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Withnail and I

Do you think the cauliflower more beautiful than the rose? After this, you probably will, as you join the legions of Withnailites pathetically droning out line after line of script-coke as they plunge deeper into the rightful drunkenness of the broken hearted. A truly elegaic piece to just about everything good about the Sixties - such as having no heating, no money and no purpose further than getting utterly boxed. Rural England is still a lot like this, and artistic despair at the drooled egg-yolk realities of urban life has rarely been so carefully observed.

If you would prefer to live in a world of perpetually witty beauty and sublime intoxication, then Withnail's is the world for you. It falls far short of that, showing two fellows hobbled by the aristocracy of their spirits in a world of labour exchanges and bull-shagged farmers, before being inched inexorably into a corner by a voluminous poove hell-bent on buggery. A neater metaphor for the supercilious subtle sadism of the British State has ne'er been since remarked.