lost in france.

Still working away on a superhero styley strip that needs finishing by end of June (damn having to do paid work, you'd think the kids could live on fresh air for a few months) but didn't want you to all think I'd forgotten you so here's a wee French fancy for your reading pleasure.

Seven Women for Satan (AKA Les week-ends maléfiques du Comte Zaroff. 1976).
Dir: Michel Lemoine.
Cast: Michel Lemoine, Nathalie Zeiger, Howard Vernon, Joëlle Coeur, Sophie Grynholc, Robert Icart, Stephanie Lorry, Patricia Mionet, Emmanuel Pluton, Maria Mancini and Nathalie Zeiger.

Sexy businessman Boris Zaroff (writer/director and general show off Lemoine) is a sexier French version of Sir Alan Sugar, a self made millionaire whose success is all down to hard work and a good dose of old fashioned morals.

Sounds a barrel of laughs that one.

Luckily for us (and the movie) his family history is far from boring and conservative.

You see his dad, the late (as in dead not crap at time keeping) Count Zaroff was a sexually corrupt mentalist who liked nothing better than to hunt unfortunate ladies around his vast estate before torturing them in his deadly dungeon of, um, death upon capture.

If that wasn't enough the family butler Karl (Jess Franco regular and human rodent, the late great Vernon) made a blood pact with the Count on his deathbed to teach young Boris about the pleasures and pain of 'the flesh'.

Saucy.

Well it would be if Boris wasn't such a prudish old sod.

"Oh no! I have a woman's period!"

You have to feel for poor Karl, spending his days continuously inviting large breasted burds to the house in the hope that his master will stick something in them.

By this point you can tell he wouldn't mind if it was his cock, a knife or a hamster.

But Boris just can't get the hang of it, sitting as he does in a dribbly, hypnotic state at the first sign of a decent pair of bristols.

All this embarrassing sexual failure is about to change tho' when Boris whilst out for one of his early morning drives, picks up Stephanie (Mancini, probably not the one that was one of Cardinal Mazarin neices or the type of cigar), a young, voluptuous hitch-hiker and invites her back to his castle for an evening of champagne fuelled sexiness.

And surprise surprise he manages it!

Stuck for conversation (and stuck to the sheets) the next morning, Boris offers to escort his new beau around the castles grounds.

Aw what a sweetheart.

Well he would be if halfway round the cabbage patch he didn't try to strangle Stephanie then feebly attempt to convince her that she had a wasp on her neck.

A bird in the bush yesterday.

Panicking that he may have made a wee faux pas Boris decides to break the uncomfortable atmosphere by punching his new love in the face, pinning her down an attempting for force feed her dirt.

Which as you can probably guess doesn't impress Stephanie too much, so she decides it'd probably be best to leave.

Pavement in mah mooth!

Boris, rightly worried that he's messed up his one chance of true love gives chase to apologise but Stephanie, being used to running after lifts is too quick for him so Boris (with a confidence that only French men have when seducing ladies) decides to catch her up by using his car.

By catch her up I really mean run her down like a dog and hide her body in the boot.

As you do.

Karl, after standing in the shadows and witnessing the whole sorry event can't believe his eyes. After years of trying to get Boris to follow the family traditions he's overjoyed to see his hard work finally pay off.

Your mum's party piece.

Cue ninety minutes of picking up busty babes, sleaze-filled shagging, chasing then torturing them in a variety of sleazily eurotrash ways.

And if you think that's not enough to entertain you there's also a heart breaking love story between batty Boris and a sexy lady ghost.

What's not to love?

Runner up of the Gerry McCann lookalikey
competition 2008.

Orson Welles wannabe Michel Lemoine's naively heartfelt yet still intellectually challenging discourse on humanities eternal struggle to reconcile the wants of the family with the needs of the individual is quite possibly one of the best movies with the words seven, Satan and women in the title ever committed to celluloid.

Lost for decades after the French authorities (who were probably too busy burning British beef, sinking Greenpeace boats and worshipping at the altar of Jerry Lewis at the time to truly appreciate it) banned the film for being 'too bouncy', Seven Women for Satan has never received the praise or cult standing it truly deserves and is only available now thanks to Lemoine himself having a not too knackered copy lying about in his cupboard just waiting for someone to have the vision to release the thing onto an unsuspecting public.

Which means we can finally forgive Mondo Macabro from punting the terrifyingly bad Queen of Black Magic onto us a few years back.

With it's deceptively linear storytelling, Lemoine's film comes across as a kind of junior Jess Franco aimed at the under 12's (Cassidy will testify to that), especially the one's who like their victims a wee bit more on the curvy (and not to say massively bushed) side.

Any of your kids got a party coming up soon because that's the only excuse you need to get this.

And trust me, little Jimmy or Jennifer's friends will love it too.