The Devil Drops In

So, last night the QFT held it's first ever Horror All-Night-a-Thon.  Not just any horror, oh no.  The Devil Drops In was all about the Prince of Darkness, and some of his exploits on screen.  A night spent in a darkened room with a bunch of horror fans watching Satan cut loose might not be everyone's idea of good time.  But I went along for the ride and, by god, I survived.  I survived!

Nine hours of horror and countless cups of free coffee later, my memory of the night is somewhat...hazy?  But in the interests of intrepid journalism, let's attempt to walk through the evening's terror.

The Devil Rides Out

The campiest romp of camp romps.  A Hammer horror starring Christopher Lee (of course) based on the novel of the same name by Dennis Wheatley.  Lee plays the Duc de Richleau who discovers the son of a friend is involved in all things Satanic.  Attempting to rescue Simon from the Devil's clutches, the film takes in not-entirely-high-speed car chases through the English countryside in which nobody actually appears to be driving, and an unintentionally hilarious cast of supporting characters including a cross eyed Duchess and the Devil himself.  Fortunately, Satan (a half man, half goat type being) appears to be easily defeated by some car headlights, so that's the end of that.  The film basically ends with one great big deus ex machina and some God praising - God bless us, everyone!

Invocation of My Demon Brother

Nope.  No idea what was going on here.  Kenneth Anger's short film is full of psychedelic '60s mysticism which therefore means it made no sense whatsoever.
What I can remember - there were some evil cats.  There was a man wearing some fabulous glittery robes.  There was an Albino doing some serious thinking.  There were quite a lot of penises.  There was a bored looking dog.  I understood how the dog felt.
The film also boasted a soundtrack by Mick Jagger.  I say soundtrack - it was basically Jagger hitting the same key on a Moog over and over again until I thought I was in Guantanamo Bay and confessed to some acts of terrorism I had never actually committed.

The Blood on Satan's Claw

Or, Lark Rise to Hellfire.  Some '70s folk-horror that involves a witch with one hell of a Scouse brow wreaking havoc on some simple folk in the countryside.
I think my favourite character in the movie was the chap I christened Stumpy (it was a long night, I can't expected to remember names).  He had some fabulous long hair and a stump for a hand after the Devil - a hairy chap himself - charmed Stumpy into chopping off his digits.  Although the Roger Daltrey-a-like who spent the movie running around in a sleeveless vest and pedal pushers while failing to save anybody's life whatsoever was a close runner up.
For all the witchcraft, the most disturbing scene was probably Frank Spencer's wife having an orgasm.  As I understand it, the film ends with the Honey Monster doing an erotic dance for a fat man with a sword and a fabulous taste in robes and headwear.  I may not understand it very well.

Lucifer Rising

Some more Kenneth Anger occultism.  Apparently, the film takes in a ritual summoning the angel Lucifer.  This ritual seems to involve women shaking their breasts at the sun, men with technicolour dreamcoats and perms staring at soft furnishings and Marianne Faithfull getting upset about some ruined leggings.




Prince of Darkness

John Carpenter's 1987 sci-fi inspired horror in which Satan - or the Anti-God - appears to be an extraterrestrial goo living in a lava lamp.  Featuring double denim, handlebar moustaches and and mullets galore, the film couldn't be more Eighties unless it had a neon sigh flashing throughout saying "I WAS MADE IN THE EIGHTIES, BY THE WAY".
There is also some light racism thrown in for good measure, what with the uptight Asian girl scientist, Jewish mother jokes ("I said RICH doctor!"), and a black man, infected with Satan goo, singing Amazing Grace as he climbs the stairs.  And, hey, it's the Eighties, so there's some Aids metaphors thrown in for good measure as the Anti-God makes his way through the world via the sharing of bodily fluids.
Of course by this point it was very early in the morning, and I confess that the grainy video dream sequence repeated throughout the movie was enjoyably unsettling.  It was all very Nigel Kneale, but to be honest, it just made me want to watch Doctor Who two-parter The Impossible Planet/The Satan Pit which covered pretty much the same storyline much better.

The Exorcist

Oh, you've all seen The Exorcist.  Even if you haven't, you know the plot, so there's no need for me to explain it.  Which is just as well, as I'm afraid I didn't quite manage to stay awake throughout the entire thing.
Still, I woke up for the end of the movie, and the end of the horror-a-thon.  And in time for breakfast!  God knows, after watching Linda Blair spit up pea soup, I often feel the need to eat bacon sandwiches and bagels.


And that was that!  We survived the night of terror and wandered off into the morning light, yawning and cowering away from the sun.  And then sleep, for those who had no fear of the Prince of Darkness wandering into our dreams anyway.

Introducing The Band

It's a very odd thing, being in the crowd for a band you're not entirely familiar with.  Well, it is for me anyway.

I'm more used to being one of the die-hards, clutching the barrier while singing along at the top of my voice, surrounded by familiar faces, like I'm at some sort of evangelical gathering.  Which is why going to see Suede play the Dublin Olympia last night was such an unusual event.

Don't get me wrong, I've always 'liked' Suede, but that was as far as it went.  They were never a band that grabbed me by the throat and forced me to listen.  My quota of androgynous glamour was pretty much filled by a host of other mid-nineties bands with snaked hipped singers and impressive fringes, thanks.  But when I saw Suede play the Belsonic festival this summer, I had a Damascene conversion caused by Brett Anderson leaning across the barrier and grabbing the hands of his assembled disciples - a conversion that led to my arrival at the Olympia.

Unfamiliar ground or not, old habits are hard to kick and I found myself anxiously grabbing my spot on the barrier.  Of course, this leads to a new set of problems - being on the barrier but not knowing all the song lyrics?  Shameful!  But when the band, or specifically when Brett and the sharp cheekboned Neil Codling took to the stage I quickly realised I was in the right place.

The main attraction to Suede, for me at least, has to be the drama.  The stirring orchestra playing over the speakers as they arrived was just the start.  Anderson gave a performance Judy Garland herself would be proud of: acting out the song lyrics, sitting on the steps to the stage crooning lustily into the microphone, getting emotional and batting away his tears with a fey flick of the wrist.

And the gyrating - my god, the gyrating.  Not even Dita Von Teese could put on such a shameless display of burlesque as this 46 year old Englishman.  Anderson straddled the barrier with his arms outstretched like some sort of oversexed messiah.  Throughout the course of the gig I must have had about 85% of his sweat-soaked anatomy in my face.  No matter how attractive you find a singer, it's still hard to know where to look when they've bent over the barrier next to you and are wiggling their bony backside in your face.  And let's not even start on Anderson's fondness for getting down on all fours...

Of course, I have to give credit to the previously mentioned Neil Codling - keyboards, guitar, cheekbones, hair, poses.  Fabulous poses.  He seems to spend most of his time on stage concentrating on his pout, which is fine by me as it's essentially the best pout in the business.  Anderson's white shirt was as good as see-through by the end of the night but Codling - Dorian Gray with a Korg - remained as cool as ice.  If it wasn't for Anderson whipping his microphone cord around his waist centre stage, watching Neil Codling pose would be a perfectly fine way to spend an evening.

Note to self: pointing at Neil Codling during the chorus of The Beautiful Ones may result in an icy cold stare of death from said band member.

And in the end, even if I didn't know every song lyric it was still an incredible gig.  Brett thanked the familiar faces and the unfamiliar faces alike, and we all left the venue sweaty, smiling dopily and thoroughly satisfied.  "We like to play strange, old songs" Brett told the audience at one point, "because we're a strange, old band".  Thank goodness for strange, old bands.

And This Is Me

 So, I have finally caught up with the rest of the internet and got myself a blog.  Aren't I modern?

Of course, it is fairly shameful that I haven't started blogging before now.  Once upon a time, I was convinced I was destined to be a famous writer.  All through my school days, if anyone ever asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, the answer was always a confident "I'm going to be a journalist!".

And some years ago I even took the step of actually studying journalism at Belfast Met - you're reading the words of a woman with a NVQ level 4 in newspaper journalism, ladies and gents.  But that was sort of where the problems started.  Working in close quarters with other wannabe journalists, all of whom appeared to have far more flair, drive and creativity than me rather dampened my enthusiasm for the subject.  A month spent on work experience at the News Letter then went on to completely extinguish any desire for the career I was once so sure of.  No offence to the journalists on the paper, most of whom were perfectly nice - it was more the dawning realisation that I had absolutely no ideas whatsoever that really sealed the deal.  Well, that coupled with the fact that someone who has trouble phoning their local pizza delivery service for fear of making a fool of themselves really has no business attempting the level of social interaction being a journalist involves.

I left with my NVQ, made a half-hearted attempted at applying for one solitary trainee journalist job and then....never bothered again, basically.  I got an admin job at the civil service where I was sometimes asked to contribute to the staff intranet, moved on to the glamorous world of HR and payroll and then never wrote again.  Alas.

So, that's the point of this blog.  An attempt to get me writing again.  I'm sorry there's no theme to my blog - I won't be a specialist on any particular subject.  I will just, hopefully, be writing about whatever takes my fancy.  Possibly.  Unless I have another attack of The Fear and delete the entire thing in a fit of self-pity.

And that's me.  Let's just take things slowly, OK?  Let's get to know each other first before we get too involved.  No funny business on the first blog post.