In the year of our lord Two Thousand and Seven me [Gazz] and Nick [... Nick] made a movie. It was, and is, called Jesus F. Trotsky Presents... The Greatest Film Never Made. A feature length making-of documentary mockumentary comedy about the efforts of a delusional film maker [the titular JFT] to shoot his debut movie. We shot it dually in Nottingham and Cannes [during the festival no less] and it cost about £250 or so to make, purely because that's what it cost to get us to France. In October 2008 Nick has FINALLY edited the picture and we premiered it at the Broadway Cinema in Nottingham to a crowd of about 50 odd family, friends and the star of the show Eddie Rex. It went down a treat with the assembled viewers, so much so that I almost got laid based on having been in the movie. Happily we set about other projects, including 12bTV and sending countless TV pitch ideas to the BBC. However in the backs of our minds the movie lingered, like a ling, awaiting the day when Nick would get off his arse and put together a DVD package for everyone [our Mums] to enjoy at home over a sherry.

That golden shining day occurred this past week when we launched the JFT DVD into the world by having a bit of a do. Guests were invited, including Eddie Rex himself, and a venue booked for the evening... leaving the day free to play with. Me and Nick sheened up to Notts on the train and hit our usual Christmas Eve starter Pub, The Roebuck Inn. Over a period of time we were joined by Hoss, Hinge, Hoyd and Dave, who was sporting a custom made Eddie Rex t-shirt. In fact of the 6 of us, half had their own Rex shirt, all of them different. Hinge was rocking the poster art, Nick had a cleverly photoshopped morph of Eddie and Ché Guevara, while Dave's displayed proudly the words ‘Eddie Rex The Man The Myth The Heterosexual Extremist’ and he was incredibly keen to get it signed by the man, the myth etc... himself later than night.

We'd organised a sort of miniature pub crawl, of all the favoured Nottingham haunts, to warm us up for the actual marquee event. With everyone present in the one place Dave became gradually more and more convinced that it MUST be Christmas Eve already, until his illusions were cruelly shattered by the sparse and decidedly German Market free city square. Nick told us an amazing story about a fight at work which culminated in the bar manager tossing him a broken off pool cue and ordering him to "Protect The Tills" [which will be the motif of a shirt itself if I have anything to do with it] as we made our way around through The Pit and Pendulum. Dave, being a lazy sort of chap, got the barmaid to unlock the disabled toilets for him because it's on the ground floor and saved him some stairs, but when he stepped out the emergency alarm went off and alerted everyone in the pub to the fact that he was not in anyway disabled. He swears blind he didn't pull the special red chord, but they give him proper dirty looks until we left regardless.

Hinge rung up his "flex" [Christ I hate him for calling her that. She's this girl who he sleeps with. A fuck buddy, I suppose you'd say, who he insisted on showing us underwear shots of and who, upon inspection is a Butter Face] and kept passing the phone around us until I said he'd shown us her bush, at which point he grabbed the phone back and wandered off. She rung him LOADS, thinking about it now, at the sort of rate you'd expect to receive texts or updates from the frontline.

Lloyds, which is like a Wetherspoons if you like to think yourself a fresh young urbanite but are actually skinter than Lynyrd Skyntyrd, was the scene of much betrayal. I went for a piss, leaving Nick to order me a White Russian [see what I mean about the perception of wealth?] but when I came back he'd ordered me a Vodka and Calpol, on the rocks. The grounds for doing so were two fold. 1) It was on special offer and 2) I would hate it. Monster is an off-brand rip off version of Red Bull in as much as Pluto is a rip-off of Mars. Similar, but nowhere near as good. It tasted like medicine, as I say, but I choked it down because it was a drink and it was in front of me. Nick, on the other hand, was suffering heap big buyers remorse and couldn't bring himself to finish the Tixylix/Morrinov cocktail, eventually managing to spill almost all of it over Dave's legs so he smelled a bit like a drunken paediatrician.

Nick and Hoss made a move on some girls outside briefly, but got called assholes when Rex turned up and they completely erased the girls from memory. They sheened off, leaving the rest of us to contemplate Dave's soggy jeans and wonder aloud about whether or not any of us actually knew where The Jam Cafe was. Took ages to find the damn place, it being the stage for our party, but when we did the girls had roped themselves a sort of mezzanine area with a big flat screen hung on the walls, on which they played the movie on loop, sound off. We were meant to have a live performance of the JFT Theme song by its composer, Richard Snow, but he contracted the boogie woogie flu or some such shit the day before and couldn't make it. Unfortunate yet suspicious says I, but whatever. Nick's Mam and Dad turned up, with his Auntie Paula who's in the movie, followed closely by my thematically late parents and younger sister.

Lambley was meant to come, but his being less reliable than receiving your free prawn crackers if you forgot to ask for them, I'd kept in regular contact with him throughout the day. He ensured me of his attendance right up until about 4pm, when he suddenly went radio dark. Couldn't raise the guy at all from that point on. A ghost in the wind he was. Fucker.

Drink flowed [from cans of Red Stripe at £3 a throw, and gold fish bowls of dark Belgian lager at some ungodly price] and those of us in the flick signed DVD's with a special silver ink pen I'd bought earlier for that very task. Dave got his shirt signed and was beside himself with joy, even when I signed it as well. Hinge teamed up with my little sister to canvass the other patrons and wound up shifting 3 copies of the DVD to real people, with real faces and real hopes and dreams, for a fiver a piece. We signed them as well, for good measure, assuring our new fanbase that it was a proper film with an IMDb entry and everything [that's true, as it goes. Look it up]

The Lambley situation was starting to get to me more and more when I rung him for the final time. I was 7 hours or so deep into my drinking and got it in my head to have my sister, Riannah, call him a prick on my behalf. He didn't pick up, obviously, so she left it as a voicemail... but it didn't stop there. I called him a prick, then Nick wanted to... then Hinge and Dave and my Mum and Dad, and Nick's Mum and Dad and his auntie Paula and Eddie Rex himself and Hoyd and Hoss and then I got a bit drunk with the attention and had the bar staff call him a prick too and everyone who'd bought a DVD and when Hinge pointed out another guy who wanted to call him a prick I raced over to him and handed him the phone and... he refused.

"Call my mate Lambley a prick!"
"I'm not calling some stranger a prick on his voicemail"
"What? Why?"
"....."
"Either do it or gimme my fucking phone back!"

He chose the latter, angrily thrusting my phone into my hand and carrying on with his feta cheese and rocket salad. Turns out he hadn't grabbed Hinge's attention demanding to contribute to our mass prick voicemail... instead he'd stomped over to our mezzanine with his indie specs and chin beard and reprimanded the group for being too noisy. In a bar. At night. Hinge's revenge through me, though unwitting on my part, was just and thorough and to exacerbate things we carried on being noisy... noisier really... even after he'd left.   Prick.

Hoss got dared to do the splits by my sister, who'd been tormenting him all night along with Dave as her accomplice. He bought some olives and Dave distracted him so she could steal them. So he bought a beer, and she distracted him so Dave could steal it. He got them both back, of course, but then I stole his beer later and drank it. Not sure what happened to the olives. Anyway his attempt at doing the splits was a fucking disaster. He kept trying, failing, walking off and then coming back to try try again. Strive to achieve I suppose. He threw it in as a bad job when he'd gotten about 2/3's of the way down and Riannah pushed on his shoulders, forcing his knackers to the ground and his legs into angles that his sensible pleated dress trousers hadn't been prepared for. He keeled into a heap for a bit and wrenched a handrail out of the wall trying to get back up... we left soon after.

Sent the parents and such on their merry way, along with Hoyd, and we fucked off to the Social, which is open until 3am on Thursdays. It was DEAD. Dead. I've never seen it so quiet. Might have been because of the Easter Holidays maybe. All the students have gone back to Brighton to see Mummy and Daddy and try to get some more cash for drugs and that hilarious Kruschev action figure they saw in SPLANK. I found an umbrella, twirling it around like a pissed majorette making Dave incredibly nervous. Hoss and Hinge went their separate way, off to Oceana because they were convinced it would be crammed with minge. The sad reality is that after paying to get in, Hoss strutted his funky white boy stuff on an empty dance floor, almost started a fight with some strangers and had to be rescued and removed by Hinge post haste. They met up with us in KFC some time later, so Hoss could eat a BBQ rod while using his eyebrows to keep his eyes open.

Eddie Rex told me he had the perfect part for me in a movie he's making, that of gameshow host Randy Get, and then he kindly offered to drive us home if we gave him a fiver a piece. Nottingham's only Underground Caribbean dub step radio station Kemet FM provided the tunes and impenetrable DJ links on the drive. Eddie pulled over for petrol and James tried to jack his car despite it not having the keys in it but instead a petrol pump, settling to rob an AMSTERDAM hat as consolation. We kicked Hoss out at the top of his street and I crashed in the most 90's duvet cover left in existence on the floor of Nick's Mum's house.

Thus ends the story, with me and Nick travelling back to London the next morning in the same clothes, stinking with booze and sweat and chicken smell, but all together satisfied with the final farewell send off into the world of our first movie. If you want a copy... hope against hope... then you can get one from the @12bTV Twitter feed or by contacting LondonMeUp directly at James@LondonMeUp.com. Paypal accepted. Chin beards not.