Thursday, 21 March 2013

Night After Night After Night


Glimmung reporting.

1 hour and two minutes or something in, a sleazy looking bastard heads towards Mornington Crescent station ('Sorry, I Haven't Got A Clue' listeners take note!) into a police station. Grass.

There aren't enough people in the world called Gilbert these days.

Smutsit.

It's a look.

Detective Gilbert Wynne observes a smut decorated room and returns to the station for some stilted dialogue with a colleague. It's so awkward, you begin to wonder if they once had a 'thing'. Cut to Jack May’s psychotic Judge in terrible Mancunian indie wig and leather jacket shuffling along the street, window shopping for lingerie.

Quite an appropriate sign for a red light area.

Chekov's first time.

Freud?

I shit 'im.

He crosses Shepherd Market and is solicited by a prostitute, where he is spotted by what looks like a passing cross dresser who phones the cops. The nutcase Judge goes into a girl’s room. He paws at her privates half heartedly before producing a flick-knife. The cops arrive just in time and he ducks out of a window and flees across the rooftops.



Judgie quickly enters an empty flat and swaps wigs conveniently placed and attempts to disguise himself very badly as a woman / tranny with clownish make-up. The overall effect is Ivy Tilsley on 'The Word', but with less testosterone.  

'We're homophobic...'

'...and there's nothing you can do about it...'

'...because it's the sixties. We're racist, too, and we jeer at ladies.'

Seriously, would you fuck about with this bloke?

The fuzz lose him and he returns to the street in bad tranny disguise, but it's the sixties, so he is nabbed by one of the homophobic gangs that used to hang around every street corner all day and night on the offchance that someone vaguely homosexual might walk past. They follow him up the street, hands on hips, blowing kisses and, finally, snatching his wig off and plonking on their own stupid heads. There's only two ways to combat prejudice of this sort, of course: the first is to rise above it, the second is to stab that fucker in the eye. That will teach him. The Judge returns to his smutsit, hallucinating at all the dirty pics and finally frenziedly attacking them with his tongue and knife. Lick, lick, laugh, laugh, stab, stab. Quite unpleasant.

Sad face.

Happy face.

Down in the dumps.

He's cheered up again. Make your fractured mind up, mate. 


The cops are stuck in traffic (London, innit) His Honour finds a gun in his desk drawer and decides to attempt shooting himself in his lipstick smeared mouth, but when the cops finally arrive he’s gone again.

This is a low. Even for a Judge.


Cut to Albert Bridge, where Judgie is now tottering along the riverbank in unsuitable shoes. The pigs arrive and a siege of sort takes place. At one point, George Best attempts to bring him a Wimpy burger, but he can't get past the cordon. The Police approach painfully slowly and, just at the moment the Judge is about to surrender, he makes the mistake of lifting his gun half an inch and a sniper shoots him dead for no apparent reason. Heavenly choir. The End.

“He said he needed help”. Care in the community strikes again.

This screenshot sums it all up, really.

The plot appears to be a standard cops chasing cross dressing psycho sex killer Judge feature, with exceedingly dull dialogue, painfully slow pacing, and a little smut thrown in to keep the audience from slipping into a vegetative state. Piss poor and not a fucking duck in fucking sight. 

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