(OH) Magazine issue 2 by Tom Callard

MUSIC BOOKS FILM FASHION GAY ART MISC

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ISSUE 2

(OH

FILM

MUSIC BOOKS

GAY FASHION ART MISC

HELLO! Welcome to the bigger, better, sexier (OH). Issue Number 2. Having abandoned any pretence of not being pretentious, we threw ourselves into it wholeheartedly. We bring you a Fine Art section, and the most highbrow news from the world of Fashion, Film, Music, Books and Gay Lifestyle. All this stimulation comes with a distinctly globetrotting edge. We offer Swedish electro, Spanish porn, American comedy, Columbian fashion - also, an interview with a man who has been called both “Messiah” and “the man whose cooking looks like a mad woman’s shit”. It’s obviously irresistable. Enjoy. (If you think we need taking down a peg or two, drop us a line. But we think its fucking brilliant).

(CULTURE AND LIFESTYLE BROUGHT TO YOU BY MEMBERS OF ORIEL COLLEGE AND FRIENDS)

MUSIC

REGGAE JUNCTION THE LIVELY BEATS of reggae and ska

and reggae beats quickly caught on in

music percolated into the music of the

Jamaica and influenced artists such as

late sixties and seventies to provide a

Desmond Dekker who would later have

much-desired alternative to disco and

hits across the seas in England with It

pop. But this importation of the popu-

Mek, Message to Rudy, and Shanty

lar Jamaican music by reggae and ska

Town. These songs were popular par-

legends including Desmond Dekker and

ticularly with the growing mod culture,

Bob Marley did not just appeal because

predominantly in the midlands. Now you

of its novelty. It answered the prayers

know as well as I do, I’m sure, that Bob

of a proportion of the young English

Marley was the personification of reggae

population who, unsurprisingly, did not

and it would be criminal to write an arti-

find the answer to unemployment, pov-

cle about the origins of popular Jamai-

erty and the gap between the rich and

can music without mentioning him. BUT

poor in the likes of Dancing Queen and

whilst Bob Marley did a lot to bridge the

Y.M.C.A. The subjects of this new mu-

gap between black and white cultures

sic could often parallel the experiences

with hits like Concrete Jungle and Get

of young underprivileged white males

Up, Stand Up, Desmond Dekker was

and the subsequent fusion led to white

the man to make the first impression on

youths creating their own versions of

British youth with his earlier tunes (es-

‘black music’.

pecially Shanty Town), speaking to the frustrations of his audience with themes

The story begins in Jamaica in the 1960s

of the police, rudeboys, soldiers and

with the rise of The Upsetters led by their

probation.

producer, Lee Scratch Perry. His dub

DEKKER MARLEY

I guess it’s a little clearer now how reggae

The emphasis within punk and its rela-

and ska had an impact on young British

tives was on guitars and insistent strum-

culture - resulting in 2-Tone music, but

ming, a sound that refused to be ignored.

the rebellion didn’t end there. Emerg-

Punk was arguably more direct in its ex-

ing from the same socially and eco-

pression of anti-establishment rebellion,

nomically deprived backgrounds came

violence and the struggles felt amongst

punk music in the form of The Ramones

the lower end of societal spectrum. Yet

and the Clash and punk culture with its

from these seemingly rigid stratifications

leather jackets, Mohican hairstyles and

came some of the music most important

drug scene. Everyone’s heard of the Sex

to young people of that era, undoubt-

Pistols, and before today perhaps, you

edly influenced by the liberation in music

might not have thought there were many

that came about when reggae eventu-

links between the songs of the Pistols

ally landed on British coasts. So there

and Madness. But the subject matter

you have it: reggae and its impact on

is strikingly similar. In fact some of their

youth culture, in 400 words. But more

distinct elements are united in bands

than bands and songs, more, indeed,

such as The Jam, whose song Eton Ri-

than a sound, it was a movement that

fles (a must-have on the old iTunes) was

let young people of the seventies mouth

very much the working-class anthem:

off over the government, the poverty

anti-private

line, and the status quo. What would we

school,

anti-upper-class

privileges. While the band themselves maintained the mod look of suits and ties for their gigs.

have done without it?

REBECCA COLEMAN

THE CLASH

LEE “SCRATCH” PERRY 5

T E C H N O L O G Y 6

OVER the last couple of centuries the way in which we listen to and gain access to music has dramatically changed in parallel with our rapid technological progress. So what does the future hold for our seemingly never ending quest to gain access to more and more music? First, lets take a look at the past. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hard for us to imagine now but think back to what it must have been like to live in a world without recorded music. No iPods, no CDs, no mp3s, no music at home, in the office or in coffee shops. Day to day life was effectively devoid of sonic pleasure. The only opportunity for people to experience music was through live musicians. Then, in one fell swoop, everything changed. Thomas Edison, prolific inventor, engineer and scientist set the world alight by recording the first sounds onto a thin piece of tin foil. And in his moment of genius what otherworldly song did he immortalise in the first ever recording? â&#x20AC;&#x153;Mary Had A Little Lambâ&#x20AC;?. Oh dear. This then set the stage for records, 8 tracks, cassettes and CDs. The musical world as we know it was born. No longer did you have to wait to see a particular band or musician play live, you could simply buy the record and listen to them whenever you wanted. However, this still posed the problem of having to buy or exchange music between people using a physical medium thus limiting the distribution, number of tracks and therefore, access to new music. Then came the mp3. No technological advance since Edison has changed the way we listen to music more than the mp3. Our generation has grown

up in a world where it is common for music lovers to have access to more music than they listen to in their lifetime. Gigabyte after gigabyte of digitally recorded music available in ultra-portable form that can be listened to whenever we want, where ever we want. So what could possibly come next? Simple. Its already here. Music streaming. Surprisingly it began with video in the form of YouTube but has rapidly grown as dedicated music streaming sites such as Pandora, Last FM and Deezer have began offering almost unlimited access to free music at the touch of a button. So what is streaming? In simple terms, instead of physically owning/storing the digital music file on your computer you download the music file in realtime from a music server. But there is one small problem. Mobility. Streaming music requires a fast internet connection that stays connected at all times which causes severe problems if you want to listen to streamed music on the go. This is changing though. With innovations in services like mobile broadband and mobile hardware such as the the iPhone its not going to be long before it is possible to stay connected where ever you are. So what is the future? Mobile multimedia devices with broadband internet connections that stay connected to online services which for a monthly fee offer unlimited access to unlimited music, movies and TV shows. If I were you Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d stop buying those mp3s. Theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re going the way of the 8 track.

EUAN WIELEWSKI

FREJ AND BJORN of Swedish, six-piece electro-pop outfit Slagsmålklubben - the Supermario of the electro scene (just type in Kasta Sten on youtube) give (OH) Magazine an introduction to their music and the bizarre world they live in: BJORN: Hello, hello! My name is Bjorn, this is how my voice sounds. FREJ: Hallo hallo, my name is Frej, this is how my voice sounds. BJORN: His voice is different. It is a bit unlike mine. Mine is more like my voice. (OH): Can you describe your music for us?

FREJ: When we started it was like for the kick of the melodies, like “doodoo, dododo”, really direct. And we pretty much succeeded, and then we evolved to what it is right now. We don’t want the obvious anymore, but at the same time we want it. Like when we started, we’d just play around with the sythesiser - “oh! it makes a sound! What

SLAGSMALSKLUBBEN “HALLO HALLO, MY NAME IS FREJ, THIS IS HOW MY VOICE SOUNDS” (OH): How are you feeling about Fabric tonight - you looking forward to

it?

FREJ: Yeah really nice - I’ve been here before - it was really cool. They have this brilliant laser! So to play there will be really cool. Its Berkheim, it’s Razzmatazz and it’s Fabric. When you have done those 3 and have been the first band to take cocaine on the moon - then you’re done.

BJORN: We have two aims actually: to be the first band to play in outerspace and the first band to play in the first underwater city. Those are our main aims. (OH): Have you made any progress towards these aims?

BJORN: Erm. No. Frej: Hey no! We actually got an offer to play an underwater city.

BJORN: Well an underwater something. We were supposed to be playing a pool or something, without any sound, but the speakers were in the pool, and everyone was supposed to dip their head into the pool to hear.

FREJ: I’ve never understood why we didn’t take the gig.

FREJ: I will tell you a story - actually a true story! I went to this festival and I didn’t have my glasses on, like when I take those off - I’m completely fucking incognito. When I put them on, it’s like “aaaah Frej” and when I take them off, it’s “who’s this guy?”, and I went to this festival. And there’s this guy saying he plays in Slagsmålsklubben. A big group of people and a guy in the middle saying “yeah, I play in Slagsmålsklubben... and I stole a fucking car and came here. My name is Frej.” And I’m like (jaw dropped expression). He was really popular in his camp! “Do you want some booze Frej, do you want some food Frej!” And then I’m like, I’m sorry man, but I’m Frej, I really am. And I got laughed out! Like “Who the fuck do you think you are man?” And I had to get out my passport and papers to say “This is me, motherfucker, what do you think you’re doing?!” And he just like EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEUMPH (sound like a nose-diving plane). Everybody turned their backs, and no more cigarettes, and I think he moved camp. It was like a fucked up ghost story... wooooah man, wooooah. (OH): You know you’ve made it, when someone pretends to be you.

FREJ: Ja, ja, ja. But that was fucked up.

TOM & SABINA

BOOKS 11

WATCHING THE WATCHMEN

HOLLYWOOD STILL DOESN’T DO JUSTICE TO COSTUMED VIGILANTES

FILM adaptations have long been the crutch for those too lazy to read; with a faithful adaptation of a long or boring book, it’s actually quite easy to get away with this. More problematically though, there’s been a step-up in films of books-with-pictures-in-them. If you can’t be bothered to read a book consisting of nine pictures per page with small boxes of accompanying text, you may as well stop reading now and wait for the film of this article. Graphic novels offer everything one could get from a film or work of literature. Lately, they’ve been getting a lot more positive attention from the critics. The film versions are blockbusters. Yet there’s still a ground-level lack of interest in the source material. How else can you explain the generally positive reception of the filmed V for Vendetta, which removes (bar a few key aphorisms) most of the brilliance of Alan Moore’s writing, destroys his subtle characterisation, alters the setting and really only bears resemblance in certain aspects of the plot that remained? It’s an ok film in its own right, but how often are film adaptations of text-only novels judged without reference to the original? The same can be said of From Hell, X-Men 3 and any other film where a comic of real quality has been mutilated by a film studio for a mass market. Read the original. You have half a brain, you can cope with it. I really hope this doesn’t happen to Watchmen. Comic book adaptations are getting better (The Dark Knight managed symbolism and metaphor!), but Watchmen is the superhero

comic par excellence. It was considered practically unfilmable for years; it is stylistically unusual and stunning, in a way that demonstrates the limitations of other media. The frames that resemble camera-work only make it clear how much closer to an aesthetically powerful film this is than most actual films. Basically, it’s fucking brilliant. And it’s being marketed with an emphasis on the quality of Moore/Gibbon’s material: “the most celebrated graphic novel of all time.” But will that stop it being processed into another market-friendly money-spinner, with T-shirts and McDonalds happy meal promotions in tow? Perhaps the problem is with the genre’s name. Marketing collections of comics as graphic novels seeks to get rid of the comic-book-guy stereotype and give them the literary association they deserve, but it hasn’t stopped film studios from messing around with them in a way they never would with text-only novels. If we’re talking about comics like Batman and Spiderman, rather than say Maus or Persepolis, the “graphic novel” tag is just a way of making money off people too pretentious to read “comic-books”. “Comic-book” is something of a misnomer these days anyway. Humour might well be involved, but we’re no longer dealing with a three-frame newspaper strip. Really, the most suitable term is now just “book”.

FRED FRANCIS

Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons, Watchmen (1986): the first page.

THE VOYNICH MANUSCRIPT 14

In the rare books room at Yale there is a book that nobody can read. It is written in a script that has never been deciphered, despite the efforts of scholars and code-breakers for the last four hundred years. The only clues to its content come from its strange illustrations: unfathomable apparatus, unidentifiable plants, and ranks of bathing women. I can offer you no explanation. If there is any meaning in a set of lines and dots and pictures on a page, it is for you to put there.

In search of

Inter zone

WILLIAM BURROUGHS’ TANGIER

THE DAY before we set off for Morocco my dad called me into his study. He presented me with an image on an A4 piece of paper, and a small mission that would connect us faintly to something much greater, much darker, than our own travels. It was an image of a promenade on the sea front of Tangier, and our task was to find a house ‘somewhere near’ this road where the American beat generation author, William Burroughs, once lived. Burroughs wrote his masterpiece, the uniquely gross and hilarious Naked Lunch, in Tangier. David Cronenberg, when he made his film of Naked Lunch, didn’t bother to try to shoot the novel - why make a film that would have been banned in every country? Instead he shot the story of its writing, and set most of the film in “Interzone,” named after Tangier, which was an “International Zone” (a colonial regime run by Spain, France, Britain, and the US) in the 1950s when Burroughs and other disreputable types lived there. There are a few precise glimpses of the city in Naked Lunch, but the real importance of it is a more pervasive presence - the modern city as an insane collage of cultures, a mad marketplace of corruption. If you consult the tourists’ guides to Morocco the house sited as ‘where Burroughs wrote Naked Lunch’ is the Villa Muniria in the old French quarter overlooking the bay. But over the four years Burroughs lived in Tangier (from January 1954 to January 1958) he lived in at least three other houses, one near the Kasbah, one in the winding streets of the medina and one more that nothing seemed to be known about, Number 6

Terrace Renschaussen. My dad found this address (he thinks) from one of Burroughs’ old passports, dug up in a library in the States. He worked out that Burroughs must have moved into this house in the summer of 55 after riots in the city which made the medina too dangerous for a Westerner to live in. We arrived in Tangier tired and filthy after ten days of travelling, like Burroughs we were middle class westerners slumming it in Morocco. After a sleep and a cold shower in one of the Medina’s hotels we set out to look for this house; wandering round holding up the, by now very mangled, picture my dad had given me. One man from our hotel had been following us around all day. He seemed to be there each time we turned a corner, to be at the table across from us each time we sat down for mint tea and a cigarette. We asked him if he could lead us to this ‘Terrace Renschuassen’. He dragged us up and down meandering streets in the sweltering heat of midday until at last we came by a place which matched our photo. This was it, Burroughs’ missing house. It was deserted, the door scribbled on and the street rundown, but as we took pictures and walked up and down we began to get a sense of what the place must have been like in the 50s, the cafes scattered with writers and artists. The winding, eerie sense of the city heightened by a junk-fuelled imagination.

Ella Harris

Highsmith’s Game? AUTHORS ARE EXPERTS AT LYING AND MANIPULATION: DON’T TRUST THEM IT MAY have been just my experience of high school English, but whenever we encountered a slightly dodgy character leading the way through a novel we were told to look behind him to what the writer was really trying to say. You can’t trust the narrator, we were told. Can’t trust the narrator? Well then for God’s sake, don’t trust the author! The author is the one who gets a kick out of winding you up, enraging you then hiding behind the fiction writer’s prerogative. You’d be doing them a favour; look at the author of the Ripley books, Patricia Highsmith, alcoholic and declaring that as writers ‘we all want to be alone.’ But again, don’t trust her. Tom Ripley’s murder of Dickie on the boat, gruesome in the Mediterranean sun, is less foul to most readers than his theft of the richer man’s identity. A common, if moralistic, reaction to Tom’s final victory is anger not only that the criminal gets away with it, but that the forces of justice have been seen to collude with evil to allow him to go unpunished. Another classic Highsmith quote: “For neither life nor nature cares if justice is ever done or not.” Was she the kind of reader who would root for the panache of a well-executed fiction to win in the end? For a writer who inhabits other characters with ease it would be unnatural for Ripley to lose at the game she played every day.

Signy Gutnik-Allen

FILM

THE SIMPLE THINGS IN LIFE DOGME

THE FILM-MAKERS’ VOW OF CHASTITY

It’s the kind of philosophy that would be anathema to the average director of Hollywood blockbusters, but then, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. In 1995 a group of Danish film directors banded together to launch a new manifesto, Dogme 95, that was revolutionary in its rejection of all the techniques that had initially made film seem like a new and exciting medium when it first appeared. Props, added music, special lighting, camera tripods and other forms of ‘trickery’ – all these were to be forbidden in the Dogme Manifesto’s ‘Vow of Chastity’. The idea of film as the artistic expression of an individual, which they argued was promoted by the 1960’s Nouvelle Vague movement, was thrown out; art is not individual, the group roared, the director must not be credited! The Manifesto is rife with communist rhetoric, condemning the bourgeois nature of the cinema ‘auteur’ and arguing that in order to portray reality fully and truly ‘we must put our films into uniform, because the in-

dividual film will be decadent by definition!’ Yet theory aside, the films made under the manifesto’s influence couldn’t be further from the kind of left-wing propaganda you might be expecting. The prohibition of ‘gimmicks’ forces the director to focus on more traditional techniques: plot, character, all the things we moan that blockbusters don’t have enough of. I know of few films as moving as Thomas Vinterberg’s Festen; the most moving scenes are those in which the lack of background music prevents us from falling prey to false emotions. Of course, even the original directors weren’t always able to stick to the rules, with Lars Von Trier even putting up a slide at the beginning of one his movies listing all his transgressions. Dogme 95 never gained a huge following, but it certainly showed that minimalism doesn’t need to be boring.

Signy Gutnik-Allen

CROSSING BOARDERS

INDIAN CINEMA Most critics pinpoint the birth of Indian cin- Austen original; Moonsoon Wedding draema to the country’s first full-length feature matises at length the Indian marital process film in 1913, Dadasaheb Phalke’s Raja Har- from an expatriate viewpoint. The film again ishchandra. A silent movie about a legendary straddles the best of two worlds - technical king famous for his truthfulness, the opening advancements in the West and the richness day witnessed crowds thronging outside the of tradition in the East. This gave the movie halls of Bombay’s Coroan edge nation Cinema to mark “INDIAN FILM IS ADAPTING ITSELF as far as such a monumental oc(DARE I SAY - SELLING OUT?) TO CA- marketcasion. ing was TER TO A LARGER, MORE LUCRAITIVE c o n Just a century later, and AUDIENCE” cerned. the explosion of Indian cinema cannot be overstated; as the indus- Do Indian films lose something by rejecting try’s largest producer of films per year, Indian their native languages, turning to the lanmovies are enjoyed by an average of 11 guage of box-office revenue? On one hand, million people each day. Foreign producers language or culture might seem irrelevant if are funding maverick Indian filmmakers who an issue can find empathy across the bortranslate their work for Westerners: subtitles ders. Yet on the other, perhaps in fulfilling have solved the problems of language bar- the expectations of Western audiences, filmriers, and the internet the problems of poor making fatcats might be neglecting the milaccessibility. lions of Indian people who have little access to other sources of entertainment outside But With the successful releases of recent film. In remote regions a single communal TV ‘Bollywood’ hits like Lagaan, Bride and Prej- serving a broad geographical area is not un udice, and Moonsoon Wedding, one may be heard of. To such audiences, movies that tempted to suggest that Indian film is adapt- depict the experience of Indian Diasporas in ing itself (dare I say - selling out?) to cater the metropolises may not be relevant; more to a larger, more lucrative Western audience. importantly, the consequences of the inLagan, set in the Victorian period when India crease in West-chasing movies may have a was under British rule, considers the miser- more fundamental impact on community-life ies of provincial peasants who are oppressed in rural India. Apart from noting its social by high taxes imposed by white supremacy; use, we should continue to value the sheer Bride and Prejudice fused the east and west orgy of aesthetic kitsch of the more “convenwith its slightly unexpected partnership of tional” Bollywood style. Ashwaria Rai and Martin Henderson, and alASIYA Z though it provides satisfactorily light-hearted entertainment, viewers will be hard-pressed to find any close connections to the Jane

TRUE OÙ FAUX? RIDING THE NOUVELLE VAGUE STARTED BY a group of intellectual film critics in the 1950s, the ‘Nouvelle Vague, or ‘New Wave’, is often considered the most influential movement in the history of French cinema, one that sought to divide and inspire filmmakers everywhere. France in the 50’s was struck by a huge generation gap between classic filmmakers of the pre-war era, and young cinéphiles who had grown up watching American films previously unavailable during the occupation of France in the Second World War. Hungry for change, budding film critics united and soon enough the Cahiers du cinéma, an avant-garde magazine that heralded all things progressive, was formed. Founded by prominent critic and theorist

André Bazin, Cahiers would go on to attract some of the true Grands Fromages, of the Nouvelle Vague - Jean-Luc Godard, Claude Chabrol, Eric Rohmer, Jacques Rivette, and of course, Francois Truffaut.

while Alain Resnais’ “Hiroshima, Mon Amour” nabbed the International Critics Prize. The third film was the product of the first and only Truffaut-Godard collaboration, “Á bout de soufflé”.

They venerated filmmakers like Alfred Hitchcock or Fritz Lang who were later labelled Auteurs – directors whose ‘personalities’ were visible in their work, as opposed to the more commercial and traditional French cinema of the time. This would become the first of the two main principles of the Cahiers circle: that any work should bear the signature of its author.

Most Nouvelle Vague pieces were constrained by meagre budgets and air-tight schedules. It’s important to remember that the key players were first and foremost critics, not directors, inhibited by a limited knowledge of production. As a result, the films feature recurrent conventions such as jump-cuts, location shooting, long takes, minimalist lighting, natural sounds and improvised dialogue. They deviate away from traditional narratives and instead focus on symbolism and studying characters from psychological perspectives.

The second key principle was projected by François Truffaut, who might be more familiar to younger generations for his starring appearance in “Close Encounters of the Third Kind”. In 1954 he published Une certaine tendance du cinéma français, in which he excoriated the over-dependence on manipulating images through editing or ‘montage’. He explained that “when they hand in their scenario, the film is done; the metteur en scène, in their eyes, is the gentleman who adds the pictures to it”. The easiest way, then, for the Cahiers critics to revolutionise French cinema was to shoot their own films. The Wave ultimately began in 1959, with the release of three central films: in the Cannes Film Festival, Truffaut won the award for Best Director with “Les 400 Coups”,

When Quentin Tarantino named his production company ‘A band apart’, did he have in mind Godard’s 1964 film “Bande à part”, the most influential contribution of the Nouvelle Vague on contemporary film? In just seven years 32 films emerged as a product of the Wave, of which Godard was responsible for 14. They are echoed in every aspect of cinema today, from jump-cutting and rough editing to minimalist soundtracks and long takes, and their influene cannot be underestimated.

MAGALI LAMARRE

THE SPANISH PORN INDUSTRY Door locked. Kleenex at the ready. Sound on low. Lights dim. It’s been almost a week. Focus on the task at hand. Almost... As we should know by now, since the beginning of time, man has always had one thing on his mind: sex. In a world of Googles, Limewires and Internet Explorers, the porn industry today is worth somewhere in the region of $4 billion. Relentless consumerism demands that all varieties of sickbastard desires be catered for; whether you’re looking for straight, gay, white, black, front, back, the playfully naughty, or the plainly repugnanty, this century’s porn comes virtually made to measure. No wonder it’s never been taken seriously as creditable form of contemporary cinema. Or so you’d think. Unknown to many, the past decade has seen the steaming summers of Barcelona play host to the ‘Festival Internacional de Cinema Erotica de Barcelona’ (FICEB), an annual event in which the biggest (ehem) names of the porn industry gather from all over the world to exhibit the freshest films on the scene over “straight, gay, white, black, front, back, the play- a 4-day libido-filled exfully naughty, or the plainly repugnanty, this cen- travaganza. With an tury’s porn comes virtually made to measure” average attendance of 50,000 every year, sex fairs and lingerie shows scatter the horizon as far as the eye can see. The main attraction, of course, is the awards ceremony; from ‘Most Original Sex Scene’ to ‘Most Convincing Orgasm’, prizes are split into three categories: ‘Ninfa’ (heterosexual porn), ‘HeatGay’ (does what it says on the tin), and ‘Tacón de Aguja’ (sex fetishes). Yes, for the craziest and zaniest (and the horniest), FICEB truly is a dream cum true. It is a serious undertaking. However, in 2006 the L’hospitalet Municipal Government controversially decided not to renew their funding for the event, a verdict that had FICEB reaching for the tissues. The event was forced to move to the more liberally-minded, but much less sexy, Guijón earlier this July. Apparently, porn just doesn’t count. Though the government’s reasons for withdrawing funds are certainly justifiable, one has to question whether this is a healthy understanding of what makes valuable cinema, or a fear of raising narrow-minded eyebrows. We’re led into the messy business of line-drawing (ask - what is a “genuine” film? etc. etc.). But at the risk of getting some disapproving frowns from the new inhabitants of Guijón, I am inclined to answer: not porn, not yet. As varied, titillating and accommodating as porn films are, the industry needs to develop somewhat (production values anyone?) before critics will see porn as quality films. Let’s keep the door locked and the lights off for now.

MAX NYE

GAY

TINSEL FLAKES WOKE UP TO HAVE one of those orgasmic early morning slashes, the ones where you have to make a real effort to stop your leg shaking and do your best, throbbing head banging away, to limit collateral damage; (pause) that is to say, mop up the remnants of pish on an already urine encrusted lavvy seat with the last two sheets of wafer thin toilet tissue. Shaking away last night, I gave a bit of thought to words and…eh…language. At least, words that a cannae say. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I can’t physically say them, or even if a couldnae, a’d give at a go. A have trouble with this one word, or a group of words, it’s like a porty-manteau. Is that a word? port manteau? It’s like, I think the feeling, I think the word, and yet the expression…oh fuck off fanny baws, ye pretentious twat, I mean honestly, fuck off. O taxi tae Paris for ma porty manteau. So I’ve zipped up and removed most of the gunk from ma eye. Lara says it’s conjunctivitis but a think it’s quite fun in its way. Ye get a feeling of deep satisfaction pushing all that gritty sleep away an spreading along the side of a communal mirror. Like tinsel flakes…eh…(click fingers) glitter, aye it’s like glitter… (awkward hand gestures) in its way. An a walk out the lavvy and there’s Colin D. No, sorry that’s too obvious. There’s C. Duncan, we’ll call him.

“Hey, a’right pal” Och shite he’s in a towel. Is that a nipple!? Now, generally a don’t have problems with nakedness, but on him…Got this director at the moment who wants me naked. Why in the name of the wee man is it always the people whose panties you most def-in-ately do not want to get in that wear out the knicker-elastic tugging at yer own? She says to me “I think the preparation of this piece could benefit from a bit of nudity – for next time maybe.” Get tae fuck. Now, stop looking at his nipple. (become nervous) Breath, be cool, layed back. I’m swave, relaxed, ain’t gonnae take no shit…oh fuck a duck, stop being so thick. Think laterally, think heterosexually, think man… (beat - upset) Bollocks, I’ve gon an punched him in the arm. Don’t. make. a big thing of it. Rugby players punch each other in a jovial fashion all the time. If ye don’t make a big thing out of it’s nothing. My mum once tried to pick some burd’s mole off at mass. She was labouring under the misapprehension that it was left over body of Christ hanging on her lip. Same principal, move on fanny baws. “oh, a’right Colin? Rugby, wow? Hell of a game a imagine…oh hell of game…you an Anna? Really?... wow…wow…Anna, really, blonde, beautiful, that’s great, fantastic, you just…plough away…like a

herdsman… on a field. Wow, yeh, that is a massive love bite” What a cow. Accidents can happen though, all the time. Not to worry. Lots of stairs round here. Big ones. And I’m looking at him and I feel this high, awkward and just plain stupid. Resort to vowel sounds in last attempt to communicate with rugby jock – oooo, eeeh, lads on tour. Doesn’t work surprisingly. And I’m thinking it, by God I’m thinking it, but I just can’t say it. I love and I hate, my Murray-Field friend. Why do we lust after Rugby playing cunts of the football pitch, and their sweat soaked, cum crusted hockey shorts? Bare feet, naked flesh and the promise of a dream (promise of a fuck), hope of a life time love (not to mention his jock-framed arse if I had any luck) I love and I hate, my Murray-Field friend.

JOHN - MARK PHILO

GAY SHAME PRIDE IS SHIT. Sure, it’s a nice idea; a defiant show of queer solidarity and brilliance against a backdrop of prejudice and violent oppression. Except, it’s not like that at all.

However spangly its parade may be, Pride’s message is that - after you wipe the face-paint off and give up the casual sex - being gay is about adopting 2.4 children, living in Welwyn Garden City and driving a Ford. “Gay” no longer means hidden feelings, disturbing sexual revelations and furtive encounters. Clearly this is positive progress, but the old Shame was partly what made the gay community so vibrant. I’m not saying we should all go back in the closet and write poems about how nasty AIDS is; more that assimilation isn’t necessarily all it’s cracked up

“Pride” instead means a rather tedious day spent in the company of sale-rack Topman morons swigging toilet-cleaner blue alcopops. You stand and watch battalions of Queers who think that raiding Claire’s Accessories renders them “fabulous” pass by on half-arsed floats. (All as if we needed reminding of the existence of gay civil servants, firemen, and veterinary nurses). But behind the crushing banality of wire “gay pride is about adopting 2.4 fairy wings and Aussie-Bum underwear children, living in welwyn garden lies something a little darker. Where’s the Shame? Pride is a celebration of integra- city and driving a ford” tion and the gay community’s new position in society, but something is lost in this view. to be. Especially if that means The Straights will Gay history, in all its dirty, sexy, violent glory is put want us all happily civil-partnered off by our 30s. to one side in favour of plastic devil horns and cor- So next summer, leave the 12-pack of VK at home, porate sponsorship. The thought of Manchester and instead of Pride, celebrate some Shame by Pride being sponsored by Cheshire Oaks - the staging your own ceremonial gay bashing at your sprawling out-of-town factory outlet mall - turns favourite glory hole. Equality has its plus-points, my stomach. It’s not the shop-till-your-house-gets- but Shame is what makes us who we are. repossessed nature of the place that’s so repulsive; it’s the hollow, second-rate WAG feel of the whole DAN CALLWOOD endeavour. Surely years of increasing acceptance and integration of the gay community isn’t all about purchasing seconds from GAP? Sadly it seems that integration does in fact mean little more than the right to be boring. Pride is no longer a demonstration; it’s a “festival” a “celebration”, and this implicitly means the end of the line.

FASHION

watch

this

Space, or lack thereof, is a serious issue in London. But when the Fashion Pack strut well-heeled and Sartorialist-picture perfect into town, weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re quite happy to share the air. From the 15th to 19th September 2008, the British Fashion Council wowed us with the best talent that English soil can cultivate, yet four stars shone brighter than the rest; here are the Aspiration-

als whose every move we should be watching.

Marcio Madeira The only designer to be selected by the BFC for a New Generationsponsored runway show this season. Pilotto proved why with a beautiful Spring/Summer 09 collection, featuring twisted skirts, draped dresses and moulded jackets - all treated to a print effect fashioned from butterfly wings. Despite the intricate detailing of each piece, designers Peter Pilotto and Christopher de Vos succeeded in their unfaltering ability to produce an entirely wearable collection.

P eter pilotto

Winners of last year’s Fashion Fringe award, Maki Aminaka Lofvander and Marcus Wilmont of Aminaka Wilmont follow the success of their debut show with the Spring/ Summer 09 collection, “Perfect Imperfection.” Models walked the runway to Lykke Li, in designs which seamlessly married architectural structure with high glamour: soft chiffon and draping jersey contrast happily with angular jackets, silk panelling and leather detailing. We’re still lusting after the shoes.

Trailer

Park

Chic

from

three-time

New

Generation winner, Gupta, who made baseball caps, short

shorts,

emblazoned

badgedenim

jackets, and an amazing sequin dress in the shape of a Queen of Hearts (Alice in a sexy, grown-up wonderland...) irresistibly acceptable. Don’t forget your kohl.

ASHISH

A minaka WILMONT

Moraliaglu’s Summer

Spring/ collection

confirmed

what

Balenciaga

SS08

had

signposted:

aggressive

return

the of

the floral print. “I just wanted something hyperromantic, but a bit surreal at the same time,” says the designer, who began his career as an intern for Vivienne Westwood. Watercolour irises floated dream-like catwalk,

down

the

accompanied

by French lace, intricate embroidery

and

the

tinkling of live pianists.

erdem

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MISC

MISS MADRILEÑA

WHY I WOULDN’T MARRY A MADRID GIRL

WHILE OUR monolingual friends were hurling them- sual egotist who drives a tough sexual bargain. If you selves nostalgically into the bovine festivities of fresh- try to escape her clutches citing work in the morning er’s week, a few hundred excited polyglots were pack- or physical exhaustion she’ll squeeze the last drops ing up berets and kaftan shirts and flying out to distant of blood out of you and into Mr Wahlberg by using lands in search of women…I mean adventure. Some some ancient Roman fertility spell and telling you in a of us, the lucky ones, found Miss “SHE DOESN’T WANT YOUR WALLET, YOUR WIT OR Madrileña.

YOUR WINSOME GOOD LOOKS, SHE WANTS YOUR

Miss M has a very different apMARK WAHLBERG AND SHE’S GOING TO GET IT” proach to life to her Anglophone counterpart. While Brit-chick carefully consumes five items of fruit and veg a day, luscious whisper that tomorrow doesn’t exist. PhiloMiss Madrileña sticks strictly to her five indulgences: sophically speaking, she is, of course, correct. an espresso, a fag, a beer, a male and another fag. She usually sticks to that order, it helps digestion. Is I fell in love with Miss M a few times but there’s no she attractive? Well I suppose it’s all a question of future in it and I’d certainly never marry her, she’s just taste really; if you were in to tight wastes, Latin curves, a bit too wild and I’ve seen how terribly the sands of fine physiognomy, engaging opal eyes, full enticing lips time erode her appeal. Eventually Rum, chain-smokand lustrous curls….I suppose if all that was your bag, ing and sleep defying hedonism take their toll. Miss if you had some bizarre fetish for those characteristics, Madrileña’s vivacious flame of youth fades prematurely then yes, you’d describe her as moderately attractive. into a lethargic flicker. The mellifluous bounce of her She has a pro-active approach to relationships; she’s voice is replaced by tobacco’s weary croak and her not promiscuous, she’s prolific. Miss M doesn’t want matt olive skin is weathered and wrinkled by annual your wallet, your wit or your winsome good-looks, she month long sojourns in the Valencian sun. After a fifwants your Mark Wahlberg and she’s going to get it. teen year bender, she’ll wake up with a full body hangover looking like she’s about to vomit through the acrid Miss Madrileña doesn’t collide with you in an inebri- mist of her morning cigarette into your coco-pops..... ated stupor then gyrate hopelessly on your crotch and that’s another thing, she smokes while your havlike some insipid home-counties maiden. She has a ing your breakfast...yes breakfast....that sanctified tried and tested methodology which progresses rap- moment of recuperation and purity. She’ll light up right idly from eyeing you up in a bar in Tribunal to offer- there in the presence of the coco monkey. Increduing to pay for English lessons in ‘carne’. She’ll make lous exclamations and spluttering through your milk Catholic jokes about being a virgin and an ‘angelita’ won’t dissuade her. It’s an abominable degradation. and you might tell her that you’re a massage therapist. I’m sure I hear sure Mr Coco’s feeble cough as I open She’ll intoxicate you with her ebullient boldness and the kitchen window. that serpentine salsa sway and you’ll fall together into a sweaty rum coloured haze of carnality…..probably in I’ll always have a place in my heart for you Miss Palacio’s bathroom. You’ll forget about tutes, tea and Madrileña but we’re just not cut from the same cloth the queen when you’re with her old boy; you’ll attend you and I. In the long-run I need softer fabric, subtler Miss Madrileña’s night school and she’ll make a man tones, somebody whose a little more reticent, posout of you. sessed of a tranquil and discerning spirit…….In the long term I need a girl whose a little more like me…..a As you get to know Miss Madrileña you’ll realise that hypocrite. Anyway, autumn arrived and I’m back in she has certain peculiarities; notably, she’s quite a the Albion ready to start the long term. selfish lover. It’s endearing actually, she’s gifted but greedy; the Denilson of the bedroom. She’s a senLAWRENCE BURNS

THE OXFORD REVUE

USA

WE HAD OUR FIRST SHOW in a comedy club just off a way of getting around the drinking age of 21). It was Broadway. The audience numbers were less than en- here that we stumbled upon the social highlight of the couraging - “character building” in the words of our year - the lawn-party. The day was ‘as hot as balls’ as director - mostly due to the show coinciding with the rapper Lupe Fiasco asserted during his set. Princeton torrential downpours associated with had paid $50,000 hurricane Gustav. Other shows drew for him to play. We more reassuring crowds in New York, “ANALYSING COMEDY IS LIKE were watching for and appearances at open mic nights DISSECTING A FROG. NOBODY free. helped to raise awareness of our show, as well as giving us a taste of Ameri- LAUGHS AND THE FROG DIES.” Our next show was can humour. At one open mic night, set to be in Yale, a we were treated to a score of talentless comedians at- university that dominates the centre of the crime-ridden tempting shock humour. One gem ran as such: “I went city of New Haven, Connecticut. The town-gown anito get an abortion with my Puerto Rican girlfriend but mosity is palpable with the Yale campus police having at the last moment we decided to keep it. Now I don’t set up emergency points around the university for stuknow what to do with the foetus...” dents to run to and call them if they’re being attacked. Yale had great facilities and an appreciative crowd who From the experience of working with and watching particularly relished the darker humour in the show. From American comedians at work, I discerned some differ- New Haven, we took a train to Cambridge, Massachuences in practice: improvised comedy was much more setts to America’s oldest university, Harvard where our popular than sketch despite the prime-time dominance run reached its conclusion. of sketch show Saturday Night Live. Also Americans generally preferred our cruder sketches (Little Britain To offer some perspective on this epic trip, I point out USA seems to be even more crude than its British fore- the following. In the 1960s, four young comedians from runner) and liked to be told where the joke was rather Oxford and Cambridge brought their show, “Beyond the than simply enjoying situational comedy. An analytical Fringe” to America and played to a vast audience that approach to the production of comedy is particularly included the likes of President Kennedy, Bette Davis, fostered by their comedy schools which seem to be Charles Boyer and Noel Coward. It was a tough act to attached to most major clubs. Barry Cryer famously follow. But what matters is: we had a lovely time, and commented that “analysing comedy is like dissecting a got back to Britian before the pound fell. frog. Nobody laughs and the frog dies.” In the wrong hands this tuition creates very formulaic writing that tries MATT LACEY to conform to rules that restrict what is a very fluid artform, and we certainly experienced this phenomenon amongst some of the acts we saw. Our first Ivy league sojourn was at Princeton, the fourth oldest university and briefly one-time capital of the U.S.A. While there, we were able to enjoy some of the best aspects of student life at Princeton, partying at their ‘eating clubs’ (something like fraternities, but essentially

DAVID LAMB

NARRATOR OF CULT TV SHOW COME DINE WITH ME AND “THE MAN WHO COULDN’T COOK AND WHEN HE DID, IT LOOKED LIKE A MAD WOMAN’S SHIT” (OH): You are well-known for your sarcasm dripping narration on Come Dine With Me. Do you write those comments in advance or does inspiration just come to you when you watch the footage? DAVE: The scripts are written by the program makers and then I’m sent into a darkened booth to put the words to the pictures. I am however allowed to improvise which I do… a lot. (OH): What challenges do you have to overcome when narrating? DAVE: I say many utterly un-broadcastable things every time I sit down to record. We are trying to work out a way to do a sort of Come Dine With Me meets Derek and Clive Christmas special on the internet, or at least I am, although in the current climate maybe that’s not the best idea. (OH): In a search of Facebook we found one group called “We love Dave Lamb”, one called “Dave Lamb is a legend!”, another “Dave Lamb; the Man, the Legend” and there are more. How do you handle this kind of adulation from fans? DAVE: That’s the first I’ve heard of it. Note to self: go on Facebook as soon as I’ve finished answering these. (OH): You have a pretty extensive filmography – appearing in various guises. Does it bother you that you are most well-known for your voice? DAVE: I’m not sure many people realise it’s my voice on the show. Even people I know quite well. But if people like it then I’ll take that. Although Goodness Gracious Me wasn’t bad and Moving Wallpaper’s quite popular. Series 2 coming soon. (OH): How did it all begin for Dave Lamb: the legend? DAVE: Warwick University. I went to an audition in order to win a bet with my friend Jessica Jones. I got the part and met all the future members of radio 4 sketch team The Cheeseshop in the cast. (OH): What is the highlight of your career so far? DAVE: Doing the “Going for an English” sketch from Goodness Gracious Me at the Amnesty International gig at Wembley arena a few years back. 12,000 people in the audience. I took a bow in between Tom Jones and Alan Rickman at the end and tried to look as if I did that sort of thing all the time. I failed.

(OH) When did you become aware of your cult-hero status? DAVE: When you wrote to me. (OH) Does having a cult following have its advantages? DAVE: I hope so. I’ll let you know once I’ve tried it out. (OH) In one of your fan groups you are described as “Messiah Lamb”. Have you ever considered starting a cult? If so, can you describe your doctrine? DAVE: Are you winding me up? (OH) After a long day’s work do you find yourself narrating dinner parties with friends and family? Your life? DAVE: I have never done that. You’ll have to take my word for it. I think that might be a little tragic. (OH) On your way home from dinner parties in taxis do you rate your evenings out of ten? DAVE: No. Well… no. (OH) Would you like to be on Come Dine With Me? DAVE: I would hate it. Someone once inscribed the inside cover of a book that he gave me as a present with the words: “To Dave Lamb, the man who couldn’t cook and when he did, it looked like a mad woman’s shit”. (OH) Does narrating Come Dine With Me give you a new outlook on humanity? DAVE: The utter lack of self-awareness that some people have never ceases to amaze me. Doing Come Dine With Me has led me to conclude that cognitive therapy should be compulsory for anyone considering taking their chances on a reality tv show. (OH) What are your plans for the future and beyond Come Dine With Me? DAVE: Well, since hearing from you, maybe a cult is the way to go. Maybe gathering a large number of people together, brain-washing them and then setting fire to the building isn’t quite as abhorrent as it at first appears. Or maybe I’ll just keep doing Come Dine With Me for a bit.

SABINA SMITHAM

THE DOPING EAST GERMANY AT THE OLYMPICS

TRAINER: The doctor called me into his office one day and told me to close the door. He then placed a sealed envelope on the table and told me to pay close attention. “There are pills here and I want you to give these to our high achievers,” he told me with a stern voice. “They will have one-half tab each day; you will see that it is good.” He grinned. The next day I mixed the blue tabs with Grit and Martina’s vitamins. The mixture was placed in plastic training bottles and brought poolside. The girls gulped it down.

ATHLETE: I knew that my body was changing; my shoulders, the strength in my arms; but we were forbidden to speak about any of this. Our trainer just walked around managing the whole scheme. He would just repeat over and over that anything he did was to help us athletes, to make us all better people, a greater nation.

CONSEQUENCE: Grit Mueller won the European championships in the 800-meter freestyle competition later that year (1987) but it was hollow compensation for what would become a life of pain and horrible disappointment. During its heyday the East German doping machine was virtually unassailable. They racked up medals in the pool for the mother country. But there was only so much the Berlin Wall could cover up. As early as the 1972 Olympics western athletes were commenting on the bulging biceps and “unusually deep” voices of the East German women (a result of steroid use). East German coaches replied dismissively: “We came here to swim, not sing.” As middle aged women with deformed children, moustaches and debilitating back pain, they certainly have nothing to sing about now.

ROSS YOUNG

A CARTOON

BY JOE PARHAM

(INFO) Tom Callard EDITOR

Euan Wielewski GRAPHIC DESIGNER AND MUSIC EDITOR

Sabina Smitham EDITOR Max Nye FILM EDITOR

Ross Young MISC EDITOR

Ali McInnes ART CURATOR

Jennyfer AngĂŠlique Ideh FASHION EDITOR Tom Cuterham BOOKS EDITOR

DESIGNS Joe Parham (p42-46) Sofia Kaba-Ferreiro (35, 37) Tom Callard (24) Jin (Front cover image)

WITH THANKS TO: All our editors, writers, designers and photographers. We are also very grateful to Oriel College for providing funding for this magazine, as well as the JCRs from Christ Church, Balliol and Oriel. We hope you like it.

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