Title: Town Trouble

It is one in the morning on Saturday night and town is alive and ecstatic with power-drinkers and nightclubbers. The managers are cramming them in at up to £15 a head in some places, and at over £3.50 per drink, there's money to be made in this industry. People on minimum wage will spend hundreds of pounds in one night as they trawl from club-to-club slowly getting hammered. The town's gay scene is electric tonight. Two new nightclubs have opened in the last month and have proved a hit with the gay and lesbian community. There's the Colony which caters for regular homosexual customers who want to meet, drink and take it easy. And there's the Havana where those into leather and rubber can mingle in their overpriced bondage gear without fuss. It is at the Colony where fifty-five year old Anthony is heading. The roads and pavements were wet as it had been raining earlier, and you could see streetlights and neon signs reflected in the puddles. It feels like walking through the explosion of an expensive firework in slow-motion. Vibrant colours twist and distort around Anthony as he walks towards town.

The sound of nightlife gradually gets louder. What started out as a barely-audible buzz of static has quickly become a roar of dance music, screaming and laughter. Anthony continues walking past the various establishments. He sees drunken hen-nighters stumbling down stairs and landing in a heap of broken high-heels and shattered mobile phones. One of the bouncers looked up a woman's skirt before helping her to her feet. Anthony glances at the entrance door of Juice nightclub and sees two black doormen staring at him. Suddenly, their attention is quickly diverted to a fight between two white gentlemen metres away. One of the men has a bag of coke in his pocket which splits from the grabbing and punching. The two men claw at each other's faces in a shower of white powder. Their girlfriends just look at each other and run off in seperate directions. Nobody will even remember why the fight started or who even won. Police cars and ambulances are approaching to impose at least some order on the devastation.

Anthony turns a corner and the tall, bright sign of the Colony is in view. Vibrant pink with deep yellow text. All the letters are working. He arrives at the Colony and heads down a few concrete steps where he is greeted by the doorman who recognises him. They both nod and smile at each other and Anthony walks inside. He hears the door close behind him. Inside, the place is dimly-lit and warm with a few people chatting to each other.

He raises his head and squints his eyes at the bar. There's only a few other homosexuals stood at the bar so Anthony has no problem getting a drink. One of the most annoying things in the world is when a drinking establishment is packed out and yet people insist on crowding in front of the bar after they've been served. It's like, get out of the way. So Anthony orders a big glass of pear cider and after receiving his change, stands at the bar and looks over to the door just as someone he's never met before enters. The man smiles immediately as he enters the club. He's about 6' 2" with grayish hair, and Anthony is immediately attracted to him, but turns away as the stranger approaches the bar and stands next to him. To Anthony's surprise, the new man speaks with a strong American accent.

"I'll have a vodka and pure orange."

The bartender raises his eyebrows slightly, also surprised, then smiles and begins preparing the drink. Anthony wants to meet the man, but doesn't have the courage to say anything.

"Crazy nightlife round these parts, no?"

Anthony spins round and sees that the stranger is talking to him. He quickly tries to think of something to say back.

"Erm, yes. Always like this on a Saturday", he replies before drinking again and taking a deep breath.

"Are you on holiday around here, or...?" he manages to ask.

"Yeah," the stranger replies, "stayin' with some folks o' mine for another week and then it's back to the good old USA."

Anthony feels a lot more relaxed. The man's casual behaviour seems to have rubbed off on him. The man stretches out his hand towards Anthony.

"So what's your name, partner?" he asks.

"Anthony, you?"

The man clears his throat and says "I'm George, pleased to meet ya. You wanna head over to a table where we can get to know each other a little better?"

"Sure," replies Anthony, accidentally in a half-American voice.

Anthony follows George over to a four-seater where they both sit down opposite one another. They see drunken people staggering past the window next to them. Anthony is the first to enquire into what George's career is.

"What do I do? I push pens at Ellington Air Force Base. Signing papers, all that other garbage. Nothing too interesting. What I'm really into right now is my scriptwriting."

This intrigues Anthony, who asks " You're a scriptwriter?"

"Well," replies George, "I haven't had anything published or made yet or whatever, but yeah that's my true passion in life."

"That's excellent, I'll look out for your name on the next Hollywood Blockbuster!"

The two laugh, knowing that total failure is inevitable. George has the courtesy to ask about what Anthony does in life.

"I recently settled into a new office job. The rock and roll band wasn't working out so now I just do the computer stuff all day."

"You were in a rock band?" George asks, genuinely interested.

"Yeah," Anthony replies, "Kind of a Rolling Stones-style group. No good though."

George laughs and says "The closest I ever got to stardom was being the head cheerleader at my school."

Anthony laughs, but is unsure of whether George is joking or not. He's actually telling the truth. The two sit in silence for a few seconds, grinning and looking at their drinks. Anthony finishes his.

"What'll it be?" he asks George.

"Same again if you don't mind."

Anthony nods and walks over to the bar. George looks out of the window next to them and sees an ambulance drive past. The bartender places two drinks on the bar and Anthony pays him for them. Shortly afterwards, Anthony returns with George's vodka and pure orange, and his own pear cider.

George begins drinking. He awakens, unsure of where he is or how he got there. He is dizzy and cannot find the energy to speak or move his limbs. His vision is blurry. A figure stands over him, he can recognise the shapes but can't quite remember who it is.

"You're awake!" says Anthony.

It's Anthony. George is beyond confused. Has he been spiked?

"You know George," Anthony says, "The moment I saw you I wanted to fuck your brains out. You are the hottest piece of gay arse I've ever seen."

George cannot speak. Gay? George was not gay.

"I've seen a lot of gay men like yourself come into the Colony over the years but you are something special, my friend."

George is hearing these words but they're hardly making sense. He thinks he's dreaming. What was Anthony talking about?

"And now, George, you sexy American beast. I am going to have my way with you. Nobody enters the second-hottest gay bar in town without expecting to get a good, hard fuck at the end of the night."

And then it hits George. Gay bar?! He had no idea. Maybe he should have done some research into the area before heading into the first club he saw. Now that he thinks about it, there were no women in the Colony. The blurry-shape of Anthony has wandered off somewhere. George didn't even notice he'd walked away until several seconds after it had happened. He can hear the opening and closing of drawers. The noise is heavy on his ears. Anthony says something but George is too drugged-up to make out what he said. He hears the sound of footsteps approaching. Anthony still has his shoes on. The blurriness of Anthony's face morphs back into George's vision and George is startled to see a long, blue shape flopping around there as well.

He feels Anthony's hands dig into his side before he is quickly flipped over onto his front, lifelessly. George manages to let out a groaning noise as a reaction for when Anthony yanks off George's corduroys. The sound of Anthony unzipping himself sounds like a train screeching on its tracks and coming to a sudden stop.

"I'm gonna plow you in like a badger digging for truffles, George!"

Anthony thrusts his rock-hard erection into George's barnhole. The pain hits George suddenly; a blunt feeling all through his anus. George's face is being mashed against the pillow, which is soaking up all the moisture from his eyeballs. George can just about feel his rectum tearing and this is confirmed when Anthony complains about his penis being covered in blood. The sodomy continues for another eight minutes, with the victim just lying there and taking it, until Anthony ejaculates inside George's destroyed anus. For a second, George regrets leaving his favourite pistol at home, but then disregards it as he wouldn't have had the energy to pull the trigger anyway.

Anthony's head rolls back as he sighs, and slowly pulls out of George, who manages a low grunting noise but still cannot move more than a couple of fingers at a time. He wipes his bloodied shaft on George's underwear and begins zipping his trousers back up. George is paralysed from a combination of date-rape drugs and severe pain. Once again, he feels Anthony grab him at the side and flip him over. He lands in a puddle of his own sweat, blood and feces. His vision is still blurry and distorted although he recognises something. Anthony is stood over him with the wobbly blue shape again. It is a vibrator. George couldn't react if he wanted to, but Anthony rams the dildo straight into George's drooling mouth, breaking six of his teeth in the process. He takes it back out, and rams it in again. Each time he does this, teeth splinters stab into George's gums. His mouth is now practically no longer reconstructible. George's reflexes are forcing him to swallow huge mouthfuls of blood, saliva and teeth shards. Throughout the agony, George has only just realised his penis is still exposed. His instinct is to cover himself up but his movement is limited to only his wrists, fingers and toes.

Anthony takes George's flaccid penis into his hand and begins masturbating him. George can feel no pleasure but is aware of what is going on. He feels his penis get warmer as Anthony wraps his lips around it, and Anthony begins sucking George into oblivion.

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April could hardly believe her eyes when her retarded son Bon-bon crossed the finish line at his school sports day. Bon-bon's face shone with glee as he decimated the tape with his lovely, round stomach. His mother rushed to greet him.
"Bon-bon! I'm so proud of you!" she exclaimed. Bon-bon just stood there, saliva bubbling down his chin as his lips contorted into a toothy smile. He grunted.
His mother said, "Well done, my son. You really are special, do you know that?"
These are the words Bon-bon was used to. Every time he hears the word 'special', it reminds him of just how special he is.

Bon-bon glances back at the other special children. Their parents try to hide their disappointment as they shuffle over to greet their loser children. Most people who are good at sports have some mental retardation, but these children had neither the brains nor the stamina to compete with Bon-bon. He was the best spastic in the school.
"I'll tell you what", April says with a feigned smile, "We can go to KFC for your dinner, how does that sound?"
Bon-bon smiled, grunted twice and clapped his hands. It was the only reaction he knew. What he would have really liked to have said was "No. I'm sick of KFC. We've been having it every three days since I was born. How about I get that KFC bucket and ram it straight up your twat, you cold bitch?!"

Bon-bon shoved the big, blue KFC doors open with his wrists as he and his mother strolled inside.
"I'll go order for us, why don't you sit at the table next to that plant and wait for me?" April said. Bon-bon twaddled over to the table his mother had so thoughtfully designated for him. Right next to the plant. He drops onto the chair with a thud and sits with his legs wide apart and begins chewing the floppy, rubber leaf next to his face. It tastes like plastic. Bon-bon thinks of the children he left behind at sports day, the loser children whose parents will drive them home in an uncomfortable silence as they try to forget what a failure they've raised, before one of them says "Let's stick the radio on, shall we?" and they continue the journey listening to Steve Wright extolling the alleged talents of Amy Winehouse.

The sudden realisation hits Bon-bon like a trampoline hurtling towards him at gale-force speeds. He wanted to be with the loser children. He is sick of being special, recieving special treatment wherever he goes. No regular person experiences such victory at their school sports day, let alone throughout the rest of their lives. The retarded children he ran ahead of just an hour earlier became 'normal'. They knew what it felt like to be mediocre. April turns and smiles at Bon-bon while patiently waiting for her turn to order.

"NECKST PLEAZE" shrieks the short, Philipino woman behind the counter. She smiles cheerily as April takes one giant step forwards to place her order. "Hi, can I have one of your bargain buckets for £9.99? With the bottle of Pepsi?"
April braces herself for when the Philipino woman yells "YES ANY-TING ELSE?" and, after being asked, says "No thankyou" and watches the Philipino lady scuttle off and begin rapidly filling up the bargain bucket. April glances to Bon-bon and is half-surprised to see him gnawing on the table. She raises her eyebrows and sighs. Her moment of transfixion is interrupted upon the arrival of her order; A bargain bucket and two litres of Pepsi.
"TANK YOU" says the Philipino woman, grinning as she tilts her head to the side. April returns to her fat little son Bon-bon with the meal. He can smell the deliciousness as it approaches, and is able to prise his teeth off the table edge in time for the tray of goodness to be placed in front of him. He grunts and squeals with delight.

April and Bon-bon eat their fried chicken and chips in silence. Bon-bon manages three pieces of chicken and one portion of chips, while April, who is on a diet, only eats two pieces of chicken and two portions of fries, and beans and gravy. The two leave the establishment holding hands. Bon-bon clutches the bucket and its two remaining pieces of chicken (contained within) against his chest and they head towards April's £50,000 Land Rover.

Peering over the front seat to her child in the back, April informs Bon-bon that it's time for her bi-weekly trip to the gym. Bon-bon sits there grinning, cradling his bargain bucket like it's his child. He cannot express his disappointment that they won't be going straight home. He cannot bear to sit in the Land Rover for two hours while his mother jogs on a treadmill drinking overpriced bottled water and listening to Kate Nash on her iPod. But, as usual, he sits and stares despite the rage building inside him. Every speedbump, every sharp turn on the way to the gym violenty jolts him up and down and from side to side, but he does not complain.

They pull into the gym car park with the tyres scraping up carefully-placed gravel as the Land Rover comes to a halt.
"Can you be a good boy while I nip into the gym for a little while?" April asks Bon-bon. She already knows the answer, and even if it's not what Bon-bon wants, she doesn't really care. Bon-bon makes a woofing noise and lifts his bucket up and down, to which April replies "Thanks sunshine. Back soon!"
She grabs her sports bag and jumps out of the car. Bon-bon's heart skips a beat when the central locking slams shut, and he looks up from the door lock to see April jogging towards the shiny, glass entrance. In his entire lifetime he will not amass a vocabulary big enough to describe the rage he is feeling right now.

Inside, rich housewives jog on their treadmills while businessmen spend their day off lifting weights and toning their bodies. Everyone is plugged in for the same reason; They all want to be appealing. Heavy breathing and the quiet, distant tunes of MP3 players are the soundtrack for this freak show with no audience. April jogs for twenty minutes at a time, disregarding her son sat alone in the car park. Each step on the treadmill is another stomp on Bon-bon's mental health.

The condensation on the inside of April's Land Rover windows have been scrawled on with Bon-Bon's fingers. Only he knows what he intended to draw. Psychologists would later analyse the scribblings and suggest that Bon-bon had tried to draw what his mother would look like after being shot repeatedly with bullets. Bon-bon's breathing becomes heavier as his madness grows inside him. April's breathing becomes heavier as she jogs and exercises to take her mind off of her son. Bon-bon has had enough. He fumbles with his seat-belt holder until one of his chubby fingers hits the button and his seat-belt zips off of his chest. Bon-bon screams with fury and begins braying his head against the window. It takes just seven batterings for the window to be fully smashed. His head pours with blood but Bon-bon doesn't seem to notice. He bashes the rest of the glass away from the window with his paws before hurling the KFC bargain bucket out of the Land Rover. Remarkably, it lands intact, much to the surprise of a passing dog-walker.

Bon-bon is determined to get into the gym and take his mother to task about her neglecting him. He climbs out of the window head first and lands in a heap of blood and glass shards on the gravel. Rolling himself upwards, Bon-bon runs towards his bucket of fried chicken with a sense of freedom rushing through him. "Are you alright, lad?" asks the man walking his dog. He looks over the top of his glasses at Bon-bon who stands there, not sure how to react. Bon-bon glances down at the man's dog, who appears to be trying to scratch its way into the bargain bucket. This cannot be happening. Bon-bon runs towards the dog and kicks it as hard as he can in the chest, blasting it so hard into the air that the man spins all the way around like a human swingball set, with the dog as the tennis ball, vomiting its Pedigree Chum up in a big, half-digested firework.

"What in the fuck?!" yells the man, but Bon-bon has already grabbed his bucket and is running towards the same entrance his mother used. His excitment is overwhelming. He slams the door open with his chest and sees a woman, much like his own mother, helping her little girl try on new arm bands. The two are clearly scared. There is blood all over the floor, and the woman on reception reaches for the telephone to call security.
Bon-bon manages to yelp out "No!" He gently places the bargain bucket in the soil of a potted plant nearby and picks the little girl up in his arms, to the sound of her screaming "Mummy! Get him off me!"
She is crying and hysterical, and Bon-bon launches her through the reception booth window at the receptionist inside, knocking them both out and causing the little girl permanent brain damage.

"Wha... what have you done!?" asks the mother, tears running down her face. Bon-bon rips the lid off his bucket and mashes a big tasty chicken thigh in the woman's face. She screams and tries to fight back, but Bon-bon is too strong and pushes her back so hard she stumbles over and bangs her head on the vending machine. She lays there unconscious and Bon-bon runs off down the corridor towards the gym. Inside, April is unaware that her son has escaped the Land Rover, let alone that he's knocked out three females and kicked a dog so hard that it has excreted its own liver. Her blissful jogging session comes to an abrupt halt when Bon-bon rams into the treadmill room, spilling the remnants of his fried chicken bucket all over the polished hardwood floor.

"Bon-bon! No!" April instinctively replies. She blushes as all the other eyes in the room turn to her, realising they all know she's the mother of this bloodied-up spastic.
"BON-BON GO SHIT!" he yells as loud as he can, before ripping off his gray jogging bottoms and running over towards a middle-aged woman who is crouching behind a bench-press. The woman screams as he approaches. Bon-bon is within a few feet of her when he turns around and blasts a river of feces all over the bench-press and the woman's shoes. She panic and begins to run away, but slips on Bon-bon's excrement and falls, braining herself against the fifty kilogram weights.

April can only stand there, mortified as her son wreaks havoc around the gym, smearing his bodily fluids onto anyone and everything.
"BON-BON GO SHIT!"
He grinds his anus up and down the treadmill handle, imitating a pole dancer he once saw on MTV.
"Bon-bon... I... please, son!" April cannot find the words to calm herself down. She will never be the same way again after witnessing this incident. She hits the "up" button on her treadmill's settings and maxes it out at a speed she'd never be able to run on. April looks at her son, who is smacking a teenager in the head with a vinyl dumbbell, before getting to her knees in front of the treadmill. She presses her face against the moving surface in an attempt to sand her own face off, so as to never be recognised as the mother of Bon-bon, the retarded child who smeared shit all over their local gym.

The pain is unbearable, she screams as her flesh is ripped away and thrown into the wall behind. Children's art work on the wall of the gym is being painted over with April's blood. Eventually she passes out from the agony and the treadmill throws her body head first across the floor. Bon-bon looks at his mother, lying there unconscious, and the dozens of other people he's either killed or knocked out surrounding her. He begins to walk towards his bargain bucket with its remaining piece of fried chicken, when a team of twelve armed police officers burst in through the door.
"Police! Freeze!" one shouts. Their guns are drawn, but Bon-bon is unphased. He puts his hands in the air like they do on television.
"Get down on the ground!"
Bon-bon thinks for a moment. He's spent his whole life on the ground. People telling him where to go, what times, when to go to bed. Never again, he thinks, and begins running towards the police men. They have no option.

Bon-bon is washed away in a tsunami of bullets.

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I realise I've probably missed some off that I can add later. These are my favourite 50 films of all time. Don't be surprised if you don't find your favourite films on there.

1. Ichi the Killer by Takashi Miike.
2. City of God by Fernando Meirelles.
3. 4 by Ilya Khrzhanovsky.
4. The Idiots by Lars Von Trier.
5. Gummo by Harmony Korine.
6. 15 by Royston Tan.
7. Battle Royale by Kinji Fukasaku.
8. Y Tu Mama Tambien by Alfonso Cuaron.
9. Cannibal Holocaust by Ruggero Deodato.
10. Strike! by Sergei Eisenstein.

11. A Snake Of June by Shinya Tsukamoto.
12. Man Bites Dog by Remy Belvaux, Andre Bonzel and Benoit Poelvoorde.
13. The Holy Mountain by Alejandro Jodorowsky.
14. Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance by Park Chan-Wook.
15. Dancer in the Dark by Lars Von Trier.
16. Akira by Katsuhiro Otomo.
17. Tetsuo: Iron Man by Shinya Tsukamoto.
18. Men Behind the Sun by Tun Fei Mou.
19. The Happiness of the Katakuris by Takashi Miike.
20. Back to the Future by Steven Spielberg.

21. Requiem for a Dream by Darren Aronofsky.
22. La Haine by Mathieu Kassovitz.
23. Guinea Pig 2: Flower of Flesh and Blood by Hideshi Hino.
24. Belleville Rendezvous by Sylvain Chomet.
25. Black Sun: The Nanking Massacre by Tun Fei Mou.
26. A Clockwork Orange by Stanley Kubrick.
27. Save the Green Planet! by Jeong Jun-Hwan.
28. Joint Security Area by Park Chan-Wook.
29. Irreversible by Gaspar Noe.
30. Dead or Alive by Takashi Miike.

31. Bullet Ballet by Shinya Tsukamoto.
32. Amores Perros by Alejandro Gonzales Iñarritu.
33. Schindler's List by Steven Spielberg.
34. Scum by Alan Clarke.
35. Visitor Q by Takashi Miike.
36. Fight Club by David Fincher.
37. Trainspotting by Danny Boyle.
38. Pink Flamingos by John Waters.
39. Ring by Hideo Nakata.
40. Beijing Bicycle by Wang Xiaoshuai.

41. Borat by Larry Charles.
42. Gozu by Takashi Miike.
43. American History X by Tony Kaye.
44. Oldboy by Park Chan-Wook.
45. Battleship Potemkin by Sergei Eisenstein.
46. Freddy got Fingered by Tom Green.
47. Audition by Takashi Miike.
48. Triumph of the Will by Leni Riefenstahl.
49. Europa by Lars Von Trier.
50. Atheist Cunt by Joe Bradburn.

The one at 50 is a flick I made myself. The following are films which deserve a mention, but I hadn't seen before I compiled the list or they just skipped my mind:

Un Chien Andalou by Salvador Dali and Luis Brunel.
Even Dwarfs Started Small by Werner Herzog.

Updated: 02/08/08 2:35 PM 14 comments | Log in to comment! | Share this!

The Labour Party
Eldon House
Regent Centre
Newcastle Upon Tyne
NE3 3PW

Dear, The Labour Party.

You came into power when I was ten years old. At the time my schoolmates and I were concerned about the implications of the Labour Party replacing the Conservatives, only because there was a rumour going around that if Tony Blair became Prime Minister he intended to extend the schoolday by two hours. So as you can imagine, my immediate opinion of you was not all that pleasant. Thankfully over the last ten years you've turned me right around, and I have to say I am somewhat a 'fan' of your wonderful organisation.

As a child, the first thing I noticed regarding your new ideas for the country was a remarkably large and swift influx of immigrant labour. I am from a working class background and my family members in the building trade were overjoyed at all the extra work they received from customers of unskilled, unqualified immigrant plumbers and electricians who had promised to do the job at an unrealistically low price. Not only that, but my knowledge of foreign cultures has been greatly expanded because of all the new languages I hear all the time, usually in the form of loud shouting from middle-Eastern teenagers who drive around at wonderfully vibrant speeds, narrowly-avoiding pedestrians in the process. I couldn't really tell you what these people shout at me, but I'm sure it's nothing racist, intolerant or threatening (unlike the bricks I had thrown at me at school by our non-English-speaking schoolmates). Thank you for bringing me closer to the people I've learned to love, considering any lesser emotion towards these people would get me sent down for racism!

Despite all this brilliance, I think the tackling of crime has been your most successful area of work. It's great to see a government stick to their guns (which, ironically, we're seeing a lot of these days) when it comes to the implementation of punishment; Over the last ten years you've stood up to ridiculous ideas such as the death penalty and the construction of new prisons, and have instead focused more on getting convicted criminals out of prison and back into society. Of course there are a few naysayers around who aren't exactly thrilled at having to share the streets with violent thugs, child molesters, rapists, thieves, drug addicts and murderers, but if you continue to ignore their opinions long enough I'm sure they'll forget their archaic values and will conform to your wonderful ideology. The parents of raped and murdered children sleep soundly at night knowing their taxes are providing the misunderstood individuals who killed their children with a roof over his or her head and three meals a day. Some of them even get DVD players.

The effects you've had on religion in this country has been nothing short of miraculous. As a young child I spent many-an-hour at school praising Jesus, praying to God and reciting hymns. Then whole school would pray before every school dinner, thanking God for providing us with the food we all wrongly assumed our parents had paid for. However, at the beginning of my fourth year at school, I discovered to my surprise that the traditional pray-first-eat-after system had been replaced by the eat-then-go-out-and-play system. Gradually over the following year or two I began to see less and less of the Christianity into which I'd been indoctrinated and more and more of other religions that I'd previously been totally unaware of because I'm a shut-in and I never watch the television, read books or look outside. I turned atheist before I turned ten, and received ridicule for doing so, despite being encouraged to embrace the countless other faiths that were being forced down my throat. Still without theism in 2007, I now hear that Christians are being discouraged from celebrating "Christmas", whatever that is, for fear of offending non-Christians. Bravo! There's nothing us non-Christians find more offensive than Christians taking one day out of the year to remember the birth of Jesus by giving presents, being together and enjoying life.

It's not just the interests of others that your policies improve though. Being highly interested in the media (cinema, music, etc) your courageous censorship laws keep myself and countless others well-informed as to what we can and can't see. Take films for example, the B.B.F.C. do a fantastic job of thoroughly examining everything available to us so that we, the viewer, are less likely to see anything which offends us. After spending £20 (almost four hours' wage) on Takashi Miike's 2001 film "Ichi the Killer", I was delighted to watch the film and realise it was missing certain footage. In fact, over three minutes of material that I'd paid for was not there! Being only eightteen years old at the time, I was obviously unable to decide what I do and do not want to see in the films I watch, so thank heavens the B.B.F.C. was there to make the decision for me! Although it raises the question; What about the dedicated censors who choose to butcher our DVDs? Are they driven to kill by what they see? We know for a fact that violence in the media causes people to go on killing sprees; as opposed to the widely-believed nonsense that what causes mental disfunction is living in a backwards, pseudo-Communist police state where decisions are made on behalf of the consumer. My heart goes out to those working to ensure I don't see any special effects that I couldn't handle. Just a suggestion: Perhaps we could start implementing this kind of procedure in restaurants. Say I go out for a meal and order steak, carrots and potatoes, but the waiter/waitress delivering my meal that I'm paying for doesn't like carrots. Let's give them the right to take the carrots off my plate but still charge me full price! It's the same concept as media censorship, so surely it would work.

You are really bringing us into the future. In the last ten years we've come on leaps and bounds as a country, and I'm sure our war veterans would agree. They might sit there with their medals in their freezing cold flats daydreaming about how they risked their own lives and saw their friends shot to pieces during World War 2, all to preserve freedom and everything Britain once stood for, but for Pete's sake, that was sixty years ago! You'd think they would have gotten over it by now! I mean all they did was endure hell so they could live to experience harassment and violent attack from yobs, I'm sure if they had known what a wonderful future they had instore for them the allies would have beaten the Nazis in twice the time it took, with or without the Americans. Although looking back it's a good job that America got involved with the war, as this I think brought the two countries closer together. When George W. Bush decided he wanted to invade Iraq, the justification for which turned out to be a lie, who was the first country he turned to for support? Britain! It's great knowing that British children are still being left with dead fathers so that our former Prime Minister Tony Bliar could snuggle up to the American President. I speak on behalf of the country when I say keep our boys over there as long as you see fit; The more of our soldiers you send to their deaths the better, as this will free up space back in Britain for the next wave of immigrants. Apparently a big reason why they travel across Europe to get in here isn't because of our over-generous benefits system or lenient punishments for crimes, it's to marvel in wonder at our glorious towns and cities, made ever more dynamic by what's known as "vibrant urban neon-coloured improvisational wall art." You wouldn't believe how many youths can scribble their names into the windows of one bus shelter, it's truly inspiring. As is the way our boring street ornaments such as telephone boxes and road signs are being constantly updated by other similairly-creative youths. While driving, my friends and I play a game where we see who can spot the most telephone boxes on the side of the road we're closest to. You get one point for a regular telephone box, and four-thousand points for a telephone box which has all its windows intact. Obviously the "four-thousand points" thing is an in-joke among us, as we know we'll never see such a crazy idea in real life.

Well, I won't take up any more of your time. I'll seal this envelope and walk down to the post box so you can read my letter of appreciation to you. There was a time when I would've driven down to said post box, but after seeing a row of bicycles chained outside the houses of Parliament I have decided to go environmentally friendly for life. Keep up the good work. Don't change a thing about what you're doing to the country because as you keep telling us, it's for our own good.

Yours faithfully,

Arnold T. Heist.

P.S. Happy upcoming Winter Celebration Day for the 25th.

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