body rock.

Why do I do this to myself?

I'm ill for God's sake (and my copy of Murder Rock is out on loan).

Aerobicide (AKA Killer Workout, 1986).
dir: David A Prior.
Cast: Marcia Karr, David James Campbell, Fritz Matthews, Ted Prior, Teresa Van Der Woude and Teresa Truesdale.

"Just relax, I'm not some crazy killer."

Horse faced and pube permed fashion model Valerie is excited to discover she's been chosen as the cover star of the new issue of Take A Break magazine (or something) and, eager to look at her most orange for the photo shoot heads off to the local gym to use the sun bed.

Unfortunately a freak accident means the machine cooks Valerie so they have to go with a Jade Goody: I'm still dead/Jordan: my tits make my back ache cover instead.

Which is a shame really.

Several years and a dozen crimes against fashion later and we find ourselves in the middle of a funky Hi-Energy workout complete with dodgy 80's synth pop, crack splitting leotards and over ripe bouncy breasts.

Sexily strict gym manager (and Crispy Valerie's twin sister) Rhonda (Karr from the Linda Blair potboiler Savage Streets and Maniac Cop) runs the classes with a rod of iron, saving her venom for her sassy Pam Grier alike and part time whore Jaimy (Woude, star of Night Visitor) and local chubster Jimmy (mightily mulleted Matthews from Deadly Prey and The Devil's Rain).

Arse.

Luckily for the viewer these soap opera shenanigans are quickly put on hold when keep fit enthusiast Rachel (queen of the walk on Truesdale) is stabbed in the showers by a nutter wielding a giant safety pin.

No, really.

Which is annoying for Jaimy whose (sweaty) jockstrap stealing antics are cruelly curtailed when Rachel's bloodied corpse falls out of a locker on top of her.

Enter (not literally mind) the Caramel faced Lieutenant Morgan (blond bruiser Campbell) who's brought in to investigate the murder and add some much needed testosterone to the proceedings.

Insert cock here.

Whilst Morgan is roughing up the clientèle, Rhonda is surprised to find a strange man named Chuck (Ted - slightly less ugly brother of the director - Prior) ransacking her office (tho' not her orifices).

It appears her business partner has hired Chuck to, um, do stuff.

Oh and to have a vaguely homo-erotic fight with Jimmy in the car park.

Excitedly watching from the sidelines is Jimmy's ex girlfriend (whose name escapes me) who, overcome with lust for Chuck invites him back to her apartment for a quick shag and a biscuit.

The post sex chat comes around to poor old Jimmy, it appears she dumped him because he liked to 'tie girls up and stuff' making him the number one suspect for Rachel's murder.

I know, I can't figure that one out either.

Anyway, Chuck is too interested in watching the ladies ample breasts bob up and down in a slightly hypnotic way to really take anything in tho'.

As was I if I'm honest.

"You'll do what in mah mooth?"

Luckily I snapped back to reality in time to see the local bad boys spraying death spa all over the gym's walls before being dispatched by the unseen killer.

Why?

Didn't he like the font they used?

Morgan appears to be as much use as a chocolate starfish as more and more supple, toned (dead) bodies turn up forcing him to run around accusing everyone of being the killer whilst
Rhonda sticks her chest out and glares at the rest of the cast.

Bizarrely enough the small matter of the killings doesn't seem to have bothered the local fitness freaks at all, seeing as the gym seems busier than ever.

Same shit, different smell.

So, who is the workout obsessed killer?

Will anyone tell Rhonda that her bra is about three sizes too small?

And will Jimmy win back the heart (and not to mention huge breasts) of his ex?

To be honest, there aren't enough hours in the day to care really.

Jordan: media obsessed whore.

The horror equivalent of itchy anal warts, Aerobicide takes your basic slasher plot, gets it drunk on cheap lager in a sleazy night club and buys it a kebab before roughly buggering it in the cab on the way home then kicking it out of the backdoor onto a dirty piece of wasteland half naked and bleeding.

Director Prior (he of, oh fuck it I can't be bothered listing the unadulterated shite he's been involved in, just look him up) takes a surprisingly competent cast and forces them to stand around in vomit inducing luminous 80's dance fashions whilst spouting whatever inane sentences just happen to come into their heads.

And my word what heads the cast have.

There are mullets, poodle perms and giant blonde barnets that look like they'd snap if tugged too hard, it's painfully obvious to anyone watching that the ozone hole is all the fault of this movie.

But all that fades when compared to the outfits paraded on screen, day-glo vests, spandex snatch splitters, shiny leotards and leg warmers are the order of the day whilst the electropap score kills any chance of suspence before it can rear it's head.

Bloody abysmal.

I love it.