Keith Lemon: The Film. An accidental review.
by B Thornton- Harwood
There is a portion of the night reserved only for drug users, insomniacs and those who work night shifts. It’s easily identifiable by the automatic television switchover to infomercials selling you the very latest in tyre cleaning technology; or a roulette game presented by a twenty something drama school graduate, asking herself where she went so wrong as to end up on television in the middle of the night. (Sidenote: it was probably that semester you took ketamine every waking moment in a bourgeois attempt to fuck off your parents for sending you to private school. “Yeah” you thought, “this’ll teach them, for being supportive and catering to my every narcissistic need.”)
After a gruelling 48 hour stint on an essay it was proofed and printed, and I found myself in this formidable land where every indicator tells you “I should not be awake”. I’d had a diet of chain smoking, caffeine and Gaviscon- to cool the acid reflux gurgling its way up my oesophagus. My brain had reached a point of delirium- I’d sank a bottle of vin rouge as a treat for finishing my work with hours to spare, and to help try and knock me out before handing the bastard in, by this point however it was only exacerbating the heartburn situation and giving me a giddy feeling in my already starved stomach.
At least I think it was the wine. When you’ve been taking Indian pharmaceutical grade caffeine tablets to keep you awake for almost two days a strong side effect is nausea, brought on by the suppression of hunger. This was combined with one of the side effects of sleep deprivation: hellish dreamscapes of spinning kaleidoscopic Word documents, raining down post-it notes all orchestrated by a publisher from Routledge screaming nonsensical quotes and citations every time you lie down and close your eyes, begging your body to just rest for a moment.
It was at this point I put on the Keith Lemon movie. My night can’t get any worse I thought. If I can’t sleep I’ll watch the only ever movie to gain a 0% rating on Rotten Tomatoes, that’ll surely cheer me up. It didn’t. On the other hand it did give me the venom and anger needed to write the most scathing review I could muster.
Keith Lemon: The Film is the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. An ensemble of d-list celebs, cock jokes and repeated catchphrases with little to no storyline that I could ascertain. The very basic premise of Keith Lemon making a feature film is flawed- In order to spin a TV series off into a movie you need strong source material, and Celebrity Juice is mediocrity at its finest. Ali G poked fun at our sensibilities towards urban youth, Kevin and Perry was about horny teenagers, for horny teenagers, The Inbetweeners (despite my dislike for the original show) was a coming of age story that anyone who has been to Magaluf et al. can, to some extent, relate to. I simply can’t comprehend who Keith Lemon’s film was made for, or why?
But Leigh Francis went ahead and did it anyway in what I can only imagine is a peculiar ego-trip that has since backfired spectacularly.
As a whole it is best summed up by this anecdote: I once saw a video on the internet of a bloke getting fucked by a horse; it later transpired that he died from internal bleeding. That video is less offensive than Keith Lemon: The Film. At least it didn’t feature Jedward.
Now, I had planned to write a list of things I’d rather do than watch this film again but it was too violent and sexually depraved even for the internet, so instead I give you a warning: I would advise anyone thinking of watching it to stab themselves in the eyes with rusty syringes beforehand to ensure they don’t have to witness the personification of anti-funny that this film is. In fact, if you watched this film and enjoyed it now would probably be a good time to excuse yourself from society, take a huge overdose of whatever you see fit, and go for a relaxing swim in the Baltic. For anyone else that hasn’t come into contact with this festering pile of agony, fear not, it is safely locked away in the ninth circle of hell, with Satan himself sat on top of the box putting lit matches into his Prince Albert piercing just to try and dull the pain of what he just endured.