from this mag, yet it ALWAYS has some good articles to read.

    Ah, this is pretty cool. I love toys, even if I'm not a fan of The Walking Dead. All in all, a great Horror Box for this month.

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    RIGHTO, Horror Block. Wow me!

    Hmmmmmmmm........okaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay................

    Fuck yeah! Leatherface! Can't wait to put this baby on. Oh....wait....I showed it to my wife and kids at home that evening and they HATED it. "You can't wear that around the house," said Helen. Damn.
    Luckily, I found a friend on Facebook who was happy to take it off my hands with a beaut T-shirt swap. Thanks, Vixsin.

     
    Another fucking baby doll head? Yawn. 

    A Ghostbusters phone case? But I'm not a Ghostbusters fan.
     
    Then again, I need another phone case, so it'll come in handy.

    A pendant thingy that I'll never wear. Chuck that shit away.
     
    Give this to the kids, I guess.

    Not into the TV series, but I gave this to AW and he'll find a good home for it. Jeez, they make adult colouring books for any old crap now, eh?

    A good toilet read, I guess.

    FINAL THOUGHTS: By far the worst Horror Block I've received. Very disappointing, especially the filler crap like the pendant and that dumb doll's head. I'm glad I cancelled my subscription with the October box. Hopefully, next month's box - which is a Stephen King special - will redeem this whole deal.



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  • 09/29/16--08:33: Memories of Max


  • I THINK it was THAT bowling action that first caught my attention as a child: the awkward run-in as he approached the bowling crease – limbs seemingly going in four different directions – followed by the strangest bowling delivery I’d ever seen. Not tight and powerful like Dennis Lillee or stretched and silky like Jeff Thomson. Frankly, his bowling action was a mess.

    No wonder Max Walker’s nickname was “Tangles”.

    But I loved him all the same. He was the clumsy, goofy guy in the all-powerful Australian cricket team of the mid-70s. Not express pace like Lillee or Thomson – he was politely referred to as fast-medium – but he was the workhorse of the side, bowling over after over, giving little opportunity for the opposing batsmen to score and shoring up one end while Lillee and Thommo tore them up in short bursts from the other end. It was the perfect bowling combination.



    And sometimes, when they played in friendlier conditions like England, Max was able to shine and show what a true swing bowler could do.

    Bloke could bat a bit, too. And before he played Test cricket for Australia, he’d also played VFL (now AFL) footy for Melbourne. A two-sport talent our Maxie.

    I adored him. He was my idol – years after he retired I got my uncle in Naracoorte to get his signature at an after-dinner speaking engagement. I treasured that autograph. I think I still have it packed away somewhere with my other childhood memorabilia.

    Max Walker was born in Hobart, Tasmania on September 12, 1948. After a successful Aussie Rules career in his home state, he was signed by the Melbourne Demons in 1967 and went on to play 85 senior games before quitting to focus on playing state cricket regularly for Victoria in 1971.

    He played his first Test for Australia against Pakistan in 1973. He went on to play 34 Tests for Australia – he scored 586 runs with a batting of 19.53 and a highest score of 78 not out; he took 138 wickets at an average of 27.47 and best figures of 8/143.

    After he retired in 1981, Max got into guest speaking and co-hosting Wide World Of Sports with Ken Sutcliffe on the Nine Network. I watched those blokes banter back and forth for years on a Saturday arvo. Max was such an amiable, likeable guy.

    He wrote books, too. Lots of them – mainly cricket anecdotes and tall tales. His books had silly titles like How To Kiss A Crocodile and How To Puzzle A Python. They were classic Christmas stocking fillers and you can find a ton of them in second-hand bookshops these days.

    He kinda faded from the limelight after the late 90s and I didn’t think much of him. Max was just there. A comforting reminder of more innocent days past.

    It was September 28 when I read the news at work that he’d passed away. Cancer. Been ill for some time, apparently. I shed a quiet tear – my childhood heroes are dropping like flies.

    The last time I recall Max getting a call-up to the big team was for a 50-over day/night game in 1981. One-day cricket – with its batsmen-friendly wickets – wasn’t kind to bowlers like Maxie and he didn’t last long.

    In what I believe was his final appearance with Australia, Max bowled early – in fact, he may have even opened the bowling that night. He trundled in – a mess of arms and legs as usual – and hurled down a short-pitched delivery that bounced safely over the batsman’s head…and kept soaring. And soaring. Over the wicketkeeper’s head and away to the boundary for four wides. It was the most extraordinary delivery I’d ever seen. I don’t think they let Max bowl much after that in the game.

    And that’s my lasting memory of the great man. Uncoordinated, unconventional and unpredictable to the end.


    RIP Max Walker 1948-2016





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    Boys In The Trees (Australia, 2016)
    Dir. Nicholas Verso
    CAST: Toby WallaceGulliver McGrathMitzi Ruhlmann 
    I WANTED to like new Australian horror/fantasy film Boys In The Trees, I really did. There's something fascinating to me about a film set in the dark, pre-mobile phone world of 1997. The soundtrack - inspired by Triple J back when it was good - was memorable. The creepy feeling of impending doom. The jump scares with little brats jumping out at inopportune moments to spook other characters. The beautiful cinematography. Hell, I even enjoyed the underlying themes of growing up, mateship, the need to belong, betrayal and the fear of taking the big leap into the genuinely scary world of adulthood.
    But the flaws are too many for me to give it a thumbs up. Firstly, the acting is atrocious. Secondly, the "shocking reveal" was telegraphed halfway through the film, rendering the "twist" decidedly unshocking. I also question the heavy reliance on Halloween as a theme. Halloween may be big in a few rich white suburbs nowadays, but it's nowhere near as big as it is in America. And it DEFINITELY wasn't big in Australia in 1997. So I call shenanigans on a whole suburb going apeshit bonkers over Halloween. Maybe in America, but not in Melbourne.
    Also, two rich teens bemoaning their boring lives and telling each other, "We have to leave this town" by moving to New York City and Canada, respectively, rings false to me. Maybe if they lived in Melbourne in the 1950s. Or in the country. But Melbourne in 1997? I don't think so.
    Or maybe that's just the bad acting that made me feel this way.
    Anyway, I can't give 
    Boys In The Trees  more than 5/10.
    * NB. I just read another online review that states the movie was filmed and set in Adelaide. But I swear I heard one female character refer to Flinders Street railway station, which is in Melbourne. Ultimately, it doesn't matter as Boys In The Trees strives to be international in flavour despite its Aussie setting.


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    My final box from NerdBlock. Oooooh.....I can't wait. It has a Stephen King theme!

    The anticipation builds....

    Oh.
    I wasn't into the book or movie. So I guess I'll sell it on eBay.

    Now THIS is better. A Pennywise doll? Perfect for scaring the kids. Love it! 

    A key holder - which will probably end up holding dollies - with a Shining theme. That's cool.

    Looks a bit dry to me - I passed this onto a friend.

    HOLY FUCKING SHIT!
    An authentic signed pic from my fave Halloween gal? Yes!!!!! That's worth the price of this box alone!
    (Actually, PJ's included in this box 'cos she also starred in Carrie, but she'll always be that sexy Halloween chick to me!)


    A Dark Tower print. Meh. Onto eBay it goes.

    FINAL THOUGHTS: The box kicked off badly with that T-shirt, but I loved the autographed photo, key holder and Pennywise dolly. All in all, a strong way to finish off my subscription.






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  • 01/22/17--23:23: Article 1


  • DEAR AMANDA,


    Please forgive me.

    I’m afraid I fell a little out of love with you for a while and I want you to understand why.

    I first became a fan of your punk-cabaret stylings in 2011 when I saw you perform on Australia Day at the Sydney Opera House.

    I was instantly smitten by your talent, charismatic stage presence, beauty, OUTRAGEOUS CONDUCT and your incredible connection with your fans.

    Yes, like so many others, I became an instant fan. I attended all your subsequent Sydney gigs over the years and bought the CDs, T-shirt, poster, book, etc,

    Two years ago, I signed up to your Patreon because I BELIEVED in you and I believed in your right to be an artist without having a bullshit record company stifling your creativity.

    And then you had a baby.

    I was happy for you, but it felt like your priorities had changed, which was perfectly natural considering the dramatic change in your life.

    I don’t know what I expected from Patreon, but it felt like the $10 I paid every time you created “a thing” seemed to be going towards podcasts (which would subsequently be posted for free on YouTube anyway) and some self-indulgent singles.

    The Bowie covers album was fine, but I’d rather hear Bowie sing his own songs than hear someone else’s interpretations.

    The record with your father was...nice.

    The “thing” that hit me hardest was your latest release, Piano Is Evil, what I regarded as a pointless reworking of your raucous, flawed Theatre Is Evil album.

    I’d had enough – I cancelled my Patreon. I felt my money could be better spent on other artists’ Kickstarter projects.

    But I still had a ticket to last Saturday’s show, An Evening With Amanda Palmer, at the Sydney Opera House.

    I went, but I felt like a fraud when I took my seat among the near-sell-out crowd. I wasn’t an Amanda Palmer fan anymore.

    The show began shakily. Support act Brendan Maclean played one song, then introduced Amanda to a delirious audience.

    The first few songs were fine, if a little predictable, including an inept rendition of The Killing Song from Piano Is Evil.

    Amanda seemed relaxed, though, and was happy to chat at length between each song about the women’s march against Donald Trump in Sydney that day, motherhood, Nick Cave’s gig the previous night and so forth.

    “I’m so glad I quit,” I thought to myself as she launched into a preamble about how she now had the freedom through Patreon to record “10-minute” songs with her friends.

    “Bloody hell,” I thought.

    And then Amanda sang A Mother’s Confession and I laughed. And I was moved.

    I’m a dad and I understand the trials and tribulations of bringing up a baby – things go wrong, you constantly second-guess yourself and you’re terrified every other parent is judging you...and finding you wanting. You navigate on a sea of confusion and stress.

    A Mother’s Confessiondetails every disaster – big and small – that befalls Amanda as the mum of a young baby.

    But every mistake is forgiven because, as the chorus declares, “At least the baby didn’t die…”

    Next came Amanda’s explanation why Harry Chapin’s Cat’s In The Cradle is the greatest song about bad parenting ever made, then proved it with her electrifying version.

    After that, I was rapt and the show never let go of me.

    The show’s joyousness was tempered by an air of melancholy, despair, anger and hope following Trump’s ascent to the POTUS. It added an edge to proceedings that I’d not felt at her previous shows.

    Brendan returned to the stage for a humorous interlude that saw local artist Alli Sebastian Wolf invited on stage to show off her bejazzled sculpture of a clitoris, aka “Glitoris.”

    I couldn’t help but laugh again.
    Brendan was also there for the show’s most powerful moment when he introduced the next song with chilling examples of the homophobia he faces every day before they launched into the beautiful duet Glacier. It earned a standing ovation from the crowd, the first of three for this concert.

    After Glacier came Neil Gaiman’s spoken word piece, a reading of Leonard Cohen’s Democracy, which was perfect for this day.

    Amanda finished the show with a frenzied version of Coin-Operated Boy, earning her a second ovation. She quickly returned for a more light-hearted encore, with uke versions of Map Of Tasmania (with a guest appearance from Glitoris) and, obviously, Ukulele Anthem. Ovation No. 3.

    I left the concert hall a’buzz – this had been an awe-inspiring gig, possibly the best I’ve ever seen from Amanda.

    The next day I re-signed to her Patreon and you should, too.

    AMANDA FUCKIN’ PALMER, I promise I will never leave you again. Your extraordinary talent is a beacon of light during a dark time in our history.
    Continue to shine on.


    And please forgive me.



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    IN EARLY January, Helen and I discussed the fact that we lacked Lebensraum in our house due to our growing family and, more importantly, our growing amount of STUFF. While the idea of building an extension to the house is a long-term plan, in the short-term we talked about buying more bookcases for the back room to house an ever-expanding collection of Geronimo Stilton and Garfield books, free CDs from work and kids’ trophies.

    Out of the blue, I said, “Why don’t I clear away the beer bottles on those shelves near the bar? That’ll add some extra storage space.”

    Now, this was a momentous decision on my part and I’m surprised I made the call so quickly. I had been collecting bottles and cans ever since we first moved into our present home 10 years ago. Every new exotic overseas beer or quirky local brand that I drank at home found a place on the shelves left by the previous owners (and the extra shelf I added a year after we moved in).

    They were a source of quiet pride to me and some bemusement to people who came to visit, like Jonesy’s Muslim friend.

    Anyway, I announced my intention and Helen, a little surprised, agreed.

    I spent the next hour humping hundreds of bottles and cans to our recycling bin and I felt surprisingly alright on an emotional level about dumping 10 years of boozy history.

    I just didn’t expect my six-year-old son Dash to take it so hard. He’s a lot like me and hates change, so this radical move on my part knocked him for a loop

    Dash was very upset – he kept trying to block me from taking bucket after bucket of empties to the bin. He even sprayed me with the water hose and kept shouting, “You can’t pass me till you say the password!”

    To which I replied, “The password is ‘You won’t get any more screen-time today unless you let me pass.’”

    Since then, Helen’s told me that Dash reckons we need to drink exactly the same beers and replace the bottles.

    Ain’t gonna happen, lil’ dude.


    Daddy’s grown up…or something like that (but I aint’ getting rid of my comics or wrestling dollies, Helen. Okay?)




    Three empty shelves are ready to be cleaned, then filled up with CDs and kids’ trophies


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  • 03/12/17--22:04: MARCH ZINES ROUND-UP

  • HARD-COPY zines - yes, they still exist. Obviously.
    I don't receive as many as I used to, but here are a couple that landed in my mailbox in recent months.

    SPRAK! Vol. 2 No. 12 (Kami McInnes,  PO Box 278, Edwardstown, SA, 5039, AUSTRALIA or cammy@bigbutton.com.au) has been around forever and is still the same delicious mix of bad movies, blood, babes and beer. This time round, Kami focuses on an Ozploitation Special that features reviews of some well-worn faves (Howling III, Patrick, Chain Reaction, Stone) and more obscure titles like Pandemonium, Demons Among Us and Flange Desire. There are also reviews of some classic soft-core pornos such as the underrated Felicity and the crazy Coming Of Age starring ex-AC/DC frontman Dave Evans. Kami writes with enthusiasm and respect for the film-makers. Sure, some of these flicks are low-budget shite, but they all have SOME redeeming features and Kami is more than happy to point them out to the reader. I want to thank him, too, for turning me onto Terry Bourke's 70s horror flicks Inn Of The Damned and Night Of Fear. I recently bought them as a double-DVD in Newtown. Noice!

    Stu is back in 2017 with a second volume of STRATU'S DIARY COMIX (Stratu, PO Box 35, Marrickville, NSW, 2204, AUSTRALIA or http://blackguard23.livejournal.com/). The January issue comes with a personalised cover, which is pretty damn cool. "I'm doing these for - at least - January and February," he informs me. If that's not enough to entice you, then Stu's day-by-day comic diary will keep you informed and entertained on the life and times of one of this country's premier underground artists and zinesters. As he puts it on my personalised cover: "Good mail days...Instagram obsession...internet shopping addiction...and much more!"
    B&W copies are AUD$4pp ($5 overseas), while colour copies are $9 ($10 overseas).

    UNBELIEVABLY BAD #19 and #20 (AUD$9 from Von Helle, 9 Ross Street, Dulwich Hill, NSW, 2203, AUSTRALIA or email unbelievablybad@gmail.com or head to unbelievablybadmag.com).
    High-quality, square-bound, full-colour covers and 68 A4 pages of rock'n'roll goodness.
    Issue 19 has a lot of articles that will appeal to different people, but my personal highlights were a feature on a guy who hung out in prison for a time with Port Arthur massacre gunman Martin Bryant. Eye-popping stuff...the final instalment of UB's never-ending interview with gore flick pioneer Herschell Gordon Lewis (although nobody, let alone HG, knew this was the case at the time)...the true story behind oddball 60s masked Australian pop band The Mystrys...and a piece on "The Two-headed Nightingale" Millie and Christine McKoy.
    Issue 20 has a loving tribute to HG Lewis, the man who gave us Blood Feast, Two Thousand Maniacs and so much more...film reviews from Kami...and the amazing story of outsider muso John Watermann... Plus a ton of interviews with guys revealing a surprising amount of man-flesh in their photos.
    Finally, editor Matt Reekie's editorial will break your heart. Anything I could say beyond that is inadequate, so I'll stop there. R.I.P. Angus.













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    I’M NOT certain what sorta audience Colossalis aiming for. I think audiences COULD get behind a quirky mash-up of Godzilla-style monster flicks and small-town romantic comedies, but what will they make of director Nacho Vigalondo’s main themes of alcoholism and domestic violence? What starts out as a fun, light-hearted fantasy turns into something dark and ugly, with a sad, ambivalent ending that is very un-Hollywood.

    Gloria – played by the breathtakingly beautiful Anne Hathaway – is an unemployed writer who wastes away her nights drinking heavily and partying in New York City while being supported by her workaholic boyfriend Tim (Dan Stevens). When she lets him down one too many times, he throws her out of their apartment and she’s forced to return to her childhood home in a rural town.

    She renews her friendship with school chum Oscar (Jason Sudeikis), who runs a bar. The easy-going bachelor offers her a waitressing job and they’re soon best buds, spending the wee hours after work boozing with Oscar’s buddies.

    At this point, I was thinking Gloria and Oscar were gonna hook up, because he’s a chilled, fun guy unlike her uptight ex Tim. But Oscar has a dark past and it surfaces in an ugly manner soon after they learn the news that a giant monster is smashing up Seoul. It appears briefly every night and causes untold mayhem in the South Korean capital.

    Through a few quirky coincidences, Gloria discovers that SHE controls the monster and it only happens when she walks through a playground near where she lives.

    When Oscar follows her one morning and walks through the playground, a giant robot appears in Seoul. It seems there’s a strange link between the couple and the playground, but it takes us quite a while to find out what it is.

    In the meantime, Oscar – who feels he’s done little with his life – is affected by the new-found power he now possesses as a skyscraper-toppling robot. Gloria is forced to take on the role of Seoul’s protector and fight her former friend.

    And that’s where things turn really nasty. A few scenes between Gloria and the mentally disintegrating Oscar are almost unwatchable. Give credit to Sudeikis for taking a likeable character and, mid-way through, turning him into a genuine human monster.

    Colossal is unlike any other film I’ve seen and goes in completely unexpected directions. It’s not perfect – and I suspect it won’t find much of a mainstream audience – but it is wholly unforgettable.

    Oh, and Anne Hathaway is goddamn GORGEOUS. Sorry, I just had to say that again.


    * Colossal– released by Transmission Films – will open in Australian cinemas on Thursday, April 13.

    Watch the trailer HERE.



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    I WAS reminded me of a 1982 short story by Stephen King called Survivor Type while watching director Julia Ducournau’s shocking 2016 movie Raw. In the story, a crooked surgeon is marooned on an isolated island with only his surgical tools and a large suitcase filled with heroin. With nothing to eat on the island and unable to hunt for food after breaking his ankle, he makes the horrendous decision to amputate his foot and eat it to survive. Snorting vast amounts of heroin as a makeshift anaesthetic, the surgeon continues to amputate his limbs for food. With the lower half of his body gone, he eventually cuts off his left hand and muses, “Lady fingers…they taste just like lady fingers.”

    It may class itself as an arty coming-of-age story, but Rawis PURE HORROR and easily one of the most disgusting films I’ve ever seen. It’s not hard when Raw deals graphically with the subject of cannibalism. I’m not surprised people passed out when it was screened at the Cannes Film Festival last year.

    Mousy Justine (Garance Marillieri) arrives at veterinary school to join her big sister Alexia (Ella Rumpf), but part of the learning process is dealing with the, at times, extreme hazing from older students.



    One bizarre ritual sees the newbies forced to eat raw meat. Alexia orders her younger sibling to do it, even though she’s a vegan. Almost immediately, Justine begins to notice physical changes – she develops a nasty skin rash, sexual feelings towards her gay roommate Adrien (Rabah Naït Oufella) and, more disturbingly, a craving for meat.

    Wolfing down burgers and consuming raw chicken from the fridge doesn’t seem to satisfy her carnivorous urges.

    One night, there’s a freak accident and she accidentally severs Alexia’s finger. While contemplating the digit, Justine is overcome with desire and begins to greedily gnaw at it like a BBQ rib.



    “Lady fingers…they taste just like lady fingers.”


    Alexia eventually reveals a shocking family secret to Justine, a secret that you just KNOW will end in tears for everyone.

    While I enjoyed Raw (despite my disgust) I feel like there were a few plot holes and a somewhat ambiguous ending. But there’s no doubting the movie’s…ahem, RAW power.

    This is an extraordinary film, not least of which because both Marillieri and Rumpf are extraordinarily beautiful women and they spend large parts of it wearing very little. They ooze eroticism. And danger.

    Raw may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but for those willing to put up with the gore, they will find it a thought-provoking experience that will stay with them long after the final credits roll.



    * Raw– released by Monster Pictures – will open in Australian cinemas on Thursday, April 20. Watch the trailer HERE.




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  • 05/06/17--01:52: Article 0
  • So.....after umpteen years, this is the last entry in my blog. 
    But never fear, BETTY PAGINATED lives on in my NEW blog, which can be found HERE.
    Please come check it out - it's SAFE FOR WORK, too. ;)