Martin's top 100

74: SOFT CELL – “NON-STOP EROTIC CABARET” LP



“THE GOOD NEWS IS, IT’S NOT BRAIN DAMAGE,” bellows Dr Cavendish, riding on the trolley and guzzling his bottle of Famous Grouse as the orderlies race me down the corridor, battering double doors aside with my skull. Peering from the bandages, wincing in the flickering green light, the distorted faces of dribbling ket casualties, wounded kebab shop gladiators and Deliveroo crash victims whiz past. Another set of doors – WHAACKKK!!! “THE WORST CASE OF LONDON SAUDADE I’VE EVER SEEN,” Cavendish burps, as a resus nurse blinds me with a light stick. “YOU SHOULD STOP ASTRAL-PROJECTING AROUND TOWN…OLD LONDON’S NOT COMING BACK, YOU KNOW! HAD ONE LAD IN LAST WEEK…TRIED ASTRAL-PROJECTING TO SATURN, THE LITTLE SOD…GOT NABBED BY THE GOATMANAUT! FRIED HIS BLOODY -“ WHAACKKK!!!

Running around the streets, bandaged up like a phantom pineapple. The fucker was right. I will never go to a weird art expo in Albion Stables again. Never fall off my chair laughing at a screening of Don’t Open ‘Til Christmas upstairs at the King & Queen again. Or snog a mad 19-year-old girl in St Pancras Cemetery. Or chant “Your son is dead, Fayed!” (to the tune of Que Sera, Sera) with the Yid Army at a ‘friendly’ at Craven Cottage (in what felt like a successful collective banishing of the endless Candle In The Wind loop). Or ride the 240 past that notorious beagle death camp The National Institute for Medical Research: its manky, unwashed green roof and chimneys poking into the sky (letter-bombed by the ALF at least twice during my pre-pube years). Or stumble out of the Red Rose after another night of extreme noise provocation. Or have a megaton of bass kick my guts in at Lazerdome. Or fling myself over the railings at Hyde Park, Loony Toons-style, to avoid a baton charge during the CJA riot. Or swig a Cobra in New Balti as Asha Bhosle gets soused with her accountant on the next table. Or buy speed off Conflict’s drummer in the Goldsmiths Tavern while somebody spins 140bpm gabba tunes with cut-up samples of screaming women. Or sit next to Diogenes in Golders Hill Park, watching the sun come up as the Wu-Flu sweeps the Earth…

When I heard Marc Almond invoke the trashiest Soho dives with lyrics like Lipstick marks on pint beer mugs/And love bites on the neck on Sleaze, I realised he was up there with Omar Khayyam, Baudelaire, Woops and Shane MacGowan. That song’s not on this LP…but Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret is pure E-fuelled praxis. All three Soft Cell albums are essential in my humble (four if you’re counting Non-Stop Ecstatic Dancing, which you probably should). This isn’t cool to admit, but I always thought Soft Cell were miles better than Coil and New Order: Dave Ball’s synth attack on this is relentless, from the opening cowbell assault on Frustration to the melancholic swirls at the end of the tearjerker closer Say Hello, Wave Goodbye. I’m sure I’ve played this 100 times more than I’ve ever spun Movement or Horse Rotorvator - and I've played those two a lot.

Bedsitter may be the best summary of life in Bedsitland I’ve ever heard. Speaking as a former resident of that interzone, this song was utterly perfect and helped me and many others imagine we were part of a deathless, interconnected psychic gang, operating from our own private Jagos - rather than merely being skint, isolated youths, exploited by bastard landlords:




Speaking of bedsits and Shane MacGowan (peace be upon him), this song kills too, and adds the crucial ‘waking up next to a cold chicken shish, an overflowing ashtray, a malfunctioning TV, 12 empty bottles of Nigerian Guinness and a copy of Razzle’ element that Soft Cell’s epic lacks:




We'll do The Pogues later; let’s get back to Soft Cell. Seedy Films has a genuine sense of humour (setting it apart from turgid faux-sleaze efforts like Lou Reed’s Street Hassle) and I’m not gonna lie: Josie Warden’s backing giggles still do it for me (though maybe not as much as the violinist on Siouxsie & The Banshees’ Slowdive audibly gasping after popping a finger blister on her strings). How Youth never made it into a Cybernetic Broadcasting System Top 100 is beyond me. Youth has gone/Though we’re still young sums up how I felt at 18: that grim feeling of des vu ruining the present again: I could picture myself as the ageing perv in Frustration even back then…feeling my squeeze’s body slipping out of my arms even as we canoodled. The synth on this one’s so lush.




I’ve never seen a Sex Dwarf in London, but I did in Amsterdam, in the ‘freak’ section of the Red Light District. She was dangling on a coat-hanger, kicking her legs around, in the window next to the Incredible 28-stone woman: but I was transfixed by the lion-faced doxy. I’m not kidding, this chick had the body of an Egyptian princess (in scarlet Primark bra and undies) but the face of an actual lion. We locked eyes through the glass, the pink light cascading off her golden locks (or mane?).

One New Year’s Eve in the mid-2000s, I went out to Camden with a miserable bloke from Northern Ireland (at the time, we were ‘mates’, but he’s done me dirty since, so fuck him). We were drinking in goth haunt The Devonshire Arms and some girl said a big bash was happening in an underground club near Temple, so we got the tube there. The downstairs part resembled an old medical museum, with skulls and bizarre potions displayed in glass cases. Wish I could remember what it was called. Anyway, we were at the bar, looking like clueless normies – but we couldn’t stop staring at this black bloke dressed like Blade. Well…if Blade had worn wraparound shades and a bright red latex jumpsuit. Suddenly – a white goth girl was in our faces.

“Is there a problem?” she asked. “You’re looking at my friend and laughing?”

I had to explain, no, we were admiring the geezer – and I know I look like I’m off to urinate on a war memorial while chanting “WHO THE FUCK IS ALLAH?” down Whitehall, but I’m one of you. I’ve got Bela Lugosi’s Dead on blue vinyl and used to cruise around the South Beds suburbs listening to Unknown Pleasures at 3.30am, damn it! Sure, I understood what was happening: I remembered going to that Luton shithole Mirage when I was 17, where bouncers had to patrol the ‘peace staircase’ between the first-floor indie disco and the Mr Byrite-clad hordes downstairs…where wearing a stripey mohair sweater and a studded wristband might get you a bottle in the face at chucking-out time…but I still felt a bit sad that I’d been unfairly judged. Fair play to her for having her mate's back, though. I danced to Hong Kong Garden (and bought Blade a pint) to prove my alt credentials.

But then – the DJ played the next two Soft Cell tunes, straight off Side 2 – and neither my miserable NI mate nor the goth bird (nor Blade) got up and danced to ‘em. Bunch of bleedin’ posers! Ironically, these were the two tracks on the album I used to skip when I was a teen, tuning in from Bedsitland – but, that night, I went batshit to these, joining a small but Dionysian scrum on the dancefloor (and aided by a hit of poppers from a rather nice woman with a bat tattoo on her left shoulder). Marc’s acerbic cynicism set to Dave’s punchy electro makes most NDW sound lame and lifeless in comparison. What an amazing album this is, easy 10/10.

martin said:

Running around the streets, bandaged up like a phantom pineapple. The fucker was right. I will never go to a weird art expo in Albion Stables again. Never fall off my chair laughing at a screening of Don’t Open ‘Til Christmas upstairs at the King & Queen again. Or snog a mad 19-year-old girl in St Pancras Cemetery. Or chant “Your son is dead, Fayed!” (to the tune of Que Sera, Sera) with the Yid Army at a ‘friendly’ at Craven Cottage (in what felt like a successful collective banishing of the endless Candle In The Wind loop). Or ride the 240 past that notorious beagle death camp The National Institute for Medical Research: its manky, unwashed green roof and chimneys poking into the sky (letter-bombed by the ALF at least twice during my pre-pube years). Or stumble out of the Red Rose after another night of extreme noise provocation. Or have a megaton of bass kick my guts in at Lazerdome. Or fling myself over the railings at Hyde Park, Loony Toons-style, to avoid a baton charge during the CJA riot. Or swig a Cobra in New Balti as Asha Bhosle gets soused with her accountant on the next table. Or buy speed off Conflict’s drummer in the Goldsmiths Tavern while somebody spins 140bpm gabba tunes with cut-up samples of screaming women. Or sit next to Diogenes in Golders Hill Park, watching the sun come up as the Wu-Flu sweeps the Earth…

Click to expand...

... wriggling up to the bar at kinky gerlinky in my kanzu and finding Marc A at my elbow ...

no pressure though

73: CRASS – “FEEDING OF THE FIVE THOUSAND” 12”



The rich and the well-to-do have their theatres and places of amusement: if a penny tea-garden or a penny theatre be opened in Lock's Fields, or in any other poor neighbourhood, the magistrates must put it down;—it is a source of demoralisation—it is a focus of thieves and prostitutes! But the swell-mob and flash women frequent the Haymarket Theatre—and the Lyceum—and the Surrey—and the Victoria—aye, and Covent-Garden and Drury Lane Theatres also. "Oh!" cries the magistrate; "THAT is very different!" Yes—every thing in this country is different when the wealthy or the well-dressed are concerned on one side, and the poor and the ragged on the other. Then, whither can this pauperised despairing man in Lock's Fields go to escape the bitterness of his reflections? To the public-house—or to throw himself into the canal:—those are the only alternatives!

Is it not dreadful to think that we have a sovereign and a royal family on whom the country lavishes money by hundreds of thousands,—whose merest whims cost sums that would feed and clothe from year to year ALL the inhabitants of such a place as Lock's Fields;—that we have also an hereditary aristocracy and innumerable sleek and comfortable dignitaries of the Church, who devour the fruits of the earth and throw the parings and the peelings contemptuously to the poor;—in a word, that we have an oligarchy feasting upon the fatted calf, and flinging the offal to the patient, enduring, toiling, oppressed millions,—is it not dreadful, we ask, to think how much those millions do for Royalty, Aristocracy, Church, and Landed Interest, and how little—how miserably little, Royalty, Aristocracy, Church, and Landed Interest do for THEM in return?

“Mysteries of London Vol. 3”, George Reynolds (1847)

“LAZINESS, DID I EVER OFFEND THEE,” was a phrase my dad roared at me many times during my first 16 years of life. It’s a fun little anecdote now – but, at the time, I used to fantasise about being taken away by social services (something he once ‘threatened’ me with when I said I wanted to be a journalist). We were supposed to be Catholics: how did the old man get bitten so bad by the Protestant work ethic??

Now though, a few days short of his 25th death anniversary, I wonder: did he have a point? It’s over a year since Martin’s Top 100 kicked off and I’m only at #73 – and still not a Clancy Brothers tune in sight.

In 1990, torn between the Union Jack and the Tricolour, I instead raised the savage black flag of ANARCHY. I still consider myself an ‘anarchist’, mainly because I find political theory fucking boring – plus the unions have been crap since 1986. I liked the Italian Autonomists ((‘Nicking a bottle of Barolo and jumping the ticket barrier is praxis, because…because it just is, OK?!?’)) and Arthur Scargill’s OG plan for a 3-day week ((though COVID remote working knocked this down to 0.5 days – now do you get why I was cheering every lockdown extension??))…but I’ve always thought Labour were a bunch of repulsive, treacherous, spineless leeches since I first saw that ghoul Michael Foot on Weekend World – and everything they’ve done since hasn’t convinced me I’m wrong.

Socialists weren’t awful people: but they still accepted going to work as an inevitability rather than a pox to be eradicated ((I once mentioned this to K-Punk down The Glasshouse Stores; his eyes lit up as he scribbled something on a beermat, and then he ran off and blocked my number)). And then there was the time I dated a socialist feminist poet and upset her by saying that I’d never do the housework if we moved in together.

“Oh, you sexist prick!” she pouted.

“I’m not saying you have to do it!” I snapped back. I’d read Silvia Federici’s Wages Against Housework...and anyway, if dust on the windowsills was good enough for Quentin Crisp… “We can…pay an old Polish lady…” I reasoned.

The problem with anarchism? It’s as hopelessly utopian as training a macaque to spring-clean. But, believe it or not, it wasn’t Crass’ anti-work blaster Do They Owe Us A Living? that hipped me to the need to abolish wage labour:




(The CPGB denounced this tune as 'counter-revolutionary' and an example of ‘Metaxist decadence’, and urged their members to send Style Council to No. 1 instead. Clock the Crass symbol on the wall at 0:25. George Michael lived on Redhill Drive, Burnt Oak for a while…I did too, in the early 2000s)

My brother went to see Crass when they played the Hope & Anchor in Islington around ’78. The filth turned up but got forced into a bottleneck at the bottom of the stairs, and were pelted with pint glasses. After a brief stand-off, the cops retreated and assured the audience they’d be OK if they came out and left quietly – and then the SPG beat the shit out of everyone as they filed out. My brother and his mate hid in the cubicles in the ladies’ until everything went quiet, then descended to a trashed, empty bar and helped themselves to a pint or three. Half an hour later, the landlord emerged from the gents’.





Anyway, I think everyone here knows the score with this one? You either start off with a) a crackly 2-minute silence or b) an ex-Quaker with a plummy church-lady voice calling Jesus rude names over what sounds like an overheating generator, depending on whether you get the original Small Wonder 12” or the Crass Records repress ((the Irish pressing plant refused to press the blasphemous Asylum on the original wax)). Punk Is Dead and Banned From The Roxy are the first UK rap songs, and the devil give you gout if you disagree! Women makes John Cage sound like T’Pau. Yes, I also thought “Shit, my record’s broken!” first time I heard the ‘…waiting for the flash!’ cut-out in They’ve Got A Bomb (which is also miles better than 4’33”). Yes, my ultra-Catholic mum DID walk into my bedroom right during the first verse of Sucks (would’ve been less awkward if she’d caught me doing a Stephen Milligan).

And Securicor IS the reigning champion sound of Brentford Nylons-faced blaggers waving sawn-off shooters ‘round the local TSB and scrambling for the Ford Transit, tied-up Securicor drivers writhing in their Y-fronts...while bent Flying Squad officers, creaking leather coat pockets bulging with twenties, horse-trade suspects and grasses over a large scotch. I never really understood the tights-mask thing, to be honest. I think those guys just used bank-robbing as an excuse to indulge their nylon fetish: you can see much better out of a motorbike helmet, as long as the vents are open (and it’s near-impossible for anyone to get a clear mugshot). Just ask any IRA sniper’s mum for a home-knitted balaclava.




(I walk around with a big Alsatian/He’ll rearrange you with no provocation!)

These days, musicians react to bitchy criticism by having a meltdown on social media or deleting their Bandcamp page. I like the fact that, for the repress of Feeding…, Crass just reprinted the scathing reviews they received ((mostly penned by Tony Parsons, Garry Bushell and…Ian Penman, I think??)) without comment, as a badge of honour:

Unlistenable garbage...gumbie voices spewing hysterical stream of consciousness lyrics...sordid piffle...rant against the system, society, THEM (keep it non-specific, make it painless, make it product)...'Teach Yourself Anarchy', memorised in 5 minutes (guaranteed ineffective), punctuated by 'fucks' (bet they went to university)...a one way ticket to the vomitorium...for me Crass aren't bad musically - they're appalling...they write/lyrics/like/this/and sometimes/ LIKE THIS/you/you are a tulip/ tinkle/i am a rhodendron/fucking arseholes...'The Clash sold out by signing to CBS', well, for all the contradictions in that me hearties, it's more effective than recycling garbage in your Epping commune...being middle class they think class doesn't matter, being prats they take themselves very seriously...you gonna support the living dead factory sheep if they move into your Safe Epping Home?...what a witless, liberal cop-out!...

But, speaking as one of those oddballs who supports both the Peace Pledge Union (fuck your six-month Twitter flags, you pathetic keyboard-general cunts), Anti-Fascist Action and Class War (the war to end ALL wars…the war to end ALL classes!), I love this poxy little record. Even at 13, I was pretty sure pacifism was a pipe dream ((incredibly, in the early 1990s, there were still zines discussing whether decking the BNP was ‘acceptable’)), and Crass could get preachy at times...but at least their hearts were in the right place. Singling out Penny Rimbaud for attempting to reason with British Movement skins after gigs seems a bit churlish, given Pauline Black, Terry Hall, Chas Smash and Jerry Dammers were doing the same thing on a nightly basis. Don’t blame Crass for Citizen Fish.

As for anarchy? Call me jaded, but I don’t think we should rest until the last Novara Media pundit is strung up by the intestines of the last GB News guest, and we plant a righteous proletarian bullet in the skull of the arselicker who posted “Just realised, I forgot my Zoom password…feels like progress of a sort (smug emoji grin)” on a 2022 LinkedIn thread about returning to the office. Honestly, is there anything worse on the internet than LinkedIn? Even ILX didn't descend to such...oh, maybe it did...

I could never properly draw the Crass symbol, though.

I think he was just going through a phaser when he said that.

BUMP!

@martin

@martin

BUMP!

BUMP!

martin said:

Running around the streets, bandaged up like a phantom pineapple. The fucker was right. I will never go to a weird art expo in Albion Stables again. Never fall off my chair laughing at a screening of Don’t Open ‘Til Christmas upstairs at the King & Queen again. Or snog a mad 19-year-old girl in St Pancras Cemetery. Or chant “Your son is dead, Fayed!” (to the tune of Que Sera, Sera) with the Yid Army at a ‘friendly’ at Craven Cottage (in what felt like a successful collective banishing of the endless Candle In The Wind loop). Or ride the 240 past that notorious beagle death camp The National Institute for Medical Research: its manky, unwashed green roof and chimneys poking into the sky (letter-bombed by the ALF at least twice during my pre-pube years). Or stumble out of the Red Rose after another night of extreme noise provocation. Or have a megaton of bass kick my guts in at Lazerdome. Or fling myself over the railings at Hyde Park, Loony Toons-style, to avoid a baton charge during the CJA riot. Or swig a Cobra in New Balti as Asha Bhosle gets soused with her accountant on the next table. Or buy speed off Conflict’s drummer in the Goldsmiths Tavern while somebody spins 140bpm gabba tunes with cut-up samples of screaming women. Or sit next to Diogenes in Golders Hill Park, watching the sun come up as the Wu-Flu sweeps the Earth…

When I heard Marc Almond invoke the trashiest Soho dives with lyrics like Lipstick marks on pint beer mugs/And love bites on the neck on Sleaze, I realised he was up there with Omar Khayyam, Baudelaire, Woops and Shane MacGowan. That song’s not on this LP…but Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret is pure E-fuelled praxis. All three Soft Cell albums are essential in my humble (four if you’re counting Non-Stop Ecstatic Dancing, which you probably should). This isn’t cool to admit, but I always thought Soft Cell were miles better than Coil and New Order: Dave Ball’s synth attack on this is relentless, from the opening cowbell assault on Frustration to the melancholic swirls at the end of the tearjerker closer Say Hello, Wave Goodbye. I’m sure I’ve played this 100 times more than I’ve ever spun Movement or Horse Rotorvator - and I've played those two a lot.

Bedsitter may be the best summary of life in Bedsitland I’ve ever heard. Speaking as a former resident of that interzone, this song was utterly perfect and helped me and many others imagine we were part of a deathless, interconnected psychic gang, operating from our own private Jagos - rather than merely being skint, isolated youths, exploited by bastard landlords:

Click to expand...

Probably the best thing I've read on dissesnsus or anywhere else.

"Mr Fayed, you'd better come down to the station house your son is dead"

Do you know what it was like trying to source OG industrial records before the internet? DO YOU???

Some zine would mention Current 93, and how they were like Throbbing Gristle but with “disturbing, dark, occult themes” and “like, totally nightmare soundscapes”. OK, I was easily sold. I bought a C93 record and pawed it on the bus home, buzzing with anticipation. I was expecting Hamburger Lady on crack, with some maniac summoning Sekhmet through a ring modulator. Zyklon B Zombie, but with blood-curdling invocations of Mayan squid-bats. The kind of demonic rumble that would make pictures fly off walls and turn the milk black.

Excitement gripped me as I plonked the platter on the turntable…the needle hovered above, ready to plunge me into pulsing sinewaves of SONIC HELLFIRE…the distorted screams of the eternally damned…!




72: RAMLEH – “THE HAND OF GLORY” 7"



If you lived in the UK between 1980-1985, you’ll be familiar with ‘power electronics’ as a genre, even if you wouldn’t touch a Whitehouse or Ramleh record with a barge pole. It was a time when you could pop into any branch of WH Smith and pick up dozens of paperbacks about serial killers, Satanism and the Third Reich. You could buy tarot cards and ouija boards in WH Smith, too. And trashy pulp novellas about wild creatures turning on mankind. The Rats. Bats Out Of Hell. Cujo. The Rage. The Snake. There was even one called Killer Crabs.

((There was far more frightening tat in WH Smith, though. Like Love Is… prints: grotesque drawings of a naked child couple with oversized adult heads. Or Pierrots! What the fuck was it with the 1980s and Pierrots?! They were on everything: posters, bedding, mirror frames…even my mum had a small ceramic plant pot with a Pierrot lolling on the side. It can’t all be down to that Bowie video!?))

The other obvious big influence on power electronics was under-the-counter video nasties. Back then, DIY filmmakers relied on cheap synths to generate the ominous drones, squeals and bleeps for their low-budget schlock fests. Just watch any early ‘80s VHS bloodbath – the incidental music’s pure industrial/power electronics. Throw in the prevailing cold war paranoia and daily media updates on murderers and missing kids, and ‘power electronics’ totally fitted the vibe of the time. It’d have been weirder if the genre hadn’t happened.

Some critics have suggested that this genre was largely art wank for edgelords. But how could you wind up your peers when they weren’t even aware of these ultra-obscure bands and their limited-edition releases? Sometimes, you just don’t want to listen to music that makes you feel good. You need the bad vibes to even everything out. It’s not like I sat by the turntable pondering whether Peter Kurten was really a good bloke.

Would it kill William Bennett to admit that this 1983 EP hugely influenced his Great White Death LP the following year? Side 1’s like the LSD-drenched soundtrack to a posse of 17th-century witch-hunters descending on an Essex village. Side 2 is the souls-in-torment (and down-the-laundry-chute) racket I’d been expecting when I first checked out Current 93. It’s a beast of a record, packing 20 minutes of psychedelic chaos onto a humble 7”. Probably sounds better on the 12” repress, but this is rarer - and I'm not buying the fucking thing again...



(I never worked out who the 'Ramleh men' in the band's logo were - they swiped the above image from the gargantuan fold-out poster that came with The Pop Group's Y LP. I once asked Mark Stewart if he remembered the news story, but he didn't. Political prisoners? Ballardian astronauts returned to Earth with some bizarre space disease?)

You know what a hand of glory is, right? When the authorities used to hang murderers by the neck and leave their bodies in gibbets for the birds, you could creep up on the swinging corpse; cut off the ‘sinister’, or murdering hand (THE HAND WOT DID IT); leave the hand hanging in the moonlight for three nights; bury it in a cowpat for four nights; bake it in the oven, with coriander, paprika and Cajun all-spice; and bingo – you had an infernal magical talisman. Plonk a candle in the hand ((fashioned from melted human fat, natch)) and the ghastly trinket could be used to open locked doors, render those around you immobile – and help you win rock-paper-scissors in perpetuity. Oh, shut up, you asked for this.

I was once offered a genuine ‘hand of glory’ for the modest sum of £40,000! No shit. It was being sold by the occultist landlady of a Shadwell pub – a hideous bruiser who went by many names but, for the sake of brevity, let’s call her MUTTON-FACED SAL. Sal promised me that this fearsome hand had belonged to none other than JACK THE RIPPER – hence the exorbitant price.

“But they never caught Jack The Ripper,” I said. “So how could they have hanged him?”

Sal claimed that after Saucy Jack had butchered his victims under Queen Victoria’s orders (to prevent Prince Albert Victor’s secret affair with a Catholic from coming to light), the Freemasons had reckoned that Jack himself now knew too much – so they ritually scragged him on the Isle of Dogs. An enterprising urchin who witnessed this clandestine execution later removed Jack’s ‘kill-hand’, to sell to burglars.

“OK, but I guess it can’t be hard to ID ‘Jack’ now,” I replied, peering at the hairy severed hand. “Can’t have been that many Ripper suspects who were left-handed?” Judging by the black fur covering the knuckles and fingers and the grey, padded palm, it seemed Jack The Ripper had also bunked it out of London Zoo before embarking on his Whitechapel rampage.

As Strictly Hardcore Records used to say - play loud or don't bother.

martin said:

It’s not like I sat by the turntable pondering whether Peter Kurten was really a good bloke.

Click to expand...

Corpsey definitely did.

Corpsey said:

I read your post Martin, absolutely fantastic as usual. I laughed I cried I considered listening to "power electronics".

Is the hand in Talk to Me based on the hand of glory, I wonder?

Click to expand...

There's one left in Edward Woodward's bedroom in The Wicker Man.