THE DUKE ON
FETISHES
FETISHES
I think it’s fair to say that every damn thing in this life makes
sense to somebody. Fucked if I know why The Da Vinci Code is so
popular, for example, but plenty other folks up to the eyes in half-
arsed thriller plots drenched in shockingly clichéd prose and a
couple genuinely fascinating paragraphs about Mary Magdalene, those
folks right there know exactly why, and more than this, they’d tell
me if I bothered to ask, which I won’t.
Every time a fella gets stumped on something, if something just
seems to make no sense whatsoever, a fella can be sure someone
somewhere sees no mystery, sees a laughably obvious clarity where I
see only interloping shifting twisting enigmas.
Why didn’t that lass like my song about Oooh, I dig your nose? Why
didn’t the g-c-g get her in all sortsa states of sexual abandon? I
don’t know, is the answer, but she knows, she knows damn well, and
what it has to do with is that the song was alright, but the singer
looked like a sockfull of rancid plums.
And so it is with matters of the filthing.
When one gets to paying a bit of attention to the in’s and out’s of
the in’s and out’s, he starts to notice a fair few idiosyncrasies,
a fairly prodigious level of artistry being utilized in the pursuit
of a grimace and a shudder and an “Oooh, y’might a warned me,
y'fucker.”
Some of these quirks may well appear nothing short of demented to
the pious, virtuous likes of yourself or, indeed, The Duke, but
regardless, to the folks involved, these adventures are as much a
part of the daily routine as waking up, getting dressed, taking a
cack, not taking a cack on account of some aristocrats are keeping
a close eye on the chamber pots, whatever.
To wit;
A fella who shall remain nameless once revealed to The Duke how, if
truth be told, he doubted he would ever drip a drop of the sticky
if his partner in the affair didn’t tie him up with the tape
spooled out from a VHS copy of Highlander II – The Quickening, all
the while taunting him along the lines of “I’ve saw better reviews
etched in spunk on the walls of tavern toilets” or “No amount of
songs will ever, I say, ever, make you appear one fraction more
attractive to yonder muse”. Only when he had been reduced to tears,
tears that would be partly assisted by the Bunsen burner held under
his anus, would he leak to any worthwhile extent.
Another;
A renowned theologian, it was alleged, used to find it impossible
to gain any state of recognizable arousal. A notice was noted; “Any
man or woman who can relieve me of my filthy burden shall be
rewarded with something along the lines of plenty green.” Entire
villages flocked to the esteemed gentleman, the streets trembled
with the weight of filth going on in pursuit of the theologian’s
splatter. All manner of hilarious high-concept episodes unfurled.
They prodded the fella with bamboo canes, had him tied up in tights
once worn by Blind Lemon Jefferson, scalded him around the elbows
with boiling bathwater that not five minutes prior had been used
for to clean the arm-pits of a select few Hollywood starlets. All
to no avail. “Sweet Zeus”, our hero was heard to holler, “I doubt
I'll ever find a passion fit for to loosen mine filth-glands.”
The very day before our dejected scholar was set to commit himself
to a life in the convent, a woman arrived carrying with her three
12” vinyl records, which were as follows; Revolver by The Beatles,
Blonde On Blonde by Bob Dylan and Songs In The Key Of Life by
Stevie Wonder. “Watch this, you scoundrel”, she announced, “I dare
say your filth’ll be hanging from the walls fore I’m done.”
With that she flung the entire set into a nearby commode, doused
the assemblage in kerosene and set the whole lot aflame.
The sight of such critically exalted works being treated with such
barbarity aroused our man no end, and needless to say his filth-
limb wept for a fortnight with the weight of it all. Following
this, many a merry discharge, and experimentation revealed that
having a solicitor trample the complete recordings of Robert
Johnson underfoot was the greatest passion of all for this charming
fellow.
Another! Another!
Very well. I once shared a flat with a young lady who found that in
no way whatsoever could she hope to enjoy any sort of carnal
pleasures, save for those conducted whilst she was on the telephone
to the local video rental outlet. The conversation would follow
much the same lines every day;
“I was wondering if you might have a copy of Schindler’s List?”
“Yes”, our clerk would announce, “We have fifty of them, in fact.”
“And what of 12 Angry Men?”
“Ooh, at least half a dozen copies, none of which have been lifted
from the shelf for a decade or more.”
“And tell me”, our heroine would purr, “Might you have a copy of
Citizen Kane?”
“I wish we hadn’t, but the truth is that I can’t move for them.”
Finally, having reached the point of unspeakable frenzy, our friend
enquires; “And do you have any copies of Catwoman or Thirteen Ghosts
?”
“Ooh, sorry”, the clerk apologetically declares, “They’ve both been
on loan steady since they came in.”
With that, the phone was flung to the far end of the room, our lady
screamed with ecstasy.
The thought of such wondrous works as those mentioned above being
left to rot whilst the vilest offerings on the shelves were in
constant demand, this perversion caused her to climax with such
ferocity that three armed rifleman were often employed for to keep
watch, lest her bucking and darting cause irreparable harm to the
nations defences.
Sometimes, mind, a filth-related quirk, a “fetish”, if you will,
proves all the disappointing in the world once it dares go further
than the wrist.
For example, The Duke, so rumour would have it, once spent the best
part of four months concocting an elaborate scheme, the purpose of
which was to instil the kinda orgasmic mania all too rare in these
apathetic climes. Suffice to say it involved a four-mile long race-
track, three thousand penguin spectators, an army of naked singer-
songwriters each one boasting a fringe that touched the tip of his
nose, and at the end of the race-track, a lass dressed up like V.I
Lenin, reciting erotic poetry concerning The Duke and the things
she would do to him, were it at all legal.
Alas, by the time I was half a mile along the racetrack, having
been spectated upon by scarcely an eighth of the penguins, having
been the subject of only two or three verses from the befringed
ensemble, I collapsed with exhaustion and fell asleep.
I woke up a few hours later, the lass had left, although she did
take the time to reveal the details of this pitiful debacle to
everyone and anyone who may or may not have ever seen me one time
walking around, y’know, he has the sorta-quiff thing going on,
babbles on about Pete Doherty’s hat. You know him rightly. Well
anyway, yeah, he’s crap.
The psychiatrist fondles his beard. “Hmmm. Seems to me, The Duke,
that you’ve been doing a lot of thinking with regards curious
sexual exploits of late. What in fuck’s name brought this on, might
I enquire?”
The truth of it all is that I was glad he asked, since it gave me
an opportunity to say it had to do with Nick Broomfield’s fantastic
documentary Fetishes, and not a second too soon.
“What this all relates to, see”, I confirmed, “Is a documentary by
the name of Fetishes, a fantastic offering from The Duke’s most
favoured documentarian of all ever, Nick Broomfield.”
For the good of my treatment, the psychiatrist puts forward the
notion that maybe I might wish to discuss this motion film at some
length, that he might better understand the frolics presented
therein.
He’s a crafty fucker, is what he is, on account of I know full well
he’s seen it not once, nor thrice, but ninety-seven times, each
time in a different room of a different house. “The viewing in the
bathroom of a house once owned by James Joyce”, he chortles, “That
was a fucking sublime experience.”
If ever a man needed to be advised of the content of Nick
Broomfield’s 1996 Fetishes, I’d wager he bares scarce resemblance
to this fucker sat right here.
Still, I humour him, on account of maybe he’ll drop the fee for the
day should I sufficiently inspire him with mine word-play.
So, Fetishes.
What occurred back in the day is that HBO enlisted Nick Broomfield
for to go spend some time in the deliciously extravagant confines
of Pandora’s Box, being a legal brothel somewheres in Manhattan.
Our Nick had focused on such shenanigans in the past, most notably
in Chicken Ranch, which, you’ll recall, dealt with a similar
establishment in the Nevada Desert, and let’s not forget Heidi
Fleiss : Hollywood Madam, being a study of said heroine and her
fairly seedy pimping, prostituting, gang-banging exploits.
The twist here, however, is that Pandora’s Box turns out to cater
for the more S&M inclined city-dwellers. Men, women, young, old,
black, white, rich, less rich, all of them making regular jaunts to
this den of intrigue, where what they’ll do is inflate your scrotum
for a time, or maybe stub out cigarettes on your tongue. Perhaps a
bit of the old whipping and then squeezing parts that are all too
obviously adverse to any squeezing of any sort. Far be it from us,
they assert, for to deny a fella the right to be done up in gimp-
mask and nappy, and then to be chastised as is only right for a
child of such mischievous nature.
Nick, the old rascal, illustrates the day-to-day goings on at
Pandora’s Box via interviews with the mistresses, and indeed with a
few of the clients, with footage from the sessions themselves, and
with grainy CCTV footage that is, The Duke would announce without
fear of contradiction, among the most elegant, hauntingly beautiful
CCTV footage I’ve ever seen in my life.
Maybe the footage Chuck Berry was getting from that ladies room way
back when was even more elegant and hauntingly beautiful, but the
rogue refuses to answer a single fucking phone call from yours
truly, so I doubt I’ll ever know.
I know this, though, sure as I’m sat here and now;
Fetishes is a beautiful piece of work. Humane, intelligent, sad,
touching, witty and blackly comedic, yes. It’s not Nick
Broomfield's best film, not in any universe that holds Aileen
Wuornos- The Selling Of A Serial Killer or The Leader, His Driver
And The Driver’s Wife or Biggie And Tupac, but it’s up there, that
much is clear, clear as the welts on a fella’s thighs fresh out
Mistress Raven’s boudoir.
Nick doesn’t wanna fling a loada sensationalist toss over the
screen, he wants to illuminate the personalities, wants to
demystify the dominatrix and, indeed, the fella in the mask having
his nuts whipped every so often. Who are these people?
Turns out, perfectly average folks is who they are. Folks who get
all the stressed in the world six days a week and find that the
only thing keeps them sane is having a woman in black leather force
them to clean shoes with their tongues.
Turns out the Mistresses are just ladies who earn a living taking
the weight of the world offa the shoulders of folks rich enough to
have the weight there in the first place. Turns out they get
depressed as hell by it all sometimes, and who wouldn’t? That’s a
hella lot grief they’re responsible for alleviating. All that shit
has to go someplace.
And there’s a hella lotta shit to be eased, you’ll not be surprised
to learn. As a result, some of this tomfoolery is mighty
disturbing, is what The Duke would announce with regards the nature
of it all.
To wit;
The particularly distressed fella who pays for to be humiliated,
abused and degraded in order to keep his occasional anti-social
impulses at bay. His torment reaches a plateau of some kind when he
is forced to have his head shoved into a toilet, and there he
stays, until such times as his mistress bids him elsewhere.
The “socio-political” fetishes, such as the Jewish gentleman who
wishes to be treated like a prisoner held by Nazis, or the black
individuals who need a torrent of abuse along the lines of “You
fucking nigger” or “You filthy black bastard” and the like.
Similarly, a white policeman likes nothing more than to be treated
like a black prisoner.
I dunno if you can get dominatrix sessions on National Health or
whatever, but I’m guessing it’s high time that were the case.
I mention this to the psychiatrist, and then think better of it,
since he’s been eyeing that whip all day, and a fella just ain’t
into that kinda thing.
“So what are you into then, you petulant bastard?”
Well, doctor, to be all the honest in the world, I think I’d be
more inclined to look for something a bit less aggressive. I think
warmth is what a fella might be in pursuit of. I ain’t for a
solitary second gonna say these folks are one notch less “normal”
or “loving” than The Duke, and I think I understand it all as much
as anyone who ain’t into it ever really could, but yeah.
Tenderness, I think, is what might be my “thing”, and I just don’t
think all that whipping, taunting, spitting would do me much good
in so far as getting a fella a couple steps closer to gasping
erratically.
“Warmth? Tenderness?” He jumps to his feet, swings round and shoves
his arse right up in the air. “Plenty tenderness here, m’boy! I can
feel a whisper ‘pon it from cross the street!”
For fucks sakes, doctor, is what The Duke tuts. I’m trying for to
reach some sort of point about Fetishes the motion picture.
“Ahh, Fetishes”, he says, readying some opium. “I do love that
picture.”
And The Duke loves it also. Who wouldn’t?
The BBFC, is who. The British Board Of Film Classification. They
weren’t much keen on Fetishes for a second, and it was subjected to
no end of cutting and snipping before being granted a release back
in the day. I’d sooner douse my nuts in cyanide, seemed to be the
thinking, than let the uncut Fetishes loose on the British public.
Times change, though. Nowadays a man can go hire out Baise Moi or 9
Songs or Anatomy Of Hell and see the kindsa muck hitherto
restrained to flicks with Anal or Cum or Lesbo in the title.
Nowadays In The Realm Of The Senses is available at all good
retailers, although the really good ones offer the truly uncut
version, and not the bastardised “Digitally Altered” number that
almost rid The Duke of twenty quid back in the day.
There’s plenty genuine grot for to be getting on with, so suddenly
Fetishes doesn’t seem quite so shocking. Now there’s far more
impressive debauchery going on all around it on the shelves, now
there ain’t no reason whatsoever not to have a restored, uncut
Fetishes available to all, and folks who maybe wanna get some sort
of S&M thrill out of it all can grab it and then be disappointed
when they find that no, I had to think for all that time, and by
Crawford’s balls, when I grab a picture by the name of Fetishes the
last thing I expect is to have to use any organ other than the one
in my hand.
Fetishes, then. A wonderful, sympathetic, illuminating affair, is
what The Duke makes of it. God bless that man Broomfield.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Sign The Mondo Guestbook
sense to somebody. Fucked if I know why The Da Vinci Code is so
popular, for example, but plenty other folks up to the eyes in half-
arsed thriller plots drenched in shockingly clichéd prose and a
couple genuinely fascinating paragraphs about Mary Magdalene, those
folks right there know exactly why, and more than this, they’d tell
me if I bothered to ask, which I won’t.
Every time a fella gets stumped on something, if something just
seems to make no sense whatsoever, a fella can be sure someone
somewhere sees no mystery, sees a laughably obvious clarity where I
see only interloping shifting twisting enigmas.
Why didn’t that lass like my song about Oooh, I dig your nose? Why
didn’t the g-c-g get her in all sortsa states of sexual abandon? I
don’t know, is the answer, but she knows, she knows damn well, and
what it has to do with is that the song was alright, but the singer
looked like a sockfull of rancid plums.
And so it is with matters of the filthing.
When one gets to paying a bit of attention to the in’s and out’s of
the in’s and out’s, he starts to notice a fair few idiosyncrasies,
a fairly prodigious level of artistry being utilized in the pursuit
of a grimace and a shudder and an “Oooh, y’might a warned me,
y'fucker.”
Some of these quirks may well appear nothing short of demented to
the pious, virtuous likes of yourself or, indeed, The Duke, but
regardless, to the folks involved, these adventures are as much a
part of the daily routine as waking up, getting dressed, taking a
cack, not taking a cack on account of some aristocrats are keeping
a close eye on the chamber pots, whatever.
To wit;
A fella who shall remain nameless once revealed to The Duke how, if
truth be told, he doubted he would ever drip a drop of the sticky
if his partner in the affair didn’t tie him up with the tape
spooled out from a VHS copy of Highlander II – The Quickening, all
the while taunting him along the lines of “I’ve saw better reviews
etched in spunk on the walls of tavern toilets” or “No amount of
songs will ever, I say, ever, make you appear one fraction more
attractive to yonder muse”. Only when he had been reduced to tears,
tears that would be partly assisted by the Bunsen burner held under
his anus, would he leak to any worthwhile extent.
Another;
A renowned theologian, it was alleged, used to find it impossible
to gain any state of recognizable arousal. A notice was noted; “Any
man or woman who can relieve me of my filthy burden shall be
rewarded with something along the lines of plenty green.” Entire
villages flocked to the esteemed gentleman, the streets trembled
with the weight of filth going on in pursuit of the theologian’s
splatter. All manner of hilarious high-concept episodes unfurled.
They prodded the fella with bamboo canes, had him tied up in tights
once worn by Blind Lemon Jefferson, scalded him around the elbows
with boiling bathwater that not five minutes prior had been used
for to clean the arm-pits of a select few Hollywood starlets. All
to no avail. “Sweet Zeus”, our hero was heard to holler, “I doubt
I'll ever find a passion fit for to loosen mine filth-glands.”
The very day before our dejected scholar was set to commit himself
to a life in the convent, a woman arrived carrying with her three
12” vinyl records, which were as follows; Revolver by The Beatles,
Blonde On Blonde by Bob Dylan and Songs In The Key Of Life by
Stevie Wonder. “Watch this, you scoundrel”, she announced, “I dare
say your filth’ll be hanging from the walls fore I’m done.”
With that she flung the entire set into a nearby commode, doused
the assemblage in kerosene and set the whole lot aflame.
The sight of such critically exalted works being treated with such
barbarity aroused our man no end, and needless to say his filth-
limb wept for a fortnight with the weight of it all. Following
this, many a merry discharge, and experimentation revealed that
having a solicitor trample the complete recordings of Robert
Johnson underfoot was the greatest passion of all for this charming
fellow.
Another! Another!
Very well. I once shared a flat with a young lady who found that in
no way whatsoever could she hope to enjoy any sort of carnal
pleasures, save for those conducted whilst she was on the telephone
to the local video rental outlet. The conversation would follow
much the same lines every day;
“I was wondering if you might have a copy of Schindler’s List?”
“Yes”, our clerk would announce, “We have fifty of them, in fact.”
“And what of 12 Angry Men?”
“Ooh, at least half a dozen copies, none of which have been lifted
from the shelf for a decade or more.”
“And tell me”, our heroine would purr, “Might you have a copy of
Citizen Kane?”
“I wish we hadn’t, but the truth is that I can’t move for them.”
Finally, having reached the point of unspeakable frenzy, our friend
enquires; “And do you have any copies of Catwoman or Thirteen Ghosts
?”
“Ooh, sorry”, the clerk apologetically declares, “They’ve both been
on loan steady since they came in.”
With that, the phone was flung to the far end of the room, our lady
screamed with ecstasy.
The thought of such wondrous works as those mentioned above being
left to rot whilst the vilest offerings on the shelves were in
constant demand, this perversion caused her to climax with such
ferocity that three armed rifleman were often employed for to keep
watch, lest her bucking and darting cause irreparable harm to the
nations defences.
Sometimes, mind, a filth-related quirk, a “fetish”, if you will,
proves all the disappointing in the world once it dares go further
than the wrist.
For example, The Duke, so rumour would have it, once spent the best
part of four months concocting an elaborate scheme, the purpose of
which was to instil the kinda orgasmic mania all too rare in these
apathetic climes. Suffice to say it involved a four-mile long race-
track, three thousand penguin spectators, an army of naked singer-
songwriters each one boasting a fringe that touched the tip of his
nose, and at the end of the race-track, a lass dressed up like V.I
Lenin, reciting erotic poetry concerning The Duke and the things
she would do to him, were it at all legal.
Alas, by the time I was half a mile along the racetrack, having
been spectated upon by scarcely an eighth of the penguins, having
been the subject of only two or three verses from the befringed
ensemble, I collapsed with exhaustion and fell asleep.
I woke up a few hours later, the lass had left, although she did
take the time to reveal the details of this pitiful debacle to
everyone and anyone who may or may not have ever seen me one time
walking around, y’know, he has the sorta-quiff thing going on,
babbles on about Pete Doherty’s hat. You know him rightly. Well
anyway, yeah, he’s crap.
The psychiatrist fondles his beard. “Hmmm. Seems to me, The Duke,
that you’ve been doing a lot of thinking with regards curious
sexual exploits of late. What in fuck’s name brought this on, might
I enquire?”
The truth of it all is that I was glad he asked, since it gave me
an opportunity to say it had to do with Nick Broomfield’s fantastic
documentary Fetishes, and not a second too soon.
“What this all relates to, see”, I confirmed, “Is a documentary by
the name of Fetishes, a fantastic offering from The Duke’s most
favoured documentarian of all ever, Nick Broomfield.”
For the good of my treatment, the psychiatrist puts forward the
notion that maybe I might wish to discuss this motion film at some
length, that he might better understand the frolics presented
therein.
He’s a crafty fucker, is what he is, on account of I know full well
he’s seen it not once, nor thrice, but ninety-seven times, each
time in a different room of a different house. “The viewing in the
bathroom of a house once owned by James Joyce”, he chortles, “That
was a fucking sublime experience.”
If ever a man needed to be advised of the content of Nick
Broomfield’s 1996 Fetishes, I’d wager he bares scarce resemblance
to this fucker sat right here.
Still, I humour him, on account of maybe he’ll drop the fee for the
day should I sufficiently inspire him with mine word-play.
So, Fetishes.
What occurred back in the day is that HBO enlisted Nick Broomfield
for to go spend some time in the deliciously extravagant confines
of Pandora’s Box, being a legal brothel somewheres in Manhattan.
Our Nick had focused on such shenanigans in the past, most notably
in Chicken Ranch, which, you’ll recall, dealt with a similar
establishment in the Nevada Desert, and let’s not forget Heidi
Fleiss : Hollywood Madam, being a study of said heroine and her
fairly seedy pimping, prostituting, gang-banging exploits.
The twist here, however, is that Pandora’s Box turns out to cater
for the more S&M inclined city-dwellers. Men, women, young, old,
black, white, rich, less rich, all of them making regular jaunts to
this den of intrigue, where what they’ll do is inflate your scrotum
for a time, or maybe stub out cigarettes on your tongue. Perhaps a
bit of the old whipping and then squeezing parts that are all too
obviously adverse to any squeezing of any sort. Far be it from us,
they assert, for to deny a fella the right to be done up in gimp-
mask and nappy, and then to be chastised as is only right for a
child of such mischievous nature.
Nick, the old rascal, illustrates the day-to-day goings on at
Pandora’s Box via interviews with the mistresses, and indeed with a
few of the clients, with footage from the sessions themselves, and
with grainy CCTV footage that is, The Duke would announce without
fear of contradiction, among the most elegant, hauntingly beautiful
CCTV footage I’ve ever seen in my life.
Maybe the footage Chuck Berry was getting from that ladies room way
back when was even more elegant and hauntingly beautiful, but the
rogue refuses to answer a single fucking phone call from yours
truly, so I doubt I’ll ever know.
I know this, though, sure as I’m sat here and now;
Fetishes is a beautiful piece of work. Humane, intelligent, sad,
touching, witty and blackly comedic, yes. It’s not Nick
Broomfield's best film, not in any universe that holds Aileen
Wuornos- The Selling Of A Serial Killer or The Leader, His Driver
And The Driver’s Wife or Biggie And Tupac, but it’s up there, that
much is clear, clear as the welts on a fella’s thighs fresh out
Mistress Raven’s boudoir.
Nick doesn’t wanna fling a loada sensationalist toss over the
screen, he wants to illuminate the personalities, wants to
demystify the dominatrix and, indeed, the fella in the mask having
his nuts whipped every so often. Who are these people?
Turns out, perfectly average folks is who they are. Folks who get
all the stressed in the world six days a week and find that the
only thing keeps them sane is having a woman in black leather force
them to clean shoes with their tongues.
Turns out the Mistresses are just ladies who earn a living taking
the weight of the world offa the shoulders of folks rich enough to
have the weight there in the first place. Turns out they get
depressed as hell by it all sometimes, and who wouldn’t? That’s a
hella lot grief they’re responsible for alleviating. All that shit
has to go someplace.
And there’s a hella lotta shit to be eased, you’ll not be surprised
to learn. As a result, some of this tomfoolery is mighty
disturbing, is what The Duke would announce with regards the nature
of it all.
To wit;
The particularly distressed fella who pays for to be humiliated,
abused and degraded in order to keep his occasional anti-social
impulses at bay. His torment reaches a plateau of some kind when he
is forced to have his head shoved into a toilet, and there he
stays, until such times as his mistress bids him elsewhere.
The “socio-political” fetishes, such as the Jewish gentleman who
wishes to be treated like a prisoner held by Nazis, or the black
individuals who need a torrent of abuse along the lines of “You
fucking nigger” or “You filthy black bastard” and the like.
Similarly, a white policeman likes nothing more than to be treated
like a black prisoner.
I dunno if you can get dominatrix sessions on National Health or
whatever, but I’m guessing it’s high time that were the case.
I mention this to the psychiatrist, and then think better of it,
since he’s been eyeing that whip all day, and a fella just ain’t
into that kinda thing.
“So what are you into then, you petulant bastard?”
Well, doctor, to be all the honest in the world, I think I’d be
more inclined to look for something a bit less aggressive. I think
warmth is what a fella might be in pursuit of. I ain’t for a
solitary second gonna say these folks are one notch less “normal”
or “loving” than The Duke, and I think I understand it all as much
as anyone who ain’t into it ever really could, but yeah.
Tenderness, I think, is what might be my “thing”, and I just don’t
think all that whipping, taunting, spitting would do me much good
in so far as getting a fella a couple steps closer to gasping
erratically.
“Warmth? Tenderness?” He jumps to his feet, swings round and shoves
his arse right up in the air. “Plenty tenderness here, m’boy! I can
feel a whisper ‘pon it from cross the street!”
For fucks sakes, doctor, is what The Duke tuts. I’m trying for to
reach some sort of point about Fetishes the motion picture.
“Ahh, Fetishes”, he says, readying some opium. “I do love that
picture.”
And The Duke loves it also. Who wouldn’t?
The BBFC, is who. The British Board Of Film Classification. They
weren’t much keen on Fetishes for a second, and it was subjected to
no end of cutting and snipping before being granted a release back
in the day. I’d sooner douse my nuts in cyanide, seemed to be the
thinking, than let the uncut Fetishes loose on the British public.
Times change, though. Nowadays a man can go hire out Baise Moi or 9
Songs or Anatomy Of Hell and see the kindsa muck hitherto
restrained to flicks with Anal or Cum or Lesbo in the title.
Nowadays In The Realm Of The Senses is available at all good
retailers, although the really good ones offer the truly uncut
version, and not the bastardised “Digitally Altered” number that
almost rid The Duke of twenty quid back in the day.
There’s plenty genuine grot for to be getting on with, so suddenly
Fetishes doesn’t seem quite so shocking. Now there’s far more
impressive debauchery going on all around it on the shelves, now
there ain’t no reason whatsoever not to have a restored, uncut
Fetishes available to all, and folks who maybe wanna get some sort
of S&M thrill out of it all can grab it and then be disappointed
when they find that no, I had to think for all that time, and by
Crawford’s balls, when I grab a picture by the name of Fetishes the
last thing I expect is to have to use any organ other than the one
in my hand.
Fetishes, then. A wonderful, sympathetic, illuminating affair, is
what The Duke makes of it. God bless that man Broomfield.
Thanks folks.
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