2 #
DARK COLD #2
ALBION ANALOG
&
Things that are dark and cold? Space. A frozen chocolate torte. A Jimmy Saville impersonator at a 6 year-old’s birthday party. January. January is the Monday of months. It’s dark when you journey to work and dark when you leave. It’s full of shivers, diets, detoxes, self-righteousness and regret. January is the kind of month that would come into your house, not take off it’s shoes, spreading freshly-stepped-in-dog-shit all over your new carpet and then look at you blankly and say: “what?” Fucking Julius Caesar (wait for it). But, maybe January doesn’t mean it. Maybe it’s just naive. Stupid. A dick-head. What if there was a way to change it? To make January a better month. I smell a marketing campaign! Ideas: 1. Move January so it sits in-between the other J months. After June, before July. Much jollier. 2. Make New Years Eve last the whole month. Encouraging, through a targeted banner campaign, everyone to be inebriated for 31 more days, so January is forgotten about like a bad late-night decision in a nightclub full of mingers. 3. Build a time machine. Then go back and take out Julius Caesar before he creates the modern 12 month calendar (ta da - edutainment). 4. Rename January Jellyuary. Give out free jelly to everyone who ‘Likes’ it on Facebook. 5... Uh... This may need some more thought.
Analog #2 Editor: Aaron ‘Fuck you January’ Hinchion P.O. Box 80085 PSN: Hinchmuffin
Christian Kirkham
Jack Gallon
Meg Porter
Meg Porter
Hell is clattering teeth frozen soles and heels beat on the cracked wet street
Christian Norman
Ceinwen Jarvis
Debs & Laura
@aaronhinchion
This page has 0.001 calories.
Romney Taylor
<Cold data, dark thoughts> Everything will be connected. Stupid things like spoons and bins will become intelligent. And data will be at the heart of it. These are the words I catch before falling into a dark, dreamless sleep. I wake up, or not, depending on the definition of waking up. It’s 1982. I am just about 8 years old. It’s the stone age in my hometown, Kota. There are only a few bicycles around and one of them drops me to my school. Seasons of mists and mellow fruitfulness. I remember the words waking me to the world to literature and writing. Since that day and ever since all I wanted was to put words on to paper. Darkness falls. It’s 1998. I still don’t have a job. I light up my first cigarette. I get a rush. I blink. It’s 2003. I step on the airplane for the first time. And once the fears of crashing and ears bursting vanish, I sleep. Peacefully. Tuned to the buzz of the airplane. 2007. Amsterdam. Things have changed. Life seems to have settled down nicely along the canals of the Dam. There’s music in the air. There’s a whisper too. I fail to listen to it, at first. Then it grows louder. Digital or die. 2013. I am staring at the screen of my mac. It’s hurting cold outside. And dark. My screen lights up the room. I am trying to understand and write HTML, slowly making my way through the online tutorials. I type: <h2 style = “color: red”; font size: 12px”> Seasons of mists and mellow fruitlessness.</h2> Fruitlessness. From
Kota
to
an HTML code.
coding.
It’s
been
one
strange,
lonely
trip
to
write
Hemant Jain
It’s estimated that on average gym membership increases by 25% each January. Whilst I’m not up for round two of an abusive relationship with Fitness First, I have found the pressing need for a resolution I won’t keep. An innocent all staff email invite to a lunchtime run seemed like the perfect way to help kick that off. Please consider this memoir a memorandum and warning.
Mile 1: The Precipice (13:20) The run kicks off at a robust pace, when I say robust pace I actually mean a flat out sprint. Apparently, unknown to me there is a zombie apocalypse behind us, which we are evading with great success. Hopefully we have lost them by the time we get to Kebab Zero.
Mile 2 or Death and all his friends (
A sharp knife is pressing into my abdomen. It feels a bit like a stitch, but I can’t be sure as the m running with are only getting quicker so I can’t check. Apparently at Albion there is a Lance Arm doping ring that nobody had told me about - wish I got the email. I want to go home and cry bu convince Christiana to take a quick walk around Victoria Park while the users continue on.
Mile 3: Fear and loathing in East Lo
DOMS. Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness is usually experienced 24-72 hours after strenuous exe upgrade to during. The next ten minutes is a blur but I mostly recall pain and something like a m
Of all the fads the New Year brings, getting fit has to be one of the most shit… followed shortly by not drinking for a month, quitting smoking, and eating more flaxseed oil. Whilst the supposed health benefits of the aforementioned list have been argued as compelling, let’s not let ourselves get carried away with ourselves just because we survived a Mayan clerical error in 2012.
(13:28)
mutants Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m mstrong tribute ut instead I
ondon (13:35)
Lateef Joseph-Maynard
ercise, unfortunately for me Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been given an male bum encased in running leggings up ahead.
Jesper Broring
James Kemp
@aaronhinchion
Kirk Watson
Ben Copland
T
wenty fifth of December, A night to remember The Son of God had a boozy old time.
He fed food for five thousand, To an Angel he’d christened And turned all her water to wine. The next thing she new, She woke up with a Jew, Her head, just as smashed as her halo. The walk of shame, it was testing, As her hangover was festering. All mankind looked to heaven aglow. Their prayers, they were answered, The girl tripped and whimpered As she fell unto earth from the stars. Her wings could not hold her. They cried ‘Hallelujah’ Thank the lord she was blessed with an arse.
Lauren Hurst
Christian Kirkham
That’s it. It’s the sight of her white ankle sock slipping provocatively just out of sight on one dangling foot, looped over the back of a hard plastic chair. That’s what does it for him. Just the sight of that sock.
She is sprawled, insouciant in his chair, and her eyes watch him, even as her mouth rounds another cud of gum, pressing the wad flat in between her teeth and shuttling it back to be compacted by her molars. In the rhythmic motion of her mouth, he sees her strawberry lips swell and purse, and her tongue, quick and neat like a mouse. He sees her skinny limbs emerging from her white button down shirt, and her hair curling into the back of her slender neck. She has borrowed mascara from someone and it is flaking off over her cheeks in a fine black down, but her lack of awareness is beautiful, sacred. She is carved from warm marble, childishly flushed at her situation. But it is the dangling foot that drives him to distraction, the tiny nub of white ankle, the black patent leather shoes that they used to tell girls not to
Phillippa Dunjay
shine for fear strange men would look up their pretty dresses.
He longs to cradle that foot. To touch that bare patch of skin between skin and shoe, to rub his fingers across that uncharted piece of the world, to press it firmly under his thumb and see it warm and redden. Maybe his eyes linger too long - she senses the effect it has on him - as she reaches down, and hooks her sock up with a nail-bitten thumb. A little light goes out, somewhere in the world.
“Now, my dear,” he says firmly, and in response, she shifts in his chair, expectant, eager, and her dress moves an inch up her thigh.
His fingers twitch with the urge to pull down that tiny sock, the need to see her eyes on him, the desire to bury himself in her soft blank body.
“Tell me how much you like my show again.”
Something moves inside him.
Something dark and cold.
Christian Kirkham
Laurent Hurst
@aaronhinchion
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SOCIAL
ANTI