Basically, it's like the Trailer Park Boys meets The X-Files. In other words: a bunch of comedy actors pretend to investigate made-up anomalous bullshit.
Much like the Trailer Park Boys the team comprises of a bunch of numbnuts, notably Travis (Bubbles) Taylor (an alleged astrophysicist with a Ph.D in what one can only imagine is 'Advanced Bullshitting'), Brandon Fugal (the Mr. Lahey of the park/ranch - albeit a sober one but just as equally dumb), Tom Winterton (Julian), Erik Bard (Randy) and security chief Bryant "Dragon" Arnold (the obvious Ricky of the group with a completely dumbass nickname).
On each episode the boys use state-of-the-art technology to investigate ordinary events that have been dramatically exaggerated out of all context, whilst fabricating the failure of that technology as the cameras mysteriously keep rolling without succumbing to the same fate as all the other equipment. Pieces of rust are discovered in an industrial vacuum cleaner, Venus is repeatedly filmed in the sky, torch beams are shone off some nearby trees, and the reflection of the rising sun bouncing off the top of a mesa is considered to be of incredible significance. When a cow mysteriously dies (apparently of fright) no-one seems to conclude that it might have had something to do with the boys shooting rockets into the sky for no other reason than it being fun to launch rockets.
If, by season 3, anyone has any shadow of a doubt that the whole thing is a badly pulled off hoax, then just to set the matter in concrete they bring a whole host of shady guests onto the show like professional goat starer Colonel John B. Alexander and lucrative disinformation agent George Knapp.
An exceptionally entertaining show for all the wrong reasons, I can only highly recommend it for its unintentional hilarity.
I'm not sure how this film slipped through the cracks here at Media Underground. Mortimer's prime directive is about bringing you news and information totally unavailable in the mainstream press. We like to keep on top of things and make sure you get the latest inside dope on shit you can't find anywhere else. Maybe this got posted on Disinformation first and I ignored it. Maybe I thought it was you're average UFO debunking documentary. Maybe I just thought the title sucked. I don't know. But we're only a year late. This film came out in 2013. I'm not even sure if this got posted here before and I just forgot. But it needs to be posted again because I just started watching it for the third time today. This is a goddam rabbit hole of fun house mirrors inside a maze fucking a unicorn. I may lose my mind. Anyway, read the review, download and watch. I highly recommend it...
'Is there anything new to say about UFOs and people who believe fervently they have seen one? I wouldn't have thought so, either - but the intriguing Mirage Men casts new light on the topic, unearthing the bizarre fact that the US Air Force and intelligence services have been running a campaign of disinformation about UFOs.
'Here's how it apparently works: a high-ranking intelligence agent takes an outspoken UFO conspiracy theorist into his confidence, tells him (it's usually a him) that his theories are not only on the right track but the US government is itself secretively pursuing similar theories. The agent also sprinkles some deliberate falsehoods about UFO sightings into his disclosures.
'This has the effect of seducing the UFO-believer, making him feel part of some charmed circle of knowledge, but also encouraging him to spout facts that sound absurd outside (and even within) the 'UFO community. Why would the Air Force and US government do it? To 'neutralise' the conspiracy nut, and possibly to throw America's enemies (oh, OK, Russia) off the scene about US defence development.
'Complicated, isn't it? Watching Mirage Men plunges you into a vortex of half-truths, lies, manipulation, bluffs and double bluffs. It's not quite clear who we should believe. And that's before we even confront Special Agent Richard Doty, a government official whose task it was to plant these falsehoods. Doty, a timid, deeply ordinary-looking man blinking behind large spectacles, admits to cynical trickery aimed at throwing gullible UFO believers off the scent.' (The Telegraph review & The Pirate Bay magnet link).
I've been anticipating the arrival of this documentary series for months now. Finally it is here...
'Like David Attenborough, Carl Sagan’s success as a presenter came from a sincere and unrivalled passion for his subject. As he proved with his BBC lectures in the 1970s, he didn’t need props or special effects to be interesting; he spoke as well interacting with a group of school children as he did strolling along a beach, or standing next to a cardboard cut-out of what was supposed to be a spaceship.
'Yet even when these devices were employed, such as in his landmark series Cosmos: A Personal Voyage, the project upon which Sagan’s legacy still rests, he himself always remained effortlessly fascinating.
'When he died of pneumonia in 1993, it seemed extremely unlikely that there would ever be a follow-up to the series, or whether a worthy successor to carry on in Sagan’s place would ever be found. But now, thirty-four years after the original aired, it returns, this time hosted by Neil deGrasse Tyson, astrophysicist, presenter of PBS’s Nova ScienceNow and one of Sagan’s close friends during his lifetime.
'Gone this time around are the cardboard cut-outs and what Tyson calls “mutton chops” - i.e. scenes in which historical events are acted out by actors in tights and wigs; in Cosmos: A Spacetime Odyssey such stories are told through graphic novel-style animation and narrated by Tyson, who sits aboard an expensive-looking CGI spaceship, his face illuminated by flickering buttons and the kindly light of distant galaxies.' (On The Box article and Pirate Bay magnet link).
Richard Happer - author of the wonderful The Hills Are Stuffed With Swedish Girls - has just reviewed my book Bothy Culture on Amazon...
'Just as you don’t need to have hitchhiked through the Mid-West to enjoy On The Road, or been shot in the throat to appreciate Homage To Catalonia, so you don’t need to know the first thing about bothies to be inspired by Bothy Culture.
'At its heart this is a travel book, a voyage of adventure. The author delights in his discovery of these refuges in the Scottish wilderness, and he’s done the exploring, got wet and freezing, met all the weirdos so that now we can enjoy all his distilled wisdom while snuggling on our sofa.
'Bothy Culture is a patchwork narrative, neatly sewn together from stories, reminiscences, tall tales, outrageous opinions, historical facts and touching friendships. It is full of strong viewpoints and is thoroughly refreshing for them. But it is not a polemic. No sooner has Mortimer made a controversial point than he himself offers the counterpoint. A great deal of thought has gone into this book - a lifetime’s perhaps. And where opinions are backed up with such considered observation, surely there must be truth in them.
'This book explores the yin/yang, love/hate dynamic that so many of us feel with society: Mortimer can barely wait for Friday to come round so he can get ‘off-grid’ and escape from routines and responsibility into the bare cell of a bothy, yet he also yearns for good company round a roaring fire. He freely admits to being a bit grumpy and anti-social, but he’d rather share his roast lamb, potatoes and wine than watch you eat a packet of noodles and drink Nescafe. He admits his opinions irritate people, but he writes them so entertainingly that you can’t help but read them all the same. He’s a hermit who packs his rucksack ready for a party.
'Does that make logical sense? Does your life? Does mine? Exactly.
'In many ways Bothy Culture is itself like a night by the flickering flames with good company. Stories are told and ornamented, jokes are thrown in, opinions are debated – there are moments of thoughtfulness, sadness even. But the evening is always entertaining and you are very glad you came. I got the sense that Mortimer’s bothy is in many ways a microcosm of Scotland; indeed, perhaps society itself. We are all entitled to a place at the fire. Just make sure you bring a little coal and have a story to tell.
'The author also has a sound ear for dialogue, knows how gleeful and eloquent swearing can enhance a narrative and he can turn a phrase exquisitely. I snorted tea on several occasions.
'No sooner had I finished reading my copy than I’d posted it off to Scotty, one of my oldest pals who I’ve shared some beautiful adventures with but who I now don’t see nearly enough. I can’t think of a finer recommendation.' (Amazon book review).
Hilarious stand-up comic and regular contributor to media underground, James Inman, has just written a highly amusing review of my book Bothy Culture on his blog Utterly Worthless, where he compares me and my book to Lao Tzu and The Tao Te Ching of all things.
James is completely insane you must understand, but insane in the greatest possible way...
'For several years George Mortimer has run a website called Media Underground which has been a safety valve for the impending dystopian collapse; sort of a catch all for the fringe element of society’s global mind. His new book Bothy Culture is a seriously funny antidote to a world gone mad. In a cesspool of technological trinkets, mobile phones, Twitter, Facebook, the electric toothbrush and global surveillance Mortimer rips out the parking break and makes a complete u-turn. He drops everything and wanders off to a bothy.
'For the “uninitiated” American a bothy is like a small shack out in the middle of nowhere in the Scottish outback free for anyone to use. The description on the book reads, “Bothy Culture focuses on exploring the rich subculture that can be found at some of the remotest locations throughout the Scottish wilderness”. In Scotland I guess they use the word “wilderness” but when Americans hear it we think of an actual jungle. I envisioned it more like a greener version of the Houses Of The Holy album cover with creepy albino kids crawling on their hands and knees. It must be somewhere beyond civilization with no map to point the way and Aleister Crowley poking his head out every now and then.
'Mortimer’s keen observation is a vast uncharted middle ground that no one actually explores because your average Scotsman A) only walks two blocks to the pub or B) is compelled to climb a sheer cliff up K2 with his bare hands. Mortimer creates his own category in the between world of fact, fiction, history, occult initiation and humor. His first bothy trip sends him on the path to record the history and impressions of every single bothy in the Scottish high country kind of like trainspotting for remote shacks. Or more of an off-grid bothyspotter with a backpack filled with beer, coal, roast duck, a pipe and “Blue Cheese” weed.
'And don’t forget to bring coal to stay warm. Not charcoal or a Duralflame log. Actual coal like the kind demons shovel in hell or Santa Claus leaves in your stocking if you suck. It has to be enough coal to make the trip significantly hard as fuck. The whole deal with the coal was interesting because he never divulged the secret where he actually acquired it. As an American I can’t imagine they still sell it at the convenience store. I can only assume you might find it behind an electric plant or on display at a Charles Dickens museum. He keeps his cards close to his chest on the coal or maybe it just falls out of the sky in Scotland. The point is this is not a Fodor’s Travel Guide. This is more like a trail of bread crumbs to an unknown world.' (Utterly Worthless book review).
Probably one of the funniest movies I've seen in a long time. If you haven't seen Jackass Presents: Bad Grandpa yet then you're in for a treat. Some of the pranks are bust-a-gut hilarious, particularly the 'Beauty Pageant' scene, which takes everything that is wrong with child beauty pageants and adds a whole lot more 'wrong' to it in a way that had me on the floor in tears of laughter at the weekend. (The Pirate Bay magnet link).
My book Bothy Culture has been getting some great reviews on Amazon. I guess people like brutal honesty and scathing social commentary. Here's some excerpts from a number of recent reviews...
Frisky Stixx:'There are many laugh out loud moments especially as he describes the eclectic mix of people that choose to make the mammoth trek up to these remote spots.'
Poetry Maz:'This has been the most refreshing piece of writing I've had the pleasure to devour in a long time.'
Graeme Henderson:'His values are not for the faint of soul but I doubt there is anyone on this planet who would not agree with at least one of his points.'
C. G. Findlater:'Very few people know what really motivates them and even fewer have the insight or the bravery to write about it.'
Stephen T. Lewis:'Even if you never set forth into the wilds of Scotland this well-written book is worth a read for its counter-culture quirkiness alone.'
A big thank you to everyone who has reviewed the book to date. So far no mainstream media outlet (or local press for that matter) will touch it with a barge pole. Good! Clearly the burning bible on the back cover has created the exact reaction I was hoping for. (Amazon.co.uk book reviews).
Just reviewed the new Gangstagrass album on Amazon...
‘This is not only the best album that Gangstagrass have produced to date but quite possibly the best album I've ever heard. Being somewhat particular about the bluegrass and hip hop I listen to, Gangstagrass really hit the spot having created an entirely new genre of music by merging bluegrass, old-time, and mountain music with gangsta rap (yes, you heard right, gangsta rap).
‘The tracks 'Quickdraw', 'Hand Me The Money' and 'Rainstorm In Kentucky' blend the two polar opposites of bluegrass and rap so skilfully that one is astounded that no-one has ever thought of doing something so innovative before.
‘Their rendition of 'O Death' is a piece of musical genius.
‘I so hope they tour the UK this year, and in particular come to Scotland.’ (Amazon review).
Regular contributor to media underground, Stephen 'Sergeant Matron' Lewis, has just written a blazing review of my book Bothy Culture in the latest edition of Briar & Bothies - the official newsletter of the Kearvaig Pipe Club...
'From the book’s cover and Foreword, the reader is parachuted into another world; the world of Bothy Culture as seen, experienced, described and lived by Colonel Mortimer and the boys. The commentary on a range of subjects - that far exceeds bothying - is blistering, provocative, hilarious and simply thought-provoking. Uptight folk will probably dismiss this book as simply the rant of an angry man, but that would say more about their own insecurities than be an accurate account of Bothy Culture, as angry though the Colonel definitely is, he is careful to back-up his analysis with reasoned arguments and amusing ‘beer logic’. Some readers will find the adult language ‘difficult’, but one suspects that the Colonel would just shrug his shoulders tell them to stick it in their pipe and smoke it...' (B&B pdf download - pages 14 & 15).
Here at Media Underground Headquarters we don't generally use The New York Times as a stepping off point to steer you to an interesting documentary but in this case I couldn't find any other good reviews of this film. And that doesn't mean this documentary sucks it just means most of the reviewers were too stupid, corporate lackeys or had no idea how frightening this film is.
Anyway, read the review, check out their clever website, download and watch. I highly recommend it...
'The title of Terms And Conditions May Apply is unlikely to excite, but the content of this quietly blistering documentary should rile even the most passive viewer. Investigating our casual surrender of privacy rights every time we click the “Agree” button on those dense (and typically unread) online user contracts, the director Cullen Hoback outlines the real-life dangers of digital heedlessness. As the film illustrates, a random tweet or innocent Google search could summon a SWAT team to your door or transform you into a suspected terrorist.
'Actual horror stories aside, this concise and lively summary of the many ways corporations, law enforcement and government agencies gather, share and use our information - assisted by digital giants like AT&T and Google - is creepily unnerving.
'“Anonymity isn’t profitable,” one of the film’s more than 30 interviewees points out, and whether it’s cameras on Main Street or preinstalled software on your smartphone recording every keystroke, there has been an alarming rise in surveillance programs. While legal rulings on the programs remain shrouded in secrecy, they continue to serve multiple purposes, from attracting profits to deterring whistle-blowers and identifying protesters. If you’re planning a revolution - or just a political discussion group - better not tweet the location.' (N.Y. Times review & The Pirate Bay magnet link).
I downloaded Zero Dark Thirty off BitTorrent because I thought I’d review the film exclusively for Media Underground. I’m not going to pay one dime for a Lockheed Martin commercial and I knew how it ends so here’s my take. The film should be called Zero Fuck Movie. It begins with a retarded looking ginger anorexic pale Carrot Juice Maya bitch standing in the background during a torture scene, but you’re supposed to feel sorry for her because she can’t stand to watch torture. First thoughts: any CIA agent in that room is going to be a West Point graduate and a professional sadist and is not going to give a fuck about torture. When they keep cutting back to her with that Florence Nightingale compassion cunt-face, it’s utterly laughable.
Carrot Juice has a good guy sidekick. He’s the bearded creepy CIA Torture Bro who looks like a Christian Singles extra from the Left Behind series, or if Wolf Blitzer’s pothead stepson had an anal baby. He’s also a grown up version of the kid in Mask or Cher after her facial surgery. I guess they wanted the film to have that artsy, glassy-eyed, North Korean indoctrination feel to it. Or maybe the Pentagon’s casting director spotted him at an industrial Screen Actors Guild party for the Kansas National Guard. I’m not sure which but he has to be the most annoying actor I’ve seen on film ever. And that means worse than Jar Jar Binks and Steven Segal in Above the Law combined.
I'm currently reading Carrying The Fire by Apollo 11 Command Module Pilot (CMP) Michael Collins.
Carrying The Fire is probably one of the most fascinating and entertaining books I've ever read. Collins writes exceptionally well - his acid wit and dry sense of humour is an absolute joy - and he is by far my favourite astronaut of all time.
Being CMP on an Apollo mission seems like the perfect job to me, more so than taking a powered descent to the lunar surface, for one gets to spend plenty of time alone orbiting the moon - swinging round its far side and enjoying the tranquility of being out of communication with one's colleagues on the surface, as well as those back home at mission control on earth.
I love solitude.
In his book Collins talks about the survival training he underwent in the deserts of Reno and jungle of Panama. His bible on such trips was Air Force Manual 64-5 and he has many humorous anecdotes about its contents.
Curious about this manual I decided to seek it out online and it sure is an amusing and educational read. Armed with this, one could pretty much be thrown off a helicopter naked, anywhere on the planet, and still eventually come back home in one piece.
Air Force Manual 64-5, I think, will be my next online purchase, just so that I can bung it in my backback when I go on one of my extended trips off grid, just in case trouble brews.
Thank you, Lucky Mike, for the heads up. (DTIC pdf download).
Saturday afternoon and I’d been sitting in my local pub for at least an hour drinking the remains of my second pint of beer. The local clientele were doing their usual: scrutinising their hand-held devices as though they were personal life-support machines requiring constant tweaking and attention.
Meanwhile, on the pub TV, the sordid details of News International’s phone hacking scandal were unfolding live before my very eyes.
“Jesus H. Christ!” I exclaimed out loud. “This isn’t just affecting a small cross-section of the population, this is a goddamned epidemic of massive proportions!”
The fat lawyer sitting in the corner briefly glanced up at me from his iPhone with an expression that suggested a mixture of contempt and confusion, before taking another quick swig of his drink and refocusing his attention on his brightly lit touch screen.
“Whatever happened to coming to the pub to engage in social interaction!?” I exclaimed.
There was no response.
I looked out of the window at the multitude of passers-by, all of whom seemed to be preoccupied with whatever was on their cell phones.
“Another beer?” asked the barmaid as she punched in a few characters on her smartphone.
“What exactly are you all fucking doing?” I asked somewhat irritably.
“I’m on Twitter,” she said without even looking up.
“And I’m on Facebook,” remarked the fat lawyer – his beady little jaundiced eyes looked up again briefly, as if attempting to burn holes in the back of my inner skull.
“Yeah,” I remarked sarcastically, “cos, so much interesting shit is going down in here right now that all your friends need an update.”
“Do you want a beer or not?” asked the barmaid impatiently – her podgy little pink thumbs sliding over the touch sensitive device.
“No thanks,” I said getting to my feet, “I’ve got walls at home I can stare blankly at.”
Suddenly I felt a vibration in my pocket as I vacated the pub.
Christ, I thought whilst taking my phone out of my pocket to check it, this state of constant connectedness is even starting to affect me now.
I glanced at the screen.
Nothing.
A phantom phone vibration I realised. A condition brought on by modern living. A syndrome I had heard media theorist Douglas Rushkoff talk about, where our nervous systems have maladapted to expect real-time communication at any given moment. An electronically induced nervous tick, if you like, that doesn’t even require the device to do anything electronically other than just sit in one’s pocket awaiting an incoming announcement of no or little value.
It was the final straw for me and a much needed match tossed into the proverbial gunpowder barrel. Whatever happened to using a phone as just a phone?
'Bill Hicks was the rock star of American comedy in every way, right down to the pancreatic cancer that claimed him young in 1994. He died, as he lived, before his time.
'The documentary American reaches some way into the irony of his career: Hicks joked and raged about America, but got his most receptive audience right here. America didn’t want to know.
'A Southern Baptist childhood gave him the rebel itch: he would sneak out of his bedroom window as a teenager, honing his craft and caricaturing his parents at open-mike nights.
'Footage of his gigs is jumbled up with cut-and-paste photo montage, not always that skilfully, and it’s doubtful that the film achieves enough insight for pre-ordained Hicks-heads - it’s better as an introduction.
'Still, it nails his furious and vital point that what the American flag should represent is the freedom to burn it.' (Telegraph movie review & Isohunt torrent download).
"All the levers forward, all the time," was one of the text messages I received from the Sergeant Matron prior to the gig, however, on this occasion I think that one of the levers broke off from the control panel and his comment of being "45 going on 15" seems more appropriate as an epitaph to mark the memory of this occasion.
It had started in the usual kind of way, the mad dash to get everything together the night previous, followed by an annoying shift at work that had to be completed in the morning. This could've made things tight for getting to the island on time had it not been for my good friend and work colleague Dasbo The Asbo - who forfeited his Saturday off to help me complete my duty and get us on the road earlier.
You see, the Isle of Gigha is some 160 miles away and with Bingo at the controls there was every possibility of us getting lost or going in the wrong direction entirely. Fortunately, this time, he came prepared with "the analogue SatNav" as he referred to it: a small yellow post-it note stuck to the air-vent of his car's dashboard listing all the roads between Fife (aka Hazzard County) and Tayinloan ferry port.
You see, we had decided to go in heavy this time, taking the tepee, gazebo, tents, fold down chairs, table, and Aladdin Blue Flame paraffin droid for extra heat in the evening if required - and, of course, for cooking homemade bothy-style pizza on.
I had prepared around 8 pizza bases in the bread machine the night previous and - utilising the remains of a disposable barbeque - rigged up a grill-mod to the top of S3E3 (my Aladdin Blue Flame Paradroid) to make a tasty pre-gig munch. Who said camping out had to be without its luxuries? Provided we caught the 4 pm ferry across to Fantasy Island, we'd get there in plenty time to set up basecamp and stuff ourselves full of carbohydrates to help soak up the inevitable colossal consumption of liquid adult refreshments.
Check out the customer reviews for the Bic Cristal Ballpoint Pen. Here's a couple of excerpts...
'Received Bic Cristal a short while back and initially was very pleased with the product but after a couple of weeks usage it stopped working. There was no instruction manual, leads or power supply and didn't seem to be any way of charging it back up. I then decided to called the customer helpline regarding its warranty and to see if they would repair or replace it but the girl who answered my call just laughed and put the phone down on me. Very shoddy. Be warned.' - J.R. Hartley.
'My pen of choice when writing death threats and begging letters... especially the blood red version.' - Alan Smith.
'Whilst perfect as a general day to day writing implement, as I have many Pen Pals across the globe, I am wondering if it comes in any other languages? My foreign friends would be simply delighted to receive a missive from me in their native tongue and, not least, pretty damn impressed. If anyone can let me know that would be great.' - P. Day. (Amazon product listing).
For a band that I only discovered last year, I've now seen Shooglenifty play live more times than any other band I like. Why? Well, to put it simply, this band are completely mindblowing and it seems that whenever they play it is utterly impossible to avoid becoming possessed by one's inner hobo. In other words, jigging about all over the joint like that crazy old dude in the movie Deliverance (during the 'dueling banjos' scene) becomes mandatory. The exception to this rule, however, was the recent Portobello gig that I went to with my uptight Edinburgh friends. Having decided beforehand that they weren't going to enjoy it, it was no surprise that they couldn't get into the Shoogles. But then they think Kunt And The Gang are actually talented and - worse still - funny, when Kunt is clearly just an annoying, talentless little shit from Essex and a Roy 'Chubby' Brown of the music world.
Fortunately this time, however, I was joined by a couple of Bothy Councillors, and major Bothy points go to Stevie 'Seargent Matron' Lewis who, in the event of discovering that his van was on the blink, promptly wandered out of his remote Highland home at Loch Eilt, stuck his thumb up on the A830, hitched a ride into Fort William, then jumped on a bus to Glasgow before grabbing a train into Stirling - all in time to get himself a few beers and a bar meal before the gig. Good effort, sir. If Nick Bostrom and Jim Elvidge are right and we're all living in a simulated reality, then The Matron's "can-do" attitude has just won him a lifetime's supply of bacon rolls in the grand old game of Bothying.
So there we were. The Bothy Council: Dasbo The Asbo, Bingo McNeely, The Bailiff, Sergeant Matron and myself, Darth Paraffin, flaffing around with tents outside Glenuig Village Hall on a wet Saturday afternoon in November, simply because we knew we’d be too drunk to make it back to The Matron’s gaff later that evening.
Technically there was every danger of us dying from hypothermia had it not been for a couple of Tilley Lamps heating up the inside of a tepee and the underside of a haphazardly erected gazebo.
It’s not often that I have any desire to head to the big smoke these days. Not only have I grown weary of densely populated areas, but the current chaos caused by the never-ending tram works to the city centre fill me with such dread that I have generally opted to give Edinburgh as wide a berth as possible.
That was until I heard The Cult were coming to town.
Utilising the city’s Park & Ride facility, we avoided having to drive around in endless circles by dropping the car off at Ingliston and busing it straight to Lothian Road. After a few swift pints at The Shakespeare we headed to the Old Picture House to see The Cult perform their 1985 Love album in its entirety as well as an encore of some of their greatest hits.
I hate the way venues try and drain more beer money out of you by having you wait for hours for the band to come on. If they say the gig starts at 7 pm, then why the fuck do I have to wait until almost 8:15 pm just to see the goddamned support band? Fortunately we anticipated that this might be the case and arrived just before eight, but after enduring almost an hour of the droning dirge that was pretentiously called Aqua Nebula Oscillator, an over-priced plastic pint of Edinburgh piss-water was required to take the edge off.
'The Turkish film industry has a curious tradition of appropriating Hollywood classics and remaking them on a budget roughly equivalent to the price of lunch at a neighborhood kebab shop. Devoted readers of Film Threat will recall The Turkish Wizard of Oz, which tossed the MGM classic over an Istanbul rainbow and into a realm of utter surrealism, and there are also Turkish-based versions of Star Trek, Tarzan, Superman and even E.T. lurking about.
'However, none of this knowledge could possibly prepare you for the jaw-dropping insanity of The Turkish Star Wars. This film is not actually a scene-for-scene remake of the George Lucas landmark, although it shamelessly pirated the special effects footage from the 1977 original and tacked it into a feverish nightmare of celluloid dementia which needs to be seen if only to prove how far the minds of lunatic filmmakers can run. Prepare yourself, because the only way to appreciate The Turkish Star Wars is to follow the storyline through its labyrinthine lunacy.' (Google video stream & Film Threat review).
'Finally, after 23 years of tortured development, pinging from studio to studio, star to star, and even courtroom to courtroom, the Watchmen adaptation has arrived on screen. It’s not for the faint-hearted - and, despite the preponderance of Spandex outfits, capes and costumes, not for the kids either.
'The movie, a 2¾ hour epic that had its world premiere in Leicester Square, is based on Alan Moore’s and Dave Gibbons's seminal graphic novel about a group of ex-superheroes coming to terms with themselves and an impending nuclear doomsday. For more than two decades a big screen adaptation has been the maddeningly elusive goal of directors such as Terry Gilliam and Darren Aronofsky, and actors such as Arnold Schwarzenegger and Joaquin Phoenix.
'Even when this $100 million version, directed by Zack Snyder, became the centre of a court battle between Hollywood studios (one accused the other of copyright violation, and blocked the movie’s release) it only added to the sense that Watchmen would never see the inside of a cinema.
'The film that has emerged, however, is a mesmerising and brutalising experience, and will be, for some at least, more than worth the wait. Set in a mid-Eighties Manhattan of the comic book imagination, where “costumed vigilantes” have changed the course of US history (Nixon is saved, the Vietcong defeated, etc), the dense narrative unfolds as a whodunnit in the head of a psychopathic do-gooder called Rorschach (Jackie Earle Haley). In Stygian nightscapes reminiscent of Taxi Driver and Seven, Rorschach visits his four former crime-fighting buddies, including Matthew Goode’s brainiac businessman Ozymandias and Malin Akerman’s killer femme Silk Spectre, in an attempt to expose a secret assassin who’s nurturing apocalyptic plans for the entire Eastern seaboard.' (Times review & Isohunt torrent download).
'Following 2007's lacklustre Eat Me, Drink Me, the uncommon introspection of which was prompted by his failed marriage to burlesque performer Dita Von Teese, Marilyn Manson seemed a spent force. While High End Of Low isn't nearly the equal of career highlights Mechanical Animals and Holy Wood, it nevertheless proves there's still a fair dose of blood and bile to pour from his carcass yet. More impressively, at its best it provides a pointed satirical commentary on noughties America.
'This return to form of sorts is partly down to the return of bassist and co-songwriter Twiggy Ramirez, who parted company with Manson in 2002. It's his lolloping bassline that powers what would be High End Of Low's most clear-cut hit (if it wasn’t more full of swears than Gordon Ramsay's kitchen on a bad day). Even its title - "Arma-Goddamn-F***ng-Geddon" - doesn't escape. Redolent of "Beautiful People"; while this isn't going to win Manson new admirers, existing fans will be relieved to hear he can still kick out the jams.' (BBC Music review and Full Album Delux Edition torrent download).
'This sci-fi thriller - co-written by Bruce Dickinson, frontman of the heavy-metal band Iron Maiden - attempts to capture the spirit of occultist Aleister Crowley. Crowley was mad and bad. What a coincidence: so is the film.
'Dickinson’s big idea is that Crowley (who died in 1947) would fit perfectly into the modern world. It’s the year 2000 and a physicist from California, Dr Joshua Mathers (Kal Weber), wants to link his virtual reality suit to the world’s biggest computer, the Cambridge-based Z93.
'But wait - everything else about the film is pants, so don’t refile Dickinson as a genius just yet. His collaborator, Julian Doyle, is a diabolical director. The film - crammed with Vaseline-shiny female breasts - looks like a soft-porn version of Dr Who, with a couple of tired pop promo tricks thrown in. A host of unknown actors are as earnest as they are dreadful. As for Callow, he should know better.' (This Is London article).
I was first introduced to the ideas and theories of Jim Elvidge in an interview he did with Red Ice Creations Radio. His clarity, intelligence and wit impressed me so much that it prompted me to write to the author to see if I could acquire a review copy of his new book The Universe – Solved! - a work that proported to be a "provocative view of the nature of reality”. I was not disappointed.
Elvidge’s background is rooted in engineering. Having gained a Masters Degree in Electrical Engineering from Cornell University, Elvidge has kept pace with the latest research, theories and discoveries in the varied fields of subatomic physics, cosmology, articifical intelligence, nanotechnology and the paranormal. Coming from an Electrical and Electronic background myself, what astonished me most about his book was the clarity and lucidity of his writing. Most of the engineers I came across during my time working for Raytheon were completely incapable of communicating in a language that the layperson could appreciate or understand; over-engineering things to the point of insanity, and getting patted on the back by their caravaning contemporaries for doing what should have resulted in a disciplinary hearing. Then again, most of the engineers I’ve met were on ridiculously high salaries for what appeared to be little more than pursuing a career that involved staring at a Microsoft Excel spreadsheet for 9 hours a day. Also, most of them were so rooted in their academic education that anything that deviated into the areas of fringe science would be categorised as utter nonsense.
Not so with Jim Elvidge. To put it simply, The Universe – Solved! is a treatise on a concept that has become quite commonplace in today’s mainstream culture: the idea that reality might not be exactly what we think it is, and that perhaps we are actually living in a simulation. Popularised largely by the half-rate movie The Matrix and its dismally dull sequels, this is not a new idea, and authors like Philip K. Dick have been exploring these concepts in their fictional writings for many years.
'For the second encore of their first, full concert in twenty-seven years, at London's 02 arena last night, Led Zeppelin tore into "Rock and Roll," from their untitled fourth album, with a joyful vengeance. As drummer Jason Bonham hammered with the ghostly precision and ferocity of his late father, guitarist Jimmy Page fired dirty chunks of Chuck Berry and bassist John Paul Jones kept iron time with familiar reserve, singer Robert Plant sang the most obvious words of the night: "Been a long time since I rock and rolled." Overhead, images of a much younger Zeppelin, in concert during the early and mid-Seventies, flashed on a huge digital-video screen. In those films, Led Zeppelin were the biggest, loudest and most cocksure band in rock. Jimmy Page's now snow-white hair was still jet black; Robert Plant was a golden god, not yet a Viking elder, and the late John Bonham - whose death in 1980 abruptly ended Zeppelin's reign - still ruled the engine room.' (Rolling Stone article).
Back in 1997, I sent a draft copy of The Probationer's Handbook to the late provocative occult writer Gerald Suster (author of The Legacy of the Beast, Hitler: Black Magician and Crowley's Apprentice: The Life & Ideas of Israel Regardie). To my surprise he wrote a review of my book which got published in the winter 97/98 edition of the London-based esoteric journal Talking Stick.
One decade later I have scanned the review in and reproduced it here for those interested in acquiring a copy of the book.
I'll be sending out review copies to various people soon, so hopefully there will be more up-to-date reviews available shortly.
In the meantime, if you're interested in purchasing a copy of the work, it can be ordered here priced at a mere £7.77 (that's $14.10 in imperial money).
Written ten years ago and filed away on a shelf to gather dust, The Probationer's Handbook was a project I had all intentions of getting published at the time, but never quite got around to.
Now with the arrival of innovative book publishing websites like lulu.com, The Probationer's Handbook is finally available to purchase in paperback.
Subtitled A Manual Of Instruction For The Student Of The A.'.A.'., the work is primarily a handbook for those wishing to commence solitary work on Aleister's Crowley's A.'.A.'. system of magical and spiritual attainment.
Receiving an outstanding review from the late occult writer Gerald Suster in the winter 1997/98 edition of London based esoteric journal Talking Stick, the book - whilst no longer reflecting my prefered approach to modern day occult practice - is still considered by myself to be an invaluable handbook for those interested in commencing the probationary tasks of the A.'.A.'. syllabus.
As Gerald Suster wrote: "Mortimer's book is grounded in that of Crowley yet he goes beyond it and I think the Master Therion would applaud. He tackles issues obviously based on experience, which have never been satisfactorily tackled before. If you have the slightest sincere interest in Magick and human evolution, you really must get hold of this book. The author's acid wit regarding New Age garbage adds spice to this excellent work. Do you really want to make Magick? If so, you must beg, borrow or steal a copy of this wonderful book."
Available for a mere £7.77 ($14.10) at lulu.com one hopes that individuals drawn towards Crowleyan occultism will find this 100-page manuscript helpful and informative despite being written a decade ago.
Personally, I'm just glad the damned thing is out so that I can finally move on to other projects without having the niggling knowledge that I spent so much time writing it to see my only copy wither away on a dusty bookshelf.
Order your copy today and feel free to write a review, post feedback or contact me with questions.
Originally written in Portuguese by historians Joaquim Fernandes & Fina D’ Armada, and translated into English by cognitive gymnast Alexandra ‘Chica’ Bruce, Celestial Secrets: The Hidden History Of The Fátima Incident is the second book in Fernandes & Armada’s planned Fátima Trilogy, which explores the famed Fátima incident of 1917 in a way that’ll have orthodox Roman Catholics screaming out for a return to inquisition-style tribunals and the burning of witches at the stake.
The trilogy argues, quite convincingly, that the famous Fátima incident of 1917 - which all devout Catholics have come to know, love and feel safe with - did not actually involve a series of Marian apparitions (as is commonly accepted) but may in fact have been a sequence of extra-terrestrial encounters of a most unusual nature.
As a fervent critic of today's youth not having any form of culture that isn't borrowed from somewhere else (or from a previous generation), it was a sublime pleasure to have my opinions blown away at the weekend when I turned up to Monty's Bar in Dunfermline to check out metal band Certain Death. With twin vocals allied to a uniquely heavy, rhythmic, and aggressive sound, Certain Death blew me away sufficiently enough to realise that all hope is not lost in today's youth and that anger is still alive and well and capable of being driven in a positive and creative direction. Hailing from my original hometown Kirkcaldy (who the hell would've thought anything good could come from that town?) the band's ability and stage presence is nicely mixed with enough tongue-in-cheek humour to realise that they don't take themselves too seriously to be pretentious. After having been shortlisted for T In The Park (the biggest festival in the UK) Certain Death blasted their way through 700 competitors to end up in the final 12. They didn't win the event, but that was probably only because ear drums were bleeding and medical attention was considered temporarily more important. Be sure to check out their website, page on MySpace and videos on YouTube.
Yesterday afternoon I received an email from Andrist asking if I'd been abducted. "If you need words that rhyme with suck for a review let me know," he remarked.
I felt bad. I'd been sitting on his CD for months and had been promising to review it ever since it was sent out around March this year. In my defence I'd been going through some weird shit which culminated in me being fired from my day job.
So I promised to review it the following day and sat down that night to watch What's Eating Gilbert Grape - a movie that I hadn't seen in quite some time. And that's when it hit me. Holy Jumping Jesus! Andy Andrist reminds me of Arnie Grape (the retard played by Leonardo Di Cappuccino in the movie).