Issue Seven MEAT Magazine by MEAT Magazine

‘Lovingly done, incredibly creative, and well executed...’ THE GUARDIAN/ ‘An effective calling card for artists...MEAT Magazine are creating career opportunities...’ THE INTERNATIONAL HERALD TRIBUNE / ‘Bedroom publishing is back and as lawless as ever’ THE SUNDAY TIMES

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REAL BRITTANIA ILLEGAL BETTING, FIERCE LOYALTIES, AND AN APPETITE FOR GLORY:

COMPETITIVE EATING GZA OF THE WU-TANG CLAN

MAYORAL POMP LIFE BEYOND LONDON

ENGLISH BASTARDS AND AMATEUR BOXING

Hairy earlobes, heavy cussin’ and a prissy little fella with beautiful comics from Messrs Cowdry and Kolokovic THE SHOWCASE OF NEW ARTISTIC TALENT FROM ACROSS THE UK

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About MEAT Magazine MEAT MAGAZINE is a project dedicated to publishing the work of up-and-coming artists and writers. We get pretty hot-under-the-collar about new talent and we want to get it on our pages for all to see. MEAT Magazine is an independently published magazine with nationwide distribution which can get new talent on display on the same shelves as Vogue, Creative Review, Angling Times and the like... Get your work seen. Publish or Perish.

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“WE HAVE STRONG PREVAILING WINDS AND 52% OF OUR DAYS ARE OVERCAST, SO AS A NATION WE ARE INFUSED WITH A WHISTFUL MELANCHOLY. BUT WE REMAIN A RELENTLESSLY CHIPPER POPULATION, PRONE TO MILD ECCENTRICITY, BINGE DRINKING AND CASUAL VIOLENCE....” BILL BAILEY

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the contents

FEATURES THIS SPORTING LIFE The likes of Henman, Southgate and Beckham offer a chance for England to gracefully duck out of this superpower nonsense / by Nico Hines, illustrated by Leigh Pearson / p19 ENGLISH BASTARD Our son of St. George in the land of St. Andrew reassesses his identity and ﬁnds out what it really means to be English / by Robert Wringham, illustrated by Jess WIlson / p22 LONDON: THE FAT HAS-BEEN Londonophiles, take heed, here’s a broadside from someone who knows life begins beyond zone 6 / by Gavin Webster / p31 INTERVIEW WITH GZA OF WU-TANG CLAN He the head; MEAT Magazine barely contains its enthusiasm as the master story-teller from the bed-wettingly good Wu-Tang Clan, gives us the beneﬁt of his wisdom / Interview by Renko Heuer, illustrations by Leigh Pearson / p35

PHOTOGRAPHY IT’S NOT ABOUT TAKING PART. IT’S ABOUT WINNING MEAT Magazine exclusively reports from the seedy underbelly of the North London competitive scene. We find an internationally-acclaimed competition, fierce loyalties, a ruthless appetite for glory and vomiting / by James Pallister / p10 THIS MAN IS THE MAYOR OF LONDON The Lord Mayor that is. Pageantry, pomp and circumstance makes one man choke on his cornflakes/ by Nick Hayes, photos by Clive Totman / p25 WE DON’T FIGHT Photographer Madeleine Macrae gives us a snapshot of her work with the men and boys of the Staffordshire amateur boxing scene, with a commentary from MEAT’s favourite pugilist-cum-journalist, Mark Hudson / Photography by Madeleine Macrae text by Mark Hudson / p40

COMICS LES BANDITS JOVIALES Zut Alors! That madcap misanthrope Mr Cowdry is back, keeping bad company as ever; this time with some cackling cons/ by Richard Cowdry / p8 SIGN OF THE TIMES The bus starts in Camden but the destination is ubiquitous; touching four six, with gob on his side, this young man has ire and plenty of targets / by Nick Hayes / p49

SHORT FICTION EDWARD’S TURMOIL Hairy earlobes, heavy cussin’ and a prissy little fella on a car trip / by David Goo, illustrated by Nick Hayes / p55

AND THE REST CONTRIBUTORS PAGE All the details you should need to inundate the excellent people within these pages with bouquets of ﬂowers, breathy praise and offers of work / p47 MEAT LIKES...Stuff from the small press and indie zine scene we like. This issue MEAT Magazine enjoys pretending to be a giant whilst reading Stuart Kolakovic’s miniature comics / p54

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ISSUE SEVEN / MEAT MAGAZINE This is England. Or so we think. Meat magazine is back for its seventh issue, this time with its brows knitted, lining up for some serious navel gazing. This is England. We all live here, at least for the time being, but does anyone actually agree as to what it is? Different concepts of England are repeatedly shoved down our throats – and none of them really seem to chime. Ok, its not as bad as America, where an entire nation’s identity is fabricated into one homogenous ideal, and anything that doesn’t slot perfectly into that box becomes a Jesse James, Donnie Darko, or Columbine killer. But over the pond it seems that our national identity is still forged and promoted by those who seem entirely out of touch.

England’s obsessive London-centricity, how 95% of it is overshadowed by a capital city totally unique to the rest of its country. We take a look at sport, and how our reaction to it deﬁnes us as a nation. We gargle with the buffoonish pomp of English ‘tradition’ and spit it down the plughole. We publish an interview with the WuTangs GZA, accepting of the fact that it has no relevance at all to the theme this issue. We just liked it, and we hope you do to.

MEAT’s seventh issue aims to deal with this, whilst conjuring up an image of what we perceive England to be. Gloriously grey days, jubilant cynicism, tongue-in-cheek self-depreciation, chippies, wind and rain. We take a look at

And, of course, like the brown sauce to your bacon butty, there’s the usual dollop of comics, short stories and photography, just to help it down. Issue 7, on a plate. Go clog yer cerebral arteries.

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Six weeks in planning, £57.30 spent on doughnuts, ninety-eight invitees and one basement. The second annual Competitive Eating jamboree is back in town, easing its fat arse down the stairs into a Tufnell Park basement. This, ladies and gentlemen, is where one dream will be realised. And 7 reputations shattered. The bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling accompanies a pink neon ‘DONUTS’ sign that throws a pink glow on the hand-painted banners strung up on the walls. Things start quickly with the weigh-in. Ringmaster meatmagazine MEATSEVEN.indd 10

Hines shout out the poundage of our contestants. Straight out of rehab is reigning champ Mikey ‘Rolls n Folds’ Lear followed by next favorite, the manmountain Girli ‘Doughnut Puncher’ Lewis. Snapping at their napkins are Dom ‘The Doughnut’ Ceglowski, James ‘All In’ Lewis and Ed ‘EATBOT’ Speyer. Despite spirited recent performances Felix ‘Fe Fi Fo Fuck Ya’ll’ Hobson has slipped down in the bookies eyes. Same for that tenacious northern fighter, Stephen ‘No Win No Feen’ Feeney. This will be ‘No Win No Feen’s first return to the field after his

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IT’S NOT ABOUT TAKING PART. IT’S ABOUT WINNING

MEAT reports from The First Annual Doughnut Eating Spectacular Raveley Street, Tufnell Park, London

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CONTENDERS

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well-documented outage after a particularly virulent strain of munchers jaw. A return to form tonight perhaps? Hauling ass at the back are newcomers Christopher ‘Squirrel Nutcase’ Longden and Pete

‘Where’s My Insulin Injection?’ Lawrence. These brave boys at the peak of their glucose-guzzling form, hoping to dazzle the expectant crowd and win the ultimate prize.

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PREPARATION / 15 / MEATSEVEN.indd 15

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ELIMINATOR ROUND

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MIKEY ‘ROLLS N FOLDS’ LEAR 5-4 Current Weight: 175 pounds (Recently dipped due to absteining from solid food during Lent) Why will you win? I’ll probably take the whole thing slightly more seriously than anyone will expect me to. And they’ll probably expect me to take it pretty seriously. Plus I won last year. Favourite Food Pancakes Relevant Experience Won last year. Pancake Wednesday when I was 19 – 3 litres of pancake mix between two people every week A lot of practice. I have also eaten the sole of a shoe (leather) to raise money for charity (£16.58) Technique / strategy Roll and fold. Although this only really applies to pancakes. Preferred motivational music to eat to 80s sweetness like the Rocky soundtrack. Maybe Billy Joel. Slogan / rhyming couplet “When the going gets tough, the players play their game” Nemesis Gurly, I suppose. I don’t really want a nemesis, but certainly Gurly’s going to be the biggest hurdle. It was far from a walkover last year. Eating Hero Sonya Thomas, the Black Widow. (from Wikipedia): ‘At a single-person exhibition in a rock festival in Indianapolis, she ate 65 hard-boiled eggs in under 7 minutes, setting a record and amazing the skeptical concertgoers’. SWEET. Also, she’s only 105 pounds, which is about 7 stone.

FINAL SHOWDOWN: LEAR vs LEWIS REIGNING CHAMP ‘ROLLS ‘N’ FOLDS’ vs THE CONTESTOR ‘DOUGHNUT PUNCHER’ meatmagazine MEATSEVEN.indd 18

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GURLI ‘DOUGHNUT PUNCHER’ LEWIS 3-2 Current Weight: More than the rest. Comfortably over 200 hundred doughnuts Why will you win? Cos I dont make the same mistake twice. And revenge taste sweetest when its Jam ﬁlled Favourite Food Chips and gravy Relevant Experience 25 years of being me. Moma wanted a big boy Technique / strategy Take the ﬁrst doughnut hard and ruin the competition’ s state of mind with my size Preferred motivational music to eat to FOG ON THE TYNE Slogan Size does matter Nemesis James “dark side of the force” lewis and Mikey “didn’t really win” Lear Eating Hero Barry ‘Walrus Of

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MARK ‘GURLI’ LEWIS: CHAMPION AFTERMATH: Mark vomited shortly after this phtograph was taken. Members of the competitive eating fraternity from places as afar as Alberta, Canada followed the comptition. Lear called for an inquiry into counting irregularities. At the time of writing the report is yet to be published

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This Sporting Life Clinging to the hangover of an empire long since dismantled, England’s delusions of grandeur remain. Nico Hines heralds our repeated sporting failures to help release us from the charade of trying to sound like a superpower.

Illustrations by Leigh Pearson

Sport: it’s our only hope. Plenty of people imagine sporting glory will roll back the years to revive a once mighty nation, but there’s no chance of that. Instead it’s going to build an all new, even better England. It may not be capable of turning the tide of history, but sport is teaching us how to behave. It’s Sesame Street for grown-ups. Number one. Our sporting exploits constantly remind us that, globally speaking, England is well and truly mid-table; World Cup quarter ﬁnals, an occasional Ashes win and the odd Wimbledon semi. It’s time we got used to this idea. This is nothing to be ashamed of and once we accept it, we can return to the world stage with a little humility. Number two. We will be forced to stop bitching about multiculturalism. Immigration is good (Kevin Pietersen, Lennox Lewis), different races are the equal of white folk (Lewis Hamilton, Thierry Henry) and British Asians are delighted to integrate with English society (Monty Panesar, Amir Khan). The lessons may not be welcomed by every fan

with the Cross of St George inked on their bloated gut, but there’s nothing they can do to stop them. What England wants from sport and what England gets from sport are diametrically opposed and thank fuck for that. Sport will not transport us back to a bygone era, but might just catapult us into a shiny new one. There is an undeniable yearning to return to the days of glorious battle and that is a sad indictment of Englishness. Just look at the popularity of Stuart Pearce, a man born 50 years too late. He could have lead dozens of idealistic young men to a certain death in no-man’s-land, instead he can be found nurturing the England under-21 football team. “For me, representing your country is not about what suits you, it’s about what suits your country, whether it be on the sporting ﬁeld, whether it be in the armed forces. When your country comes calling, you put them ﬁrst and yourself second,” said Pearce, failing to clarify whether a missed penalty should result in a court martial. / 21 /

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JUST LOOK AT THE POPULARITY OF STUART PEARCE, A MAN BORN 50 YEARS TOO LATE. HE COULD HAVE LEAD DOZENS OF IDEALISTIC YOUNG MEN TO A CERTAIN DEATH IN NO-MAN’S-LAND, INSTEAD HE CAN BE FOUND NURTURING THE ENGLAND UNDER-21 FOOTBALL TEAM.

Anyone who denies that sport is a substitute for war is a fool. Of course it is, but don’t bother to resist it. Let fat men at England matches sing about shooting down German warplanes and sinking the Belgrano. It doesn’t do any harm and it gives the wobbling Frank Lampard a moment to sweat and fret outside of the spotlight. We are crap at war these days anyway. Germany and Argentina are just fond memories and for a good war you need a more even sporting ﬁght. If Iraq had a half-decent football team, Gulf War II would never have become the most hated foreign adventure since Kevin and Perry Go Large. Once upon a time when a map of the world was dominated by the pink tone of imperial dominance, we were great at sport and even better at war. We did invent sport, the good ones at least: football, cricket, tennis, rugby and billiards. As a result we thought we would be able to play better than our

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subjugated opponents. It’s just a shame we were on a “civilising” mission at the time and our proselytizing zeal encouraged us to let everyone to have a go at our games. Sharing can be risky. We also invented concentration camps during the Boer War and as the Germans proved: once an idea has been shared, more ruthless and better proponents will push the limits. Whether it’s the 1970s West Indian cricket team showing us how to smash six after mighty six, or the 1940s Germans reaching a new low in the grimy history of the human race, we will always be outdone. We are English after all. So, we were once a great industrial nation, the sun never set on the Empire and we were the masters of the LBW law, the offside rule and wartime internment camps. We are no longer great. We bow to America’s foreign policy, cower in the shadow of China’s manufacturing strength, and only that brave

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little boy Ellen MacArthur keeps us in the running when it comes to ruling the waves. Even politicians think sport can put us back at the heart of global diplomacy. Tony Blair got us the Olympics and Gordon Brown wants to bring the World Cup “home” to England. But don’t worry - eventually our repeated sporting failures will help release us from the charade of trying to sound like a superpower. Once we’ve accepted England’s limitations we can revel in our strengths. There is one argument that cannot fail to make an impact. His name is Lewis Hamilton. When fatwhite-man-with-a-moustache, Nigel Mansell, was England’s greatest driver, you can be sure millions of fat white men with matching moustaches sat watching his success on their sofas with a can of John Smith’s, and thought “yeah – he looks like a ﬁne driver”. Hamilton will have their attention now.

John Barnes and Luther Blissett started a process in England, which has all but wiped out the abuse of black footballers and has inevitably rubbed off in pubs and ofﬁces across the country. When Darius Vassell came on for Michael Owen against Brazil at the 2002 World Cup there were more black than white England players on the pitch for the ﬁrst time ever. Who’s booing now? Even in the most old school of all sports there is hope. Monty Panesar has bounded into English cricket at the best possible time. When the Government is encouraging the idea that we should be afraid of our Asian neighbours, Monty is skipping, slightly off-balance, right into our hearts. Sport tells us what England wants to do – go backwards. But it doesn’t care. It’s too powerful, and it’s taking England forward, whether we like it or not.

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English Bastard

Your nationality casts a long shadow, not least than when you move to a far off land - or even Scotland. Firmly ensconced north of the border, Robert Wringham reassesses his identity Illustrations by Jess Wilson

There’s something mildly pathetic about being an Englishman in Scotland. Whenever I accidentally utter a Scottish colloquialism (“Och, Aye”) in my Brummie accent I can’t help but think of decrepit, benign Hans Moleman on The Simpsons wheezing, “Cowabunga, dudes”. It’s tragic. It’s sad. It’s Neil Kinnock dancing to Things Can Only Get Better. It’s Richard Madeley dressing up as Ali G. “Is it ‘cos I is black?” Despite the fact that I left England because its climate, people, diet, politics, history and scenery make me want to be sick into a big bag, the only way to avoid becoming the aforementioned monstrosity is to become even more English. Sincerity is everything. So against all expectation, I have moved my accent half a degree south of its natural tendency and have taken up drinking copious amounts of tea. I have even started following Midlands football for the ﬁrst time in my life: Up, may I venture, the baggies. At the recent parliamentary elections, I voted for the Scottish National Party. Peculiarly, it felt like a meatmagazine MEATSEVEN.indd 25

betrayal – peculiar in that I quite frequently thrash around laughing manically, to vivid fantasies of England being hit by a massive asteroid with everything in it being reduced to dust and ash. Back in Birmingham, I never identiﬁed with England. I was, like my hero Kurt Vonnegut, a man without a country. Perhaps I was too close to England and unable to see it without warts and all (by warts I refer mainly to ASBOs, skinheads, rotweillers, tabloid witch hunts and Johnny Vaughan). From here in Scotland it looks like a silly little BBC wonderland. I’m quite fond of it now. Through my binoculars, it’s about David Attenborough and Dressing Gowns and Doctor Who. It’s a truism to say that you have to remain an outsider in order to properly understand a given place or society. I recently interviewed Judith Levine, author of the acclaimed book Not Buying It. I had asked her about the anthropological approach she adopts in order to study her own America; she said that she often felt divorced from her culture because of this approach but that it was necessary

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in order to act as critic. I can’t help but feel something of a ﬁsh [and chips] out of water myself but at least it allows me to put some thought into my own never-beforebothered-about nationality. Whenever Stephen Fry and Hugh Grant appear in American movies, they are sold as being quintessentially English; while on British screens they come across as cultured, witty gentlemen but ones not necessarily grounded to any particular nation. You can’t help but be an ambassador for your country when you visit another one, hence the perennial media outrage to yobbish behaviour of English tourists abroad. I didn’t even know I was English until I stepped off the plane at Glasgow Prestwick and got called an ‘English Bastard’ by a passing drunk. When going abroad, you can’t help but take a bit of your atmosphere with you in a bucket. People are fascinated with diversity in this modern globalised world of ours: they want to know about where you’re from, whether the stereotypes are true, what the difference is. When Scottish friends ask me how different England is to here; I tell them that it’s about the same as Scotland except that you can’t get proper haggis or decent medical attention. England, of course, is a complete myth. The only red telephone box I think I’ve ever seen is meatmagazine MEATSEVEN.indd 26

actually in the grounds of Glasgow University. In American movies, you can usually see Big Ben from the window of any British house, yet I only walked past it two or three times when I lived in London. Tea, by the way, comes from China. Fish and Chips, if anything, are Scottish since the cheap fish required by the working-class dish comes from the North Sea where shoals of cod were abundant in the nineteenth century. Even the Queen is German. The only actual English thing I can think of is the humble faggot – a foodstuff that mysteriously never did well in America. Perhaps I’m being a tad glib – England gave us the World Wide Web. And Tarmac. In spite of my ‘become more English’ strategy, I’ve actually taken up Scotts Gaelic lessons: surely a skill so Scottish that it would impress even the most hardened Scottish nationalist. In my first lesson, I was to be taught to say, “Hello. My name is Robert. I am from England”. But instead, I persuaded my teacher to change this to “Hello. My name is Robert. I am from Nowhere”. Since the concept of ‘zero’ didn’t hit the Scottish islands until the twentieth century, the Gaelic lingo has difficulty with negative words such ‘nothing’ or ‘nowhere’. So the best we can do is “ Tha à Sasainn, ach chan eil ‘n àite sam bith”, which roughly means, “I am from England but not that England”.

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This man is the Mayor of London.... Nick Hayes chokes on his cornnďŹ&#x201A;akes over a capital display of pomp and circumstance Photography by Clive Trotman

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Sporting an ice-cream haircut that Douglas Hurd would envy, the Lord Mayor of London beams at me from my television set. “This is a wonderful day for London...vital to recognise such an historical moment...wonderful to be here...” I tuck into my crunchy nut. England’s at it again. Another parade. Another slow procession of white haired people, crawl-

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ing their way through the streets of a rainy town. There’s the military, right on cue with regulation frowns, and look, they’ve even put a harrier jump jet on a ﬂoat. Blimey! And, of course, there’s the crowd. Those same people, dressed in dirty anoraks and waterproof young children, the type that have scrapbooks at home detailing every twist and turn of the Diana saga. They’re there.

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Oh! and it’s that big chinned lady who does the racing. Telling me how fantastic this is, and how really quite superb that is. I drain the sweet milk at the bottom of the bowl, and sit back. I’m surprised. Why all this welling sarcasm. What don’t I like about this? Surely I haven’t turned against history, against my cultural heritage. Surely I still recognise the living

effect of our past, and what it means to hang on to that. But that’s just it. This isn’t history. This is the laminate on history, a gaudy show, a touristic charade. This is the England that we’re supposed to be. Told to be, by an ever diminishing and tapering breed of Englishman, the ones that still went to Eton, went to Oxbridge, got ﬁrst class degrees, wives and jobs, however archaic that process now

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sounds. This is a breed of conservatism, monarchism, staunch religious hypocrisy: the right wing. This is a blinkered breed that has hijacked words such as “history”, or even more irritatingly, “values” as if they apply to the rest of England. And up ﬂops the Lord Mayor once again. A face, moulded by privilege gurns at the paltry crowd from his Cinderella-inspired horse and carriage.

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I look him up as he speaks. The wonders of the internet. The Lord Mayor’s Show, the website proudly states, has continued, without pause, for 784 years. Replicas of that same gold carriage have trundled gloriously past its crowds, cutting a path through the Black Death, the Great ﬁre, the Blitz and “countless insurrections”, oblivious to the chang-

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ing landscape of its course. It is emblematic of that great golden glory of English tradition, that blind reﬁnery that exists above and beyond the real world. It is tinsel on the tree of England, twinkling and pretty, but irrelevant to its growth. But my problem here is that this tinsel still holds sway in the corridors of power, constructing our moral values and heritage, designed to a blinkered blue-

print. It makes me think of the Royal family, the silly public school playground shenanigans in the House of Commons, reﬁned fantasy irrelevance that actually affects our real lives. BAAAH!!!! I change the channel. Dangermouse repeats. “Be alert!”, it says. “Britain needs lerts”. This is more like it.

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WE ARE NOT ENGLISH, WE ARE NOT ENGLISHMEN AND ENGLISHWOMEN, WE AREN’T GENTEEL, WE ARE NOT HARBINGERS OF GOOD MANNERS, GALLANT LOSSES AND IMPECCABLE BEHAVIOUR. WE’RE ALSO NOT RAMPANT ROYALISTS, MARKET TRADERS WITH QUIRKY RHYMING SLANG, CRICKET FANATICS, PARTICIPANTS IN MAYPOLE DANCING, MARBLES LEAGUES AND GAMES OF AUNT SALLY IN THE PUB BACK GARDEN. NORTHUMBERLAND AND DURHAM ISN’T A GREEN AND PLEASANT LAND, ISN’T AN ENGLISH GARDEN, ISN’T PART OF LYRICS BY THE KINKS, BLUR OR XTC, DOESN’T HAVE A RECORD FOR THE AMOUNT OF HIGH SPIRES ON IT’S CHURCHES AND DOESN’T HAVE SWATHES OF LAND PROTECTED BY THE NATIONAL TRUST. WE DON’T DO WI, WE DON’T DO THE VILLAGE GREEN PRESERVATION SOCIETY, MR. BURTON SMYTHE DOESN’T CATCH THE 6:33 EVERY MORNING TO PADDINGTON SO HE CAN GET TO HIS DESK ON TIME AND WE DON’T GET THE BUNTING OUT EVERY YEAR FOR THE ANNUAL FETE WHICH STRETCHES BACK TO 1467 AND INVOLVES ARCHERY, TUG OF WAR AND MEDIEVAL DRESSING UP. SO HERE’S UP FOR THE NORTH.

LONDON: THE FAT HAS-BEEN

Rather like the fall of Rome, the fall of the British Empire was a denial thing to most people, not least to the peoples of the South East of England. Text by Gavin Webster, Illustration by Jess Wilson

They shake their fist and say that they will never surrender to those bureaucrats in Brussels, that the French, unlike us English, folded to the nazis and that England won the World Cup in 1966. Pan north of the home counties and you will find most of us have moved on. We have had to re-evaluate the way we thought about nationhood after the 1980s Thatcher ‘revolution’ where, over a five year

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time span, lots of towns in the north of England had their heart ripped out and people either had to move, change careers or become professionally unemployable through prescription drugs, industrial deafness or the mental health act. Our dignity was taken away many years ago so we have learned that old English ideal of make do and mend. Now, our once towering provincial towns

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and cities are starting to creak back into shape again and civic pride – albeit saddled with some social problems – is slowly returning to the fold. To walk along the Quayside in Newcastle and look at both sides of the river and the hive of activity – the Baltic art space, the winking eye footbridge, the Sage opera house – makes you realise that here in the north (and Newcastle is the real north) we have hopes and civic expectations. Let’s not forget that if you were to walk around old Newcastle, you will see streets that resemble Edinburgh’s new town. Architectural visionaries like Richard Grainger and John Dobson built this post Georgian utopia in their individual style. What you have now in Newcastle is a great mix of the old and the new and anyone coming from a different part of Europe would be forgiven for thinking that this must be England’s second city behind London. Compare this to our crumbling capital, old grey and very brown for some reason. So-called luxury flats – those post war ones in small brown brick with curved windows– look like mental institutions and stand next to some ‘sink’ estate that’s been crammed in like someone fitting children’s toys in a walk in cupboard. Then there’s the Victorian back streets with cars on either side of the road. Rather like an ageing Mohammed Ali, Paul Gascoigne or Rolling Stones, London thinks it’s still ‘got it’ but unlike most has-beens it still manages to carry it off. People think that it would be really cool to live there, that everyone’s really forward thinking and tolerant, and that for some reason creative juices flow when you’re within spitting distance of Soho or Shaftsbury Avenue or Chelsea’s King’s Road. There’s something just a bit shit about London. Every time I go there I find myself whingeing. It normally starts just halfway through Hertfordshire meatmagazine MEATSEVEN.indd 34

or in South Essex or wherever I feel the whiff of the place depending upon which route I’ve taken. I try not to be prejudiced, I try to go with an open mind, I try to look at the place with a different slant to the last time I was there but no matter what I do, I don’t feel inspired. I start talking to myself saying ‘look at the state of that garden, look at this dismal street, imagine living next to a crappy main road like this‘, the whingeing normally stops in exactly the same spot whenever I’m leaving the place and heading north and I’m convinced that it’s not just me, it’s just the fact that London is crap, full stop. The big irony of all this is the fact that Londoners, right from Brian Sewell down to Garry Bushell, foolishly think that the North is shit and they thank god they don’t live there. There is so much that I could say to both of them but I fear I would be shouted down and talked over and I wouldn’t change their tiny minds anyway. That though, is why the North is great, because spanners like that think it’s dreadful. Those two people seem to have a lot of supporters and long may that support continue because it’s playing right in to our hands. They are the epitome of all those fanatics that I despise. They appear to make the product so appealing but scratch away the surface and you’ll still ﬁnd it an exclusive club that they want in their utopia. Sewell doesn’t want art wasted on Northerners but if a busload of morons from Basildon or Southend or Romford turned up at the Tate Britain every day, you’ll ﬁnd that he would want to put a stop to that ilk turning up to his culturist love-in. Bushell loves all things English and all things in their correct place in the Ing-er-lund he has in his mind. However he wouldn’t want Labour voters, right on people, people with any celtic sympathy, alternative comedians, football fans that don’t support other English clubs in Europe, people who

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MY ENGLAND IS SO DIFFERENT FROM THE ENGLAND OF THE THAMES ESTUARY BUT FOR SOME REASON LONDON DOESN’T LET IT BE SO

want to run their own regional affairs, Cornish flags, Northumbrian flags, anti royalists etc. No, these people want to see their dream but it’s a specific dream exclusive only to them and isn’t all encompassing, it’s a terrible society in a time warp that goes against the brave new world. This, however is not just synonymous with the right wing leaning dinasours, this view of the north and particularly Scotland is also shared by left wing luminaries also. Ken Livingstone and Billy Bragg to name but two. Ken Livingstone has been a thorn in the establishment’s side since he burst on the scene in the nineteen eighties but he is just as much part of the establishment as Thatcher, Blair or any other ‘status quo’ orientated MP. Ken strikes me as a bit of a closet racist. He’s very right-on when it comes to Afro-carribeans and West Africans living in his city. He wouldn’t dream of having a go at Asians of any description living on benefits in what was his own city but wait till he gets on about Jews living in Israel or Scots living in, well Scotland. His words were that the Scots were becoming ‘dependency junkies’. A remark rich coming from the former Mayor of London and the ex-leader of the GLC. Let us ponder for a moment and think of our wonderful capital city and the amount of dependency they’ve become accustomed to over the years. The 2012 Olympics, The Dome, the Wembly stadium rebuilding project , The Picketts Lock Athletics stadium project, Westminster’s Portcullis House, Canary Wharf, Crossrail (£10 fucking billion!!) and let’s not forget the London parliament, the fact that Londoners get to decide on their own fate, run their own affairs and get their own form of government, something the rest of England doesn’t get. Ken Livingstone hasn’t ran a successful rags-toriches business, hasn’t as far as I’m aware brought inward investment to the capital city and doesn’t

possess a single attribute that makes you think, ‘thank god Ken’s around , otherwise London would be buried by now’! When the GLC was around in the 1980’s, Asian youth clubs were built, Gay pride was formed, the IRA’s top brass were invited round to London for tea and biscuits with Ken and his pals, Ken also organised marches for the unemployed amongst other things. All these things sound quite noble and forward thinking but who paid for all this? Well you don’t have to be a genius to work that one out. Fast-forward to 2008 and his ’dependancy junkies’ remark sounds hypocritical and just plain nasty. London though, feels that it represents England. It feels that it represents Britain. The last place where the penny dropped when it came to rumblings of a Scottish breakaway was the south east of England. Londoners had no idea the Scots were interested in divorce. Lots of those people regarded Scotland as part of England and then couldn’t get it when the Scots wanted England to lose in international football matches. Elsewhere in England we’ve been aware of this for years but rather like a bloated self-interested gin soaked pensioner, London expressed revulsion at this. Nowadays our English chippiness is orchestrated from London and the South East and as a result of their oblivion to what’s happening in the provinces, they think that the rest of England are very much on their side. The thing that annoys me is that the cultural nuances of the north have a tendency to get sucked in to being an English thing. Football, for example, was a proletariat game for people up north but now that it’s trendy it’s apparently England’s game. Talk about Hackney marshes as though that was where all English footballers were discovered ignores the fact that without northerners England would never

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have qualiﬁed for a World Cup never mind won one. I’m sure the glitterati would say that there’s nothing more English than The Viz, Johnny Vegas and The Grand National, that something revolutionary like the forming of FC United of Manchester to oppose the fundamental takeover of football clubs by money making American businessmen was a great English thing. The way that the London establishment talks makes me not feel at all English. There are other things that the South East middle classes do that they claim that the rest of the country do. Like complaining; ‘oh it’s such an English thing to complain profusely and then when there’s a chance to complain we never do’, ‘oh it’s so English for things not to work properly’, no that’s just London mate. Since British-ness went by the wayside and a new English-ness has begun, I feel like I am not part of it. I feel as marginalized as the Scots once did, I do now feel a kinship with people from my own area and feel that when I go to London it’s like I’m visiting a different country. So here’s up for the north. We are not English, we are not Englishmen and Englishwomen, we aren’t genteel, we are not harbingers of good manners, gallant losses and impeccable behaviour. We’re also not rampant royalists, market traders with quirky rhyming slang, cricket fanatics, participants in maypole dancing, marbles leagues and games of Aunt Sally in the pub back garden. Northumberland and Durham isn’t a green and pleasant land, isn’t an English garden, isn’t part of lyrics by The Kinks, Blur or XTC, doesn’t have a record for the amount of high spires on it’s churches and doesn’t have swathes of land protected by the national trust. We don’t do WI, we don’t do The Village Green Preservation Society, Mr. Burton Smythe doesn’t catch the 6:33 every morning to Paddington so he can get to his desk on time and we don’t get the bunting out every year for the annual fete which stretches back to 1467 and involves Archery, tug of war and medieval dressing up. We also don’t take up huge amounts of our meatmagazine MEATSEVEN.indd 36

time saying how much we hate our neighbours the French, the Germans, and the Scots. We ﬁnd this alien to us but at the same time we’re not Scottish either. We don’t have countless gift shops selling family tartans, we don’t have distilled alcohol in different corners of the region, we don’t sing songs of epic battles fought several hundred years ago, we don’t have an obsession of which church people go to and we don’t take up huge amounts of time hating our neighbours The English. And for the record we’re not Irish or Welsh either! What we do have though is land, land sitting on top of coal, and land sitting on top of steel in the south, this is very unique, as is the culture that goes with it. We do coal, we do steel, we do ships, we do heavy engineering, we do social clubs (loads of them), we do club committees, we do football, god do we do football! We have huge football clubs, we have histories of football teams, world class football players and football leagues in every inconsequential part of the region. We have Northumbrian pipes, we have leek shows, we have stotties, parmos, pease pudding and Brown Ale. We have a folk tradition, our own folk songs, our own poetry and our own humour. We have our own history, our own saints, our own literature and we had our own land many years ago. We’re not a bitter people and take up a lot of our time saying how much we have in common with our neighbours. We have no quarrel with Scottish people or Yorkshire people. We do feel a lot of empathy with both, but we aren’t the same as them, we are unique, we are Northumbrians. That’s it, that’s my England, my England is so different from the England of the Thames estuary but for some reason London doesn’t let it be so. I really think if the rest of England had their own cultural voice (as it’s starting to now) London would become very inconsequential. That fall of Rome surely can’t be far away now and people of my daughter’s generation will say ‘why was London still so important at the beginning of the century’?

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‘YOU JUST HAVE TO BE RESILIENT. YOU HAVE TO BE ABLE TO GET BACK UP WHEN YOU’RE KNOCKED DOWN. AND I NEVER GAVE UP.’

GENIUS/GZA OF THE WU-TANG CLAN MEAT Magazine has long been fans of the Wu-Tang Clan. Their heavy beats, kung-fu samples and surreal ﬂows have kept MEAT going over many a long night. It’s with pleaseure that we reproduce exercpts from an interview from our German pals at MONO.KULTUR magazine Interview by Renko Heuer, Illustrations by Leigh Pearson

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I always found a way to support myself: I worked on a bridge selling papers, which was only for a short period of time. I also did some messenger work; I always had a job, every now and then. But you gotta realize that when we first formed the All In Together Now crew we were teenagers so we were still livin’ off our parents at that time. When I first came out with the Cold Chillin’ record [Words From The Genius; 1991] I was already a grown man, but by that time I was working for the Transit Authority – which was a job some people would kill for because you have to take a test and wait for years for them to call you. So I worked for the City, I drove trucks. It was the best because I could have a family and health insurance and all that. Generally we weren’t just sitting around trying to bank off rap because when we first started, we didn’t get into this to make money. We got into this because it was a hobby, it was something we loved to do, we had a lot of love for it, and it was just this thing that was happening and we took a likeness to it. Many years later we were able to just make a living off it, which was even greater because there’s nothing more fun than having a job that you love. Nowadays,

Going back to the early days, I heard that RZA used to work as a messenger. How did you make a living until you were ﬁnally able to make money as an MC?

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That makes me wonder how you felt about the whole idea of C.R.E.A.M. [acronym for ‘Cash Rules Everything Around Me’], which is an early Wu-Tang statement and the exact opposite of what you just said.

The only involvement of mine has always been the music. It was RZA’s idea, it was really his ﬁve-year plan; I had nothing to do with it conceptually – other than music, other than bringing my rhymes, my thoughts, my ideas – lyrically and musically – to the table. When it comes to the corporate side of the music industry, I’ve always been in the background. I never studied it to a point as some other people would: like the whole management side, the business side of it. I wasn’t trying to be an executive or CEO or to form a company; instead I just wanted to make music, which is pretty much what I still wanna do now – even though many years later we formed our own companies and we did our own things. But as far the business plan underlying the Wu-Tang – like, ‘We gonna start Wu-Tang this, and then we gonna start this company, we gonna start a clothing line.’ – that was RZA’s plan. But it feels great to be able to make a career, and I actually made a living and raised my children from hip-hop music. They were able to get good things in life, you know, as far as material things, though material things don’t mean much, but it still feels good to have those things as long as you don’t get caught up in it. Which is the thing of nowadays: people are so materialistic, clothing means so much to them that they have to rhyme about it. Instead of just looking nice they want to look nice and talk about how nice they look.

And yet, the absolute breakthrough of the Clan eventually happened due to a business strategy, the ‘ﬁve-year plan’, a complete outline of the Clan’s career. Were you not involved with creating that plan?

though, it’s a lot different because a lot of kids, they just want to be an MC because they think it’s a way to make money. They just want to be a ball player because they ﬁgure that’s an easy way out – not realizin’ that education is ﬁrst and all those other things are secondary.

Speaking of money: whereas it took you another ﬁve years to ﬁnally kick off your own career. Did you ever get to a point where you were really pissed off about the state of affairs? A point where ‘the politics of the business’, to use a Prince Paul term, were just too much to handle?

Yeah, maybe it was how the others were feelin’ at the time, but even when they got into it they just had the love for hip-hop. Like when Raekwon started out rhymin’, he didn’t rhyme to make money ‘cause we just didn’t make money. It was just the love for it at the time.

I know. Still, it seemed a pretty in-your-face statement by the entire Clan. So it made me wonder…

And it does, man. I mean, it just takes money to do things. I can’t even ride public transportation for free; I can’t go into the store and get a bottle of water without having cash, or without having some sort of credit. It rules. But knowledge is a whole lot more powerful than money because with knowledge you can get money. I recently read on the news that there was some man who paid 600,000 dollars to have lunch with Warren Buffett. And he didn’t pay just to sit around and eat with him; he paid because he wanted to get some of his knowledge. This man has enough knowledge about what he does as far as investments and such that someone will pay that much money to sit down and have lunch with him! So cash does rule a lot of stuff around me. And, you know, this song was made many years later, and it wasn’t a song I was on; this was Raekwon’s.

True. You win.

I mean, if you look at it, cash indeed does rule everything me; not me. We didn’t around me – though it’s everything around say ‘cash rules us’; we just said cash rules everything around us.

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Of course, of course, there’s been plenty of times like that. But you just have to be resilient. You have to be able to get back up when you’re knocked down. And I never gave up. I mean, there’s been times when I probably felt like cryin’. Like, ‘Damn, is it ever gonna work out?’ At one point we’d already done it for so long and we weren’t even making tapes, we were just rhyming in the streets and in schools. When we first started doing demos, we just wanted to do them so we could hear ourselves on tape. We were able to hook up with someone who had some musical equipment in his house – that was a change. Then when we were able to go into a recording studio – that was another step up. And then trying to shop our songs and get a deal – that was the hard part. Because at one point, we were like, ‘You know what, hip-hop is becoming too big. We wanna make records, too.’ You know, suddenly we wanted to, but that turned out to be the hardest part, the frustrating part, and it seemed like it took 20 years to get on when it only really took three or four years. But after finally having signed a deal, and unfortunately things still not really working out for me, that was another hard part, that was hard times – doors were closing in our faces. I used to actually send out tapes to record labels and those tapes were just sitting there in a box with tons of others. You know what: sometimes it’s good to watch a biography of some other artist, I think, whether it be rock, hip-hop, heavy metal, jazz, because all of them have interesting stories to tell. I recently sat down and watched a documentary on Louis Armstrong, which was just amazing, his life story is amazing. He made music for four or five decades, brilliant songs, one of the greatest trumpet players ever, and to hear about his plights, his ups and downs and how it relates to your own story! So, you know, never give up, that’s all I can say. Do it because you love to do it and people will respect your work and hear your work sooner or later. There’s been times that were really rough; there’s been times that were really, really good. And the good always outweighs the bad.

WE LEARN MANY DIFFERENT THINGS EVERY SINGLE DAY, AND I DON’T THINK THERE’S ONE MAIN LESSON THAT I CAN PINPOINT.

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Finally, since you’re the most versatile ‘body dropper, the heartbeat stopper’ when it comes to ﬁghting with ‘Liquid Swords’: have you ever tried martial arts yourself?

I don’t think there’s a main lesson. I don’t think so, just because hip-hop is a culture that always changes – things come, things go. It’s a part of life, something you live. Music is just something that’s always been a part of my life. And it’s something that I will always be a part of. We learn many different things every single day, and I don’t think there’s one main lesson that I can pinpoint. The only thing it always boils down to when you think of hip-hop is this: be yourself, continue to be yourself, and make music that you feel, that you love, before you try to make music for other people. You do things for yourself and not for others, and then if others can take a likeness to it, it makes it even better because they can relate. Because we all have similar stories, we all have similar things we go through. So I have to speak from my experience and what I’m thinking and from my thoughts, and then see if others can relate to that.

Looking back now, after so many years in the business, is there a main lesson you learned?

Of course it felt very different. There’s a whole lot more dedication and time that goes into a solo album. You know, I have my own things; I don’t have eight other different opinions involved with my project. That means there’s a lot more I have to give of myself. There’s a lot more planning, a lot more mathematics and a lot more work. It’s fun working with the Clan, ’cause it’s less work for me. I mean, it’s deﬁnitely pressure because there’s competition. And there’s really no competition working alone; it’s just me working against me. So, with the Clan, it’s just a lot more competitive with all the other swordsmen; you’re constantly trying to sharpen your sword, and keepin’ it sharp, and tryin’ to make everything good. It is fun on both sides, but I really, really like working alone.

How did it feel to be doing your solo albums compared to being part of the Wu-Tang Clan, meaning you were a chess piece on your own all of a sudden?

I don’t. I mean I rarely turn on the radio when I’m in my car. And if I do, I’d rather listen to the news. Basically I’m just checking out weather and trafﬁc and local news. I don’t listen much to the radio; I don’t really watch TV as far as videos and stuff like that. Every now and then, I turn on MTV and BET just to see what’s new. And then that’s it. You know, even lately – within the last eight months to a year – I haven’t even turned my TV on in the room, and instead I just try being to myself.

Is it true you don’t even listen much to hip-hop anymore yourself?

Of course. Even though that’s not his cup of tea – or the majority of it isn’t. He looks at it the same way as I, like, ‘Damn, where is hip-hop going?’ Because he’s familiar with the music I grew up with. He’s familiar with a lot of the Motown sound, a lot of the great groups. And he’s familiar with the golden era of hip-hop where mostly every MC was strong lyrically, as opposed to today where most MCs out there, especially on MTV and BET, have no lyrical talent W-H-A-T-S-O-E-V-E-R. He’s aware of that, but he watches it every day – you know, they’re children. He’s deﬁnitely more aware of what’s out there than I am, ’cause I don’t really pay attention to it. He’s into all of that.

And your son, he’s now a rapper, does he listen to current hip-hop, the televised stuff?

No, never. I’ve worked out at times: I did push-ups, pull-ups, and as a kid we was into martial arts as far as what we liked to see. Watching Bruce Lee was like watching a superhero. In fact, he was our superhero, being able to have these magniﬁcent things that he can do and ﬁght many different people. But I’ve never been to a karate school; I’ve never trained. It’s amazing that we were able to stay outta trouble, you know, because I didn’t really play chess as a child, I didn’t take up martial arts, we weren’t in any type of academic schools or anything where we learned sports. Instead we just did things on our own. If we played ball, we played in the park. We had a lot of games we made up, we played tag, we were creative in our own minds.

‘WE DON’T FIGHT...’ As part of her photography BA, Madeleine Macrae documented amateur boxing in Staffordshire. These words from trainer Gary Ashton put Macrae in her place when she entered Burslem ABA’s gym for the first time. Her story is told to Mark Hudson, journalist and amateur boxer. Burslem ABA trains in a typically Spartan gym. One room, above a garage; no heating, old equipment and gritty buzz. It’s run-down outside and freezing cold inside. The dedicated boxers, some as young as ten, are raring to spar on every training night. Even younger boys train but are too young to fight. They content themselves staring at the photos of the greats on the wall or gawp admiringly at the older boys trading punches in the shabby training ring. There are many reasons why boxing clubs are rarely housed in the plushest of gymnasia. The sport’s proletarian roots go a long way to explain but the austerity serves other functions too. It helps to ward off freeloaders and ensures that only the most dedicated will become regulars. It’s not supposed to be pleasant and if you’re put off by the stench of stale sweat, the taped-up punch bags, the blood-stained concrete floors and the icy drafts, there’s always LA Fitness. “We don’t fight. We box. There’s a difference,” says Gary, who trains the younger kids at Burslem every weeknight between 6 and 7pm. The difference is the dedication and discipline that produces true sportsmen. Dave takes over from Gary for the 7-8pm session with the older lads. He’s a local ex-pro. He’s out of shape now but none of the old passion has waned. meatmagazine MEATSEVEN.indd 42

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It’s competition night in the smoke-ﬁlled Wolverhampton Working Men’s Club. There will be nine bouts in all. The taller boxers’ heads almost scrape along the ceiling as they move around the ring. Homemade sandwiches are on sale for £1 and there are pints and men everywhere. The room is packed. meatmagazine MEATSEVEN.indd 44

Ian and Alan are ABA referees. They wear all white. Pure, crisp, clean, perfectly-ironed white. Even down to their shoes. Their black dicky-bows are all that break up the white. Ian even wears white clinical gloves. It’s a funny uniform. Any blood is easily seen. / 44 / 13/5/08 00:18:54

Maybe thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s why they wear it. Ian is repeatedly spotted with blood throughout the night. Backstage, the boxers wait. Their nerves are written all over them. Some jump about. Some sit very still, very focused. All are clearly on edge.

At Burslem itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s getting busier and there is a better vibe in the gym. Dave is chatting animatedly. Like all boxers, he gets excited thinking about the sport and his involvement in it. He talks rapidly and not totally coherently about a book his trainer wrote and he is in it. He promises to bring it in next time. His / 45 /

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license was revoked by a professional association – he doesn’t say what for – and after that, he never boxed competitively again. That was at nineteen. He also got married that year and had a baby. His priorities changed. meatmagazine MEATSEVEN.indd 46

He clearly regrets leaving it behind but his coaching seems now to be making up for it. One of his charges, Steve, is a 16 year-old Irish traveller. He doesn’t go to school but turns up to training every evening. He has been boxing for a year. Steve looks

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impressive in the ring but Dave is less conﬁdent. “He’s alright but he gets over-excited and loses it.” Dave carries on, deviating slightly to talk about Steve’s dad, who sells TVs to people. Apparently, they have nothing in them apart from bricks for

weight and would never work. Sounds like the sort of story you hear a lot about Irish travellers. Perhaps it’s another old wives tale. If it’s true, though, the sort of person who would buy a telly loaded with bricks off the street from a man with an impenetrable Irish / 47 /

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accent, kind of deserves what they get. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a lesson in stupidity to be a learned. When training has ďŹ nished, the gym is locked up and the cessation of the activity and rhythm brings

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dereliction back to the building. Dave drives away, recounting victory after victory at one hundred miles an hour. The car, however, does not break the 25 mph barrier.

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contributing artists and writers... /From this issue..

NICK HAYES is a gallant crusader for the elderly. He also keeps a close watch on the youngerly. Collections of his short stories lurk in the shadowy shelves of the ICA, Gosh and Orbital Comics. Go. Buy. Or email him on hayes.na@googlemail.com

highly esteemed architecture weekly The Architects’ Journal and occasionally dabbles in graphic design. Get in touch on jamesapallister@gmail.com

STUART KOLAKOVIC is a freelance illustrator and comic creator. He won the D&AD new blood award for his comic Milorad and has just set up a virtual shop for you to purchase his many wonders. Check him out on www.stuartkolakovic.co.uk.

ROBERT WRINGHAM is a writer, stand-up comedian and general wizard of words. Editor of the magazine project “The New Escapologist”, he is also a playwright and reviewer of novels. My God, says his mother, my son is a rich man! He smiles ambiguously and accepts another custard slice. Get in touch at www.wringham.co.uk

DAVID GOO is an acrobat of talent. He hosts his own variety show, numerous open mic nights across London, he writes, he sings, he plays, and in many ways, is the greatest human being alive. Churchill got nothing on Goo. Lincoln limps pitifully in his wake. Go seek him out at www.davidgoo.com

JESS WILSON is an illustrator whose work has appeared on the telly. BBC’s “Hustle” to be precise. Her clients also include Amelia’s magazine, notion magazine, and You magazine. For commissions and fawning praise, email her on jswilson1984@hotmail. com

RICHARD COWDRY lives in a twilight world of silent ﬁlms, Russian novels and Betty Boop cartoons. He won a New Talents award at the Sierre Comics Festival in Switzerland and his cartoons have appeared in the Oxford American, Vice Magazine and Serbian comix anthology Slutburger. See more of his drawings at: www.absurdart.com. He also edits British outsider comics anthology, ‘The Bedsit Journal’. www.bedsitjournal.com

NICO HINES is a professional hack. He writes and investigates. For The Times no less. This is his day job. By night, however, he dons the top hat and moustache of a semi-professional ring-leader, and does his best to contol the mania of onlookers to competitive eating exhibits. For more information on expert writing or mob contol, email nicohines@yahoo.com

JAMES PALLISTER has risen, like the proud member of a Jilly Cooper novel, to become a leading expert on Design Writing. This has nothing to do with his fascination for competitive eating nurtured early at his mother’s teat. He is a staﬀ writer on the

MARK HUDSON is a journalist, middle-east expert and gentleman brawler in possession of an exquisite selection of tailored jackets, drop him a line for exquisite prose, hot dates or some sparring practice on mark.e.hudson@gmail.com / 49 /

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RENKO HEUER is a freelance writer who specialises in music, literature and other wayward nonsequiturs. He is a contributor to various magazines in Germany and elsewhere. He currently enjoys his headphones in the streets of Berlin. Get in touch on editorial@mono-kultur.com Forget BMWs and bratwurst, MONO-KULTUR is one of Germany’s finest exports. Subscribe at monokultur.com LEIGH PEARSON is a freelance illustrator working in Edinburgh. The hardest working man in illustration. Find out more on www.thunderheart.co.uk. MADELEINE MACRAE is seduced by art and fascinated by people. By day she assumes the cloak of an editorial picture assistant, but by night she stalks the street with a pair of sharp eyes and a lens. These pictures are an extract from her book ‘We don’t fight’, of which she is very proud indeed. Give her a commission. We rate her. A lot. Make contact on madeleinemacrae@hotmail.co.uk NAOMI WOOD is about to complete a creative writing course at UEA, the finest cathedral of words known to man. She will then no doubt write a couple of books that illustrate the human condition in tear-inducing precision and then retire with a dog on a hill. For this is the way she works. Email her on naomi_j_wood@hotmail.com GAVIN WEBSTER drinks the blood of southern meatmagazine MEATSEVEN.indd 50

fairies. His patio is stuffed full of the corpses of Londoners, and still he wants more. He has managed to fool the world however, into thinking of him as a stand-up comedian, and not a psychotic vigilante. He came to use recommended by Simon Donald of The Viz. The Daily Mirror once spoke of his ‘tough talking, no nonsense, very very funny Geordie wit’ and Ross Noble has called him ‘a cross between Bill Hicks and Geoff from Biker Grove’. info@offthekerb.co.uk RYAN TODD is a very good illustrator we found out about. He is currently working for Glue London and also producing work for various personal and freelance projects. Email him on mrryantodd@gmail. com CLIVE TOTMAN photographed the Lord Mayor’s Show for The City of London. Contact him on clive. totman@city-imaging.co.uk LIZZIE CAPON spends her days curating at the Victoria and Albert Museum. More importantly to this proud nation’s culture however, she regularly organises competitive eating competitions, attempts at breaking world records and (very) amateur boxing duels taking place in woodland at the dead of night. lizzie.capon@gmail.com GZA ‘And the GZA, the Genius, is just a genius; he’s the backbone of the whole joint...He the head...We form like Voltron and the GZA happens to be the head.’. Nuff said. / 50 / 13/5/08 00:19:04

So, I was on my way back from Camden on the no.29.

It was a menacing night, typically Camden,

with the smell of threat in the air.

I was there for the usual tenpound-note-bag-of-grass shuffle

The police in their hi-vis jackets

were fussing with their walkie-talkies, and had ended up queuing for a burger I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want

while throngs of skinny jeans ruffled their feathers,

rubbing shoulders with anoraks in baseball caps. whilst some sixteen year old fumbled around in his boxers for the right draw.

We exchanged

and I was off.

Half way home, a group of no more than five kids threw themselves onto the bus.

They must have been about 8 years old,

/ 51 / MEATSEVEN.indd 51

though the youngest was barely out of nappies.

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The polite silence of the bus was ruptured,

punching,

swearing,

By this time, everyone on the bottom floor of the bus, and probably the top, was listening intently, judiciously avoiding eye-contact

fronting.

The smallest o

(it’s a common form of social intercourse in London).

and the kids took centre stage,

In a flash he his rage and into the bus d screen.

These were THOSE sort of kids,

the asbo-merchants that stalked the columns of the press,

mythologised middle-england terror, made manifest.

they were angry pink faced mother gorillas on heat.

They weren’t scrumping,

they weren’t collecting conquers,

they weren’t boisterous boys-will-be-boys,

But then the bus jolted and halted.

MEATSEVEN.indd 52

The bus was

A collective sigh of relief. Thank God!!!

The doors swished, and they were getting off.

meatmagazine

With rage disproportionate to their size.

No knives, No murdered grannies. No formulaic article in the Camden Gazette.

/ 52 / 13/5/08 00:19:12

n the bottom ably the top, diciously

The smallest of the lot,

who had been trapped in a headlock for most of the journey

cial

In a flash he pulled back on all his rage and sprang an open fist into the bus drivers protection screen.

caught the bus drivers eye as he got off.

Again

This was his chance.

and AGAIN,

terror,

nk faced heat.

the veins in his downy neck bursting to accommodate the fury that flowed through them.

rtionate to

The bus was silent, eyes timidly daring to face this outburst.

mulaic article

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And as th away,

In a burbled mess of street Creole,

with a selfconscious swagger,

the boy left the bus to rejoin his circle of misplaced machismo.

And in a moment of sweet inspiration,

Unlike a bullet, it limply slipped down the window,

he turned and launched a glob of gob back onto the bus. and slopped into the coin tray.

hung in mid air

Like a bullet, it shot into the protection screen.

The doors still open, the kids kicked and slapped its metal exterior.

The bus driver was a wanker,

WHAT?!!

and so for that matter, was everyone else on the bus.

What was our problem?

You, was the resounding sigh of the passengers.

You, and much more, said the ensuing silence.

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/ 54 / 13/5/08 00:19:23

And as the bus pulled away,

each passenger was rehearsing his version of events,

to tell in the cafĂŠ,

in the queue,

oment of ration,

g in mid air

over the kitchen table.

Our little warrior child leant down, and rolled up his trouser leg.

WHAT?!! his bare, hairless knee a firm, filmic threat to society.

And off he went, a six year old, with a knife in his heart.

silence.

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meat likes...

Keeping true to our endless efforts to champion the small press and in a shameless bid to get sent free stuff, we have introduced a new feature – ‘MEAT likes...’ We will cover good stuff going on in the small press, craft and zine scene and get it out to a wider audience. If you are creating stuff you think we would be interested in then send us pics and tell us how you do it... myspace.com/meatmagazine

DIARIES PRINTED BY EXWHYZED

Miniature Comics by Stuart Kolakovic

This issue, Meat Magazine has the pleasure of introducing you to Stuart Kolakovic, and his miniature comics empire. A recent graduate from Kingston University, Stuart is a fulltime illustrator living in the Midlands. His comics explore his interest in Eastern European folklore, a surreal world of shewolves, magical ﬂutes and dark woods. He has already made a mark of the British comics scene, winning the D&AD New Blood Award, coming second place in the recent Observer /

Jonathan Cape competition, and exhibiting a 10 metre long canvas in Manchester. Based on a Serbian folk song, Ja Ljubav Te (‘I love you’) leads the reader through a wordless narrative. Its beautful pastel pallette combines with the delicate line drawing, to make the comic a miniature treasure. Not only this, but you feel like a giant having stumbled on some dwarve’s library whilst reading it.

Geeks corner: 42 page full colour | Machine stitched | Laser printed onto Five Seasons (100% recycled) paper to purchase the comic, email stu@stuartkolakovic.co.uk

meatmagazine MEATSEVEN.indd 56

/ 56 / 13/5/08 00:19:29

Edward’s Turmoil

Gramps smiled his best salesman smirk, ‘Wouldn’t you feel so much better Eddie, if you could just say a really ﬁlthy, dirty, curse of a cuss-word?’ Text by Dave Goo, Illustrations by Nick Hayes

Hoy. This was going to be one long drive. What was he going to talk about with this kid? A whole afternoon with his vacant grandson was not Gramps idea of a good time. ‘So’ Gramps said, changing gear. ‘Do you like sports?’ Edward was sitting completely still in the passenger seat, nervously watching every swerve the car made. Life was so much better in the safety of his room. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘How can you be twelve years old and not like sports?’ ‘I’m thirteen actually.’ ‘And you think that makes a difference’ Edward knew for a fact it did, a whole world of difference. ‘I don’t like sports.’ ‘Crazy, that’s what you are. Here, poke around in the glove pocket and look for a tape or something.’ Edward did as he was told, ﬁnding nothing but old rusty cassettes with faded psychedelic covers. ‘I can’t ﬁnd anything.’ ‘What are you talking about, there’s plenty. What,’ he picked up a cassette at random and held it to his grandson’s face, ‘Syd Barrett, he’s nothing?’ He stuck the tape into the cassette player irritably and carried on driving. Ah, to hell with the kid. If he didn’t want to talk, fuck him. A few moments later, he looked to his side and

noticed Edward staring at him. ‘What?’ ‘Nothing, sorry,’ Edward said. ‘No, no nothing sorry, you tell me what you were looking at.’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘You tell me or I’ll leave you on the sidewalk here and you can walk back home.’ ‘I was looking at the hairs in your ears.’ Gramps grinned cheerfully. ‘You like ‘em? They’re quite a bunch. You can put your ﬁnger in it if you want.’ ‘No, thank you.’ The old man shrugged. ‘Your choice. Feels good though, I’m telling you. Last offer.’ ‘It’s okay, really. Thanks.’ ‘You’re one polite son of a bitch, aren’t you?’ Edward twitched, his nose doing a roundabout motion. Hoy. What a freak. ‘So listen, I’m going to this restaurant your parents recommended, I could give you a few squid if you want to go to the pictures or something.’ ‘That’s okay.’ ‘What are you saying, you prefer eating with an old turtle like me?’ Take the offer, freak. Edward shrugged and said, ‘I don’t mind.’ ‘Listen kid, don’t do me any favours.’ ‘I’m not. I want to eat with you.’ Gramps shook his head. ‘Crazy.’ They carried on driving. ‘Could you ﬁnd a different tape, I don’t think / 57 /

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I can take any more of the Syd right now, maybe one of those – Jesus!’ The car swerved by them, missing their vehicle by inches. As he zoomed past, the jerk gave both Grandpa and Edward the finger, blaring his horn. ‘Son of a bitch!’ Gramps yelled. ‘Fucking son of a bitch! Did you see that? Inches! Inches! We coulda been killed! These fucking animals! They have no courtesy! No fucking courtesy!’ He looked over at his grandson, who was blinking and twitching furiously. ‘Hey, are you okay? What’s wrong?’ Edward stuttered. ‘Sorry.’ ‘Did you get nervous? Are you having a fit? Have you got some kind of epilepsy? Because your mother didn’t tell me a thing about that!’ ‘I’m sorry… that word.’ ‘Huh?’ ‘That word you said. Sorry, it makes me go funny. I should have told you, sorry.’ ‘“Word?”’ ‘The F one.’ Gramps scratched his furry ears. ‘You mean fu-?’ Edward put his hand on Gramp’s shoulder, actually touching him. ‘Please don’t. Please. I’m sorry.’ The old man raised his eyebrows. ‘You can’t be serious.’ ‘Sorry Grandpa.’ ‘But people say that word all the time.’ ‘I know. It’s not easy.’ ‘I bet it isn’t. Bloody hell.’ Edward twitched once more. ‘Don’t tell me you’re sensitive to other words, too?’ ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘Stop being sorry, damn it.’ Flutter of eyelids. Gramps studied his grandson as if for the first time. ‘How long has this been going on for?’ ‘Since ages ago.’ meatmagazine MEATSEVEN.indd 58

The old man was frowning. ‘I never remembered you being like this.’ ‘That’s because we never actually talked before today.’ The old man was shocked to realise the truth in that. They’d never spoken until now, not really. Maybe a sentence of greeting and departure here and there, if that. ‘But I would have noticed, surely.’ Edward shrugged. They carried on down the highway, Gramps wondering what other fuck ups his various grandchildren possessed. Man, he was glad he hardly talked to them. ‘Say, Edward, did you ever think perhaps you just need to hear those offending cuss words more often? Maybe it’ll desensitise you to them.’ ‘No, I don’t think that’s true.’ Gramps nodded, clearing his throat. ‘Well let’s try anyway. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-’ ‘Ah! Aye! Stop! Stop!’ Next to him on the seat, his grandson had turned into a quivering, shaking wreck of a human. ‘Hey, it’s okay, shh, I’ve stopped, I’ve stopped!’ Slowly, Edward sat up straight as if crawling out of bombed ruins. ‘My God. This stuff seriously harms you.’ The kid looked at his lap, ashamed. ‘But how can you live like this? It’s like being allergic to breathing for God’s sake. I mean, how can you watch TV, or films? What else do kids do all day but watch that garbage?’ ‘I read the Bible.’ ‘The Bible?’ ‘Or watch Disney films.’ Oblivious to the traffic, Grandpa gazed at his grandson. ‘Amazing...’ At the restaurant he was still peering at him closely, as if observing an experiment or bug he’d never seen before. ‘Is there any food I should know you’re sensitive to before I order?’

/ 58 / 13/5/08 00:19:30

‘No. I’ll eat anything.’ ‘Well that’s a relief. So tell me Eddie have your parents considered sending you to a shrinker?’ ‘Yeah, I go to one actually.’ ‘Oh. And?’ ‘And he heals me with his magical shrinker powers.’ Gramps chuckled. At least the kid wasn’t all idiot. ‘So you’ve never said a curse word yourself, huh? What is it, an allergy of some kind?’ ‘It’s not an allergy.’ ‘A disorder then.’ Edward folded his arms angrily. ‘Disorder?’ ‘Is there a nicer word for your disease I should be aware of ?’ ‘It’s not…’ Edward huffed in exasperation. ‘As far as I’m concerned the world is diseased, swearing all the time. They’re the evil ones.’ Gramps nodded, as if acknowledging these words. He smiled. ‘So. What happens when you do it?’ ‘What, swear?’ ‘Yeeesssssss.’ He eyed his grandson greedily. ‘I wouldn’t know, and don’t want to find out.’ ‘Oh, but I’d very much like to find out. Who knows? Perhaps you’d be cured.’ ‘I don’t need the curing, it’s the-’ ‘Of course, of course it is, but still. Are you telling me you never get pissed off ?’ ‘Yes, of course I do.’ He was bloody pissed off right at that moment. ‘What do you do when that happens?’ ‘I click my fingers.’ He quickly demonstrated this. ‘And it all gets better, does it?’ ‘Usually.’ Gramps hunched his shoulders up and moved closer above the table, smiling his best salesman smirk. ‘Wouldn’t you feel so much better though Eddie, if you could just say a really filthy, dirty, rotten-’ ‘Grandpa.’ Click click click, Gramps heard coming from under the table. ‘-biting, scathing, angry, teeth clenching-’

click click click ‘-foul mouthed, blasphemous curse of a cuss word? Huh? Think of the release, Eddie! What’s the worse that could happen? Huh?’ ‘It’s wrong,’ Eddie whispered. Click click click. ‘But it would make me so happy to hear you say it.’ And that was no lie. click cliThe clicking stopped.

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He’d got him. An innocent, lost-boy expression appeared on Gramp’s face. ‘Come on Edward. Make a dying man happy.’ Edward pondered these last statements carefully. ‘Well, the Bible does say to respect your elders’ If you say so, freak. ‘That’s right, it does. Go on. Say it. For your Grandad. Say the F-word.’ Edward’s eyes fluttered as if in nervous premonition. Gramps leaned in closer again. ‘Say it Edward. Don’t be afraid. Say it.’ The bottom lip on the kid’s mouth started quivering violently. He had him all right, he had him. ‘Say it. Never fear my wonderful grandson, never fear a thing. Say it. Say it.’ ‘Are you ready to order-’ Without even looking at the waiter, Gramps barked as fierce as a lightning bolt, ‘Shut up we’re in the middle of something!’ After the initial shock, the waiter glanced over at the shivering boy. ‘Is he okay?’ ‘He’s fine. Hush! Not you Eddie, you carry on. You can speak. You will speak. Say the word. Say the word. I’m an elder. Respect the elder. Respect your dying grandpa. Say the word.’ ‘F-f-’ meatmagazine MEATSEVEN.indd 60

‘Yes, yes.’ ‘Grandpa could feel his heartbeat racing.’ ‘Ffffff-’ ‘Yeeeesssssss.’ An effect more powerful than Viagra was pumping through his groin. ‘F-f-f-fffff-FUUUUCK!’ The next sound that came out of Edward’s mouth after the F-word was a high-pitched holler like the shriek of a raging banshee: ‘AYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!’ Then the soft slap of Edward’s ﬁst hitting his Grandpa’s nose: ka-thud-crunch! The creak and snap of Gramp’s chair tipping back, the soft crack of his skull meeting wood ﬂoor. And it all went black for the kid. The waiter who saw the ensuing chaos of sirens and spilled coffee was sent home early. He spent the remainder of the evening watching Oz reruns and wondering what the hell he’d just seen. And, on Gramp’s tomb, it simply said, ‘Here Lies Grandpa Meadows. He Died A Happy, Happy Man.’

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The House of Her By Naomi Wood

The lock would not give. I twisted and turned the key, which was warming from the friction, but it would not give. I tried to create as much noise, as much activity as I could muster. My grunts sounded animal in the cool night air, and I was glad of it, glad of the sweat working its way up on my forehead, and the pain of my stiff ﬁngers twisting the metal. At one point the lock did seem to give a rheumatic sigh, as if it were to grant me a boon and give in to my efforts. I should not have been surprised that my key did not unlock her house. The white sash window gave easily with a tug, and I slipped myself through the window and into the kitchen sink, an eel into its creel, all rhythms. I should not have been surprised by the silence, wearing itself in the house as the damp chill hung onto the furniture. Neither did I hear people walking past. I half expected the telephone to ring. Margaret’s voice, on the phone, had been pawing and insistent. I thought it was unfair of her to demand this of me – me, with the rights of the affronted lover - I wouldn’t go, didn’t want to go, it was too much to ask, it was a job for Matthew. And after all of that, these twinges of self-pity, I said to Margaret I would go. ‘For old time’s sake, John,’ she had said at the end of the conversation. When I replaced the telephone it was warmed from me, meatmagazine MEATSEVEN.indd 62

/ 62 /

shouldered as it had been for the hour, listening to her creole of silence and sobs. The kitchen smelled perhaps of what she had cooked last. Mushroomy, certainly, with the faint penicillin smell of some bread, staling itself against the hungry air. On the wooden side-dresser sat some pictures; none of me, one of Emily, looking more like her than me, another of Margaret, when she was younger, and looked a lot more like Beth. Matthew was oddly absent as well. I gave a small yelp of triumph into the air and then stopped short. Her house didn’t need to hear my victories. Not yet. I walked away from the kitchen. The smells of her scared me, as if she might appear any minute and offer to make me breakfast. She was a terrible cook! Good God! Even alive the suggestion might have been terrifying, and it was a game with Emily, that we used to play before she quite decidedly turned adolescent, of where best to squirrel away the remainders of a limp-eyed poached egg, or the carbonated ends of a piece of toast. I found myself in the long reception room, familiar and not familiar at the same time. When I switched on the light the ﬂowery borders of the wall-paper, which ran straight on the white paneling, looked odd and ancient, and I couldn’t remember why we had chosen to buy it. It didn’t go with the room at all. I didn’t go into the yellow room. www.meat-mag.com

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I placed my hand on the banister instead, following the smooth oak line leading me upstairs. The only light came from downstairs, and I refrained from switching on anymore. Perhaps it was something morbid inside of me, that my grief would be better staged in ill-lit silence. I don’t know. Who am I to lecture on the aesthetics of grief ? I was a bad griever. I sulked in its shadows, I didn’t admit it, I over-worked, I suffered from constipation and breakouts of acne, and a rash of shingles on my stomach, just now starting to scab over. Grief was my quiet kidnapper, and I didn’t even know the ransom, so how could I have paid? Emily’s was just the opposite. Hers was a murderer and a rapist and she was so fucking angry when she looked at me and I looked at her with my grey dead eyes and I envied all of her rage. Our old bedroom had new sheets: they were sand-coloured and crisp. I wonder who’d changed them before Beth left. I saw the old gilt mirror, propped against the shiny mahogany table, that we bought in a ﬂea market in Liverpool when Beth was pregnant and moody, and I’d bought it for her, when I decided to stop being a miserly old cunt for once. I wrote a little note on it, in her red lipstick I found at the bottom of her old-smelling handbag. I wrote: For my square molar, with all my love, your sharp incisor. She was chuffed and ﬂushed, she was, my big-bellied woman in her hippy smock and plait. And little Emily, making her mother’s belly a round plump pudding for other women to feast upon. The curtains were closed, the heavy Liberty’s print still persisting in being there. I expected her to have changed more of the house. Made more dramatic my departure. The tracery of the vines meatmagazine MEATSEVEN.indd 63

and flowers I knew from heart, my eyes followed them during conversations, confessions, battles. The first time I learnt of one of her strays the curtains were too weak for my fury. We fought like we were full of vitriol, and I was full of it, alright – my anger blue, like electricity in my vertebrae – and everything I said, I said to hurt her; to damage her. The second time was quieter, and by the time she told me about Matthew, my eyes were already trained to the leafy circuitry of the curtains. I left our bedroom, trying not to think of her and Matthew in that bed, and Emily’s voice, telling me how mummy and Matt had taken her for the weekend to the countryside, and how I had bolted in fury, accusing Beth of robbery. I walked into her study, her office, and set myself to Margaret’s mission. That was why I was here, after all. It is not my habitude to stalk the houses of dead wives. Everything was mindlessly disorganized. I couldn’t believe she had left things in such a state of disarray, even when she knew it was ending. Probably a last laugh at me, knowing her mother would enlist me, not Matthew, to clear up the last bureaucratic complications of life. I worked quietly for the hour, methodically filing away tax returns, old utility bills, and threw out a lot of stuff she had thought she had had to keep. I put in my pocket a letter Emily had written to her, which asked if she could watch Neighbours if she promised she would tidy her room not like yesterday and that she was very sorry Mummy but if she didn’t let her she would have to run away to Ostralia, with some big kisses at the end for good measure. I threw out some old magazines, and looked through an old mobile phone bill from two years ago, one number repeated over and over

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I LOOKED AT HER WITH MY GREY DEAD EYES AND I ENVIED ALL OF HER RAGE

again: not mine. I put it away. I suppose I didn’t come here for that. Under my arm I took the three grey cardboard files I had organized, life’s duller litany, and left the study, switching the light off as I went. Downstairs, I looked back up above again, checked all the lights were off, and I was about to leave when I saw the door to the yellow room just ajar. I put the files down on the corridor table, with the prim black telephone and doodled note-pad, and considered leaving. But I found myself at the door, and I twisted the handle. The switch on the wall gave a plastic snap and threw everything into a surprising brightness. The yellow wallpaper, still there, bought by me, had oddly displeased her. She had disliked the tart uniformity of the lines, though she liked the colour. It was in here she had lain during her illness, I think because the room caught the sun in the mid-afternoon, came in through the French windows, and disappeared, hot and pleased with itself after a long day’s work, over the leafy trees, shriveled by the warm summer. It had been so warm, so hot, so bountiful, so un-English! The nation was happier for that sunshine; as was Beth, and myself, and Matthew. It was in here too that Matthew told me. Matthew – who had taken my place in our bed, my chair at the kitchen table, my sovereignty of her lips; my place at her side, in her hand, in the crook of her back, the base of her ass, in the vice of her thighs, the whispering places of her cool long neck – here where he told me what was going to happen to her. He was like a doctor, telling me, he was so calm. And there was something new between us that day: some new and difficult accord. meatmagazine MEATSEVEN.indd 64

/ 64 /

When she died of course the amity wilted. Both of us wanted to be the bereaved husband, and the other’s presence seemed to distract the attention away from one another. The funeral had been a farce, in a way, both of us dandying for attention as Beth’s widowed spouse, no-one looking after Emily, and the priest had looked abashed; his sermon at the burial verbose and inappropriate. I looked around the yellow room. The house would go up for sale. I didn’t want it, and Matthew wasn’t willing to buy my share of it. The house was Beth, and if she wasn’t here anymore, I didn’t want anything more to do with it. Suddenly I ached, quite magnificently. I sort of half-fell to the sofa, a crooked old arm out in front of me, my legs tumbling behind me. The air was still, and I longed for sound. I let out a brief howl. Tears came, quarrying up grief ’s hard-baked clay. I didn’t want her gone; I wanted her here, cheating on me, falling in love with another, divorcing me, marrying him. Stupid Beth, wonderful Beth. But there was no-one left to hate anymore; not even Matthew. After five minutes I got up, switched off the light in the yellow room and picked up the files for Margaret. I had made the house colder with the open window. I made my way out over the sink and into the long back lawn, and I made sure it was firmly shut. In the cold car I resisted, an instant, revving the engine. The car was quiet too. I wound down the window. The night air seemed different; a little ruffled. I looked back at the house, a strong-willed, strong-walled Tudor affair, and I thought of the swift-told stories of her.

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details...

/About us..

Commander Of Fleet: James Pallister Rear Admiral: His Excellency, Nick Hayes Submariner At Arms: Adam Richmond DISTRIBUTION MEAT is published by MEAT Publishing Ltd. Printed by Lavenham Press. Distributed by COMAG, get in touch if you would like to stock the mag and we can sort it out. ISSN number is 1751-5432. Company No. 05692685. May 2008. At long last. All rights reserved and ting. SUBMISSIONS Get in touch with us at MEAT Magazine: send us artwork, pitches for articles by email or just give us a ring. Any artwork sent to HQ should be accompanied by an SAE so we can return it to you, or email contribute@meat-mag.com. We cannot guarantee a prompt response to all correspondence but we will try.

CONTACT MEAT MAGAZINE docks at the massive corporate behemoth that is Meat Publishing Ltd. If you want to get in touch you will find the main sextant, drawing boards and war room located on the bridge at: MEAT MAGAZINE, 63 Third Avenue Queens Park London W10 4HU 07875348056/ contact@meat-mag.com, come and be our friend at myspace.com/meatmagazine Geeks Corner. Yes we mean you: Covers weigh in at a massive 360gsm. Buff Malago Board supplied by Arboreta Papers. Inside is a svelte 100gsm Cyclus. Anchor chain (over-used) 20mm multiplait steel rope by Windlass Supplies. We used Zapfino, Eurostile, Garsmond, Baskerville, Helvetica Neue, good old Impact and Folio (T1) Recycled paper and vegetable inks used throughout. Got your seedy kicks now?

THANKS to Miss Nicola Read, the scale game: half pint glasses, abnormally small chairs. Pally would like it put on record that he won the cracker-eating competition, the patience of our contributors especially Madeleine. Nick has been press-ganged back on board so it’s ‘Full Speed Ahead!’ for issue eight. Swarthy Chris and the sirens Hannah and Madeleine. Thanks to those lost in the Scapa Flow straits Nana Opuku and Kris Feldman. The ever-changing round up on the Good Ship Sixty-Three; message in bottles go to men overboard Tori, Rachel, Mark, Zara, Joe and Francesca, medal of Meritorious Service goes to long-staying Rupert, Lesley Read for helping us with the log book, all the people we forgot, and as ever Mike ‘Mad Dog’ Heaton of ExWhyZed, suppliers of the best sail, rope, and rigging as well as all your printing needs this side of the Cape of Good Hope. Voyage continues. Please send rum and limes.

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MEAT MAGAZINE OFFICIALLY ENDORSES COMPETITIVE

EATING CONTRIBUTIONS FROM FAT BOYS AND FATTER GIRLS INCLUDING MIKEY ‘ROLLS N FOLDS’ LEAR / GIRLI ‘DOUGHNUT PUNCHER’ LEWIS DOM ‘THE DOUGHNUT’ CEGLOWSKI / JAMES ‘ALL IN’ LEWIS / ED ‘EATBOT’ SPEYER / FELIX ‘FE FI FO FUCK YA’LL’ HOBSON / STEPHEN ‘NO WIN NO FEEN’ FEENEY / CHRISTOPHER ‘SQUIRREL NUTCASE’ LONGDEN / PETE ‘WHERE’S MY INSULIN INJECTION?’ LAWRENCE / MARK HUDSON / NICK HAYES / STUART KOLAKOVIC / DAVE GOO / RICHARD COWDRY / JAMES PALLISTER / ROBERT WRINGHAM / JESS WILSON / NICO HINES / RENKO HEUER / LEIGH PEARSON / MADELEINE MACRAE / NAOMI WOOD / THE GZA / GAVIN WEBSTER / RYAN TODD / CLIVE TOTMAN / AND THE MORBIDLY OBESE LIZZIE CAPON. MEAT MAGAZINE, FEEL THE GIRTH.

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