NSFW Movie Review: John Leslie meets Abi Titmuss by shoutingatco.ws

The team who present Blue Peter when you’re a child represent the only proper team. They’ll be perpetually replaced by younger models, but they’ll always be the real presenters. Anyone who came before them is an historical curiosity, and everyone after is a kind of 12 year old playing at presenting. Seriously, current presenter Helen Skelton looks like she’s on an episode of Jim’ll Fix It.

Anyway, one of our REAL Blue Peter presenters was John “John” Leslie, the gigantic Scottish chap who went on to do Wheel of Fortune and – allegedly – Ulrika Jonsson. He also appears in this frankly unnecessary sex tape, alongside model Abi Titmuss and a supporting cast of anonymous women. We didn’t want it to come to this, we’re not thrilled about spending a Sunday morning watching his willy, but here we are.

The first scene sees John getting head, while a badly tuned radio blares out barely audible commentary. The secret is to focus on the radio, and try to listen to every word, rather than John’s sex noises. After literally a minute, he’s done.

With no messing about, there’s a quick cut to a girl giving Abi head. Like all good amateur cameramen, John is happy to fuck about with the zoom function on his camcorder, giving us a gynaecologist’s eye view of Abi’s insides, and then to absentmindedly wave the camera around to show off an out-of-focus bottle of water on the nightstand. At this point, John’s willy makes its first close up appearance, a spindly purple-headed beast with a bird’s nest of hair, which he waves in Abi’s face until she half-hearted pops it in her mouth. This continues in BLURRYVISION(tm), John filming the top of Abi’s head and the pillows behind her, while the other girl is completely forgotten about. Perhaps she was just a ghost.

Another quick cut to Abi and a different girl in the bath together. John’s watching on from a slight distance, with a finger in front of the lens, giving him that authentic stalker look. They kiss for ages, in a battle of wills that just seems to be testing John’s patience. He gets closer, slowly, finger still obscuring the lens, and then… and then… just turns the camera off.

On to a mini house party, as 2000s R&B sensation Mya blares out, and Abi (surrounded by empty wine bottles) plays with a girl’s boobs. They’re having a conversation that is inaudible (sort out the levels, John). “KISS” barks John, “COME ON”, he clarifies, when they aren’t quite passionate enough for him. There are tongues flailing around everywhere, like a first date between two 14 year olds. “Why isn’t she on her knees?” questions John, and Abi, without wanting to kill the mood, warns him, “she’s not used to being spoken to like that”. This doesn’t stop John, who bellowing out orders to the girls. “LIFT HER SKIRT, ABI, LIFT HER SKIRT”. Christ John, it’s a threesome, it’s going to happen, chill out dude.

Quick cut to later the same night (John presumably having told them what to do every step of the way – “Take off your left sock, now your right.” “Why the fuck are you still wearing a bra?” etc). Abi’s staring vacantly into the camera, and is asked what she’s doing. “She’s got a finger in my arse.” “No!” exclaims John, as though this were the first he’d heard of it, when he’s clearly such a domineering dickhead that he obviously told her to do it, and shouted at her for not getting the lube quick enough.

The two girls get it on together, satisfyingly leaving Leslie stood around – literally – like a spare prick. It’s like being at a concert, and instead of enjoying the band, holding up your cameraphone so you can enjoy a rubbish view of it later. In fact, brilliantly, the last third sees John just watching and waiting for a sly hand-job that’s never going to come. And neither is John.

This was a harrowing experience, because while John is never on camera (apart from those fleeting views of his bell-end) his voice booms out, controlling and weird like an omniscient, pervert narrator. When we watched him doling out Blue Peter badges, we never thought it’d come to this. So thanks, John. Thanks a bloody lot.

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