Issue I by Puppet Magazine

PUPPET

Autumn 2007

To whom it may concern, Thanks for picking up Puppet. Puppet is new. It is better late than never. It is a blank space for anything and everyone. Whatever your interest, Puppet wants to know. Remember, too few cooks make the same broth every time. Puppet would like to thank everyone who was enthusiastic about something new, everyone who helped us and didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get credited, everyone who put Puppet together and most importantly, everyone who contributed. We hope it was worth your while.

Cover.Carrie Rose Guss1.Elle Graham-Dixon2.Editorial3.Mohit Dalwadi/Guy Pewsey4.Daniel Rawnsley/Carrie Rose Guss5.Michael Taylor/Meng Lu6.Jack Browning/Woody Lewenstein7.Wi Mounir9. Jessica Law10.Woody Lewenstein/Alice Hopkinson11.Carrie Rose Guss12.Rebecca Brewis13.Robert Phipps15.Fiona McKenzie16.Jack Marley-Payne17.Alice Hopkinson18.Bianca Summons

“Stop.”

INfinity

“Why?” “Because sometimes it’s good idea to stop.”

WE HAD THIS SENT IN EARLIER THIS MONTH.

“But not this time.” “Look, if we’re stopping and starting and chopping and changing…”

WE FIRST VIEWED IT WITH SUSPICION, THEN WITH INTEREST, THEN FOR A BRIEF PERIOD WITH A STRANGE SENSE OF triangular nostalgia THAT NOBODY REALLY UNDERSTOOD. FINALLY, THOUGH, WE CAME TO like IT.

“Hang on, this isn’t about changing, it’s about stopping.”

“But if we stop, we invariably change.” “Ok, if you’re so into stopping, why don’t you?” “Fine, I will.” “Wait, this isn’t the end of the poem, you have to keep going.” “…” “Fucking artists.” Daniel Rawnsley

Mohit Dalwadi

Guy Pewsey

Carrie Rose Guss

Meng Lu

Jack Browning

Computer World

The Impending Death of a Malteser As the great fleshy thief descended upon him, the Malteser thought of the happy days in the factory. He imagined himself as nothing more than the honeycomb centre he had once been. His mind conjured the wonderful and warming image of the great rivers of chocolate that had fostered him in those innocent times. Such games! Bobbing in the creamy coverings that were to become his own, shrieking with excitement at the prospect of rolling down the great slope at the end of the line. Then he had no knowledge of fear, nor of the finger lust that dominated the pink giants. No knowledge then, nor tearful memory: just a simple happiness. And the big people! What of the big people? They had nurtured and cared, not mutilated and devoured. He tried not to think of them now. For behind each smile must have lurked a sinister scowl, a knowledge of the grim fate that awaited their innocent charges. He thought maybe that if he could have a word with those same flesh balls now, those deceivers from the factory, that perhaps he could reveal to them the chaotic whirlwind of gluttony that lurked out the brooding doors. But they must have known; of course they knew. He was quickly returned to his brutal reality as a grubby, nailed probe tore a strip of chocolate from his side. But it was not his time quite yet; across the wrinkled prison, an old friend was hauled upwards, screaming those silent sweetie screams that had still retained their sadness and their terror. But now another sound. Acrunching, amunching. A grind. A death. A nothing. Alone now. Nothing worth noting in the eerie white prison, his shifting home. He rolled around, and looked once again for an escape. In truth he knew there was no such thing, and what he really wanted now was escape from his memories, those devils that followed him wherever he rolled and would not give him a moment’s peace. He wanted to think about the meeting with his Malter, but instead his mind was clouded with the thoughts of all he had lost. And what’s this? A memory, Nestléd in the back of his thoughts, came to the fore, knocked on his mind, and made itself known. It was the day before the great packaging, when all was excitement and joy, when he had seen one malty teaser minx. Her chocolate was thicker than the rest; the hue spoke of rich cocoa and creamy buttermilk; she was rounder than the others, fuller, apart from that little hump that stood so proud and so handsome. She was to be his sweetieheart. He thought that – And then was gone, swirling, wildly, billowing in the wind; and now in the dark and the warmth; tossed to the side and dashed and mauled and maimed on ivory rocks that rent him into a thousand pieces that no factory nor flesh ball ingenuity could mend. Michael Taylor

It starts with small things, brain cells. Although pieced together as they are, they form one of the most complex pieces of equipment we know - the brain, individually they are simple things that respond in predictable ways. This simplicity means that a cell could, in theory, be completely described by a computer model. Obviously, it wouldn’t be physical or anything, but it could have all the same properties that the cell has, reacting in the same way (virtually) to the same (virtual) things. Now, although the number of cells in the brain is well into the high billions, it would be possible to fully describe each one with a computer model. Finally, programming the correct position of each one would give us a computer model of the human brain that would be capable of all the things that our brains are. To all intents and purposes, we would have created a conscious mind. The reason that this method is not talked about in most discussions of artificial intelligence is that it is a job that would take thousands of people many, many years to complete, so is considered impractical. But, it is possible, and that is all I need. So now we have artificially made conscience. The intuitive response to this is to say that something must have been missed out; a computer CAN’T be conscious. But what is there to our thoughts other than what is happening in our brains? I’m assuming for this that “souls”, “egos”, “chakras” etc do not come into it, but if you’re happy to do that, then you must accept that this computer model really can think in all the wonderful and creative and ingenious ways that we can. Once we have got to this point, it is a comparatively easy task for a programmer to create virtual bodies for the brains, and a virtual world for them to live in. This virtual world does not need to be the entire universe, or have the unknown complexities that ours is full of. So, importantly, this universe is smaller than ours. Now, just for the hell of it, the programmers of this world made everything in it move twice as fast as our world. So there we have it, a complete little world of conscious humans beings going about their lives in much the same way that we do, but all a little bit faster. I’ll call our world “World 0”, and this new virtual one “World 1” It is probable, maybe even certain, that given enough time, these virtual people would start playing around with computers themselves. In the end they would be sure to start experimenting with virtual worlds themselves, creating a new sub-virtual environment, which we’ll call “World 2”. World 2 runs twice as fast as World 1, so 4 times as fast as World 0. This process goes on and on, always happening faster and faster, until we have an infinite chain of virtual worlds buried deeper and deeper down in the circuit boards of our real world. BUT, the big question is, how do we know that ours really is the first in that chain? Every world surely thinks that they are the first in a long line of new worlds. Not only do we have few reasons for thinking that there is no “World –1”, we have NO reason for thinking that. In fact, given that we now have something approaching an infinite number of worlds nested into each other, we can be pretty sure that we are NOT the first in the chain, which is the same as saying, we can be pretty sure that our world is in fact just a simulation. We live in Computer World. Woody Lewenstein

Two and a half metres wide, thirty metres long: this was no abnormal corridor. It started at this end, and finished thirty metres later at that end. Or perhaps it started at that end and concluded thirty metres later at this end? Today was the first time that anybody had paid attention to the corridor.

Mr Poti walked up the corridor. Mr Honku strolled down the corridor. Soon, there would be chaos. The two men marched straight into each other, rebounding with a slight recoil. Still avoiding eye contact, they both tried to proceed down opposite directions of the corridor through the other person, but the result was exactly the same. As the rebounds reduced exponentially in magnitude, Mr Poti and Mr Honku both realised that someone had to move. A rival worth my time, thought Mr Poti, as they came to a rest* a foot away from each other. I can outlast him. He’ll move first. Mr Honku showed no sign that this was an unusual situation. Inside, he was reeling. Who does this man think he is? There’s only one person I’d move for, and Mr Poti definitely isn’t Noel Edmonds, Mr Honku thundered to himself. Minutes passed. If only I could stop ignoring him for one second to insult him, then I’d show him where he belongs. Mr Poti was the kind of person that had twenty insults up his sleeve ready to issue for any circumstance. I would call you a fuckwit, he thought, but you don’t have any wit, so I’ll just call you a fuck. Mr Honku, however, was thinking of battle tactics. He had already deduced that a move must be made, and so he made it. Mr Poti was perusing the corridor walls with feigned interest. His eyes rested on a particularly nice screw in the wall that shone with a galvanised beauty. Oh, how I love cross headed screws! The way the screw driver fits in snugly, turning with an astounding ease that makes you want to shout, CONNECTION MADE! But it only interested Mr Poti for mere minutes. He glanced around to find something else worthy of his attention, when he saw out of the corner of his eye… no, it can’t be! Mr Honku was staring straight at him! Mr Poti almost rebounded in astonishment, but his exterior didn’t reveal his amazement. He coolly returned Mr Honku’s gaze. Checked and nearly mated, and not even a flinch! He’s good, Mr Honku reflected, but my repertoire contains moves no soul has dared contemplate. After his reply, I shall STRIKE!

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Mr Poti rose out of one of the newly installed whizzy chairs. He had no idea that those chairs would be gone the next day. He had even less of an idea that he wouldn’t be able to see that the chair had gone the next day. None of these thoughts crossed the mind of Mr Poti; in fact not a lot really did. He was quite content to have a job that required not much thought at all – he replied to customer complaint e-mails. At the moment, he was thinking about his hair. Did it need a trim, or new highlights? There’s something amiss about it anyway, he mused. Perhaps copious amounts of gel would do the trick. His brain told him his stomach hurt. Was it because it was too full, or too empty? Better not risk it, he thought. Mr Poti decided to go to the cafeteria the long way round; there were wall length modernistic mirrors that way, so he could casually check his appearance. He closed his office door and made his way down the corridor.

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Mr Honku logged off from his computer. He had another hour of work left, but he had found that nobody stopped him from leaving work early. Mr Honku was quite sure that the other workers respected him so much that they hadn’t the courage to inform on his pre-emptive departures. He chuckled to himself – he was certain that if he were in their position, he would do exactly the same. A person across from his cubicle said goodbye as Mr Honku left his small workspace. Mr Honku considered this person so far below him on the social ladder that he didn’t even deserve a retaliatory acknowledgment. He indifferently ignored him and made his way out of the brightly lit ‘Human Resources’ area. Mr Honku’s job was to write customer complaints. His company paid him to write grumbling e-mails to a rival business, under the alias of a fictional dissatisfied client, the aim being to waste the other company’s time and resources. Mr Honku never really thought about his job, and today was no exception. He closed the door to the murmuring Human Resources area and made his way along the corridor to the lift. He would never make it.

Mr Poti’s eyes followed the slow trickle of sweat down Mr Honku’s forehead. His opponent was weakening.

Mr Poti strolled down the corridor. A cleaner brusquely pushed passed him, trailing a maintenance trolley behind her. She mumbled a sorry and hurried on. Was she so abrupt because she liked me? thought Mr Poti. He rated her on his ‘Cleaners that like Me’ list. Fourth from bottom, ah well. As he concentrated on walking again, he saw another figure coming towards him, currently twenty metres away. It’s that prick from the other company, he realised. Both companies shared floor space on the same level of the same building. Mr Poti realised from the first minute he saw Mr Honku that he was a threat, a threat to his rule as King of Level 3. They had only occasionally gone past each other in the corridor before, but the insolent way Mr Honku had ignored him made him conscious of the fact there was a rival to his crown. Mr Poti would not let Mr Honku come out of this exchange on top again. I can pay no attention to a person as well as anyone, he encouraged. With his eyes set resolutely to disregard this man, he walked steadily down the blue carpeted corridor.

Mr Poti had his reply already planned. It was a combination of well known moves put together in a jaunty, unassailable way. He got ready to pull face number 15 (every face he had ever pulled had a number), and raised his hand to his mouth. Mr Honku watched amusedly as Mr Poti coughed politely and peered condescendingly at his watch. No marks for originality, Mr Honku thought. Mr Poti finished his move and stared incongruously at Mr Honku. No reaction at all! This person is no novice…The tense situation got a hold of Mr Poti’s stomach: it made an ominous rumbling sound. He tried to cover up the fact with another little cough. Ha! This is going to be easier than I thought. All I have to do is wait, and the stomach shall prevail. Mr Honku mirrored Mr Poti’s watch glance technique, to get things flowing once more. But this had an adverse effect which he had not foreseen. Mr Poti, in his embarrassment of the grumble, had gone slightly red. He knew this was a position that made him odds on favourite for the runners up spot in this contest. He looked at Mr Honku again, expecting the killer blow, but instead he saw something on his opponent’s forehead that made his heart skip a beat. Mr Honku thrashed his head back to glare at his watch. Oh my goodness! I’ve missed half of Deal or No Deal! He almost sobbed in despair. Almost. If I don’t finish soon, I’ll even miss the snooker! I don’t want to miss another hour long safety battle between snooker’s finest!

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Mr Honku glanced at his watch. He was eager to catch Deal or No Deal, and if he hurried he might get home before the banker’s first call… But a man stood in his way. Mr Poti, he growled to himself, that arrogant, conceited moron from the other end of the corridor. If there was anything he hated more than a contestant walking away with only £5 on Deal or No Deal, it was people who thought they were better than him.

* For all those anally retentive, pedantic, self obsessed, mathematical function loving fools, I DO fecking know that an exponential function never reaches zero. So THERE. Poetic license or somfing.

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Anna – Britain. Is there like some camera in there? Britain, ok, so what comes to mind? Oh god…ok, um… countryside, Gordon Brown…haha…um, the picture of flag…um…football… um…help guys, um, I don’t know… I’m sorry, I’m so hung over and not with it today, well, that’s enough isn’t it…um…cows…haha. Ryan – Britain. I love Britain, Why do I love Britain? Coz I’ve never been anywhere else.

Charles – Middle East. The middle east, erm, I don’t know much about the middle east, erm, I’ve been to Egypt for a holiday, I fancy going to Dubai and earning lots of money, but that’s about it really, that’s it. Sivakorn – Middle East. Um, hopefully they’ll find peace soon, and, I don’t know, what do you want me to say about the middle east? Anything? Um, it’s a big confusion…um…I don’t know what to say…I just, my head’s empty, um, I don’t know, there’s a lot of violence going on, hopefully they’ll find peace soon, it’s a centre of fear for people in the Western world and in Asia, people look at it as the trouble of the world right now. People want to help it, some people want to, I don’t know, get rid of it, in the two extremes. Um, in the end, they’re just people trying to find a way of life, like, trying to survive in the world, and they’re just, yeah, trying to live in their own way, they just came out differently from us.

Adil – Britain. Britain yeah? Politically, I mean, I don’t understand what you mean. Oh, I don’t know, I think it’s a mess really, but, you know, I don’t know, Wilfred – The Middle Ingo – Immigration. it’s diverse, cosmopolitan, East. Well, um, I want Immigration? Are you going multi-cultural. Um, I think to say something about to ask me questions about immigration’s gone a bit… the health service, it? No? Right, I think um…pants really, if you’ll can I say something immigrants are really excuse my language. I don’t about the health important in the UK, cos think there’s any control service? I’ve been they, I guess they, like, on immigration policy, fighting cancer help out in the work force especially with the for the last four quite a lot, but I think European Union coming in years, I’ve been it’s important to make sure Karen – Giving money with member states such up at the Royal these immigrants integrate to the homeless. Oh as Poland, and you Marsden, which into society to make sure gosh, difficult one, got Hungary coming up is a fabulous they’re not isolated, cos I’m never quite sure too, erm, and there’s hospital, but that causes social problems, what’s going on, I no real positive there’s…what I crime, stuff like that, so, think some people are solution in sight, don’t understand it’s both important for the obviously in need, I mean, none of the is that we’re employment, but also for and others are trying political parties having to cultural multiculturalism it on, I think it’s are giving do so much it’s great, it’s a big part sometimes quite us anything campaigning of the UK, and I think, erm, hard to distinguish structured, to get the it’s er, something Britain between the two, so you know, so, to keep should value and not reject. I tend to give to that’s pretty money researching charity instead. much it into cancer, Harriet – Immigration. really. when it Immigration, oh no…I don’t Fred – Giving money should want to, no, get Henry to do to the homeless. be the it, no seriously, no way…. So what do I say? government Giving money to the doing it. John – Immigration. Well homeless? I think yes, I really like seeing the homeless is a people from other countries problem that could here, because it widens our easily be solved if horizons, like travelling you educated the does, but some people lose homeless people out because immigrants are into the options here, like our plumber that they had, he couldn’t compete with and also provided the Polish plumbers, them with safe who charged less than and comfortable he did, so some people accommodation, are made angry and and also I think annoyed. And today that the loopwe heard a lot of hole which does nonsense from the not allow anyone government about to work unless needing to train they have a English people; residential I’ve nothing address against training should be people, but changed, training them and, there to get to work we go, on time, I how about can’t imagine that? how you’d do it.

Jessica Law

We had hoped to find people with interesting, outspoken or edgy political views, but the truth is, most people say very similar things. This is not to say that we disagree with what was being said, but it was noticeable that people were very concerned about what we expected of them, and how what they said would come across. In a society that is so proud to uphold freedom of thought and expression, is it worrying just how nervous people are of saying the wrong thing? Woody Lewenstein

Alice Hopkinson

You liked the story. It became a folie à deux. Greg, I told you, was terrified of condiments. If you asked him to pass the mustard, he would start to sweat. At restaurants, you tried to help me get over fictional Greg. You would say “Hey, look, could Greg do this?” You’d squeeze out ketchup and eat it plain. You ate the most complicated, sickening mixtures of condiments. The real Greg wasn’t afraid of condiments, but he would never have eaten mayo dotted with relish just for my entertainment. What else would you do for me? The story grew for you. The Greg of my imagination grew. Greg grew a beard. It was playoff season, so Greg grew a beard. This is, apparently, a tradition among men. The beard grew long, and it brought good fortune. Greg was hired at a competitive technologies firm. They brought him in to fill a position he wasn’t qualified for, and paid him a salary he didn’t deserve. Most people hated Greg, but these people loved Greg. He made them look good. After a full day of making them look good, he’d take them to strip clubs. He’d buy them drinks. Most people shave the playoff beard when the playoffs end, but not Greg. The Yankees won in six, and he knew it was the beard. “Everyone hates the Yankees,” he said. “They don’t deserve to win. They’re the evil fucking empire. Noam Chomsky hates the Yankees. Canadians hate the Yankees; Canadians don’t hate anyone.” “If I shave the beard,” he said, “I’ll get fired from my job. The Yankees will un-win. The stock market will crash. My mother will get cancer, I know it, it runs in the family.” “Greg,” I said, “the beard is good luck, but that doesn’t mean not-the-beard is bad luck. You’d have to have an un-beard for it to be bad luck. No beard just gives you the normal amount of luck.” He nodded, but he didn’t shave.

You Could Be King

I like you so much I’m dating other people. I can’t always look you in the eye anymore so I got a moustache tattooed on my finger. It’s a readily available disguise. There’s a tattoo parlour in Providence, Rhode Island that does finger moustaches for free. I saw it on the news. But I didn’t go there; Providence is far from where we are now and I didn’t have time to waste. Now when you look at me sometimes I don’t necessarily raise the moustached finger and place it under my nose but I focus, and I visualize it, and I answer you in character. I don’t know if you’ve noticed. Like when you asked what I thought the ideal date would be, it was the moustache that answered: “May 14, 1965.” The moustache was embodying Fu Manchu. The moustache was thinking of how 1965 was a great comeback year for the Fu Manchu moustache. The first time we met, you didn’t have knuckles. I noticed when we went to shake hands. You walked into Grace’s Market Place, and you came straight toward me. I was looking at oil and vinegar. Grace has five shelves dedicated to olive oil and vinegar. I looked at you, because you were standing uncomfortably close to me and I could smell your breath, which wasn’t unpleasant. I said: “With the price they charge for a bottle of oil, you’d think they could make the brand decision for you.” It wasn’t funny, but it was something. You held out your right hand, but there was no hand; it was just one unified swollen mass. I said: “Or at least they could narrow down the choices.” Then: “Oh my god, what happened.” You replied: “Phil hit me with his belt.” I knew Phil. Of course you could have been talking about a different Phil, but that didn’t occur to me at the time. You said “Phil” with the confidence of someone who knows what he says will be recognized. I recognized it, we were both right. “Why on earth did Phil hit you with a belt?” “Well, we were playing this game where we tried to hit each other with belts.” I wanted you to like me so I told you a story about my ex-boyfriend. Nothing in the story was true, except for the guy’s name. I thought it would impress you, the ex-boyfriend thing—that if I mentioned the word ‘boyfriend’ enough times, even if it did have an ‘ex’ in front of it, it would occur to you that once I had been someone’s girlfriend, that I am someone who can be a girlfriend, and that maybe I should be your girlfriend, because look there was this guy once that loved me, and if you don’t love me soon then someone else will.

The beard lasted nine weeks. It was the best nine weeks we’d had together. At the beginning of Greg’s ninth bearded week, I walked in on him shaving, and I knew our relationship was over. He wasn’t shaving the beard, but still, I knew. He was standing over the sink, staring at the mirror. He had covered the mirror in shaving cream where it reflected the bottom half of his face. He had shaving cream on his face, too, but the beard was so big by then that it just looked like decoration, like silly string on a Christmas tree. When I walked into the bathroom he didn’t say anything for a while, and neither did I. He was shaving the mirror with slow, careful strokes. Then he wiped down the mirror, and rinsed his beard. He sat down on the edge of the tub. I sat down beside him. He put his big, bearded face in his hands. He said: “I miss shaving,” and I said, “I know,” even though I didn’t know until he said it. He said, “I miss the beard,” and I said, “I understand,” even though I could see the beard, right there on his face, and I didn’t understand. I said, “You can shave my legs, if you want,” and he said: “Yeah. Okay.” I filled the tub. He pulled up a chair. I sank down, leaned back, closed my eyes, and kicked one leg out of the water. I imagined I was an exotic dancer. I need a cigarette, I thought. I hadn’t smoked in months. When I was trying to quit smoking, I perfected my imaginary smoking technique. I can summon the taste, the smell, the feel of it, so well it’s almost as good as the real thing. I get this look on my face though, whenever I do it, and Greg recognized it. He said: “You’re smoking again.” I could have tried to hide it. I could have told him that everything was fine. I said: “Yes, Greg, I’m smoking again.” He sat there looking injured, the razor in his hand. “At least it’s just imaginary,” I told him, and he said, “Imaginary smoking is the worst kind.” Medical professionals might disagree, but I knew what he meant, and I knew he was right. An imaginary addiction is the most private kind of addiction. If you have an addiction so private it’s imaginary, that’s it, that’s your only relationship. Rebecca Brewis

He finished shaving and started rinsing the blade. I took my leg back, stood up, and walked out of the room. I walked out of the house. I stood on our stoop naked, dripping in the cold. It had taken until January, but it was snowing again. I wanted to walk all over the city. I wanted to climb everything. I wanted there to be no one else on earth. Instead I sat down in the snow. I sat there the way children do when they’re desperate to avoid school, trying to catch pneumonia or just a bad cold. I stayed until I was sure I was hypothermic. When I went back in I got into bed, and some snow that had stuck to me melted, so the bed felt damp. I told myself the bed was sweating. It knows Greg is leaving, I told myself. It’s more nervous than I am. Greg was in the bathroom with the door closed. I woke up in the middle of the night, and the beard was gone. I touched his cheek. He felt very soft. He felt entirely unfamiliar. I don’t know how the story ends, but I know it ends soon. I have become far too involved. My imaginary relationship has eclipsed what really happened with the real Greg. I think it’s better that way, for me. I don’t know if you’ve believed a word of the story, but I like that you play along. In the world of my imaginary future, I buy a house, declare independence, and start my own country. You will be President. It doesn’t have to be a democracy—you could be King, or Führer, or maybe the Kaiser. We’re never going to be together, of this I’m positive. So this imaginary future is important to me. At first I thought I would be the Drug Czar. I’ve always wanted the title— ‘Drug Czar’. But the real position is unglamorous. Priggish. What I want is to be a Prisoner of War. I will be the Prisoner of War and you will never let me go. Carrie Rose Guss

Real people talking about real issues, as overheard by Puppet.

...and I used to get my legs in the right place, and my bum in the right place, and the teacher used to say “just follow Amanda”. Sometimes “Amanda and Ruth”, which took the pressure off a bit, but usually just “follow Amanda”. So was Ruth following you? Er, sometimes, maybe. And how much was it?

100 pounds, but that’s for all sorts of things. Oh, it’s cheaper here than in America? Well yes, but you get the t-shirt, and charts, and...all sorts of things. Tshirts, charts, health checks...

penis the size of a small country I was wondering <insert inane question here>.” Other common symptoms of this disease include false self-deprecation followed by a detailed question again Twat questioning v. designed to make the asker (past: - questioned.) look smart “I really don’t know much about this issue 1. Asking a question with and am recovering from no interest in the answer a frontal lobotomy but 24 for the express purpose of minutes and 10 seconds into massaging one’s ego. your talk you made reference to a type of small vole which inhabits the Cordillera Next time you go to a Blanca of Peru, I’ve never lecture, talk, class or seminar read anything on these voles prick up your ears for and I certainly don’t breed the part where questions them in my conservatory but are asked. Most will be you stated they were mainly simple and straightforward brown, though I thought they – however, there will were white with a hint of inevitably be a few which beige.” Also notice the fact are simply designed to that no question was actually be used as a vehicle to asked - this again is a telltale massage a bloated ego. sign of twat questioning. Idiots who aren’t getting Below is a prime real life enough attention at home example of twat questioning: need an arena (preferably with as many other people History Applicant on an as possible in) to reassure open day: “Regarding the themselves that they are application process - I have incredibly knowledgeable, 7 A-levels, will that be a witty and fantastic at public problem?” speaking. These egomaniacs (commonly referred to as History Don: “No, it shouldn’t ‘twats’) will start with an be. Though I would question opening gambit completely your dedication to History irrelevant to the subject given all the time you must matter of the preceding talk have spent taking those other along the lines of “Being 6 A-Levels” massively intelligent, more widely read on the subject than you and having a

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Let Puppet know who you are and what you think about!

The constitution of

Adam For as long as he could remember, Adam had been struggling to silence something inside of him. Only now did he contemplate that it might be alive. Regardless of the perpetrator’s form, though, it would not allow him a moment’s rest. It just hung about, marked itself upon every sensation that went though him. When time was his to dispose of, he would find his body fizzing with guilt, like tiny, barbed jumping beans were bouncing through his veins. To dub a feeling as intense as this ‘boredom’ seemed grossly inaccurate. Even when stimulated, things were not guaranteed to be OK. He still carried the thing around, sitting tight in the base of his skull. For a time it might let him out-shout it and simply rest its weight on his subconscious, but it could get attention whenever it wanted. Amidst the screams of a rollercoaster he would be thrust into self-consciousness. He would grate against the air around him and, with disgust, try to make things fun again. Being young and ignorant, Adam believed these feelings to be original and profound thoughts. He was so immersed in them that his housemates had to point out the lump on his throat. The usual love bite gags were made, but only half heartedly as it looked pretty rough. So it was that after an afternoon of being examined and ignored in certain, differing, proportions, a doctor approached him with a brown envelope. He informed Adam that the mark on his neck was the result of a blood clot - it would have to be removed that very evening. The interesting thing, the doctor told him, was that the clotter was not from his body; it had the DNA of a sibling. All but an elect few of us have a twin whilst in the womb but consume it fairly early on. The cells which caused the problem must have been from this embryo and knocking around ever since. With that he was directed towards a cubicle to get ready in.

Everyone is welcome in Mt Rush. I was welcomed eagerly as ‘Miss, Miss’ by boys with hoops and moustaches. The Mt Rush kids seem to live by a different clock to me. Growing up happens at a wholly different pace.

Adam was naked. He knew this because there was a mirror in front of him. There was not much else that could be discovered, though, as he and his reflection were the only things lit. He seemed to be standing on a glass floor in space but before he could investigate further, his skin began go see-through. There were none of the usual organs underneath, only a network of veins and, in the middle of his chest, a womb. Everything was hooked up to it but circulation wasn’t going that well. The blood was thick and oozed round shamefully, often getting stuck. As well, the womb was producing more and more of it so the pressure in the veins was getting dangerous, he could feel the gunk pushing against their sides. The weight was getting to be unbearable. When he came round the lump had gone. In its place was a pair of lips - expressionless and dead. Adam looked at them blankly, waiting for a thought to come to him. He didn’t even notice the thing inside him had gone - nothing was left.

Fiona Mckenzie

Jack Marley-Payne

The First of August Just like that; Like a fatly curled baby’s fist Bruise-pinch clouds buckle and hang heavy in the sky Bubble altocumulus White birds in still frames across a sulphur yellow, blue Purple The doves of peace? My collar bone and sensitive private place left of my womb Are still invisibly bruised at touch More delicate than I feel In this summer pretend-humidity Looking at the clouds, it doesn’t feel like August And the landscape has changed My tree severed Bald and slightly clammy the playing fields touch my skin I want to cry but I just have a straw in my lungs, Wheeze And tell me why I can’t forget Desperately, would I stuff my ungainly clumsy head into that crisp packet Smother it in grease There are blackberries, their sharpsweetness does not heal this time They’re in the wrong place, not an antidote today Staining in the cracks of the bitten skin around my nails Watery spider ink Flying ants crawl in cracks up the high street They will not be crushed A shiver of flat disgust

Card Making

Alice Hopkinson

card s on a business scale, as it will soon dry up. When you have your bulk pack of card s, you’ll need things to decorate it with. Luckily there are seemingly infinite packages of embellishments for you to choose from, lining craft shop shelves, even WHSmith has its own crafting section in larger branches. There are also many packages that contain sticky letters or phrases written in cursive lettering that you simply peel off and stick onto your card. However, if you fancy a more advanced approach, calligraphy hits the spot. The Latin from which it derives means “beautiful writing”- you’ll need a pen and a variety of nibs to achieve different effects e.g. thinner, thicker lines, and whatever colour inks you desire. A ruler and a soft pencil is usually a good idea as well, to rule lines so that your lettering stays straight. You’ll need a stead y hand and the ability to concentrate, one mistake and you have to start again. To a certain extent you can teach yourself and achieve a reasonable level of skill - however, classes would be better if you can afford them. You might make a few mistakes, but that’s OK - by the time you actually get round to giving people card s, you should be fairly proficient, if you’ve spent time making mistakes on scrap paper and learning how much glue is too much. The various niches to cardmaking and the levels of skill involved are satisfying, allow you to develop a distinctive talent (your card s will be all you) and, not least, provide some much needed creative, light relief.

It’s always tricky when you walk into a shop, looking for a card for a friend or loved one. It appears things are fine if said friend likes kittens or your dad likes bad sex jokes. It gets worse when you’re actually looking for something meaningful and your dad’s about as deep as a puddle, so a picture of a dad cuddling his child with a soppy poem underneath just doesn’t cut it. This is when it’s worth it to make your own card s. You know that each card will be different and that it will be tailored to the person at whom it’s aimed. But where to begin? It can seem overwhelming, particularly when the US imports of card-making and scrapbooking are making such a huge splash here in the UK at present. There’s certainly no shortage of materials available. Try and buy in bulk if possible if the materials won’t degenerate - i.e. glues, paints and inks are bad things to buy in bulk if you’re not making

Biance Summons

PREFUSE73LIVE18.l0.07

Guillermo Scott Herren knows how to put on a good show. The Carling Academy Oxford played host to “Prefuse 73” on the 18th October, and his performance was a resounding success. Indeed, the show was in stark contrast to its venue. As in all Carling Academies, the decor is generic, you’re sure you saw the bouncer at a different Academy, and the drinks menu is entirely Carling orientated. The show itself was in the smallest room of the academy, and it filled up only 150 strong; regardless of this, his performance was still remarkable, and too was his support act. Beans, of Anti-Pop Consortium fame, was not received as highly as Prefuse 73 himself, but his set was still brilliant. Promoting his solo album before Anti-Pop Consortium reform for a tour for the first time since 2002, the audience were exposed to new and unheard material. As ever, Beans provided conscientious lyrics mixed with simple and effective beats. However, since people had never heard the music before (or indeed ever of Beans) it was a shame to see the lack of excitement associated to him, even though he was of course on “ghetto form”. Two of our entourage went so far as to leave after his set, thinking that this was going to be the mood for the rest of the evening. It seemed like that at first, with Prefuse 73’s sedate opener, but ten minutes into the set, the atmosphere became charged as the pace picked up. Though it took a while, everyone began dancing, and the appeal of his music went out to hip-hop fans, indie scene kids and reggae fans. It was hard to judge how many tracks he played seeing that cuts from one to the other were seamless. Perhaps as a result, his set seemed quite short, but upon leaving we realised that he had actually played for over an hour. The eclectic beats and fast-paced rhythm was something that only he could replicate. It was a shame that the lights were so bright, as darkness would have provided a great contrast to his intensely lively performance. However, that said, about ten minutes in, you were so encapsulated by his music that frankly it didn’t matter that much. Well done, Scott.

Muhamad Mirza

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