Ms. Strangelove: Or The Psychology Of Fancying Ugly Men

It started over a week ago. I have been going through A phase of Stanley Kubrick admiration. Which in and of itself is nothing peculiar. Dr. Strangelove has always been one of my favourite films and A Clockwork Orange has long been considered, along with Witchfinder General and The Wicker Man, a family-friendly drawing-room comedy. At least in my family. Spartacus, Paths Of Glory, Full Metal Jacket, The Shining and 2001: A Space Odyssey are all iconic films which have enduring appeal. The less said about Eyes Wide Shut, the better. It was during my annual viewing of Strangelove I got to thinking how I'd always wanted a T-shirt depicting Major T.J. Kong riding the bomb. I began searching the Internet for a vendor, found one, purchased said t-shirt and am anxiously awaiting its arrival. The image so often referenced, homaged and parodied is an iconic one. A testament to Kubrick's keen, adapted eye from his beginnings as a still photographer. This got me to thinking about the man riding the Bomb. A character actor by the name of Slim Pickens. I knew little about him, other than I enjoyed his performance in Blazing Saddles as Mr. Taggart. When I Googled him, I found the results rather intriguing. Born in California in 1919 Pickens was a 6'3 ex-rodeo clown and bullfighter, who had been drafted in as a last minute replacement for the injured Peter Sellers. The intrigue turned into fascination, which for three bizarre days metamorphosed into a full blown obsession. I was looking for pictures of the young Pickens dressed as a Mexican bullfighter, as a rodeo clown, in early standout performances in obscure, almost forgotten Westerns. Now, I have always fancied Peter Sellers, he was the kind of neurotic I yearned to share a psychiatric ward with. I have always appreciated George C. Scott as an actor and understood how, even with a face once described as being like " A relief  map of Afghanistan" by his then wife Colleen Dewhurst, he had a certain appeal. The tall, blond, athletic figure of Sterling Hayden was always photogenic, even in his later years. But Slim? a small eyed, broken-nosed, weird mouthed, fat man. WTF??? If one would have asked me to put money on my obsessively accruing information on one of the Dr.Strangelove cast I'd have given Tracy Reed better odds than him. But there I was, engaged in some kind compulsive Psychic Onanism as Krafft-Ebing { another sex obsessed Kraut Doktor} would term it, over a compellingly ugly man.Was it the strength of his performance as the brave but ultimately insane Major Kong? Was it the rugged allure of a man who in reality once "broke the left side of his body" ? I have no idea. Interestingly, this is not the first time this has happened. A few years back I developed a similar obsession with American comedian Rich Fulcher, a fat, unusual looking man who looks rather fetching in drag. There is no Freudian explanation for this as my own father is tall, trim, athletic and not weird looking. I can only conclude it must be something Jungian. My usual type as you may have gathered, is rather more metro than the two aforementioned gentlemen. They perhaps represent the archetypal antithesis of my conscious preferences.Which means: Slim Pickens represents my shadow... oh my God I'm going to have some kind of trippy Black Swanesque experience where I'll be naked apart from a Stetson, riding him like the bomb, I dare say reverse cowgirl also. In the morning I will emerge a more fearless and independent woman, eager for a career in either a rodeo or the USAF.  Joking aside I find the psychology of the whole thing totally absorbing. This got me thinking: Do men develop similar fascinations? Are some "Borderline Boilers" as Viz so unflatteringly terms them { your eyes say no, but your nuts say go} actually embodiments of unconscious archetypes? Answers on a postcard or via email... Mmmm I wonder, if Bolton council hasn't secretly been fluoridating the water supply without our knowledge, if these preverted manifestations are not physical evidence of an active Commie plot to pollute all of our precious bodily fluids...! Peace On Earth= Purity Of Essence!

Slim in his younger days with his left arm round Rex Allen

The Emperor's New Comedy

Last night I exposed myself to an obnoxious poison. While that, for one such as I is not unusual per se, it was the origin of this particular toxin which caused me so much distress. When seeking a distraction from the ennui of existence, I tend opt for strange substances, rare herbs and exotic potions, redolent of moral decay. As I was stone cold sober, due to a dearth of the aforementioned life enhancers and consequently, bored, I decided to watch Noel Fielding's Luxury Comedy on E4. As someone who appreciated The Mighty Boosh, I was hoping for some surrealist humour in a similar vein. What I was exposed to was a pretentious, self-indulgent, vanity project by someone of dubious talent and intellectual capabilities. Mr. Fielding is obviously artistic, though no Caravaggio. In some measure amusing, though no Peter Cook. Why the fuck does some jumped up Primary school art teacher who just happens to possess the courage of his mediocrity, become the object of such approbation, in some cases adoration? One suspects that if he had a face less appealing to 15yr old girls and metrosexual, bi-curious amateur photographers who call themselves Tarquin Sequin {Thomas Smith to their estranged family}, he mightn't be so popular.   What really annoys me is his "I could shit in a newspaper and you'd still eat it up" attitude. During the "Jelly Fox" animation segment there was so much puerile, mindless repetition, I may as well have been watching a fucked up episode of Puddle Lane from 1987. He imagines that by name checking and pastiching established artists such as William Blake, Rene Magritte, Freida Kahlo et al, he can confer genius upon himself. He is sadly deluded, like the owner of a grimoire, imagining that access to a body of esoteric information will automatically transform them into a sorcerer. The Ghost Of A Flea sketch was for me the least stinky pile of shit, although that's probably because as a student of Blake's mythology I could appreciate the allusions. That said, it was pathetically childish and not a redeeming feature, rather a moment of light relief during a mostly unpleasant experience. Comparable to the man torturing you farting, while he bends over to increase the traction on the rack. Rich Fulcher was the Blake proxy William Jessop,
though the best thing he ever did was the short-lived BBC3 offering Snuff Box with
Matt Berry, he seems to degrade himself in this sort of drivel on a regular basis.
 All I can think is the money must be good. Not just for Noel and Rich or the rest of the cast, but for
E4 too. So good, in fact they have commissioned a second series. probably on the back of ratings. It terrifies me to think how many soggy-knickered school girls, gay design students and pseudo-intellectual amateur film makers there are in the world. What will they do to me if they ever catch me walking down the street? Most probably kidnap me and make a short film of me being drowned in vat of glittery fanny-batter. I digress.
  The reason I'm so pissed off is I enjoyed the Boosh. I feel like I've been conned into admiring the naked Emperor's multi-coloured, glittery jumpsuit.