I have always been a fan of gothic films, possibly because of my upbringing in New Jersey where I was raised by wolves, (writes Sir Howard).
So, I can heartily give my five star thumbs-up to THE HOUSE OF HORROR ON DOWNING STREET, now out at all local fleapits.
This Grand Guignol of a movie takes place in fogbound, impoverished London where, amid dirty chimney urchins and men in big top hats, petrified politicians take refuge on an inky black night at a small terraced house in Westminster.
There they meet the residents – and let me tell you, flick-fans, all hell breaks out.
That black door creaks open and butler Antoine le Blair answers. He is a ghost of Labour past, now pox-ridden and unable to tell the simple truth. His hands are bloodied by illegal wars. Yes is No in his twisted world. He is plagued by a permanent smug look on his artificially tanned face. He ushers the timid guests inside.
Sitting in the main cobweb laden front parlour is no less than The Man Who Ate London… Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson (yes, film fans, that’s the boy’s real name!!!!!). This gargantuan blond fattie is munching on what remains of Islington and he warns of ensuing dangers on this – Election Day.
Two of the scaredy cat visitors, Davey and Eddie, hold hands aware of evil within and tiptoe forward. They are deeply frightened that other maniacs abound.
There is Count Farage, ready to dig his incisors into Those From Other Shores. And claymore in hand is Wee Nicola, prepared to decapitate any who oppose her with one swish of her huge sword and a handful of poisoned haggis.
In the scullery, cooking up a malignant brew, is none other than The Cleggster, a devious Janus-faced monster with the evil ability, smarmy smile notwithstanding, to adhere itself to any human being at a the drop of a ballot paper.
Dave and Eddie spot others: Green monsters, incomprehensible Northern Irish mutants with long inscrutable acronyms and the Ghouls of the House of Horror: El Gordo ready to gobble up the innocent, Mrs T and her hydra headed goggle eyed stare and Major Major, the man who talks like a fluffy funny character off a kids’ show.
And in the library, none other than King Roop the Stoop, a villain who uses words as an executioner’s weapon, with blood as black as ink and a face like a desiccated turtle (no, really, check it out above).
The THE HOUSE OF HORROR ON DOWNING STREET, directed by That Guy off Take That Who Played for the Queen, is out now and with us for five years. (R rating children under 16 not allowed). Book now. It’s a winner.