There can be Only One: Best of '22

Riding down the escalator in Waterstones, that's when I saw it. I was making my way out having done a bit of Christmas shopping for the family. There it was, a gorgeous red background with an unmistakable black face on the cover. A huge coffee table book on infamous Kaiju legend Godzilla. Instantly, I made way back up the escalator on the other side and rose into the heavens. Picking it up off the shelf, I noticed entire sections dedicated to each of the giant lizard fuckers outings. His rampages of Tokyo. Meetings with Mothra. Meetings with Ghidorah. Meetings with King Kong. They were all here. Each battle carefully documented. The beasts 68 years of destruction gathered as one text. Technical advancements film to film. More than enough pictures to keep any casual fan entertained but to a creature feature addict like myself, I held the holy grail in my hands. Safe to say, even on first sight, I wanted her.

Considering these films were usually viewed under heavy intoxication and major details forgotten about the next day, there was no denying, this would be a useful tool. But could I justify spending a walloping £30 on Japan's greatest villain? One must take in to account too that Christmas was round the corner and I was, after all, meant to be shopping for the family. I just had to have her. Slamming it shut, I made my way back over to the till for the second time that day. This Kaiju book was leaving with me.

Outside the rain was flooding down without mercy. The type of rain that endlessly poured down in Seven and Blade Runner. Time to bring this trip to town to an end. Save me, save me Merseyrail

Before my signal was to drop on the train, plans had been made for a Christmas reunion with the boys who'd made the journey back home to be with their respective families over the festive period. The White Lion would serve as the starting point. Neutral territory for some young drifters to gather and mark the occasion. Whatever pubs would follow on after that would come in good time. All that mattered was the meeting was set.

Now that I'm aboard the Merseyrail would be the perfect time to start with the Kelly top films of 2022 list. Just to be clear. This list is far from complete and I'm not totally satisfied with it as of yet. It will be subject to change and more solidified by the time the Oscars arrive in February. Such is the continual problem of living in the UK when we have to wait weeks longer the US big hitters. This is just a polite way of saying we have not yet had Paul Schrader's latest Master Gardener

For now though, as time is of the essence, we'll have to go with what we have. Starting with number 20, we have Brett Morgen's Moonage Daydream. The David Bowie documentary. A follow up to the directors previous hit Montage of Heck. For which the focus was Nirvana's deceased front man Kurt Cobain. This new one couldn't be any further away from the previous style used. The beauty of Heck was how close it got you to the artist in question. Showed you his early troubled life that made its way into the lyrics alongside later rare controversial footage of him on heroin looking after his kids. On the other hand, this Bowie one chooses to distance you further from its star to examine the entire cosmos. Undoubtedly, at first a frustrating experience but once you accept having a different subject should mean a different form of storytelling, it's somewhat justified.

You never really get close to the true David Bowie, which is kind of the point. Instead it assaults you with every persona as though listening to his entire discography for the first time again. I mean do we really want to see David Bowie? Was the world ever meant to see David Bowie? So in a sense, the film is really about the continuation of an artist over time rather than a specific human being. He's bigger than human, a star drifting across the galaxy. A black monolith sent to advance us as a species by unknown forces. When it has been described as psychedelic, it isn't in a traditional sense with kaleidoscopic colours and trippy editing. It's in the audience trying to find a man that never was, that they never fully understood. If Morgen maintains this path, he's well on his way to become the next Asif Kapadia.

Approximately 32 minutes later the train reaches its final stop in West Kirby. The doors pull back and my feet unwillingly step down on to platform. Rain yet to seize. If only I'd be so lucky. This would be the first of many trips up the hill from the station over the Christmas holidays getting completely soaked. Became something of a ritual. My anger at getting drenched each time only subsided by knowing I'd no doubt be doing the same thing, same time, the next evening. The elements could not win. After a brief rest at the family house, Balthazar Marie wants to meet at the old spot on the corner of Grammar School Lane at 7pm. Leaving it to 6.56 to set off, I don’t give myself enough time. I've got to make time. Putting my headphones in, I let Brad Fidel's Escape from the Hospital off The Terminator 2 soundtrack pollute my ears. I make it to the corner of Grammar School Lane by 6.54. There's just no stopping a T1000 in motion. They come and they come. Stop is not in their vocabulary. Relentless motherfuckers. Only now I'm early and have to play the waiting game. Where is that fucking Jerry Bruckheimer loving prick?

Looking in to the distance down Grammar School Lane using my T1000 vision, I spot the cunt. After a brief endeavour in to the formalities, we head down the hill in to West Kirby. When one has a meeting with The White Lion, they don't miss it. Never seen the gaff so packed. Only small that place, resembling a cosy log cabin and tonight it was cosier than ever. Thought I was going to pass out just ordering a Goddamn Guinness. A mixture of both juvenile delinquents and the older folk out collectively enjoying the thing known as the pint. Used to be an old man's pub but since it's change of hands, the younglings have been coming straight off the boat and on their way to forming a lifelong attraction to the pint.

At the bar we pick up colonel Quaritch. Turns out he's added a few fresh scars to the collection. Sitting down in the heated beer garden in the back, he walks us through his latest war wounds. What I thought was the tattoo of a tear on his right cheek was not the result of joining a prison gang but drunkenly slipping in to a sheet of glass. Every surface had met with his body. Knives, spears, chains. Nothing could kill him. That was the colonel, alright. Pandora hadn't done that to him, the bevvies had.

How it had transpired, I didn't know. But the three of us now lived in three separate cities, so that's three separate conversation and much for these old friends to catch up on. Whilst this is taking place would be time to return to the Kelly top 20 list and to discuss number 19: Crimes of the Future. I'm sure a great deal of which would be committed this evening. This is typical Cronenberg. Colder than ever and could well be the most distanced he's been from his audience. It seems the motto has changed along the way. No longer is one to say "Long live the new flesh" Such a phrase has been replaced with "Surgery is the new sex". So go stand in the mirror and say it to yourself a few times. Rehearse your lines boyo cause if I catch you slipping you could be on the end of a perfectly placed Jean Claude Van Damme roundhouse kick to the temple.

For those yet to lay eyes on Cronenberg's recent repugnance, be warned it is impossible to consider it anywhere near entertaining and makes his other works look commercial in comparison. A very slow and unattractive film but one which's statements on the future of art are hard to ignore. Carries from where In My Skin left off with the body as the final site of artistic expression in the face of capitalism. Cronenberg goes on to suggest the body as the final spot for performance art. Regaining control of the self. Reshaping it to be our true selves but is it an act of desperation? Violent and inhuman or is it? Naturally, in this man's hands, destroying oneself to recreate becomes a sexual act. Once you play the game, you have to keep playing. Similar to tattooing in a way. This marking of the self is nothing new and has been practiced for centuries. Humans have always done this and will continue to do this. Why? Call me an absurdist but I believe that's for the inker to decide what meaning they bestow.

Rather timely, Cronenberg takes this in to environmental concerns and what started off as a spiritual sequel to Crash soon becomes his First Reformed . A mutation is taken advantage of by scientists as a means to tackle climate change and pollution. Remodifications lead to a post-everything world. Expectedly, this causes the auteur to leap straight in to the philosophical. A world in which pain and pleasure are the same. Both are equal in their arousal.

As a provocative film, which it is advertised as, in some places it may seem tame at least visually. About as shocking as he gets here is a kid scranning a bin, an image I'm totally ok with, despite being silly, simply because it's funny. Over time though, I've always held the opinion his visual flair has dropped off a bit. His intelligence has grown whilst his images have declined. It’s the ideas that pack more of a punch than the images. Assume that's just a product of the aging process and can't be helped. Arguably, he's a better philosopher than he is a filmmaker these days. Regardless, even without the sick thrills and visual flair that made him a respected name, for those with a taste for body horror, Crimes of the Future is not one you can afford to miss.

Having sunk a couple of pints in The Lion, it's time to make our way to The Tap. Now, this could well be the most luxurious boozer in town but you do see the effect of it on your wallet. She'll run you dry. Wallets? What am I chatting about wallets for? No-one in this town carries a wallet. Nobody who was ever raised on the Wirral or in Liverpool carries one. A fact that has been tested and proven a thousand times. The land of the walletless After a single one in this boozer, courtesy of the unfortunate fuck who's round it was (Colonel Quaritch), we made our move. As you can probably guess, the decision to move was not made by the round buyer but those refusing to accept an assault on their precious cash. My apologies to the colonel.

Outside the boozer, who do we run in to but Mary Poppins. Adequately titled as such because the last time they were seen in action was after a night out once they stayed over at our gaff and the next morning floated down the stairs with an open umbrella, parked themselves in the living room, chatted the most I don't know what fuelled chat ever engaged in at 10am and then drifted off out the door never to be seen again. That was 4 years ago. Another MIA (missing in action) fallen soldier of the game. Not only did Poppins leave every person in that room baffled upon exit, they left us all with 7 years bad luck. In 3 more years, maybe just maybe, we can be happy again. Such risks can't be taken in future. It is the price you pay when Mary Poppins rocks up at the gaff.

After a brief reminiscing of said event, we proceeded to ask what Mary Poppins was up to this rainy evening. Words were not the chosen tool to communicate in these circumstances. Alternatively, Poppins opts for a swift shake of the hips, a couple of crossovers of the feet and a few points of the fingers. Dancing, Poppins was dancing. A fair way to spend any evening, I guess. How could we interrupt such an occasion? No-one should get in the way of another person's dancing, so we made the quick decision to leave them to it and move on to the next place of worship.

But where to next? A sign over the road was calling us like Gaspar Noe's The Void or Club Rectum. It read: The Crossville. May you never go there. Unless, you have absolutely no value for your own life. To enter this establishment and look in to the eyes of its fiendish frequenters is to look death in the face. To know that one day you could be as hollow and utterly useless as they are is a horror you don't want to ever encounter. The Crossville is not a pub but a headquarters for the seedy underbelly of West Kirby. All its dark secrets lurk here. This is its Muholland Drive. Its Sunset Boulevard . A temporary dwelling for the hopeless. They no longer need to speak to each other, once you walk in there is a collective feeling of misdemeanour. The Crossville is the pit of the fall from grace. Where the wrong side of the tracks conclude. Everybody caught in a web of unbridled malevolence. All sin is equal in this place and no-one can be judged.

Scanning the scene, I noticed there is no jukey in sight but projected on the wall is a YouTube playlist. Fresh is playing by Kool and the Gang. On close inspection, it appears to be a soul night at The Crossville. You wouldn't know from the outside. All you see is the sign and the dark uninviting alleyway leading to the door. Whoever's round it is has won the lottery (mine). Hand over a fiver note and you're getting change... for 3 pints! God bless the Crossy, keeping the flag flying high. Perhaps a respectable establishment after all in spite of her awful reputation. We're so shocked by the prices, the barman almost kicks us out. Our cover is blown. Regulars, we are not. Luckily, we are able to quote three things that have changed since we last frequented the place in our youth. This grants us passage and we make our way to an empty table.

It's deader than Phoenix Nights in here. On the gong of Jungle Boogie, a couple of disreputable freaks formerly goths make their way in the gaff and pull up two chairs at our table. Acquaintances of ours no less. Balthazar Marie is so overcome with emotion, he buys everyone a baby Guinness. He opens the question to the table of who wants one but before they can respond, fingerguns everyone, says "Yes" a few times and buys everyone one. That's a true Balthazar Marie technique. Seen it many a time throughout the years. Whether they like it or not, everyone is now holding a baby Guinness. The night takes a deadly turn from there on out.

Film number 18 of the year. Dan Trachtenberg's Prey. He tried his usual tricks, disguising this Predator sequel like he did with 10 Cloverfield Lane. A clever and admirable marketing strategy but one the fans saw right through from the outset. It didn't matter though, we were just all so happy to see a good Predator movie again. Trachtenberg rescued it from the clutches of Marvelisation and thrust it in to the John wick era of action cinema. None of the blathering. None of the witty banter that takes up half the picture. The set pieces are taking precedence as they should. A return to storytelling on the move. Ideas are plenty and it doesn't have to slow down to share them. Subtext over exposition. Minor issues prevail such as weak CGI in places and a few technical choices on set pieces but this is acceptable. The body remains so firmly intact, I can work with this. Any fears that Disney may water this beast down are soon forgotten with grisly demands met. Not in the same league as Predator 2s grisliness mind but way more than anticipated. My man going through an army of fur trappers was a blast. Always wanted a story like this where they go in to Danny Glover receiving that gun. There is hope for the future in that we may soon see the Predator take on every form of cultural warrior. Who will be left standing? The thrill of the hunt is back.

"You listened to that record yet?", asks one of the newly joined acquaintances by the name of Captain Bennett. This leads in to a discussion on the current local music scene. "Shit. Shit. Shit. More shit. Oh wait they show some promise actually". He throws a couple of bands my way to check out and I store them in mind for later.

The YouTube playlist has now moved on to KC and The Sunshine Band's I'm Your Boogieman. It isn't long before one of our newly joined guests proposes the question of substances. Since no-one lives here anymore, neither of us has a reliable number off the bat. We go through the old mental phonebook and offer a few suggestions.

"What about Johnny Penderspice?", I throw in confidently, convinced it's the winning horse. "Noooooo", cries Balthazar Marie like I just took a dump on his front porch. "What?", I asked defensively and confused at the reaction. "Johnny Penderspice has been on the same acid trip since 2015", says Balthazar like this clears everything up. "This is news to me", I declared looking round my companions for further information on the matter. Captain Bennett stops the silence with, "You're behind on the times here, Kelly. He's not been seen for years. Accidentally got his dosages wrong, went to space and never came back. His head popped. They say he's living in some mental asylum now where they've removed all the mirrors and windows because he's convinced if he sees his own reflection he will spontaneously combust". All I could add was, "well that's him off the table then".

Balthazar Marie says he might have a number. In the mean time we head back to The White Lion. Precisely the time when a whole host of unsavoury characters show up. There at a table is none other than The Cramp Twins, infamous for their public duels. They're at each other's throats more than Feraud and D'Hubert. Lucien Cramp I've not seen in time. The guys been spending his days in another country and only drops in once every blue moon. Wayne Cramp, I last saw moments before he went off to see an Indian heavy metal band by the name of Bloodywood He informed me their last tour was called "Nine Inch Naan", which amused me greatly. Oh no, out of nowhere, Long Tall Sally rocks up from behind with a pint of wine. Last person I was expecting to see. Here comes trouble. They let anyone in here.

I get chatting to Lucien Cramp's right hand man by the name of Darren Shan. The topic of conversation turns to the volleyball scene in Top Gun: Maverick Where else does conversation go after pint number 9? Neither of us can get past the fact the absolute banger on the beach is by OneRepublic. Famous for their one hit 'Apologise'. Both of us agree they have nothing left to apologise for any more. "Sound of the summer", we drunkenly blurt back at each other. This brings me back to film number 17 You Won't Be Alone. This is the best Robert Eggers movie of the year. If Terrence Malick did horror this is what it would look like. Worth seeing just for that. A cauldron filled to the brim with elements of The Witch, Dogtooth, Under the Skin and The New World. Gender identity and the inner workings of societies appear to be on the director's mind. Next time, I would greatly appreciate it if the fellow took some influence from New French Extremity and took us closer to the body.

We make our final trip back to The Tap. This is where things get really hazy. There's maybe a few ramblings on the awful Sight and Sound top 100 list that was recently released. A list I'd always approved of for the fact that the vote was held every 10 years allowing your films like Mulholland Drive and In the Mood for Love to climb up the list. It's the public consciousness in motion. those older films no longer deemed classics can slip off the list and make way for new ones. By new, that is not last year new, I mean we're at a point where we can address those films in the first decade of the 21st century that haven't left our minds. Zodiac Fellowship of the Ring. No Country for Old Men There will be Blood Lost in Translation. Oldboy. Memories of Murder.

Before Sunset. Irreversible. Love

Exposure A Serious Man The Passion of the Christ Still Life

George Washington Planet Earth Band of Brothers The Fog of War This is England. The Royal Tenenbaums. The Piano Teacher. Man on Fire (a few sniggers at the mention of this one). To name just a few. This would be the time to start talking some of these and see which make the cut.

Instead, the list makers had other ideas. An ulterior motive which was to smash white male bias. On the one hand, it's like the affirmative action debate but it's also not the same at all because it's just a list and not employment opportunities.

You shouldn't have to force it on a list. If there isn't enough films we can add on from minorities, then we should target providing these people with the funds to make such films that can compete. Moreover, we shouldn't expect to see them instantaneously appear on a list covering the greatest films of all time. As that miserable bastard Morrissey once said, 'These Things Take Time'. We shouldn't just throw weaker ones on a list willy-nilly. This woke re-appraisal has only added to the belief that film criticism is in dire straits these days. Plus, it doesn't work to the advantage of films such as Jeanne Dielmann, Moonlight, Portrait of a Lady on Fire, Get Out and Parasite. People will lose their love for them as a result because their appreciation didn't grow organically. The con of it will ruin their chances on future lists. No-one wants to be tricked and have authenticity questioned.

This is where I love Mulholland Drive and In the Mood for Love. We've been able to watch them be accepted. This now can't happen for the others. A list should reflect where society is at, not where it wants to be. Had it been clear that it was lacking diversity, we could have highlighted this and improved opportunities in the filmmaking not the list making. We've created an illusion that doesn't help at all. Whoever decided to smash white male bias, well done you achieved a small untrue victory, pushed back these progressive films for years to come and sabotaged what was once a decent and respectable list.

After this discussion, there is a heated debate between myself and Wayne Cramp. The trigger: a chat about the trajectory of the recent Star Wars films. To explain his position, he is under the impression Star Wars has been terrible in the Disney era. Undeniably, whilst it hasn't been as good as the original trilogy, I like that there's more for the kids now and do think they've shown some real potential developing the politics of the galaxy in a way they never did with the original trilogy. Especially, with Andor. Wayne launches into an unwarranted scathing attack on Andor and in the process reveals has not seen a single episode of it. Clown.

His reasoning for not liking it, without having watched it, is that "All Disney era is rubbish". "What about Mando?", I rightfully query. He does like this but goes on to add, "for every Mando there's a Bobba Fett". He's not completely incorrect but this doesn't exactly line up with his original statement of all Disney contributions being poor. No surprises that this man hates The Last Jedi. I ask his brother Lucien his thoughts on Andor. He simply responds, "Good show that lad. Enjoyed it" and leave it at that like a normal human being.

Wayne continues to push my buttons til he reaches the point of no return. He insults a certain Star Wars film directed by the great Ron Howard. Nobody, I mean nobody, talks shit about carsploitation legend Ron Howard. A wave of anger rushes over me. My fists clench. My nostrils flare. I want to kill this man. I want to take him out back, line him up against the wall and shoot him for his insubordination. I recognise this might not be a very nice thing to do, so I do the next best thing. I politely offer him a fight. Except, I don't offer HIM a fight. Out of respect for his brother, I first ask Lucien if I could "please take Wayne outside and beat him to a pulp with my bare hands!". An action similar to asking the father for the daughters hand in marriage. Wayne may have overstepped the mark but that didn't mean we all had to abandon simple decencies. Noticing that I am greener than The Incredible Hulk and looking to see the streets spill red, Lucien has to decline my request. Possibly because this would leave him without his greatest duelling partner. I get it. What can you do? I cast aside my need to punish this criminal. Wayne lives another day. Sorry Ron.

The evening ends where nearly all evenings in this town end, The West Kirby Grill. I'm surprised the owner still lets me in after that time he banned me from entering the premises years ago. Yes, I was barred from a takeaway. He was well within his rights too. This was after I accidentally broke the benches and may have knocked a few framed pictures of the wall. A lot can happen in those manic moments when you are waiting for a filthy kebab. It could certainly be argued that my drunkenness tested his patience that night. Maybe he hadn't noticed me come in. I kept my head down and resisted the urge to ask him how his beloved football club Besiktas were doing. Or was it Galatasaray?

Before I can remember, the remnants of the Wirral, knowing full well The West Kirby Grill is death's door of any night round here, pour in and the ghosts of the pasts haunt us decent folk. It is time to leave. No filthy kebab for me. I hop in a taxi with a few others and make it back to my parent's place. A curry awaits me. There at the table staring me in the face. Irresistible. This will make up for Kelly's meeting with a filthy kebab being cancelled. Mid way through tucking in to this dirty curry, my mother walks past and reminds me I have work tomorrow at 8am. Oh lord, I'd forgotten all about that shift. Jesus fucking Christ.

The alarm sounds. I crawl towards the computer and log on for this dreaded shift. About the only thing keeping me sane is knowing that I'd booked the afternoon off as holiday so I'd be done by 1pm. That left me with 5 hours to power through. Better than a full shift but I didn't know even know if I was going to make this. Had a word with myself. Remembered that usually when working after a night out, I could last til 4pm until the grogginess crept in. That's science. With this knowledge, I poured through.

At about 10 o'clock it started to go wrong. I'd spent the shift mainly with my head in hands. I'd decided to put an Ozu movie on in the background. In my mind, If I put on one of his movies, which normally I despise, could it be that in this state I'd be neutral due to the onslaught of the hangover? Anything to take my mind off the current situation. This strategy goes all wrong and I only hate myself and that fraud Ozu more.

Now is around the time it all went super wrong. Not long after the clock struck 10, I could feel it coming up through my throat. The bad part was I hadn't finished a call I was on to a customer. The nuclear bomb was going to go off and all this fucker on the phone cared about was his damn car insurance. I looked for any reason to put this guy on hold whilst I took care of myself. Had to opt for the speaking as fast as Scorsese so they can't ask any questions or respond quick enough to stop me. I hit that hold button like it's Wayne Cramp's face and make a dive to the bathroom.

A splurge of shite spews from my mouth. Round after round of thick grunge hits the sink. Suddenly dawns on me, maybe the curry wasn't such a good idea. Or the baby Guinness for that matter. Once the bomb dropping subsided, I took a look at my masterpiece and realised there was enough contaminant in the sink to form the mighty Godzilla. Having relieved myself, I instantly felt better and went in to full clean up montage mode straight out of a crime movie, wiping down the bowel and taps. I was never there, it never happened.

When I returned to my seat, I checked how long I'd left this guy on hold. You don't even want to know. Apologies were made for the intrusion and we returned to discussing car insurance. As the call is being wrapped up, my father messages me to say he's got a bacon butty lined up outside my door. Like a prisoner in solitary confinement, I scuttled along and drag the plate inside. Said bacon butty looks inviting but in my current state best not to test it. My body had forgotten how to ingest and knew only how to expel. I put the plate on the side for later. Positive signs though, a revival was definitely on the cards. I just needed to work out a better strategy that didn't involve Ozu. Hangout classic High Fidelity was selected and more than did the job. I was back, baby!

Tucked in to the bacon butty and continued to handle every phone call that came my way. Film number 16 on the list: Black Bird. A surprise miniseries hit that will catch you off guard. At first what appears to be a silly trashy crime thing written by Dennis Lehane to make Birko legend Egerton in to a worldwide star, transforms into a study of misogyny. Having been sent down a few years for an arms and class A possession charge, he's given the opportunity of a suspended sentence if he can gain a confession from a serial killer currently inside awaiting an appeal. Now what would a loser and a jock bond over?

Women. one of them had a promiscuous and unloving mother, which cause him to go full Freud and get his frustration out on a personal revenge mission by fucking just about every woman in sight with a loveless loathing. The other found women so unobtainable, he went one step further and started killing them.

The chemistry between Birko legend Egerton and Spike Lee favourite Hauser is electric and its best scenes lie in them just talking to each other firing off back and forth about their pasts. Always been a Lehane apologist as he's trashy fun with a bit of grit under the surface. Roskam has proven to be a good adapter of his work prior to this with The Drop. Stylistically, fans of Fincher and True Detective will warm to the southern gothic thriller atmosphere on this. Mogwai even rip off a Nine Inch Nails score. Penultimate episode genuinely has Something I Can Never Have just to cement this further. Chef's Kiss. Felt bad for the psychopath's brother in this but I've said this since day one, you can't trust a geezer who does battle re-enactments. Used to see them in my Uni days fighting for my life on Sunday mornings, dragging myself to the train station to get back home after seeing people in Keele. Takes a certain kind of person to be doing that on the day of the Lord. Sundays are for rest and regret. Walking past them all I could think was, "oh fuck off you freaks".

Having completed the shift and been fully revived, Christmas Eve can now officially begin, which is also my mother's birthday. I make my way down the stairs and the music is already playing. Don't Leave Me This Way by The Communards. The party has started. I'm handed a drink on arrival and watch as she attacks a few presents. She's a real history nut. Her favourite movies are Schindler's List, Gandhi and Fatal Attraction. A few weeks back, we'd watched House of Gucci , which she loved and come to think of it was a near perfect culmination of her three favourites mentioned. We'd been on a Soviet war run as of late. This involved some Shepitko and Klimov. So to kind of complete the trilogy, I'd gotten Ivan's Childhood for her. Having unwrapped every present and kept every bow for reuse as she normally did, we head on out to a tapas restaurant in the hell hole that this Heswall. A gathering ground for detestable characters. We're talking the worst of the worst. The sangria was very good though.

Christmas goes by with the family. My son, The Impossible Kid, comes up a couple of days later. I'd got him a toy set of Godzilla and King Kong. What else? We stage many battles. From crack of dawn to way after dusk. Time does little to halt the fight, which is mainly just me getting slapped the shit out of and taking some heavy hits. My boy Weng Weng pulls no punches. He's still struggling to say King Kong and it sounds more like the Kendrick Lamar song King Kunta. But I think we're getting there. Every morning is jigsaws. He works on these with extreme focus. Help is not to be given. It's hard to have the patience so occasionally you have to put a piece near where it should go. Strict emphasis on 'near'. You can't make this too obvious though because he will tear apart 5 pieces minimum from the jigsaw, throw them back in to the pile of unused pieces and start again if he catches you helping. Above all else, I admire his perseverance.

Sadly, we hear of the passing of horror legend Ruggero Deodatao. We are so sickened by the news, we spend the evening sat in the dark listening to the Cannibal Holocaust soundtrack and playing car racing games on PS2. May as well mention what's 15th on the big list. Frozen Planet 2, I'm an Attenborough fanatic and an absolute sucker for all of these projects year on year. Drones, thermal imaging and time blurring are the latest developments in technology visible in this year's Attenborough doc. Although, it's completely fair to say the reason I always stick around for these is the fact they keep pushing the boundaries of the equipment and technology available, it's something more than that. They're so profound and primal with each story resonating massively in a way that narrative cinema doesn't always manage. Mothers defending their cubs in real fights to the death. In some ways you could say they're like really tight anthologies with the animals becoming these characters and doing a better job than any actor or CGI. Sorry Serkis, you're good mate but there's just no beating the real thing.

For the evening of December 30th, I meet back up with Balthazar Marie, visits are made to The Lion, The Leaf and The Wetherspoons and pints are consumed at each pit stop. As the clock strikes 12 and December 31st is ushered in, we both turn 26. Uncomfortably close to the big three-0 for my liking. Distraction needed. Film number 14 on the list: Flux Gourmet. It would appear that Mr Strickland is still flying the flag for Eurosleaze and on this occasion could well have lost the plot. In a good way though. On previous outings, he's been accused of copying the past without adding anything new. I can somewhat agree but remain happy that someone's continuing what I like. The Duke of Burgundy has widely been held as his best because for that the emotion felt genuine so it overcame any flaws that come with familiarity. Flux Gourmet almost goes the opposite way and is Strickland at his silliest, yet this achieves originality in the process making it one of his best. He deals with a bunch of noise artists shacked up in a gaff and manipulates this set up to explore a farting fetish. Leading some folk to believe we need to bring back kink shaming. Good work, Strickland.

At the bar, an energetic man who looks like he hasn't seen daylight in weeks, informs us he has been let loose from the wife and weens. A fellow father high on his freedom. He's massed him 5 children. The other day, one of the little troublemakers let him know he'd done "5 poos". He was losing the plot I could see. The wife must have thrown him here for his health. Couldn't get past the poo parade though, it rang a bell. I'd heard that declaration before from Weng Weng. What is it with nippers and proclaiming poo quantities? More importantly, as a father, what is one meant to say back when their kid says that to them with a huge smile on their face? Well, all you can say is, "well done, Son" and if so obliged, "keep 'em coming!". Rude to put them down when they're on such a high. The fellow father asks me the questions. How many and how old. "Good age", he says as he picks up his pint and pats me on the back, adding, "a few more years and he'll start telling you you're a twat" He walks away and I'm more stumped than when my own son had let me in on his shit quota. Balthazar Marie mumbles "fucking fathers" and has to edge me towards a table.

Number 13 then. We have Light and Magic. If I made movies, I'd definitely make them about shit like this. Weird little communities forming. Blame Boogie Nights. Anyway in this documentary, we have George Lucas's special effects company Industrial Light and Magic. But as I said they're more like a family. Dudes hanging out, doing what they love. This shit keeps them going like Phil Tippett who openly admits he would have killed himself if it weren't for these guys and the work they were doing. Fuckers even had an inflatable pool outside the office. Talk about doing things right. One person says, "Give them enough pizza and beer and they'll do anything". Now this is currency I understand. Going back to Boogie Nights it has that rise and fall structure. This time it's not video that killed the radio star but digital. Some of them make the transition, some are killed off. Professionally speaking that is. But for a time, they were living the life. Dudes being dudes and all that. Oh, oh it's magic you know! Never believe it's not so!

The evening ends at The West Kirby Grill. Again. But oh no, what's that? The lights are off the sign is up. The West Kirby Grill is closed for no apparent reason. Leaving a whole town hungry. An absolute tragedy. We are inconsolable. To make things worse, we now have to trek back up the hill in the pouring rain empty handed. This rain is relentless. Will it ever stop? Lord, please give two Pirates of the Caribbean apologists a break. On their birthday of all days! We curse the skies but our screams are lost in the howling wind. Upon laying eyes on my bed, I plonk down defeated. Film number 12: Barbarian. Fincher upstairs, Raimi downstairs. Has to be just about the greatest selling point ever. Justin Long and his tape measure for best romance of the year. Come and collect your award, brother! Richard Brakes really mundane moments in the '80s were a personal favourite. Not too sure what this really has to say about the MeToo movement but we'll let that slide because it's stylistically brilliant and narratively structured to keep you hooked. Maybe next time, just don't bottle the torture porn side yeah?

Next day we take Weng Weng to the panto. They had Cinderella on down at the Pavillion in New Brighton. According to the poster outside, Sean Jones is back by popular demand. No idea who he is but as I said, he is back by popular demand. Our shows non-stop music keeps me lively and wards off the hangover. In the intermission, the floor needs to be cleared cause Weng Weng and I are dancing in the isles to Wilson Pickett's Land of 1000 Dances. Sorry anyone trying to get past to sneak in an ice cream during the break. Wilson Pickett is on and some boys gotta dance. The kid seemed like he had a good time.

After the show, we hit up a restaurant and order a couple of pizzas. Weng Weng spends the whole time drawing on the back of the menu. The Italian Chef takes one look at the boy's artwork, clasps his hands together and goes "Ah, Picasso!". It's hard to disagree. Kids got talent. Budding artist a work. A future exhibition at The Louvre is calling. Film number 11 is one most people hated, Halloween Ends. Issue is, it's my problem child I absolutely adore and can't do anything about. I've made no secret that I am a defender of Halloween Ends. Look, you could go through just about every problem with it and I get it, I do, but, that doesn't mean I love it any less. Interests me. Just a laughably silly cartoonish surreal sitcom Terrence Malick slasher so ridiculous it borders on Twin Peaks

Especially, with all the troubled teens riding round on bikes and romantic rooftop rendezvous. Almost beautiful in a way. With all the generational trauma, hangout vibes and banging soundtrack, no-one made Haddonfield a character quite like Green. For better or worse. Probably more the latter considering the recent calls to nuke it. If people start nuking Haddonfield, I'm going down with it sorry.

Following Picasso and Pizza, everyone pile in the car to drop Weng Weng back off in his home town. A pleasure to have as always. Right, getting serious now. In at 10th: The Banshees of Inisherin . McDonagh being a bastard as usual. Hence why I avoided this as long as I did. A master of mixing what could be considered both hilarious and harrowing. He wants to talk male friendship? How about me and him. Honestly, if I ever met this cunt McDonagh, I'd let him know I fucking hate him. Hate the way his films make me feel and what they have done to me mentally. He's a criminal and one day he will receive sentencing. But in the meantime, I'll keep giving him good scores. Such is the nature of our friendship.

A quick turn of the key and I am back in my parent's house. It was a case of packing as much shit away as possible as I was being driven back to Sheffield the next day and there was just no way I'd be in a state to pack everything New Year's Day. Still plenty of time before the big evening. I'd been saving a few slices of pizza from lunch as early morning scran but I can't resist and dive straight in with a few beers to help. Since the house is empty, I opt for a rewatching of Let the Corpses Tan on full fucking volume. Once this is finished, I drop Balthazar Marie a message about later on. He's taking his bird Bear Grylls out for a meal. Or rather she's taking him out for a meal, an extension of a birthday present. I will meet them later on. Rubbing my hands together, I realise we have time for a double bill. So on goes Halloween Ends. My father returns and asks if this is to get me in the mood for New Year's Eve. Yes it is.

Moving along, number 9 on the list, Apollo 10 ½. One which passed just about everyone by. It nearly passed me by too. Sadly, has been the case for the last string of Richard Linklater offerings. Confession time, haven't watched any of them since the '80s hangout romp, Everybody Wants Some!!! Has anyone? Well, this one's definitely encouraged me to go back and watch the ones in between. I was expecting some really dull and dry recollection of a space project for children. Linklater goes another direction and sneakily takes the opportunity to make this a 1969 dudes rock hangout picture like Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. Endless 60s bangers which peak with garage rock anthem Psychotic Reaction. For this sequence, the family sprints into a theme and invades that motherfucker rushing to get on every ride. Love that. Nearly every great TV show from the period gets a mention and a few trashy 50s Sci Fis find their way in to the mix. If you ever liked Linklater's earlier movies, do yourself a favour and give this a watch!

Checking my phone, I see I have a message from Ricardo Carvalho. Since, when was that on the cards? He's wanting to meet to tackle some pints but he's a fair bit out of town. Fully up for it though and tell him to pencil me in for later. Will meet him around pint 9.

Ok, so film number 8, we have: Decision to Leave. Park Chan Wook. This boy is so good that he's given us one of his weaker efforts and this is still excellent. Parks in pure Hitchcock mode, putting women back in the thriller and not in that annoying way that slows down the plot. Nope, they are the mystery. So, my man wants to talk Hitchcock? Decision to Leave would be the equivalent in quality to Frenzy or Dial M for Murder. Not a masterpiece. Not a classic. But, unquestionably great. Also, he's doing things here the 'cock could never do in his time with the digital zooms, non-chronological jump cuts and William Graham like reimaginings of crime scenes.

Talking of crime scenes, time to make my way in to town for some New Year's Eve debauchery. It seems we're teeing off at The Tapas Kitchen. When I arrive, Balthazar and Bear are polishing off some dessert. They offer me a bite. A rather rich chocolate brownie. I don't turn down food. "Where we going then?", asks Bear. Balthazar informs her it has to be The Social over the road. We plod on over and make our way up the stairs. The main appeal of The Social is the pool table, which is strangely always free. Instinctually, I rack those balls up and go head to head with Balthazar. We're a disgrace to the sport. We both agree no-one won this game.

Here's how it went down. Climactic moment. Balthazar is on the black. Easy shot to make. Only a baby would miss this shot. He decides to give it the cocky talk and says, "You ready to witness history?". Somehow, he misses and the black pounds off the side of the cushion, setting me up neatly for the victory. I turn his own words against him, repeating, "You ready to witness history?". Easy shot to make. Only a baby would miss this shot. I pull back on the cue and hammer it forwards. The black finds its way in to a hole. So far so good. The white ball keeps on moving.... the white ball keeps on moving... the white ball keeps on moving. I think you know where this is going. The white ball finds its new home in the hole at the far end of the table. Technically, the victory is Balthazar's but we both agree, really the sport of pool lost that day. Neither of us is Tom Cruise in The Colour of Money, potting those balls home and waving the cue around like a Samurai sword to Werewolves of London.

It's winner stays on and I'm relegated to the sofa to watch Match of the Day on the TV screen. Bear steps up to the table to face the by default 'winner'. Where were we? Film number 7: The Beatles Get Back Rooftop Concert. Inarguably, this is an iconic piece of history that will survive longer than any film on this list. Deserves appreciation aside from the original version back in 1970 for it restoring the dumb police officers involved giving Paul's reaction to their presence new meaning. Yet, I don't think it would be fair for me to score this any higher on this list as technically it seems like cheating from Mr Jackson considering he released the full Get Back documentary last year, which I rated very highly. He's lucky I've let him even be on this list! Can't just release pretty much the same thing two years in a row and expect two years of glory. Have to say though it was a pleasure sitting in the cinema with a pint watching this legendary gig.

Snappy phone check reveals a message from Ricardo Carvalho. Asking to meet up later perhaps? Opening the chat exposes a set of videos. I hesitantly play them. His girlfriend is in the corner of a boozer dancing like she's just been zapped with 20,000 volts of electricity to Electric Six's Gay Bar. Right, that's them finished. No chance they're making the countdown at this rate. Back to the list, film number 6: The Batman. Matt reeves really starting to prove himself on these blockbusters. A reliable hand. He forever has my respect for turning Batman in to this Fincheresque thriller with a techno club. What a world he has created. Even if the third act doesn't quite hold up, I want to live in Penguin's Iceberg Lounge. My kind of joint that. Batman getting in to fight to techno bangers from Baauer, Kevin Saunderson and Peggy Gou is just about the coolest thing ever. Gotham remains as sleazy as ever. Musically, the most interesting Batman since Batman Beyond. My industrial heads know what I'm talking about. Pattinson shines massively and could be the best Batman we've ever had. Think about it right. The role is mainly a chin workout and he has one of the sexiest chins in Hollywood. The Dark Knight may be the better film but The Batman could be the better Batman. It out-Batman's Batman Begins which takes some doing. The return to a raw Batmobile which looks like something out of Death Race 2000 got me all excited and when that engine roared...cinema. Ave fucking Marie.

Looking up, I notice Balthazar Marie cheering with no shame as he pots black and takes the victory from his girlfriend. Bear stands in the corner, hand on hip, shaking her head. "Right, where we going next?", she interrupts, trying to move things along. I look over at Balthazar and we smile both thinking the same thing. "What's funny", Bear demands to know. "The Crossy", I return and break in to a light giggle. Balthazar shakes his head. Bear jumps in with, "Balthazar, your mother said you were never to take me to The Crossville. She said that no place for a lady". As Balthazar's mother is correct on some level, we decide to honour this and head over to The White Lion. As we leave the Match of the Day theme song carries us out and I realise the picture of the Queen still sits on the wall at the top of the stairs. A little crooked and damaged from that time The High Plains Drifter punched it on his way out one night after a few too many drinks and it hit every step on the way down. One of his finest moments.

Rain is yet to hit the streets. We count ourselves lucky as we drag ourselves over in to the clutches of the Lion. Film number 5. Serious numbers now. Here we have: X "Grab my cock, see how hard I am", confesses the b movie Matthew Mcconaughey stand in. Easily could have said the same thing myself after watching this one. How could I not like this when it combines two of my favourite movies Boogie Nights and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre? A southern gothic chiller with nods to Psycho and Eaten Alive Ti West continuing his exploration of religious violence like he did in The Sacrament and The House of the Devil. Shame about Pearl though.

Entering The White Lion, it instantly becomes clear that this is even more packed than the other night. This is not a pub, this a collective chokehold. Moving towards the bar means knocking in to about 3 people at a time. We are past apologies. Intruding on each other's space is a given. Nothing can be done. The radio is pumping out hit after hit to an impatient crowd eagerly awaiting the new year. It wouldn't be long now. The Chemical Brother's Galaxy Bounce bounces off the walls, everybody moves like one, like the hand of ticking clock counting down the seconds. I gulp down a Guinness like my life depends on it.

Film number 4. Top Gun: Maverick. Words will never match how happy this turning to be good made me. We did something right for once! We honoured the late Tony Scott, who tragically died killing himself at approximately 12.30 on August 19th 2012 by jumping off The Vincent Thomas bridge due to a nasty battle with cancer. The great Tony Scott, who made all my favourite movies from my childhood. Top Gun, True Romance, Man on Fire, Déjà Vu, Enemy of the State, The Last Boy Scout, Crimson Tide, Beverly Hills Cop 2, Spy Game. I watched these over and over growing up.

It's not talked about enough but his influence on cinema was huge, bringing over a unique editing style. He would have these time lapses leaving trippy trails across the screen. He would experiment with stock and colour reversal. Multiple cameras including hand crank ones. As Denzel Washington once said, "Nine camera Tony, he's a real artist". Made set pieces psychedelic with a heightened reality and kept a very tight pacing. Especially, with Harry Gregson-Williams on the score. If you watch closely, you'll see this editing style re-appear in the horror movies of the 2000s. Note as well, he was one of the first to work with Trent Reznor as a sound consultant. How popular is that sound now? Academy awards have gone to that type of sound. Don't you dare tell me Tony Scott was not influential. Can vividly recall the day he died. I was on the morning paper round I had back then, still half asleep, I was about to pop the first paper through the letter box when I saw the headline. Shocked, I couldn't resist reading the full article wanting to know why. It wasn't until about 2 years after his battle with cancer was revealed. Honestly, hope this picks up just about every academy award possible. It meant a lot. Top Gun 2s victory was for Tony.

Time was ticking away. 2023 was coming whether we liked it or not. Quickly, I made a trip to the toilet as not to miss the countdown. I prime myself for the pissing position and almost as soon as I'm ready to unload in to the urinal, an old school acquaintance comes through the door. I hear the sounds of Groove

Armada's I See You Baby coming through the pub speakers for a few seconds before the door closes again. He stands just inches from me, unzips and nods. Not for the first time, I curse whoever came up with the concept of urinals. Girls don't know how good they've got it with rows and rows of cubicles. As it should be.

Ok. Film number 3: Irma Vep. 2022s biggest event of the small screen. A loose remake of Assayas's own film from the '90s. Is it a show? Is it a film? Why bring it back at all? As Scream is (or rather was) a tool for critiquing horror, Irma Vep is a tool with a much wider scope for critiquing the film industry as a whole at any one point in time. Truth is just like the '90s we're in very strange times, just very different strange times.

Subsequent to the rather brief conversation with the old acquaintance, if it can be called that, I make my way towards the door. Two straight men having any conversation whilst holding their cocks and with elbows touching is always going to be a stilted one at best. You add in years of not laying eyes on each other and about 12 pints deep, then what transpires is merely an exchange of single syllables, grunts and nods. The Good, The Bad and The Ugly showdown over, I make my way out the toilet. I See You Baby is still going strong on the speakers. "Come on. Come on. It's countdown time, barnacle head!", one guy shouts as he grabs his drunken friend by the collar and hurls him towards the rest of their group. That's my cue to find mine.

I look left, I look right. They're straight in front of me, sitting with a bunch of yodelling yanks in a booth. I push past people to get there. Respectabilities are out the window. Must re-join the group. Film number 2: Fire of Love. Have you ever felt this emotionally attached to a documentary? Follows the Kelly code as well, which is never reveal your emotional core until the movie starts. If it's in the promotional material, the games up. On the surface, this appears to be a documentary about volcanoes. Beneath that though is a lava of love. Genuinely, one of the greatest love stories ever told in cinema. All tied together with the inclusion of Brian Eno's The Big Ship, one of the greatest songs of all time. I wasn't familiar with the couple depicted and had not seen the Herzog documentary about them either. So when I got this story featuring two people attracted to volcanoes and each other, I was blown away. Forever close to danger, you can smell the death approaching every job. Still, there's this unusual bond between land and love with a poetic sense of time running out.

Really touched the Koyaanisqaatsi/Planet Earth fan in me. But who put this love story in here? I was so caught off guard. When that Brian Eno song came I literally melted. This strays so far from your typical documentaries factual coldness in to pure pop art. Less concerned with the details than presenting this cinematic and warm story of two lovers against a psychedelic fiery backdrop. This mystical ever burning fire of love. I guess they're one and the same. They can suddenly go dormant or they can spill out and affect everyone around in their unrestrained passion. Romance and volcanoes baby! I'm all about it.

On the subject of eruptions, this place was about to blow. Plunging myself towards the booth like a missile with no concern for my footing, I make a dive for my drink and raise in to the air. The countdown has begun. 10...9...8...Fucking hell, I haven't even finished my own bloody countdown yet. Number One is Blonde. Has to be. Just has to be. Oh it would have to be the movie leading the race for the most Razzies but those guys have always been stupid thugs. They've realised they can't bully Bruce Willis any more so they're coming after the next lazy target they can locate. Finding new ways to annoy me. Never supported that worst of the year list business, there's literally no good that can come of it and worst of all it leads to really bad criticism. There is a way to lovingly mock, which results in some of the best forms of criticism as it acknowledges both what is objectively considered bad and subjectively liked on a personal level. A contradiction I always find so overwhelmingly human. Often, through this you bring forth why you approve of something and in doing so, we expand new ways of judging art. However, these brutes aren't interested in that, they only cheaply ambush for personal gain.

7...6...5...Anyway fuck 'em. I spoke about my love for this movie in great detail in issue #3. Dominik's Cleo from 5 to 7 really moved me. In his story, the girl doesn't know what time it is. She's constantly in search of a past she doesn't have and so she's constantly recreating her future with nothing to hold on to. A jigsaw puzzle that every time she tries to assemble she is thrown like a doll in to an unknown future.

The lesson here is that it's not the film that's sexist but the industry it exposes. This is Dominik's Mulholland Drive/Sunset Boulevard. Two of his favourite movies and he finally made his own here. The controversy? As she points out in the film, "any scene can be played". It's only the culture that's changed, which has evolved in to this lazy no scene can be done at all now. Whatever the camera shows it supports bullshit. These people have missed the beauty in the film. An intense cinematic study of feminism and the best since Rosemary's Baby. They miss the Freudian mystery of the picture. It's a woman without a father therefore without a past and without a sense of self. She cannot envision her own existence. A black hole. One I got lost in and my heads still spinning. Look, when Vertigo came out it was hated. More appropriately so was Fire Walk with Me. So, when the conversation comes back up in I don't know 10 or 20 years, know that some of us absolutely championed it from the start!

4...3...2...1...HAPPY NEW YEAR. Daft Punk's One More Time is synced up perfectly. Outside, streams of colours as fireworks light up the windows. The explosions can be heard for miles. Inside, everybody is a huggin' and a kissin'. Not a miserable face in the house. What will 2023 bring? Gave Ricardo a call. No answer. We would later find out he'd passed out before the countdown. Imagine my shock. Electric Six. The finisher of all human kind. Tried calling Bonehead Bill, God knows where he is right now. I catch Balthazar's glance and say, "Coming in to the new year to Daft Punk's One More Time? Even better than that time we came in to Doobie Brother's Long Train Runnin', right?". That night becomes back to him. I see it in his eyes. "That was the best night ever", he throws out in joy. This is about the last comprehensible and sensible sentence he contributes for the rest of the evening.

At about half 2, Balthazar would disappear. Mentally not physically. On the walk back from the boozer, he would be replaced by a new personality that would take hold of him. At half 2 dead on, he decided he was some southern Texas man named Travis.

"I'm not Balthazar. Balthazar gone. I'm Travis", he kept repeating every time he was addressed. Travis is a cattle rancher. Ex-cattle rancher. Now trying to take a stab at real estate. Once he'd got the back story of his rodeo exploits out the way ("finest lasso thrower across 3 states"), he went in to describe the ideal house for a man of his stature. It was like being in the presence of a Texan Kevin Mccloud if you can imagine such a horrid creation. This severely tested the patience of his girlfriend.

No less than 10 attempts were made to get his attention and make him snap out of it. Over and over, Bear kept shouting at him, "No, no, Balthazar, no, can you stop it now, Come on". His newly formed character wouldn't leave us. On the 10th and final attempt, he still refuses to stop being Travis and return to Balthazar. Instead, he rambles on with, "the other day I saw some dust particles floating in the wind and I followed these particles until they stopped. I looked up and I saw a star. Right then and there I knew it. I said to myself this is where I'm gonna lay the fort. I'm gonna build a ranch. We gonna have a house and we gonna have some kiddies" Personally, I respect and cannot argue with any man who knows exactly what they want like that. Bear did not see it that way. She lost the plot and goes, "that's it. I don't care what you guys do for the rest of the evening but I don't want any part of it. I'm not going to put up with that man any longer. I'm going to bed". True to her word, the second we entered the Marie household, she went straight up the stairs and I was left with Travis for the rest of the evening. He was definitely going to be in the doghouse tomorrow.

Travis and I made our way through the house, past the garden and to the bar converted shed known as The Marie Arms. Anything past this point is a mess. A total blur. YouTube shuffles through all sorts of electro-industrial one after another. The good stuff. The bad stuff. We wanted it all. Respectable tastes, like our heads, had gone. Almost as quickly as one song changes in to the next, I'm back behind the bar pouring pint after pint. The regular bar tender must have clocked off early. Leaving none but the lunatics running the asylum. Topics of conversation vary, the use of words do not. It is the hour of gibberish.

And here we go. The walls are closing in. The room is spinning. Everything is viewed through a black and white static lens. Solid objects no longer exist. Moving objects leave lingering trails. The origin of sounds cannot be traced. For the first time ever, I begin to appreciate the music video for Die Krupp's Nazi's Auf Speed. Have I ever seen this music video before? Listened to the song about a million times but this video had never impacted me before. Not like this! Travis and I called it for what it was, real cinema.

It opens with this message highlight that, "Die Krupps condemn fascism and drug abuse". Definitely a label request. Had to be. Alright, so may they condemn fascism. I can just about believe that but there's no way they weren't on something or other making this monstrosity. Otherwise it simply couldn't be made. Rendering this anti-drug message about as impactful as Diego Maradona wearing a "No Drug" t shirt. Next, we get the dictionary definition of Pervitin. Hey, if Tarantino gets points for that business, so does Die Krupps. Then, there it is! The speed is poured out on the surface. Pervitin in all her glory. It is then chopped up into lines not even The Incredible Hulk could handle. Our general takes a taste and he must be pleased with the shit cause he calls in his three best fighter pilots. Each of the trusted aerial assailants is given packages of Pervitin and tasked with their individual missions. Finally, we get to see them in action and they do with all due credit to them perform to the best of their abilities. I wonder what Howard Hughes would have made of all this.

A light pops on in the kitchen of the Marie residence. The sudden flash startles me, leaving me in a state of dazzlement. A shape moves across the kitchen floor. Although, I can't quite make them out, I know for sure the shape doesn't resemble any of the Maries. Grabbing hold of Travis, I blurt out, "Lad, there's someone in your house". "What?", he mutters and screws up his face baffled. I say it again, "Lad, there's someone in your house". He glances over and I know he's also seen the shape cause he shouts, "Oh shit" and turns off the TV and every light in the shed that would give away our presence.