uKunst Edition 013:Journal of a Plague Year Feat. The Saint George's Day Massacre

EDITION 013 | JOURNAL OF A PLAGUE YEAR FEAT. THE SAINT GEORGE’S DAY MASSACRE

APRIL 2022

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uKUNST MANIFESTO

WE are uKUNST. WE are alternative.

WE are creative.

WE are independent.

WE will produce.

WE will disseminate.

We have no masters.

We are legion. uKUNST.

uKUNST MANIFESTO uKUNST: All Is Artifice.

Creative actions and productions to challenge apathetic human acceptanceof religious delusions, bankrupt conventions, colonial and capitalist ideologies and plain lack of reason. (uKUNST Manifesto April 1, 1917). uKUNST CREATIVE PRODUCTION uKUNST develops, produces and distributes interdisciplinary arts-led creative works. uKUNST is an independent creative studio and producer delivering both in-house and external (client) products ranging from audio, visual, performance and digital arts through to literature, animation, music, print and events. By Any Media Necessary © RFM 1995.

Welcome to the thirteenth in a series of alternative and radical arts productions. Each uKUNST action, event or production is aimed at challenging the existing status quo across the arts, society, commerce and politics.

Developing and producing a series of art or kunst products will deliver these actions.

Each product is a standalone creative work as well as a part of the wider uKUNST canon of art provocations, products and productions. uKUNST STOCKISTS uKUNST mags are now available at BARB (London) & EPS (Yeovil). See page 22 for details.

We will be producing the Radio uKUNST Audio Magazine later this year.

Thank you for your continued interest, support and cash. www.ukunst.com

2 | uKUNST Manifesto

CONTENTS Front | The Fall Of Man | Fuxus Kunst 2 | uKUNST Manifesto 3 | Contents | Navigation & Contributors 4 | Journal Of A Plague Year | Editorial 5 | Mask | Jay Moy 6 | The Rose/ For My Father 2021 | Filippos Tsitsopoulos 7 | The Road | Anonymous Artist 8 | John Wilkes And The Dragon | Bluebeany 9 | Grown 16:02:81 | Pan Toes Relax 10 | Living The Dream Emoji | Mark Hedge 11| The True History of the Windsor Gang | Richard Lees 12 | A Festival Of Blight | Michael Johnson 14 | Invisible Virus (2 Metres) Britain 2021| Lisa Fielding-Smith 15 | Night Mail | Simon Poulter 16 | St. George’s Day Massacre (2022) | Emma Diamond 17 | St. George Shops At Primark | Yol 18 | Plague Party | Sean Azzopardi 19 | Stolen Homeland | Richard A Wilson 20 | Bullingdon Dirty Front Row | Les Norbitones 22 | Stockists uKUNST | BARB & EPS 23 | Publisher Page | Publication Info Back | St. George’s Day Massacre | Michael Barnes-Wynters

CONTRIBUTORS Anonymous Artist Sean Azzopardi Michael Barnes-Wynters Bluebeany Emma Diamond Lisa Fielding-Smith Mark Hedge Michael Johnson Kargan Media Fuxus Kunst Richard Lees Jay Moy Les Norbitones Pan Toes Relax Simon Poulter Stockists BARB EPS Filippos Tsitsopoulos Richard A Wilson Yol

Cyber Freak | Fuxus Kunst | 3

EDITORIAL The theme for this issue is Journal Of A Plague Year, a kind of annual review of the recent incomprehensible and steadfastly destructive delusions and actions of mankind. How, in the name of Saint Anthony Wedgwood-Benn, did we all come to comply with and swallow such rancid and draconian policies and public orders? Why were such directives really created and how do so many of them result in the disenfranchisement, injustice, hardship and even death of ordinary folk? All these and many other pressing quandaries will never be answered. As the Christmas season passed away and the world order threatened to plague the jabbed and unjabbed alike many thoughts turned to the New Year and the dastardly ovenready plans being cooked up by those in corporate and political power. Climate change continues to promise the end of the world, as we knew it supported by the myriad pledges that remain unhonoured as fossil fuel corporates successfully lobby politicians for a flood of concessions ensuring their industries, unlike coastal towns and villages, remain above water.

Over the last few months these pages have severally questioned the relatively rapid if spectacularly inevitable descent of previously diligent and well-behaved primate into a swaggering, deceitful bully that Flashman would have envied.

Summoned before the Select Committee for Political Impropriety so-called leader after leader is seen to sit impassively as their list of failings and crimes are exposed before exiting the light grilling with a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders. The Chancellor declares the state largesse of the lockdown is over and the 2 Groat a month Universal Discredit payment is to be curtailed for all but the wealthiest. Simultaneously Members of Parliament fail to challenge and stop an outrageous £2,000 pay increase despite their inaudible protests. As we reflect upon what has occurred before our incredulous eyes we will, perhaps foolishly, hope for a better future and the traditional uKUNST non-fungible bemusement will apply. We live in hope. In our post-vaccine, post-brexit age however it is even more important to express interest or indeed disinterest in any current affair including the further stench of sleaze emanating from the political class as their snorters pig out from the infinite trough that is the public purse.

And what of anarchy in the Un-united Kingdom? Are the public really still bound by the archaic and parasitic conventions of our democratic titular monarchy? How many times must the privileged and wealthy laugh in the face of public impotency when faced with yet another royal roggering by the bastard descendents of Charles II? If Her Majesty is suffering from a horrible annus then it maybe the cause emanates from her own royal household. A glance at our former European cousins illustrates that a modernised monarchy is the best outcome for a modern state and that the shameless excreting of multiple honours and elevations to the second chamber (pot) are a direct betrayal of the Conservative Liberal agreement to reduce the House of Gourds and move towards a meritocratic second house.

So as we drift into the apocalyptic daymare of World War III and the return of public birching let us blame not those that trespass against nature and ourselves but we as the people for our apathy, at best, and collusion at worst with the architects of our united and global endgame. It isn’t a good look or a happy state but we can be proud of our primate cousins who, inventive to the last, continue to show us how to use basic tools to ward off enemies and improve our miserable lot.

Welcome to this latest delayed, pro-heresy, lampoon-filled and achingly dishonouring edition. uKUNST Enjoy Der Herausgeber April MMXXII

4 | Editorial | Journal Of A Plague Year

Mask | Jay Moy | 5

6 | Filippos Tsitsopoulos | The Rose/ For My Father

The Road | Anonymous Artist | 7

8 | Bluebeany | John Wilkes And The Dragon

Grown 16:02:81

Asking me questions about my life I was brought up in the middle of strife TV’s blaring with sound & confusion Music keeps playing about disillusion Grow up to noises of delusion try 2 think? Ambients softer in bed Phones ringing to say “how’s he growing & have a nice day“. Think of nothing go 2 sleep TV’s blaring about war with smashing affect Boring the mind stupid to stay in the illusion Grown up enough to dream of becoming an astronaut while drifting into the twilight mode.

Snorewood Peak.

Reconnecting 15/09/21 RIP Dad

Sent from my iPhone

Grown 16:02:81 | Pan Toes Relax | 9

Living The Dream Emoji

You can see it from a mile The shit-eating smile On my face and yours Banging down the doors You see it on the face of the condemned And on those forced to pretend Mere mortals cannot comprehend The shit they put us through When common sense does not prevail And leaders lead us by the tail They say it’s white and you know that it’s black The shit eating smile counter attack

10 | Mark Hedge | Living The Dream Emoji

The True History of the Windsor Gang ) | Richard Lees | 11

A Festival Of Blight At the end of another plague year in the sleepy backwater of Snorewood the last of the colour is slowing draining from the land. The humble villagers, gazing wistfully northwards as they munch hungrily on the leaf litter, (the last scrap of food in the local supermarket, a shrivelled mangle wurzel, having been finished days ago) can only dream of the yuletide celebrations at the home of their porky overlord; A. B. De Pfeffer Johnson.

At his grease and favour dwelling, No. 10 Nose-Browning Street, the pink, sweaty little porker has the caterers running back and forth, filling the troughs for his donor guests to snout through, little gifts of PPE contracts scattered in each one.

Overseeing the decorations, Jasper Cheese-Log is stretched out like a patient etherised on a table, shouting orders at his nanny. He looks like a scarecrow image of Lord Snooty; a straw man, but without enough stuffing.

Errant member Sir Jabberwocky Crocks reads the order of the day, (moonlighting from his second job at £50 a word, charged to his constituents, if he can remember where they are). First come the games. They start with Pass The Parcel, each wrapper removed has written on it a scruple that must be dropped. At the centre is the prize of next year’s policies, but when the final wrapper is undone there’s nothing inside.

Next is the De Pfeffer version of Musical Chairs, which works in reverse, as chairs are added one at a time, each one for a seat in the Lords. Needless to say, guests pay handsomely to play this game.

Little Pfeffer decides it’s time for a quiz and the ministers all gather round for a game of Would I Lie To You. But it’s abandoned after one round as no one used the True button. The ministers try twenty questions, but this also fails as no one can answer simply yes or no.

A brief disturbance occurs before the diners are at seated at the table. The question, ‘who’s going to carve up’ has so many volunteers a fight breaks out amongst the lower ranks.

Although the troughs are full, the tables over-laden, the presents under the tree obscene in their lavishness, there is a brief disturbance when a lowly backbencher timorously enquires whether there will be any food, light or heating left for the lowly peasants of Snorewood and beyond. ‘No Idea! Who cares!’ they bray back at him as he is dragged away to be racked and de-selected. Dishonourable member Despot Swine quickly pipes up that he knows a serial killer and a Nazi, either of whom might like to get in at the vacant constituency…

Finally, when the revels have ended, little Pfeffer holds his hands out as the guests leave. He wants his present. There is only one item on his Christmas list, his favourite cologne, Eau de Corruption by Cretin D’Or. He always follows the instruction on the label. He splashes it all over.

A Festival Of Blight | Michael Johnson | 13

14 | Lisa Fielding-Smith | Invisible Virus (2 Metres) Britain 2021

Night Mail This is the Night Mail crossing the border, Bringing the chaos and the civil disorder, Packages for the rich, letters for the poor, The Amazon Prime held for the woman next door.

Pulling up Lives, a steady climb: The gradient’s against her, but her UC’s declined.

Past abandoned shops and moorland boulder Neglected towns are left to moulder, Snorting speedballs as she passes Silent miles of skunky grasses.

Birds turn their heads as she approaches, Glazed over citizens sleep with cockroaches.

Sheep dogs abandoned upon the hills; Animals forced fed with pre-death pills.

In the farm the beasts stand unaware, As there’s no-one left to really care .

Tweets of thanks, nasty letters from banks, TikTok joy from the girl and the boy, Death threats and invitations People out to take down your relations,

And applications for situations Along with we are sorry to inform you declarations And angry populism from all the nations, Fake news, along with Daily Snark bile, Largely propagandised, true once in a while, SnapChat with faces scrawled in the margin, No one gives a shit about uncles, cousins, and aunts, Separation of Scotland and fish fights with France, It was a shock when someone asked if you’re okay, Crap deals stitched up by GOV.UK, Composed on iPads with every hue, The pink, the violet, the white and the blue, The shitty, the catty, the boring, adoring, The complete bastards and the heart’s outpouring, Clever, stupid, short and long, Threads that spelt nearly everything wrong.

And they shall wake soon and check their likes, Before nipping to the gym on electric bikes.

Without a stent implant in there heart, It might be simple to end with ’til Death do us part?

Night Mail | Simon Poulter | 15

16 | Emma Diamond | St. George’s Day Massacre (2022)

St. George Shops At Primark | Yol | 17

18 | Sean Azzopardi | Plague Party 2021

Stolen Homeland | Richard A Wilson | 19

Bullingdon Dirty Front Row I’m Dave P’raps you’ve heard? Call me Dave Quite absurd of me Squirrelling away Somebody’s pay God only knows whose it is I’ve ballsed up the country But then when I want to relax I let you all vote so you cut your own throat Leave you to it and fiddle me tax.

I’m Bullingdon Davie, my bits smell of gravy I blunder along like a lout I don’t give a fig with my knob in a pig Then I don’t give a fig with it out I’m snooty and phoney, a posh Berlusconi I’m handing out gongs to me mates and me cronies I’m Dave, (call me) Dave, I do misbehave But the billionaires love me, you see, When I go down the boozer, they all shout ‘Oi, Looser!’

I’m Bullingdon Davie MP (ex).

I’m George Known as Gideon My heart Pure obsidian Scheming away Searching new prey Feeding off greed and despair My kin are all loaded I’m one over privileged git I’ll always need more, though I stick it off shore Then get knighted for doing my bit.

20 | Les Norbitones | Bullindon Dirty Front Row

I’m Bullingdon Georgie, my life’s a grand orgy Of robbing the poor for the rich The porkies I tell Are below standard sell I’m one evil son of a bitch The country, I’ll sink it For one lousy trinket The blood of dead babies, I’ll happily drink it I’m George, George, your futures I forged With six years of austerity An impending disaster will only come faster With Bullingdon Georgie MP (ex).

I’m Bo Unaccountable Ego Insurmountable Playing the clown While flogging the town To gangsters and privateers My scheme is quite simple I’m playing the media whore But the public I fool, when I promise home rule With my caveat suffragator.

I’m Bullingdon Boris, I love to quote Horace Though nobody knows what I mean I mess up my hair With meticulous care Then stammer and gurn for the screen I argued for leaving While never conceiving The crap that I spouted would have folks believing I’m Bo Jo, annoying, I know Renowned for my lie ability.

I may look a slob but you gave me the job I’m Bullingdon Boris MP (PM).

Bullingdon Dirty Front Row | Les Norbitones | 21

PUBLISHERS PAGE

First published in 2022 By uKUNST United Kingdom The European Union Printed in England Original Design by K3 Media Photographs by RFM, K3 Media & The Artists All rights reserved © 2005-2022 uKUNST Magazine © uKUNST & The Contributors Published in 2022 by uKUNST, Londinium, Imperial Britain The right of uKUNST, K3 Media and the various contributors to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with the copyright, designs and patents act 1988.

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Publisher Info | 23