‘It’s been a controversial move, but ultimately I think the right one. We looked at the success of shows like Girls gone Wild, Family Business, and Girls of Playboy Mansion, and thought, you know, why not?’

Adult film sets are often bleak places, populated by coked out former state beauty queens, with stretch marks and loan repayments. Not so here. The cast of ‘Special Stephanie’ are all smiles, goofing off between takes. ‘Suzie Suze’, another emerging star, runs by me giggling, her mouth caked with peanut butter and crusty jam. She’s chased by a boom operator wielding a Super Soaker. There’s a real family atmosphere on set. I ask Pim Champagne, CEO of ShortBus Video, and the genius behind the award winning series ‘Young, Dumb, and Full of Plum’, about this difference.

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As the Jackdaw Fool Learjet coasts over Tarantino’s exclusive Maldivian getaway, El Duceador, I load my shotgun and Pi straps on his rocket belt. We look at one another, beweaponed mercenaries, hired guns in the war of review, and our fists meet with an explosive slap.

‘A Good, death’, he tells me.
‘Dine in Metnal’, I reply.

As Pi turns and kicks out the flimsy cabin door, a searing wind tugs us both toward the sky. We bolster ourselves until the pressure equalizes, and the plane begins to lurch into a death dive. The roar is deafening. We exchange nods, and cast ourselves into the roiling sky.

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I met Ronan outside the Savoy at half ten, and since Mark wasn’t answering his phone, we headed on in, giddily anticipating the epic to come. We signed the board proffered by a tall, ball and almost invisibly incidental marketing man, taking our seats in the darkened theater.
Consumed by hunger, Ronan soon left for the confectionary counter, returning minutes later with an epic seven euro popcorn. It was too early for me to be eating solids, but I took some anyway, enjoying it all the more for being his. That sounds a little gay, ignore it.

Ronan said something like ‘This is going to be deadly, I can’t wait to tell everyone in college’, his schadenfreude a bleak postmodern reflection of our inability to existentially inhabit extant reality.
The lights dimmed, the film began, no trailers ruining this pure theatrical experience.

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Breakfast started calmly enough. I’d risen after solid sleep to snorkel the welcoming bodice of Sunday afternoon. I’d splashed links of pig meat into steaming sizzle, smirking at the pock sting leaping tics of lard. In a pot I’d placed a ham for lunch, set it to boil in hearty flame broiled majesty, what meat!

A second pan then, fried bread it’s happy game. Another pot for eggs, a third for kippers in a tin (I’ve learned a trick to boil em in).

Avast, another pan, for breckies but a puny snack, that lacks the sticky puke of sausage black. A problem then, each flame is occupied, and hunger like a thrashing asp is in me grub. Aha thinks I, and grill grows hot and in goes pan, take that! And all is frying and meat punge, and ready plate, knife, fork and spoon (never to the spork could I commit), and dance then over to me feed. Toss in slo mo, rise the eggy bread and catch him pan, good lad!

But then me turn and Tracy’s in the room, red face and shaky shake, and crying and the meat goes in the bin, and out the flames go one by one, and me shouts and she shouts, and me slap slappy at her meaty maw and think of feed on face, but still the pung of burny pig!

‘Wait’ she say, ‘the idiot’ and ‘where’s it coming from?’, and ‘not the cat!’, and I is sad but happy too and think of wee puss, course not dead, she silly open grill and out pour black, and handle slippey red, and screaming Tracy hands all bony wet. Punchline.

Oh the humanity.