No. 4 £3.50
100
FERMENT Literature and illustration zine
Winter 2011—12
2
Hello. Paul Askew has drunk a lot of gin tonight. A lot. He’s lying on the floor, crying into a plate of chips, with drool coming out of his mouth. A pathetic shell of a man who, coincidentally, has very bad posture and smells like vinegar and is very very stupid. I mean, I- Oi, Gordon’s, what are you doing? Nothing. - Get off my computer then, I need to write the intro for Issue 4 of Ferment. I was just doing that for you. You’ve been so nice to me recently, that I thought I’d help you out. - Really? What are you saying? I wrote that cities are an unavoidable part of so many people’s everyday lives that it seemed like the perfect inspiration point for the Ferment ethos of being as open to interpretation as possible, as cities are each individual and provide such a wealth of material every day. I went on to say that this would also offer the illustrators a challenge and a chance to show off their skills. Then I said how much you appreciate the time and effort the contributors put into the work they give to you, for free, and that Ferment wouldn’t be what it is without their generosity and talent. - Wow. Cool. That’s exactly what I wanted to say. Thanks for that. No worries, now go and pour yourself another glass of me and tonic, and I’ll just polish this up for you. - Okay, I will. Cheers. That’s okay. Now, go on. Shoo… Right, where was I? Ah yes… -I mean, I ask you, what kind of a man is this? This paralytic gargoyle, this soused homunculus, this vile little excuse for an organism… Paul
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Brought to you by…
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Paul Askew
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Sarah Plant
James Weiner
@misteraxl paulaskew.tumblr.com
@plantsarah
@jamesweiner
Sarah spent too much time in Birmingham and the effects
In previous lives he has been a record cover designer,
When not working in retail, Paul writes and performs
are only just wearing off. After putting designing NVQ
magazine editor, and sometime Apple-certified engineer.
poetry, regularly inflicting his imagination on people in
textbooks behind her, she has now moved onto colouring
He spent some time inside the music industry machine
Oxford and London. He’s starting to be allowed to do so
in the information superhighway. For Ferment, Sarah likes
which rather put him off. So he left to reform his character,
in other places too, so watch out. His number one heckler
to look at lots of fonts and argue with James about white
worked for himself, and is now a civil servant helping
is his own mother. For Ferment, Paul is in charge of words
space whilst corralling our cabal of illustrators
the government figure out this web thing. He co-designs
and keeping our writers happy.
Sin City.
City of God.
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Mister Mourao
Ferment and looks after the website and his colleagues. Metropolis.
Matt Lewis
Thanks
@mistermourao mistermourao.com
mattlewis.deviantart.com
Newspaper Club (www.newspaperclub.co.uk) for the mega
Vasco Mourao is an architect turned into an illustrator with
draw as a child by reading comics. He moved to Oxford
a tendency for obsessive drawings.
in 1997 to study and lives there still with his partner
Reproduction rights
Hannah and their son Frank. He enjoys charity shops,
All content is copyright their respective creators. Please contact
long johns and detective fiction.
them with any inquiries for republication or commissioning.
Working with only a pen and paper, he draws cities and other architectural meanderings.
Ferment
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Matt Lewis was born in Hereford and taught himself to
easy to use printing service and to Mister Mourao for this issue’s cover. And of course thanks to all of our fantastic contributors.
CITIES
Cities
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Cambridge I stick a saltwater tank on the back of my truck and drive my octopus around the city; down Kings Parade, Market Square, railings clustered with plum-faced quartets, high bookshops, the delivery entrance of Dixons. Me, and the first octopus on Earth to ever see the spires of Corpus Christi, we crawl past picture-book parks, cyclists weaving diagrams around us. My octopus has never known the sun to burn so bright and yet so cold, his huge eyes rotating, taking in every dog, every crisp, every Medieval crack and splinter. I toot. He waves. Cambridge loves you, baby! You’re unscrewing this city like a jam-jar! And everybody out here knows the deal: how he could squeeze through a fissure no bigger than their thumb and be gone, suckering off over the high walls, rearranging those blue plaques into new historical assemblies. The arrogance! And who wouldn’t want a piece of it? Who wouldn’t follow this octopus deeper into the city, beyond those turrets where teenagers dream in a dead language, through ancient refectories, over suits of armour into studies once paced by Charles Babbage. Who could resist following that watery path? Somehow reminiscent of the ancient river that cuts this city in two; that endless, unquestionable life-force that every new generation relies upon to make them feel utterly stupid.
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Adam Gale adamgale.com
Adam Gale is an illustrator, printmaker
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Ross Sutherland rosssutherland.co.uk
Ross Sutherland was included in The
and designer. Originally from London
Times’ Top Ten Literary Stars of 2008
but raised in the North East, he
list, has three collections of poetry, all
currently lives in Birmingham by way
published by Penned In The Margins,
of a compromise. His list of influences
and is a member of poetry collective
changes on a daily basis but usually
Aisle16, who run the Homework
includes David Attenborough, Ron
literary night.
Asheton, Ronald Searle, John Fante, cycling and the seaside.
He’s also produced a one-man show, an interactive theatre show, and a documentary about whether computers will ever be able to write poetry. More information on all these things and more can be found on his website.
Ferment
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OH TESCO w
Martin Galton
Martin Galton is co-founder of Bang Said The Gun, a weekly stand up poetry night, near London Bridge, which was recently voted the UK’s best poetry venue by The Times. Martin also lives near London Bridge, with his wife and 2 children, within a mile radius of 5 Tesco’s.
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Jamie Mills jamie-mills.com
When he was 5, Jamie Mills entered a competition to re-design the Chewit Dinosaur and won. The prize was a £5 book token. His drawing career has been spiralling downwards ever since.
While we were all sleeping Tesco went shopping and bought the British Isles. They covered it with a huge roof added walls coast to coast and created a giant supermarket. The sun was replaced by strip lighting checkouts installed at every motorway junction houses cleared to make way for more shampoo lines the Yorkshire Moors filled with low cost clothing and Snowdonia flattened to create the perfect retail environment for electricals. Churches were converted to home entertainment centres the Lake District became the Wines and spirits district and home furnishings can now be found just off the M11 replacing what was formerly known as Epping Forest And the posters scream Buy a Tesco car Buy a Tesco house Buy a Tesco child and get one free. There’s also extra points on your Tesco value funeral. Well, every little helps.
Cities
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Flinch - A Topography
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Lucy Ayrton
Lucy writes performance story-poetry, lives in Oxford and works in PR. None of these things were planned. She runs poetry slams and a feminist drinking club. She once drank a cocktail that contained both tea and gin and doesn’t think she’ll ever be as happy as that again.
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Rebecca Abell rebeccaabell.co.uk
Since graduating from Birmingham Institute of Art and Design in 2011, Rebecca has relocated to London to pursue a freelance career in illustration. She works from her home studio (overdosing on cups of tea), creating figurative based illustrations with her humble 2B. Rebecca’s delicate pencil technique has recently gained her recognition for the Images 36-Best of British Illustration publication and exhibition.
Ferment
I wake up, late, and there are bruises everywhere. The first one, found on my hip at the end of a reluctant shower, I remember properly. High, and sharp. The second bruise, I find on the doorstep. I look at the spot where I sat for far too long and wince. Stumbling off the corner curb, I find a third. Tip of the toe. Must have kicked out harder than I thought. Struggling up a not-that-steep hill and swallowing hard, I walk past the next. That bar where they play the music so loud you can’t really talk. You know the one. The wind slams a hank of not-getting-brushed-today hair in my face. Raking it back, I find the worst so far. Side of the head, hot to the hand and full of reproach. Its sister, lounging up a pub-side wall, smirks, like she knows something I don’t, which she does. I stand until I give up trying to work out why I’m standing, staring at an empty wall and walk on. Don’t press down. Within a few days they normally heal.
Facts
(Inspired by Philip Levine)
7
The Butterscotch Pot De Crème offered at Gjelina restaurant in Venice, CA, is insanely delicious. In her Death Row fantasy Nadia chose Butterscotch Pot De Crème for her last meal: “And I’d have Arabian food and fish and chips to remind me of home.” The best way to smuggle pills from Mexico is within the bodies of dead lobsters. Hide the dead lobsters in a bucket of fresh, snapping ones (lobsters stay alive for 24 hours out of water) and the police won’t rummage around. Their dogs will smell fish. I am not American. At twelve, I smoked roll-ups on the aerial footbridge of How Stean Gorge in my dad’s brown leather jacket with my hair dyed the colour of suitcase. The pub in Masham serves Sunday lunch and their specialities include lobster bisque. In 2010, Tiger Woods checked into The Meadows in Wickenburg, Arizona, to be treated for sex addiction. “It’s drugs, not sex” says The National Enquirer. Woods made no mention of his drug habit in his 13 minute apology speech. The Enquirer may be lying to us. There were no ticket barriers at Deptford station in the fall of 2009. The grocers opposite The Albany Arts Centre sells the retro sticks of Wrigley’s spearmint gum. No sugar-free pellets. ‘Get a little closer’ is a slogan shared with Arrid Extra Dry deodorant. I flew to Atlanta on the anniversary of John Lennon’s death. My ex-fiancée works at the South Bank centre with my mother, and my friend Sarah has played guitar in the Queen Elizabeth Hall and The Albany, I think, but none of them knew about dead lobsters hid amongst live ones. The Enquirer would profit from a Tiger Woods drug orgy. Mr4Guv from the ABC blog writes “my two, neutered male dogs are mounting one another all day long. Does that make my dogs sex addicts?” Yes. I was muzzled for whispering ‘I do not crave your blood’ into a bag. I told two lies in the last stanza. I crave blood. I do. A poet told me love was an aural fixation. Watch my lips: it’s not an aural fixation. That’s something else. That’s a glory hole sucking on a long sentence. I wooed with words. They loved an idea. Their idea was disproved. The calmest I’ve ever been was in a sensitive room in Venice, CA. I had a blue wallet with white lettering that said ‘Delay No More,’ Nadia drank redemptive coffee with her ex-boyfriend while I was assembling a designer cardboard house for a kitten to sleep in. On the edge of North America, the citizens train their street-lights to be respectful of madness. Like a row of woken trees, they shine on the woman who guards the automatic doors singing ‘they have freed you!’ and they shine on me, pushing the button to cross over. I will never return to the butterscotch sands of Santa Monica or the communal ash-trays of Walnut House where the misfits whooped my name. I haven’t the cash or the energy. Not even for Nadia, whom I adore. Not even for one last meal of clean, American lobster.
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Caroline Bird www.carolinebird.co.uk
Caroline Bird is an award-winning poet. She
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Jay Wright www.jaywrightillustration.com
I grew up in the city of Nottingham. I
has had three collections of poetry published
used to draw chocolate bars in the local
by Carcanet; Looking Through Letterboxes,
paper shop, and the owner would give me
Trouble Came to the Turnip and Watering
the ones I drew. A Snickers bar was my
Can (which received a ‘Poetry Book Society
favourite snack. Since graduating from UWE
Recommendation.’) She is an enthusiastic
in the summer of 2011, I make illustrations
leader of poetry workshops in schools and a
for real money. I then use that money to buy
regular teacher at the Arvon Foundation.
more snacks, usually snickers bars.
Cities
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My City My city is everywhere and nowhere Just engage and we can all play there No dust, no fuss, no muss, no sweaty fish tin travel A gentler incline in which to unravel Than bombardment by bodies and unsightly sights Choking on fumes and shuddering the night My city has its own River Thames Uncluttered estuaries bloated with friends Imagined cells tangled in the net together Meeting, greeting and harmfully, harmlessly bleating for ever and ever and ever You don’t have to know the right people here Nor consider pollution in the atmosphere It’s encouraged to smear your dirty tracks On the pavements and down the cracks Seepage will be picked up and examined Or perhaps shamed by a thought famine My city has many twin and triple towers Monuments of wonder that last for hours and hours Toppling to make way for brand new A crawling seething mass to make you say “Ooh!” Not a man with a megaphone that you can touch Not death in daylight that seems a bit much Not a child being loud that you’re scared of Nothing that you can’t say you’ve heard of A vast space for anger, joy, impatience and grief Moving pictures of them all and something witty underneath I live inside my city. I wear it like a coat with bullet proof sleeves. And I will never leave.
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Andrea Hubert @ShutUpAndrea
Andrea Hubert is a writer, storyteller and comedian. She is a regular Guardian contributor, has written for the BBC, and performs live comedy across the UK. She also bakes fancy cakes.
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Wes West becausewesayso.co.uk
Wes is a designer, illustrator and animation director. He works at the digital agency, Torchbox, in the glorious Oxfordshire countryside.
Ferment
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Character building w
Anna Rowena Bowers @bowers_anna
Anna Rowena Bowers is an Oxford-born poet, who studied Linguistics and Literature at Brighton University. Her Creative Writing tutor once said that her poetry showed incredible maturity and depth. She then promptly and inexplicably ceased writing altogether. This is her first poetic muscle flex in a long time.
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Jack Noel jacknoel.co.uk
Jack is an illustrator who designs children’s books as a day job. He’s also 50% of the London print collective Sweet View (sweetview.co.uk). This is the first time he’s drawn an omphalos.
Pencil sketch fleshed out with a pinched flush of smudge pink against a red and yellow bus. A swinging bag and a flash of black-streaked hair beating fast iron blood toward the omphalos. Maybe I should write her a steamy aubade on the window. Take the bell as my cue. She stands for you. To get past and stomp the ground under the town hall clock that ticks off it’s stock image. To work. To build your walls. To grind and thumb and mould your daily story in this, auriferous megalopolis maggotorium. Rich with your embarrassments. Your dark corners. Your safe behind the portrait, above the fire. Keeping a log as you stretch and settle in this settee. This cloistered living room. Long, slim stemma curl smoky-tight, taking root. The air tastes the flavours of each month pass. A gargoyle lightly doffs his hat, but not quite. Lays familiar. A dæmon for another day.
Cities
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Adam w
Dan Holloway danholloway.wordpress.com
Dan Holloway writes novels and poems and short stories and articles about bands and too many tweets. From time to time people have been known to read them. He has been a winner of both Literary Death Match and The Weakest Link. In 2012 he is coordinating Not the Oxford Literary Festival and the Oxford Flash Slam, and would like it if more people wrote poems and left them in bus stops.
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Tom Camp campillustration.co.uk
I am a London based Illustrator, primarily working with a sketch pad, photoshop, illustrator and silk screen printing. I use humour in my illustrations as I feel making people laugh is key in engaging the viewer.
Ferment
I lost my soul in the quarter mile from Foyles to Jerry’s or maybe it was Jerry’s to Foyle’s and what I lost was my mind. His name was Adam or maybe I only call him that because he was my first man and he told me let’s take some of this and we’ll get caned. It was the way his T-shirt stayed angel-white in the citygrub and the way his tattoo moved but his teeth stayed still when he smiled that pulled me across the street or maybe it was some wet-sheeted memory he drew to him that sticky six o’clock like a cloud of backflowed blood swilling round before the shot. I would have studied at Cambridge or maybe that was the lie I told myself because I knew I needed guilt and neither the junk nor the ejaculations gave me any. I lost my life somewhere by Bar Italia or maybe someone found it and put it to good use or maybe they wasted it and now I haunt the shelves of Foyles, perpetually browsing or maybe I’m outside Jerry’s and this absinthe in my blood is just too strong or maybe it’s not strong enough because I can’t stop thinking of Adam or maybe I only call him that because he fell.
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OXFORD TRIES TO GIVE ADVICE ON WRITING AN ACROSTIC ABOUT IT w
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Paul Askew
O - The temptation is to begin with O as ‘O,’ many poems do, but that’s a rather naff, archaic way to start a poem these days. What you want is a strong, individual opening to get people hooked.
Charlotte Freeston
X - Well, the obvious thing that X represents is a kiss. You could use this as a way of writing about… Wait, kissing’s got you thinking of that woman, hasn’t it? That woman you still… Okay, maybe it’s best to avoid this then. Besides, that was in another city. It has no relevance here.
charlottefreeston.blogspot.com
Charlotte is an Oxford-based artist and member of the Blessing Force collective.
F - I’d suggest something about fitting in in this city of outsider statuses and clan mentalities. Perhaps a social commentary on the “Town Vs. Gown” thing. Or you could write about flannels, or something seemingly random like that. (Are you paying attention?) People like random. They find it amusing. You could use this to your advantage. Add some variety. O - Ah, now, what you can do here is to call back to the subject of the first O. Might help you regain track of your poem if you feel you’re losing your way with it. Reign it back in a bit. Remind yourself why you’re writing this. Use this repetition of O as a way of reinforcing your themes and ideas. R - Really, by this point, you should be in full swing, or at least know where you’re going. The fact that you still need help here suggests that you don’t actually want to write this poem. You don’t, do you? You want to write about that woman and that other city, don’t you? D - DREAMING SPIRES! LOOK! I’VE GOT DREAMING SPIRES! Doesn’t that conjure up anything? Look at me. LOOK AT ME! No, I’ve lost you, haven’t I? Your heart was never in this, was it? Fine. I just have one question for you though: What colour were her eyes?
Cities
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