Countdown to Ecstasy

Another sink. Another bathroom. Another regurgitation. The time is 5am and I'm in another tight spot. A sickening case of food poisoning. It's not my first and it probably won't be my last. Although, this will go down as one of the worst. For the last 7 hours, Jacob Kelly has been puking his guts up. Kitchen sink blocked, bathroom sink now blocked. Things do not look good.

If we are to regain full health, we must come up with a better system. Consider the facts. Evidence has shown excessive consumption of water and movement to be adding to the problem. However, lack of water is causing intense dehydration. So must drink. Yet, the journey back and forth to refill a glass of water is taking its toll. Note to self, must do better. Ok, my hypothesis is that if I can find my gargantuan flask from the old hiking days and have 3 sips every 5 minutes on the dot, this will reduce movement, conquer dehydration and most importantly stop the sickness. Well, enough fucking around. Time to put plan in to action.

Success. Success. Success. From planning to execution. A well worked move from top to bottom. "Trust the process", as Jose Mourinho would say. Only thing for it now is to get some sleep and rest up. I take a few days off work and make my return on the Wednesday. Just 3 more days of this shit and we're done for Christmas. About an hour in comes this complaint call that's way above my pay grade. Quick message to the help chat, not the finest way to begin any morning. Manager responds with, "aren't you supposed to be on annual leave?" "Am I?", I reply. "Get gone. Disappear", he demands. I don't need a second request to leave work. How had this happened? How had this transpired? Whilst I was off ill, work took the liberty of putting through all my remaining holidays. They just forgot to tell me. Oh well. All I have to do is get this complaints call dealt with. Never been happier to take such a call. You say hello, I say goodbye.

Check the calendar. I'm ticked off until January the 2nd. Today is 20th December. 13 days to adopt the position of public menace. Was I up to the task? We choose to be a public menace. I see Leather Lung have a new single out, Spit in the Casket. These are a relatively new band who have transformed the idea of being a drunken fool spilling drinks and annoying just about everyone around you in to a true art form. Perfect for such an occasion. Soon as the riff kicks in, I'm calling the boys and getting the cans in. 'Tis the season after all. Lucien Cramp is in town, we make our way through the tinnies, sit back and watch The Big Lebowski. And to think I was supposed to be in work today. Happy Christmas, Kyoko.

Now could be time to get the first movie in of Funeralopolis's top 20 of 2023. Before we get any whining, I am yet to see the following: Napolean, Ferrari, Anatomy of a Fall, Fallen Leaves, The Boy and the Heron, The Holdovers, Hit Man, The Beast, Rotting in the Sun , Last Summer, The Zone of Interest, Thanksgiving and Poor Things. So no doubt this list will be subject to change once they all come available, such is the problem of being a British cinephile. You know how to change this though people. Get Mr Funeralopolis himself sent to some film festivals. Only way to do this is to increase readership. Funeralopolis isn't Fight Club so absolutely talk about it. When you're firing off those work emails, maybe send out a link to Funeralopolis, I guarantee it will ensure it finds the receiver well. Also, we're on the verge of embracing a physical format too, so get some copies in and then piss your neighbour off by posting them through his letterbox.

You may say that's far too many films left to see to be doing a year end list. Times up, I'm afraid. We can't go backwards, we can only go forwards. My list from last year mostly remains the same except, The Master Gardener and Pacifiction turned out to be two of the best movies of the year that weren't accessible at the time. Next year, I will probably mention a few if there's any drastic changes. But for now just take a seat and hear me out.

In at number 20, we have Ernesto Diaz Espinoza's Fist of the Condor. You may or may not be familiar with this Chilean filmmaker. He's picking up where Robert Rodriguez left off with regards to Latin America exploitation filmmaking. Not that I was disappointed with Hypnotic (it was too amusingly bad and Ben Affleck stinkers is my recreational drug of choice) but if you were, Espinoza is your ticket back to movies like Planet Terror, Desperado and From Dusk Til Dawn. He regularly collaborates with Marko Zaror, a partnership similar to Jesse V. Johnson and Scott Adkins in terms of director and fighter. With Fist of the Condor they've taken all the ingredients of a classic martial arts movie then woven them in to a very singular direction complete with chapters like Kill Bill. Espinoza makes them fast and delivers all goods. He does things the Funeralopolis way. Show him some respect.

A few days go by after seeing Lucien Cramp and I'm ready for my next evening of drinks. Enter The Highwayman. First on the agenda is dog walking. The Highwayman hardly ever leaves anywhere without their trusted dog companion. Who wouldn't with a powerful dog like that?

To hold that doggo's lead is to become as hard as Giorgio Moroder on his underrated debut album cover, Son of my Father (listen to the track Tears and tell me that isn't primed and ready for a giallo). We traverse all round Bidston Hill. Weirdly, my first time there considering I've been a Wirral head half my life. Respect from a Royden Park fan.

We track down symbols and figures carved in stone. We locate ladders leading to abandoned tunnels. We come across mysterious ribbons. To top it off, a trip to the farm. Goats have left me a little cautious since Black Phillip so I'm already on edge. A woman throws carrots directly at a pig's ribs like she's Rory Delap. A disturbed teenage boy sits on a wall by the entrance and informs me he's "going to kill them all". I pray to God he doesn't mean the animals. The world doesn't need farm shooters. Was this normal Bidston behaviour?

We drop the dog off and I take a tour of Oxton. My knowledge of the place has never really extended past the bus routes. Oxton Bar and Kitchen looks like one to avoid but generally the rest looks up to scratch. We're getting towards the afternoon and food needs to make an appearance. You can never go wrong with a mighty burger and Texas BBQ sauce. First comes the food and then the drinks. We stop in at The Library. That's a bar not a book borrowing spot. I'd have made the same mistake too had I not been given the lowdown on the place. It's main pull is the fact there's vinyl records and you can choose them yourself. Very appealing to a man who used to run a few music nights back in the day.

My fingers take over, flicking away at each album cover from front to back. That's when I find her. Grace Jones Nightclubbing. I think we'll begin with you. Careful with dropping the needle this one doesn't have that smooth lift up and down thing. A few scratches as it drops shakily on to the record, shit how much have I had to drink? With Grace playing we work on the drink situation. Sadly, The Library is more of a cocktail place and I want pints. There only options beer wise is the ale or San Miguel. Not an expert on the ales but I'm not touching San Miguel. Still scarred from the first lads holiday away when that was the only beverage available. Whenever it touches my lips I can still taste that whole disgusting holiday and the immovable stain of regret. Safe to say, I avoid San Miguel like the plague. I'll take my chances with the ale.

Film number 19 on the countdown. Demian Rugna's When Evil Lurks. This is the very definition of a facemelter. Not much in the brains department. Little in the way of originality but it gets by on sheer brutality. Extremely fast paced and unrelenting. Places you right in the action from the outset and rolls the credits when it's over. You can't complain with that. Stand out scenes are the dog going to town on a child's face and sprinting off with the child still in his mouth. As well as the car that takes out a woman and child. This film is willing to get nasty where it matters.

Next song needs selecting. Aretha Franklin Chain of Fools step right up. What's that? It's time for the waterworks? Where's the nearest toilet? This is when I find out just how bizarrely The Library is shaped. My natural inclination is to head up all the steps. On the second floor, I think I can see someone from the old school days, about a 65% probability, too heavy, that's too high for me, ignore them, stay focused, keep moving towards your intended destination. I go up an extra floor and somehow end up in the kitchen. But this is no ordinary kitchen, it's like someone's flat bedroom. Who puts a kitchen here? What is going on? The chef just points down at the ground and goes, "first floor", I nod and do the walk of shame back down the steps.

Moronically, I'd walked straight past the toilets, which were only a few yards from our table. The waterwork display commences. On my way out, I realise Aretha's almost done so I need to get the next record on quick time. I come out the toilet a little quickly and knock a small child out with the door. Why the fuck was he standing there the muppet? Thankfully, the kid's father sees it the same way and doesn't give an opinion on the matter only tending to the nipper's nose. I let out a "sorry" and head back to the turntable.

Is it time? It's time. I load up Steely Dan's Do It Again on the record player. With those two smooth jazz rockers jamming in the background, The Highwayman and I exchange a few Christmas and birthday gifts. The Highwayman ended up with a copy of Anna Biller's Viva. I ended up with a Dopethrone T-shirt (I couldn't be Mr Funeralopolis without owning this shirt so those who were wanting to strip my title away for this, you can't now), an Under the Silver Lake t shirt and a book on psychotic women in cinema. What can I say, The Highwayman has my tastes figured. I love Electric Wizard, I love Under the Silver Lake and I love psychotic women. The big three and maybe in that order.

Let's take a stop here and head in to film number 18. Chris Smith's Wham! Documentary. You may not find that in anyone else's top 20 but you're dealing with a George Michael stan here and I'm not going to apologise. Given the resources, I would happily make the George Michael biopic, anything to just recreate the Club Tropicana music video at Pikes Hotel. The stuff of legend. Easily the best bit in this documentary is when George comes out to Andy as a homosexual. They build it so well that Andy's thinking George has been banging his ex and then it just goes the complete other way, a stellar moment of comedy. I could pass this on hangout vibes but Chris Smith has genuinely made some of the best documentaries od recent years such as Fyre and Jim & Andy.

Rumours were that the trusted local pub round the corner from The Library, "The Cock and Pullet" had re-opened following refurbishments. The good news is it's back, the bad news is it's now called "The Royal", which is a disgrace to all boozer names. Should be illegal to open a pub and not have either "Swan" or "Cock" in the title at least somewhere. How ever way you look at it, it's bad business. It didn't match with the information I'd been given on the place. It had been re-invented over night as a sports bar and it was rammed with people. They had the Liverpool Arsenal game on and I was very disappointed Klopp's boys didn’t put more past that arrogant Spaniard.

The Highwayman gathers a few friends round and for the second year running, I managed to get dragged in to a pool game. This was a whole lot more successful than last year's game with Balthazar when we were simply a disgrace to the sport of pool. Unexpectedly, I won all three games I was involved in. Then again, we've been practising these last few months courtesy of The Highwayman, who has a reputation like "The Rocket" himself. When The Highwayman doesn't have a dog lead in her hands, she has a pool cue, so she's been keeping me to a high standard of play.

Our next stop would take us from Oxton to Liverpool for a few drinks in Pogue Mahone. A very lively place on the run up to Christmas. Fairytale of New York being played was an emotional moment given the recent death of a much loved poet. Sinatra was swinging, all the drunks were singing. As is customary, I told about 5 people in the toilets how Kirsty MacColl came to her end. One guy dressed in red just handed me the end of a bag and went, "Merry Christmas", then left out the door he came. I felt touched by the Christmas spirit and danced enthusiastically for the next 20 minutes.

I was so drunk I agreed to go to "Woodys", Liverpool's infamous karaoke bar. Karaoke and I have a heavy history. Stemming from a rendition of The Weeknd's Earned it many years ago. A deranged woman took the microphone out my hands and proceeded to beat me over the head with it, screaming, "you have murdered The Weeknd". Maybe he does have some high notes in the arsenal that I failed to reach but it's go big or go home, right? Another time I did what I believed to be a perfect cover of Underworld's Born Slippy. I really upped my game on this and developed my stage work to turn this into some sort of performance art. I believe the Christmas spirit may have kicked in there too and I put my own spin on it by swimming across the stage (believe it was front crawl) whilst screaming over and over, "lager! Lager! Lager!".

This may have been a little too "rock and roll" for some as another deranged woman took the microphone off me and yelled, "I've been coming here for 20 years and that was the worst thing I've ever seen!". I take pride in my work, both good and bad. So this was taken as a compliment. My last outing didn't fare any better. I opted to do Madonna's Holiday, which led to my kids's mum's mum being so embarrassed she went straight out the door and got the next taxi home. So yeah, me and Karaoke not always worked out for the best but that hasn't stopped us.

Luckily, this time I came prepared. I had this genius idea that I'd tone it down by picking something closer to spoken word and making the delivery count. Elvis's Trouble seemed a wise choice. I waited my turn and heard out the other singers. The DJ made the announcement, "Can Elvis come to the stage. Elvis come to the stage, please". I make my way over and grab the microphone. That Christmas spirit made the snarling lip curl a little easier but truthfully I was looking more like Stallone out there. Another disaster on the stage but for all the haters who want me to stop doing karaoke, all I'll say is, "I don't take no orders from no kind of man".

Right and for film number 17 then we'll go with Waterfall TV. A follow up to Tree TV that comes from the Joe Pera corner of comedy. As part of his missions to get you to sleep, here is a half hour special that focuses on nothing but you guessed it waterfalls. It's as though they really learnt from Tree TV that looping 30 minutes of footage for 5 hours is downright criminal and so in that regard I have few complaints for Waterfall TV. It also features an absolutely hilarious sketch during the intermission that could be Pera's magnum opus. A fake trailer brought to us "from the dark and twisted minds of C. Christopher and J. Pera", an amazing gag that really parodies when people like Matthew Vaughn use such a tag. Its set up to be like a socially conscious thriller with some potential for revenge. The usually soft spoken Pera plays this hard man throwing out lines like, "coming back here after you screwed me" and "get out my house". We are then told this is for a movie called "Doing Business at the End of the World". Please Joe, make that movie.

Christmas comes and goes. Out of nowhere, an invite to a gaff comes through. The host, a lovely Fraulein by the name of The Orb, had been living elsewhere these last 5 years and had now moved back to the Wirral. Since, she hadn't kept up with the nearly impossible task of maintaining a track on familiar faces still in the neighbourhood, the invite list turned in to this real rogue's gallery that featured your least favourite film critic.

Upon arrival, there appears to be two rooms going on in this gaff. All the birds are dancing in the kitchen and all the boys are in the front room watching the football. Since, I'm still relatively sober and not ready to test my shapes, I choose to join the fellas. I notice a man I'd met perhaps a couple of times eating a pizza, it merely takes a bit of eye contact and I'm offered a slice. Everton went 1 up against City and this made things interesting but it didn't last long. In an unusual incident, I'm surrounded by Everton fans, who all react furiously by leaving the room and abandoning the game. The Orb comes in and asks if anyone wants to chip in. It's not even 10pm but I like the organisation and hand over some notes. In a completely unprecedented move, said notes are then handed back to me about 10 minutes later. As it turns out there was a dominatrix in the gaff who'd been given the full money needed by a mysterious donor in exchange for being granted permission to kiss her toes.

The Orb gives me a full tour of the new gaff, fills me in on the events of the last 5 years and introduces me to the rest of the guests. They were mainly people who I'd gone to school with years ago and hadn't seen since. Those who I hadn't met I still had some connection to, the shocking mystery each time was figuring out the connection. I discussed the recent death of an old teacher whom we respected. A man who once said that I'd inspired him to be more "relaxed in life", which is a very kind way of saying I probably pissed him off in to submission.

My phones ringing. It's Barbie, she's on her way. She asks if I can meet her by the bus stop. I get my coat back on and head in to a literal storm. Faster than you can say "Kenough", she's gone through her wine bottle and moved on to a her vodka stash. The Orb's playlist erratically switches between songs like She Wants Revenge's Tear You Apart and Britney Spears Baby One More Time. I can't say no to either. Any Twilight fans would have been thrilled by it.

Barbie claims the dancefloor. Everyone backs off for fear they may be caught by a flailing limb. On several occasions, I have to step in so she doesn't knock herself off balance. She certainly didn’t have the elegance of a ballet dancer, let's just say that. One man doesn't seem to mind so much and he likes what he sees, I step back, happy to be relieved of watching Barbie duties.

Stripped of responsibilities and able to take a breather, I can now present to you film number 16, Magic Mike's Last Dance. The third in what has been a breathtaking trilogy. He defeated toxic masculinity and now he's back for his final shake of the hips. The general verdict amongst the fans is that it’s a quiet somewhat disappointing but acceptable closer but I have to say I really like it. Putting him in with the high class London arts scene and making a mockery of theatre is too funny to pass on. Channing Tatum is always committed with these all being very personal to him. The whole fantasy of having this sugar mummy like presence in Salma Hayek is very sexy. At its lowest it always has that camp value to fall back on like dry humping against giant glass windows. Even the opening shot, which is just Magic Mike staring out across the lake with some hack job narration cracks me up. Clearly more of a character study than XXL's ensemble. Perhaps, it doesn't quite reach what Paul Schrader did with his Walkers of the Night trilogy but you can see where they're trying to make it like those in the balance of high and low art. I've always seen great potential in Michael and would love to write another chapter given the chance. I have big big things in store for Michael. Try to understand, he's a magic man.

And like that, rather fittingly I encountered the gaff's dominatrix. This turned out to be someone I recall knowing for a brief period of time when I was about 15 because they were dating a mate of mine. I stopped them and said, "Hey, can you get me up to speed on the last 12 years and how you ended up getting men to pay you just to come round and kiss your feet?"

As though preparing for a Channel 4 documentary, I hammer every question I think of at this dominatrix. Ranging from craziest sexual act requested to the hygienic issues that present themselves with such a lifestyle. Of great curiosity was how long do males leave it in between sessions for recovery time. I've seen the videos, there's no way you could give your cock such a pounding and expect to maintain any sensitivity down there. As it turns out the cock is stronger piece of gear than I previously believed it to be. Recovery time really isn't that long at all. Normally, it's the money that restricts them not the pain. Interesting. What I still can't get my head round is charging by the hour not the act performed but I assume there are bigger experts than myself that see the benefits of an hourly/flat fee rate.

Our conversation is interrupted when our mysterious donor returns to kiss some more feet. One visit isn’t enough, this guy wants more. I stand by the window, peering out in to the street, ready to burst in to a fit of laughter. I wonder if that's a little harsh to ridicule our poor foot fetishist but then I remember he thrives on humiliation. It be rude not to let him get what he wants. This time he has to kiss the host's feet. Although her first time, she handles it like a natural. I tell The Orb, "you may have a future in this line of work"

Back to the end of year list. Film number 15, Sofia Coppola's Priscilla. Fully reviewed in this issue so stick around for that. I'm of the opinion it's her best work since Lost in Translation. I will let the review do the rest of the talking and not keep you for longer than I need to here.

Inside the kitchen, an unholy abomination is taking place. Barbie has somehow found herself stuck in the sink with her legs airborne like two Boeing 757s and is repeatedly eating away at a man's face whilst clawing his chest. Unsure what to do or say about this, I turn to the nearest person and engage in a lengthy conversation with absolutely no regard as to the subject matter. Anything to take my eyes off ...that.

Need to distract myself from the monstrosities occurring in that kitchen sink. Right, film number 14. We have VHS 85. This is not being talked about enough for my liking. I was all near tapped out on this series with the last one. Usually, I take the good with the bad because these anthologies usually raise the profile of up and coming horror directors. They're like going to gigs, sometimes you have to put up with the shite to find the good at grass roots level. VHS 99 was pretty weak. They've come back strong with this entry, every segment is tight and there isn't a bad one to be found amongst the crop. Scott Derickson comes out top though and what I appreciate is his dedication to experimenting with old technology from the time. He belongs with Joe Begos as someone who actually strives for authenticity with the visual and sonic qualities. Whereas, the majority of horror today settles for cheap nostalgic recreation that looks nothing like its time period. Derrickson bringing out Throbbing Gristle's Hamburger Lady over a home invasion is the single most disturbing thing I've seen all year. Still shocked that he found a way to film one of my nightmares. Talk about this film more, it deserves it.

I encounter the gaff's dominatrix again and after all her tales, I can't help but ask, "Do you think I could get in on this dominatrix business?"

"No", she replies without giving it a moment's though. "Whys that?", I throw back. "Well, first of all you kind of need to be a woman", she answers. "Ah yeah. Of course. Women really do get everything don't they", I respond. Disappointed, I walk off.

My memory of the remainder of the evening gets hazy from here. There's a whole lot of drinking and a whole lot of dancing. Then someone cracks the shots out. This asks too much of my stomach after having food poisoning and I have to run up the stairs to race the puke. Some of it goes in the sink. The rest goes all over the back wall and bath. Give my apologies to The Orb. As there's no lock on the door Barbie is able to walk right in and laugh at my Jackson Pollock painting.

There is no time for laughing, must clean the crime scene. I wipe away with no care for how disgusting all of this must be. When you cross the line, you must put it right. Whatever the cost. Before the evidence can be erased, Barbie's latest Ken walks in through the open door. He loses his shit in a rather overprotective fashion and tells me to, "On behalf of The Orb, get the fuck out the gaff!". "Sorry, pal. I don't leave without The Orb's direct say so and besides I've not finished cleaning up yet", I add. Ken doesn't like this and so Barbie has to have a word separately with him outside giving me the time to finish clearing the sick.

Somehow, I end up in a taxi with the dominatrix. I'd forgotten she lives like 10 minutes from my parent's place. Could not for the life of me work out the vibe of how things were left at the party. Were we all kicked out or was it generally just time to leave? My head had kind of gone by that point. Too much to drink all round. Between us, the dominatrix and I must have discussed every white sender on the Wirral. 12 years of history all caught up on by the end of the cab ride. See you in another 12 years. I wish you all the best.

The next morning I'm ill again, the same thing happened after Pogue Mahone. In the past 4 weeks, I'd had 3 separate colds and food poisoning. Being sick had become a permanent fixture this Christmas. Comes with the territory. We jump now to New Year's Eve and time is desperately running out on the end of year list countdown. In at number 13 is Nicolas Winding Refn's Copenhagen Cowboy. Positioned somewhere between the Olga exploitation series and Point Blank. It sees Refn continuing his own unique style of silence and pauses. Slow cinema that really tests the patience but the random kung fu fights spliced in are definitely not typical fare and catch the viewer off guard. Other than approving of the technical innovations, there will be those that dwell on the pacing and dismiss this as empty but these very same people should not disregard how much of an oddity this is.

New Years Eve commences with a Spoons breakfast. An eggs benedict for me. Prepared what I believed to be a perfectly good birthday speech that will be talked about for generations. I attach it below: "We set sail on this new sea because there is new knowledge to be gained, and new rights to be won, and they must be won and used for the progress of all people. For space science, like nuclear science and all technology, has no conscience of its own. Whether it will become a force for good or ill depends on man, and only if the United States occupies a position of pre-eminence can we help decide whether this new ocean will be a sea of peace or a new terrifying theater of war. I do not say that we should or will go unprotected against the hostile misuse of space any more than we go unprotected against the hostile use of land or sea, but I do say that space can be explored and mastered without feeding the fires of war, without repeating the mistakes that man has made in extending his writ around this globe of ours. There is no strife, no prejudice, no national conflict in outer space as yet. Its hazards are hostile to us all. Its conquest deserves the best of all mankind, and its opportunity for peaceful cooperation may never come again. But why, some say, the Moon? Why choose this as our goal? And they may well ask, why climb the highest mountain? Why, 35 years ago, fly the Atlantic? Why does Rice play Texas? We choose to go to the Moon. We choose to go to the Moon... We choose to go to the Moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard; because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one we intend to win, and the others, too".

My good pal Balthazar, who shares the same birthday as myself, also made a speech, I attach his as well: "My name is Maximus Decimus Meridias, commander of the armies of the north, general of the Felix legions, loyal servant to the true emperor Marcus Aurelius, father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife, and I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next". Shorter but possibly sturdier, this will also be quoted long after we depart this mortal coil.

Once back at the parent's house, my 5 year old Weng Weng aka The Impossible Kid, and I get to work on his Christmas present, a 1000 piece jigsaw. His reaction to receiving such a present was comedy gold. He dropped to his knees, head in hands like Pep Guardiola and keeps shouting, "1000 pieces!" as if shocked that they actually exist. There was a look of horror that reminded me of the idea that a fantasy realised is essentially a nightmare. One could argue this gift was a little out of his age range but he requested it and so that's what he got. I did ask If he believed he was capable and he just said he was built differently. Would you argue with him?

An hour in and the furthest we've got is building the borders. I suggest we take a break. Unsure as to whether this was for his sake or mine. During that time, I give The Meg 2: The Trench a rewatch and by the credits rolling, I've already sunk 5 Guinness. We'll come back to this because, get ready, this genuinely appears on the Funeralopolis top 20 list. Alright, film number 12, James Gunn's Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 . Marking Marvel films is a dirty job but someone's got to do it and if anyone was going to create the greatest thing to come from the MCU it would be Mr Gunn. He's the only one I would consider an actual filmmaker, an auteur in the subversive vein of Samuel Fuller and Samuel Peckinpah and not some stupid studio puppet. He's a terrorist working from within. Our mole. Our rat. Whatever you want to call him. Being the guy who's creating films within the most popular genre of today and turning them into his own visions, that makes him one of the most important filmmakers currently working if you ask me.

"Alexa, play the greatest dance song of all time", I ask and she puts on Music Sounds Better With You by Stardust. Sorry I Feel Love and Windowlicker stans, you can fight for 2nd and 3rd. Between the hours of 5 and 9, I make my way through the remaining Guinness and try to arrange some plans for the evening. I'd left them very last minute this year and I was paying the price. The night before I'd met up with Lucien Cramp and Long Tall Sally who were up for having a few drinks on the Wirral, then heading off to Liverpool after. Come the day though, unable to get hold of either of them.

In the meantime, Weng Weng and I gave Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Mutant Mayhem a watch. Hard not to love a movie that has a Nine Inch Nails score, kung fu references and hip hop nostalgia. A proper '90s capsule but made lovingly by people from the era not those trying to cash in on popular trends and recreate something they have no connection to. That whole montage of training clips from The 36th Chamber of Shaolin made us lose our shit. I often get that movie on for the kid in the background during our boys nights so I can identify some moves for us to work on in the dojo. Progress report: the young padawan is excelling in classes and shows great promise but you can never have too much training.

Sadly, TMNT: Mutant Mayhem falls just short of the top 20 and next up at film number 11, we have the one you've all been waiting for The Meg 2: The Trench. This film is literally Like a Virgin by Madonna. If you can make it through the wilderness, if you can hold on just when you think you're beat and incomplete, then you will witness one of the greatest third act saves in all of cinema. Buddy cop chemistry, kaiju battles and a terrific shot from inside the shark's mouth as it chomps down bodies. This third act has everything you need for the perfect dumb fun summer blockbuster creature feature. I'd argue it's the best of its kind since Piranha 3D and for someone who's seen countless Syfy channel garbage a really blessing and beacon of hope. I look forward to when Jason Statham next straps up the wetsuit and dives on a jet ski with a spear in hand.

9pm rolls in and I give up all hope of hitting a few boozers up in West Kirby. The future, whatever that may be, lies in Liverpool. Now, we just have to get there. Trains? Buses? Not running New Year's Eve. Of course. Ever feel like the unknown forces are just working against you? I secure a lift and take a few Guinness for the journey. Seven style rain greets me as I exit the vehicle. A speedy run to the flat door is required to avoid the soaking. Once inside, I drop Danger Mouse a message to see if he's up for anything. The rain has made him lose all ambition. Understandable but for a sinner like myself, New Years Eve holds great meaning. In the morning, my father had mentioned that he doesn't care for the whole shebang, the countdown all of it. "But what of change?", I ask? "I think I'm pretty set in my ways", he answers. Call me continuously discontent but I don't ever want to get like that. I was born on this day, I am what this day means. I take all its rewards and atrocities. What is the plan for the evening?

While we're waiting, film number 10, Infinity Pool. Ti West let us down last year with his Pearl prequel. A move which originally came off as superb quick filmmaking straight from the exploitation days by going from one film right in to another in a short space of time. Then he went and fucked it up by wanking off to Wizard of Oz when he should have been in porno land. Proper geek behaviour. With Infinity Pool, Brandon Cronenberg brought successfully brought back that quickie production. Since, his JG Ballard adaptation of Supercannes was on hold, he went back and had a trial run doing his version of another JG Ballard book, Cocaine Nights. Cronenberg Jr's examination of Freud's Civilisation and Discontents has largely been missed by viewers. How intellectual the project is and the level of success achieved is up for question but at its worst, it's very funny and very peculiar. Even as a psychedelic oddity it more than delivers the goods of a nasty 70s exploitation style shocker.

The Highwayman swoops on in. She's out with the rest of the insect nation and extends her invitation. I throw my safety overboard and accept the offer. But first we need more beer, more music and a change of clothes. Outfit choices, I need them now. It's kind of tough to tell a scruff the big mistake he's making. Better Stand and Deliver. Your money or your life. Alexa, play Space Invaders Are Smoking Grass by IF. Kelly, tell us film number 9.

Film number 9, we have Mission Impossible: Dead Reckoning Part 1. Can a title alone make you horny? In this case, it seems it can. Tom Cruise is back doing those preposterous stunts for our viewing pleasure again. Oblige him. Due to Covid shooting conditions, this has a really weak opening that looks irritatingly cheap. However, once the prologues over and we get to the airport it improves drastically. Train movie guys will get their fix with pretty much the last hour being set on a train. Equal parts Hitchcock and Frankenheimer. Is this the first MI film to really be about something?

Admire The Matrix like direction and the focus on AI. All ties in with the big metaphor of Tom Cruise saving cinema and that extends to the current issues of the day. Any way you look at it, cinema is saved. Still, there's no beating the best MI movie, that remains Mission Impossible 2. Generally loathed in all eyes but mine. Yeah, I'm a John Woo guy. Motorbike jousting, come on!

Alexa, play me something sexy that will get me in the mood for the evening! Never Let Me Down Again boldly pumps out the speakers. Then suddenly the room turns blue and I have this overwhelming urge to embrace the Robert DeNiro in Heat position over by the window, staring out across the town, reflecting, contemplating, stargazing. One must be extremely careful when they adopt such a position, you may end up fixed here all night long.

In these quiet moments of reflection, I give you film number 8. Todd Haynes May December, winner of the biggest swing of the year award. The master of mixing trashy tabloids with European arthouse is back and he's here to wipe the floor with unadventurous cinema. Looking at the cover, you'd think this was your yearly dose of Oscar bait. Far from it, friends. In fact, it's a reference to Persona, a clear inspiration for the entire project. We have these two women entangled in a battle of selfabsorption and the troubled boy (Charles Melton has given the finest performance of the year for me) cast to the sides. Imagine Sunset Boulevard but added camp, so basically What Ever Happened to Baby Jane. Easily one of the most fascinating approaches to a movie I've ever seen in that it begins by intriguing you with this unexpected dark humour that's somewhere between DePalma and Solondz and it sneaks up on you when all the trauma pours out. It's a technique I've been trying to teach for years, never go in with your full intentions. Hold back all emotions but comedy. Anything else that does come should be out of nowhere, authentic and found mid-way through. If the trailer gives the game away on the serious side, you've lost. May December wrongfooted me more than any film this year. Out of everything we got in 2023, this could be the most interesting. If I have scored it too low on this, it will be because I'm still shocked by it and am still coming to terms with its daring originality.

Incoming message from The Highwayman, "when will you be out?". I check the clock and it's nearly half 11. How long had I been standing there? Jesus Christ, why do I let it happen? You know what adopting the DeNiro in Heat position over by the window can do to you, and you still do it? Lost in that endless blue. Swept by the seas of thought. Detached from the bindings of time. My Achilles heel. Once again, yet to learn the great philosopher Radric Delantic Davis's wise message of, "if a man does not have the sauce, then he is lost. But the same man can get lost in the sauce". I demand Alexa play David Bowie's I'm Afraid of Americans, tear my eyes from the city skyline, locate the remaining Guinness can and inform The Highwayman I will set off when David Bowie has stopped ranting about being terrified of the damn Yanks.

Film number 7, Errol Morris's The Pigeon Tunnel. To everyone a minor piece in a brilliant career that near borders on self-parody. To an addict of the form, the fuel that ignites my bones. Play me some Philip Glass and have someone explain their unexplainable life theory shot in weird Dutch angles and I will ensure you a high spot on the end of year list. Unclear whether I am rating the comparisons between documentary filmmakers and the government to God and the violation of memories through the imagination or just the coke fuelled paranoid yarns. Either way, I like it. Kelly, get your coat, we're out of here.

Rain falls on my head like a cold night in Basin City. My chest is pumping on over time like every beat could be my last. Trying to squeeze in a few more than what was promised. Need to get to this club before 12. Need to get end of year list locked in before the hands strike the top. My phone vibrates and I nearly mistake it for palpitations. False alarm, it's Lucien Cramp wondering when I'm getting to The White Lion, bit late but better than never. No time to reply, must get to the club for the countdown.

Gotta really hammer these out now. Film number 6, Ari Aster's Beau is Afraid. Horror movie people take note, this is the best you're getting all year. The attic stairs paralyse me every time. Strangely this has divided people but A24 providing this with the budget they did and allowing a 3 hour horror comedy to be released in this commercial climate is something to be celebrated. Near reminiscent of the strategies deployed in times of New Hollywood, when people had faith in auteurs and did things out of artistic respectability and not just profits.

I dart down alleys and side step across taxis. High Heeled giraffes wobble across uneven streets. Promoters dangle cards in my face and I shake my head at every last one of them. All the animals are out tonight and the jungle is hot but I have just one place in mind.

Serious numbers, film number 5, Silent Night. I told you I was a John Woo guy. A rather humorous exercise in connecting the dots of a modern day action movie without the aid of dialogue. Where we're going we don't need words! Finding that connective tissue each time to go through the essentials scene to scene was just a pleasure. Many action films promise the stripped back no bullshit but my guy went out and did it. Remember that. It's simplicity and it's near mockery of action cinema is just a comedic delight. That final third of balletic action is the old days, the all or nothing days. The well-respected attraction, Planet Woo, has been closed off these last 20 years. Leaving people like myself standing outside the doors going full Eric Andre screaming, "let me in!". Ladies and Gentlemen, I have returned to Planet Woo once more and it's a joy to be back.

I see the club ahead and seconds later I see the queue. This wasn't on the agenda. This wasn't on the cards. Could this mistake cost us dearly? Could this mistake have been foreseen? I check the time, 11.46. This is pushing it. Better get back to the remaining movies while I'm stuck here.

Roaring in at number 4, Godzilla Minus One. Did you think my lizard friend wouldn’t be showing up soon enough? He came, he crushed, he conquered. And it's his 38th time doing it. Seeing him destroy Tokyo and New York never gets old and for all I care this twisted like sitcom can continue marching on. This is a near perfect adaptation that deserves points for presenting the monster as the nightmarish fantasy that more than ever can't be distinguished from the horrors of post-Second World War. That whole side to it is beautifully dreamlike in the way it sidelines the monster and questions its existence early on. Critics are calling this the best since the first one, do I have to remind them that the last one was Shin Godzilla? A film which was far fresher with its refusal to accept any shot reverse shot business and the most satirical script targeting bureaucratic failings since Dr Strangelove. Proof that you can be both funny and have a point to make. Still, watching this at the cinema with The Highwayman, then getting drunk with a couple of Coen Brothers lookalikes in a tequila bar was a real highlight of 2023 cinemagoing.

By 11.53 I have wiggled to the front of the queue but now we have a serious problem. They're taking IDs on the door and as always I never carry mine. Inevitably, the bouncer asks for ID and all I can say is, "don't carry it". We're relying on the good faith of a bouncer, never a good thing. If he's a real stickler for order this guy could send me packing. If he sends me packing, I am not making it in time for the countdown. He glances across at his colleague and calls him over.

Film number 3, John Wick Chapter 4

Holy fuck. And I thought I was all tapped out after the last one. You think you've seen John Wick? You've not seen John Wick. Not 'til you see Chapter 4. This was all its ambitions fully realised. The David Lean. The Akira Kurosawa. The John Ford. The Tarantino. The Blade Runner that turned in to The fucking Duellists

Throw in some bloody Holy Motors this time. Fucking hell it even went fully Batman in the techno club with a fat suit wearing Scott Adkins. This is it. The graphic novel. The fucking manga. Best pop entertainment since Mad Max Fury Road. My favourite movie I've ever seen in a cinema this. They have made The Good, The Bad and The Ugly for Daft Punk heads. I am on my knees. Johnny's doing donuts round the fucking Arc de Triomphe to Gesaffelsteins Hate or Glory mate. Oh my lord. I thought I'd buried my alter ego Kung Fu Kelly but John Wick Chapter 4 has awakened him. If you want me, I'll be by the Eiffel Tower shadowboxing and waiting to be tested by some 1 on 1s. My weapon of choice? My bear hands!

These bouncers could be seeing some hands if they don't hurry up. They confer and have their little mother's meeting and decide my fate. You don't have to be a mind reader to understand the question being asked, "does that guy look over 18 to you?". It turns out he does. I overhear one of them say, "he looks closer to 30". I ignore the insult and keep moving forwards.

The sounds of Absurd's Fluke fills my ears. Ok, so we're in but where is The Highwayman and the rest of the insect nation? Message comes in on the phone, they're over by the toilets. Just 4 minutes to find them but first I need to make my way across a packed dance floor with drunken dancers. Time to sharpen the elbows. They don't call me the buffet raider for nothing, I know how to make my way across a crowd.

I scan the space by the toilets. Optical inspection negative. No signs of them. Drop another message asking whereabouts. "By the green sign" is fired back at me. What green sign? I survey the area and find what I'm looking for. It's by the toilets on the other side of the room. 2 minutes to go. I stick out both elbows and go back to work.

Film number 2, Christopher Nolan's Oppenheimer. I'll always remember this as great this movie for one reason. It's proof that a visual stylist on the edge of auteur and craftsman regularly criticised for a lack of substance could handle what is widely considered one of the most important stories of the 20th century without totally abandoning his signature approach. It's pure technique. The walls shaking. The quick cuts to skin peeling off people. The feet slamming against the floor. In effect, he's made a hybrid of horror and documentary that seems very much its own thing. I want to hear interviews on how long he holds the shots, when he cuts, when to throw in one of those disturbing images. An absolute masterpiece in rhythm recalling Sidney Luhmet's Fail Safe and 12 Angry Men

It's a Schraderesque character study as gripping as Citizen Kane, Michael Corleone and Daniel Plainview but in his own distinctive style. Personally, I find that very inspiring.

Right where are these people I'm looking for? I stand directly below the green sign and still can't find them. With just 1 minute on the clock to go, I'm suddenly ambushed by The Highwayman herself. She rapidly introduces me to the rest of the insect nation, a whole of new characters. "10, 9, 8..." there goes the countdown.

Across every screen in the room I can see giant images of Rick Astley's face. Is this some kind of sick joke? There's one in there somewhere but it's too late to find it. "7, 6, 5..." My mind flashes back to an incident earlier in the day when a black cat crossed my path, stared me dead in the eye as though delivering a message and wondered off. Not the kind of night for those antics that could be perceived as superstitious meddlings. Was the cat blessing with good luck or bad luck? I cast the image from my mind.

There can only be one! In at the top, film number 1, Martin Scorsese's Killers of the Flower Moon. It's simple really, if Marty makes a movie there's only one place it can go. Give me a break, the French always have reserved spots for Godard. Killers of the Flower Moon marks new territory for the western. I've seen some attacking it as being too much from the whites perspectives and not from the Native Americans perspective. Well in this we get the three perspectives, those two mentioned and then the cops and it's not always clean whose perspective we are getting. It's not structured to split them off and to me that's the beauty of it. All the signs for me are in the early bits when they're talking about the blood lines getting dirty. The families have become so mixed. If you focused on just the native Americans you'd lose the point it's trying to make about how power remains in the same hands and is never really lost or shifts hands. You need all 3 perspectives and you need them confused and overlapping. We've had the ignorant westerns of John Ford that have no sympathy for the native Americans. We've had the revisionist ones that recognise the massacres and then this. Scorsese's approach still seems relevant not just to the genre but to the way it would be today. It's about a more systemic version of hate and racism that's harder trace. It's not war in the open any more with loud slaughter. It's not words. It's a much quieter form of genocide. Accepting that there is no clear lines in family at this point and manipulating it. Scorsese's vision is one that blurs and masks but does not erase. The fact this is a whodunnit where you know whodunnit and so in a sense becomes this sick joke where you're complicit. You have to laugh.

"4, 3, 2, 1... Happy New Year!". Imagination's big hitter Just an Illusion fires out the speakers. Everybody's a huggin' and a kissin'. Dancing in and out of each other. Rising to the occasion and spreading the love. Infectious happiness as though we crossed over to another planet, another plain of existence. Land of the 1000 dances. The Twist, The Alligator. The Mashed Potato. The Watusi. The Pony. All last time I checked, still in fashion. No need to check pulses out here, you dance or your dead. But suddenly the thrill has gone. I no longer want to sing and dance. When those hands hit the top what changed? What really changed? Did I miss it? I better not have fucking missed it. Everything still looks the same. It's just another day in the neighbourhood and I realise my hands are empty. There's only one thing for it. I make a beeline towards the bar.