Pritchard Grace Murray arts and culture Eva Casey events organiser
Tilly Holt film
Isabella Perini online editor
Emily Davidson design and illustration
McCabe online editor
Stevie
MILK Glasgow
Ellie Power (they/she) @smelliepower
Walking into MILK café in the heart of Glasgow’s Southside, I’m immediately struck by the warmth and friendliness of the space. Whether it’s co-founder Angela’s beaming smile or the colourful pom-poms strung from the ceiling along with various wicker light shades, I’m charmed. Small joys are dotted all around and the walls are adorned with art made by women at workshops, along with some paintings by co-founder Gabby’s talented Mother. Whilst you may think your eyes will catch a break from all things bright and cheerful when you use the toilet, you’re instead consumed by the flora and fauna of pretty wall paintings. It sends a clear message: that everyone deserves to feel nourished with beauty and surrounded by nice things.
MILK café is a social enterprise set up by Angela Ireland and Gabby Cluness in 2015. They started trading as a café and have now shifted their focus into being a full-time community space, timeta- bling workshops of a practical, skills-based focus as well as some more creative, free-flow ones. They also host freely shared community meals on a Tuesday evening, with all their events tailored towards empowering and supporting the refugee and migrant women of Glasgow. Being the chosen enterprise of which the proceeds of this issue will go towards, I decided to go and see it for myself on a Friday morning when they host their Conversation Cafe, where I got to chat to Angela about what they do.
E: I was wondering if you could tell me a little about how MILK café came to be what it is today. How did you guys start up?
A: So we are a social enterprise which means that any income we generate through trade goes back into supporting our activities. We started in this space about 10 years ago: it was a cafe and we bought it out and changed it into MILK. This space was actually the only café on Victoria Road at the time. We did a crowdfunder, to get people to know what we were doing and make ourselves a bit more visible. We then got the lease for the business and got all our pals to do it up the way we wanted it! And then we started trading. Our intention was that we’d be able to offer workplace training, so stuff like using a till, coffee machine skills, English Language classes. We found that when we were trading, we didn’t quite have enough breathing space to do all the things we wanted to do with our volunteers. So we opened a catering kitchen to generate income in a different space. The money kept turning over there which meant we could focus on turning this into a full-time community space!
E: Have you felt supported by the community in meeting your aims?
A: We have managed to get a lot of people behind us, but we’ve also gotten a fair bit of pushback over the years. Those people tend to say things like ‘there’s people in Scotland who don’t have jobs: why don’t you do things for them’. I just say ‘Why don’t you do things for them then? We’re focusing on this community’
E: You can’t save the world!
A: Exactly, I would say about 90% of people got behind us and have been super kind.
E: So, moving onto your creative workshop events: a lot of people wouldn’t exactly see creativity as an obvious way to help asylum seekers. What would you say is so important about it?
A: For one, it’s really good for their mental health. It brings people together, when there’s difficult subjects to talk about or you’re feeling quite lonely and isolated and you want to come and do something with your hands (I’m thinking about a pom-pom workshop quite recently), it’s really tactile and then that way conversations easily flow.
There can be something a bit intimidating for lots of people about being in the one-to-one ‘Hi, how are you’ type of set-up, but if you’re making something side-by-side it can often be much easier! There’s also that expression which I half-hate called ‘craftivism’, a kind of activism through art and crafts. We did printing for Palestine t-shirts which we then sold to raise money, and we’ve made big banners and placards to go on marches with us, so that kind of thing can really integrate politics although you wouldn’t necessarily expect it.
E: I know you guys host free meals on Tuesdays: could you tell me a bit about the kind of community a shared meal can foster?
A: It’s nice and relaxed. We serve it family style with sharing plates in the middle so people sort of have to talk to each other! And if there’s something that looks especially exciting it can spark conversation. When something is happening each week and it’s free to come along to and it’s joyful I think it’s much easier to build familiarity and connections with other people. We’ve noticed that the people that need food in a food poverty way are usually far more likely to take it bundled up in boxes back home with them. Then there’s some people who are perhaps more established in the community that don’t necessarily need a free meal but just want to come along and support other people.
E: It’s nice that you can offer things to all kinds of people in that sense: even if people are taking food away with them, there’s still a sense of community in the way that they’re enjoying something someone else has made for them!
A: Exactly, and it attracts the loveliest kinds of people: a local cafe that just opened up on Cathcart road. The guy who owns it saw what we were doing and just took it upon himself to go and pick us up over £100 worth of ingredients. The kindness of strangers like that helps us out all the time. In that sense, these shared meals we host also raise the issue of food poverty and spread awareness. Often the asylum community are being placed in hotels before they are granted refugee status. There’s no cooking facilities so they have zero dignity in choosing what they get to eat – quite often the hotel meals are not halal – and if there’s anyone with any medical issues or dietary requirements these are quite often not catered for. There’s quite often also a set breakfast and dinner time in hotels, and if you miss either then that’s you going hungry. So it’s nice that people can come somewhere where they’ll be offered a home-cooked meal.
E: I’m interested in how you guys stayed afloat during COVID. How did you manage to help people when it was so difficult for those most in need to even reach out?
A: We were incredibly lucky: we were able to pivot in how we worked. I think a lot of other small cafes and businesses closed, but because we had the two units, flexible staff and we were also doing IT and online classes, we managed. We gave emergency food packages to people that were being accommodated in hotels – who were literally being provided with nothing from the local government. So we were feeding people in the local hotel every day. It was a wild time, but people were fundraising for us and we had support. In the end we got so much funding. We got money for both units because they had a small business support, we all got put on furlough but we were working as emergency workers and then we got money to do digital online zoom-stuff. We also got technology from different charities as people were in hotels with no viable forms of communication, so we were here with our masks on organising handouts of laptops and data-packs for people who needed them.
E: Wow, there was so much to think about during that time.
A: So much stuff that I’d never even considered before. But yes, we were lucky as we were able to be really useful to people during that time while also being paid appropriately.
E: I’m glad it’s meant that you guys could keep flourishing into what you are today!
MILK is located on 452 Victoria Road, G42 8YU. Whilst they focus their efforts on supporting migrant women, many of their events are open to the community. Visit their ‘What’s On’ page on their website to find their timetable. It was a delight to be able to sit in on their conversation café and get chatting with people: I’ll definitely be heading back sometime soon.
photos taken by ellie power
are we grateful it’s
Katie Rose Buchanan (She/Her) @xcxcxcxcxcxx
summer?
I usually take The Skinny from my work if the cover catches my eye. I’m hoping for a luscious, colourful double-page spread of some photography or an illustration to decorate my room enclosed within. The theme of this month is the ‘touch grass’ edition. I smiled at this. After a few minutes I was irritated. Hours went by and the gremlin inside me felt insulted by it. The instruction carried with it a sublimation that we are not doing well. That we are not enjoying summer. That we aren’t outside or in nature enough. That we need some coping mechanisms and reminders of how to exist mindfully. Guess I’m never touching grass ever again.
I did sit in Queens Park in Southside a few days ago. The sun did make a brief appearance, though it was blinding white clouds for the duration. The group of people next to me sat in a big pow-wow circle and I could hear every detail of their trauma tales. I ate two nectarines and left the pulp for the insects. It was dogs and babies abound. It got cold after half an hour and I had to go back into work for warmth.
I thought I was depressed for a long time. Long long time. I’m thinking now it’s possibly a mixture of a type of neurodivergence and consistent burn out and my creativity not being utilised. Creative frustration. I realised a week ago, after a period of two weeks of burn out, that I was now so in the depths of my own bad habits and self destructive behaviours (dopamine chasing, online addiction, laziness) that I was now becoming bitter and jaded. I would love to write for The Skinny! I would love to come up with a concept about being more in nature but make it quippy and stress a now-more-than-ever urgency for the intention to be set.
Coming out of a consistent news capsule (one would call that the personal telephone with rly cool features such as the whole wide world www. All the time everywhere always at once forever), tentatively approaching summer and reassessing my surroundings I realise city life can be a lot of four walls, concrete, pints, litter, noise, sugar, urgency, faces, stank, greedy business, crisps, flawed concepts, petrol; a lot. Maybe distinctions such as urban or rural don’t exist anymore. These things mentioned are found everywhere. In trying to get back to our earthy roots; to find solace in nature at this blessed time of year, we need to manufacture summer moments; experience bits of outside while we are indoors; bring greenery to us; curate a little sunshine in our minds while it lacks from the sky. Marvel at the single flower poking its way through a tenement roof. As my clever friend said to me yesterday, unprompted: ‘Irl is so back’.
Assessing my real life. I have bits of moss and soil embedded in my nails. They are made immortal, frozen within layers of some chemical gel my nail artist finessed around specks of gold, translucent green and yellow. I invest in lots of tree offcuts, I spend time with these intimately, hallucinating vividly at the print that decorates their body. Ok it’s a book.
Make sure you have a library card, let’s keep our free public spaces open. A great day out is walking to your local library, getting some free books and sitting in a park. No money. Even if your local park is a sad square of grass people usually throw their ciggies, empty vapes and dogs piss. Pet the grass (send it my regards) while you’re there. Get a wee juice for the dopamine.
photos by Katie Rose Buchanan
at the Queen Margaret Union, 5th of May 2024
Severine Bernard (she/her) @eviebernard
For fans of: King Krule, Working Mens Club, Bar Italia and Slowthai
On the 5th May, Mount Kimbie concluded their UK tour with a reappearance at the QMU after a six year hiatus from Scotland. As expected, the venue was abuzz with hordes of students, freshly out of exams and eagerly anticipating the group’s return to Caledonian soil. I’m somewhat ashamed to admit that I was only recently introduced to the band via their plethora of collaborative tracks with Archy Marshall A.K.A. King Krule. I was intrigued to see how they would adapt these songs but somewhat anticipating that the rest of their tracks may be met with some slightly blank expressions, and lacklustre head nodding from the largely Gen Z crowd. However, it soon became very clear to everyone (myself included) that Mount Kimbie are making a formidable return with April’s Sunset Violent. The setlist was phenomenal, a great mashup of old and new tracks, with a seamless flow between more mellow and more upbeat tunes. My personal highlights were “Marilyn”, from 2017 indie darling Love What Survives, and new release “A Figure In The Surf” – but frankly there wasn’t a weak song to be heard, with the band holding the audience in thrall for the whole gig. It was the perfect environment to lose yourself completely in the music. The encore in particular was a highlight and I much preferred the choice to end with an ode to their electronica beginnings with “Made to Stray”, as opposed to winding down on a chill note with their more recent work. The result was that I left QMU feeling like I could have gone straight to a DJ set, although it would have paled in comparison to the performance I’d just witnessed.
Mount Kimbie’s stage presence was laidback and nonchalant, every bit in keeping with their effortlessly cool aesthetic. They seemed unfazed by the crowd, and at points, as if they weren’t onstage at all, simply jamming with their mates in someone’s shed on a casual evening. It created an intimate atmosphere which I gladly succumbed to. A long-time collaborator on songs such as “You Look Certain (I’m Not So Sure)”, now graduated to being an official member, Andrea Balency-Béarn was a delight to watch in particular and I’m excited to see how her presence influences the ever-evolving sound of Mount Kimbie. Not to be outshone however, Kai Campos and Dominic Maker were on their usual excellent form and it’s clear to see how Campos’ recent foray into the world of DJ-ing has shaped their new music.
Overall, I would highly recommend catching a glimpse of Mount Kimbie this summer. There’s still a chance to see them play a set at Rally festival in Southwark, London this August alongside the likes of Bar Italia, Sorry and Crystal Murray. And in my opinion, they’ll sound even better on a warm, sunny day with a pint.
The Physical vs Digital DebateMedia
Ellie Griffith (she/her) @e.lliegriffith
In the clash between pixels and pages, the debate over physical and digital media continues to shape the discussion on how we consume and value culture in today’s digital age. For some, the nostalgia and tradition associated with physical media makes it hard to wean themselves off it. For others, digitised media is the only way forward as the world of online content continues to become more and more accessible..
Personally, my allegiance lies with the physical media camp. As an avid collector of all things collectible – trinkets, books, tacky souvenir magnets, and more – I cherish this sense of ownership over my belongings. The intangibility of digital media, by comparison, creates a sense of fleetingness and impermanence that takes away from what should be an enjoyable experience. If the book I’m reading is available only on a light-up screen, or the movie I’m watching could be removed from the streaming platform before the credits roll, is it really mine?
Physical media offers a permanence and reliability that digital formats lack. When I purchase a book, it becomes part of my personal library: something tangible I can revisit at any time, write annotations in, or lend to a friend. It’s mine to do with as I please. When I buy a DVD, I have permanent access to a film I love, unaffected by streaming service terms or the strength of my Wi-Fi connection. Furthermore, there are aspects of physical media that its digital counterparts simply cannot replicate. The rough texture of the paper. That distinct smell of a new book. The cracking of the spine as I ease the pages open for the first time. Plus, DVDs often have special features, director’s commentaries, and behind the scenes content, bonus’ that are uncommon when it comes to streaming.
However, I can’t help feeling a little guilty when considering the environmental impact of physical media. When the manufacturing processes of items such as books and DVDs cause such harm, how can I justify my hesitance towards their digital alternatives? From production to transportation, the manufacturing and distribution of physical media contributes to deforestation, increased greenhouse gas emissions, and the growing problem of plastic pollution. You would think E-books and movie streaming services drastically reduce the carbon footprint of our media consumption. However, when we delve a little deeper, digital media may not be as environmentally friendly as it appears at first glance. The data centres that store and stream digital content, and the cooling systems that keep these data centres running smoothly, consume vast amounts of energy, often derived from non-renewable sources. So really it’s a question of finding the lesser of two environmental evils.
This may all feel a little hopeless, but perhaps there is a solution, hiding in plain sight, a solution found on nearly every UK high-street. The good old-fashioned charity shop. Hidden gems, brimming with second-hand copies of physical media from books to DVDs, CDs to VHS tapes (for those who enjoy a vintage touch). So you might not find the latest novels trending on BookTok or the most recent blockbusters, but there are real treasures to be discovered. The shelves are filled with novels, biographies, classic literature, and all sorts of unusual finds. Music enthusiasts can discover an eclectic mix of albums from a variety of genres and eras. Cinephiles may stumble upon timeless movies, cult classics, and rare finds that are hard to come by elsewhere. So, the next time you feel the urge to pick up a new book or movie, consider visiting a charity shop. Not only will you have unique and affordable items at your fingertips, you’ll also be making a positive impact on both the environment and society. It’s a win-win!
Artwork by Moe Hamano @moehamano / @cerulseal
The Scientist
Shay Fallon (he/him) @shayfallonx
My grandfather loved the sound of clockwork in the way I love candles. As a companion at dusk, as a painter. Painting me as the witness and the scene. I go between souls, between characters that I did not claim.
It is like being a gravedigger. It is ripping up the ground, it is taking the body home, it is sewing the pieces together, it is finding lightning at midnight. It is the Frankenstein story; it is finding fire and becoming God, and it is burning the pages. It is loving the flicker of the candle, and it is holier than the raising of Lazarus.
Watching it back when I wake up. A rerun. A distant memory.
The childhood toys and the name of the dog that died. Temporary mania. Static noise in the background.
It is growling like a wolf, moonlit and mad. It is trying to sing a song, but all I can find are old words. It is wine. It is falling in love and it is sin.
It is ultraviolet, and it is blue. It is having loved the flicker of a candle, and forgetting to photograph it.
photograph by Dylan Martin
Grief in the present: a question I was asked by a trainee therapist at Glasgow University.
For next session, can you try and pinpoint any moments in your childhood where the anxiety was most palpable?
I stopped going after she asked this, never finishing the homework. It was doubly because by this point in my life, I had talked my issues into oblivion, and because I got bored by her obsession with my father. I preferred
run them in circles. The leaflets, services and links I am provided with all boil down in the same way to ‘why life is worth enjoying’; come on, this one is new, this one is different, the same spiel with the same words arranged in a slightly altered manner. They are all unable to dispel the knowledge in a way that is more worthwhile than the many uses of sorrow I have found for intense pub chats and creative writing assignments. A lifetime of lessons which has resulted in an incredible level of articulation of my own problems but no viable solution. Try happier music. Take a walk once a day. If it does not bring death then it does not bring eternity.
What would I have said to the therapist’s question? Maybe – when I was ten years old, I slammed my hand in a car boot outside a party. Someone had spiked my mother’s drink. For the first time I knew the abject unsurety of being alone in a room full of people. Afterwards, I was scared of men, the dark, drunks, kissing, of revealing my truest self to someone and remaining unseen. A while ago I was not myself and believed there to be superiority in being intoxicated, thinking of how intimately I know my own body, and how hesitant I am to give it away.
Now I long to relive those years. I had, as one tends to do when they grow up in a drab town, associated my move to university with betterment. With the expansion of the world. A conquest. I, an explorer, will step outright from the shadows of deprivation to a romantic culture of booze. But most of the first year was spent alone in my bedroom watching other people have fun through social media. Later, I would find out how much of it was manufactured. But at the time, I took it at face value as confirmation of what I had always suspected; that everyone else has the secret code, a handbook of how to behave, and I lost it somewhere in the muddy fields of puberty. With a certain violence I threw the anxious child into it all. Let grief overtake me for what still has a bloody beating heart. Recognise my own limited importance in the grand scheme of the universe or whatever the hippie nonsense my mother is obsessed with reading dictates. Maybe you were right to ask about my father. Maybe all the reasonings are enmeshed in my bloodstream in a way no amount of cognitive behavioural therapy can solve. But if this is the case, I find no value in battling with it.
It’s an answer I would have given. If I had the energy. If I felt like whittling away more years worrying about what comes next. If I had not realised how it remains contingent, painfully obvious, that even joy is defined by misery.
Kerry McGahan
I know this is an unpopular opinion, but I’ll just say it anyway. I’ve never liked summer. Since I was little, I always dreaded the last day of school, oftentimes I even cried (and no, it is not because I am a massive nerd… ok maybe it is but just a little bit). Perhaps it is because of how much I couldn’t stand the Mediterranean heat or because all my friends were off on vacations and to summer houses whilst I was stuck home, but summer always felt a bit too humid, boiling and boring. There is a certain type of melancholia that gets me on a warm day, especially after a day of running errands but not doing anything fun and then returning home to yet more of the same. I mean, it makes sense for the winter when you are too cold and tired to emerge from your heated blanket but for some reason doing that in the summer just makes it sad for me. Now, I am not saying that I am upset and moody for the entire summer. There are times where I really enjoy these months, especially when I am at the beach or the pool all day or going out with my friends, but that is a small portion of my summers and certainly does not last the full three months. The majority of my summers are usually spent in my house, with nothing to do or nothing planned and whilst I can enjoy this for a week or two, it soon becomes unbearably boring. Not doing something is just not as enjoyable when you are doing nothing as a form of procrastination during exams week. I swear sitcoms make me laugh a hundred times more when I have an essay due the next day and it is 10 PM already – the laughs do slightly resemble the beginning of a hyperventilating session, but a laugh is a laugh in my book. Summer can also be a logistical nightmare, especially as an international student, because your friends back home don’t have the same term dates as you and you are stuck with FOMO from not being able to see your friends in Scotland since you are away. Either way, with everyone having conflicting plans, summer can get quite lonely. Maybe this is another struggle specific to international students, but there is also the problem of growing out of where I grew up that gets more and more noticeable every time I go back home. From not knowing how much a pint costs to having to rely on Google Maps to know where I am going in the city I grew up in, it feels strange to be back. I always find myself more changed than the last time, sometimes growing out of places and even sometimes growing out of people. It is difficult trying to keep up with what opened up or closed in the neighbourhood or not knowing which pubs we go to for drinks now. Although there is something fun about exploring new things and being a bit of a stranger for a little while, it is still strange regardless.
This summer has been a bit different though- my last summer before graduation and perhaps the last with the luxury of not doing anything. I do like a good structure though, so I have been trying my best to be as productive as I possibly can - and by productivity, I mean catching up with films and series and occasionally remembering that I have a job and an internship. It is a far cry from an ideal summer full of fun, travel and adventure but I do enjoy playing adulting before stepping up to the big and scary real world after graduation. Another fun thing I have been doing this summer has been to actually do and see the things around Glasgow that I have been delaying in the past three years. The list is long, and perhaps embarrassing, such as going to GoMA, visiting the Mitchell Library and getting settled in my new flat and the area whilst trying to not completely drain my bank account. Finnieston simply has too many good eating out options for the last one to be possible. Overall, this summer really has not been so bad. So far, no heat waves, decent food, catching up with friends and with all the selfcare nights I delayed from the hectic university schedule. I can’t really complain. I wouldn’t have minded seeing the sun for longer than two hours per week but I did choose to stay in Scotland for the summer. No piece on summertime sadness would be complete without complaining about the Scottish weather after all.
Summertime Sadness SuAydin
Summer Is A-Comin’ In: the sylvan
In preparation for the ‘Shortest Night’, an SWG3 club night named in anticipation of the summer solstice, I forced my flatmate to watch the Wicker Man (1973) for the first time – the cult folk horror flick that inspired the dress code for the event. That night, we dance under a bulbous orange lamp with ribbons hanging from it like a maypole, and we both yelp with delight when I spot someone with a t-shirt proudly proclaiming “I <3 the Wicker Man”.
Before I really knew what folk horror was, I knew I loved it. I grew up at the intersection between a crunchy, outdoorsy childhood, and a love for all things horror. When I was a kid, I’d surreptitiously search for WatchMojo compilations of various, completely inappropriate horror movies. Because I wasn’t allowed to watch them, I’d obsessively read their Wikipedia articles and watch their YouTube clips back-to-back (this is how I watched almost all the Final Destination films). I remember my first viewing of Wicker Man; at 15, after my friend’s mum loaned me the DVD. It was slotted in a meagre paper pouch with Christopher Lee in a yellow turtleneck on the front – his hands raised and mouth open in ominous exaltation, as the image of the eponymous Wicker Man dominated the background.
The film is one of three, produced in the late sixties and seventies, credited with the rise of the folk horror genre; the others being Witchfinder General (1968) and the Blood on Satan’s Claw (1971). All three were written and released during the rise of the New Age movement, accompanied by a spike of interest in folk music, environmentalism, and alternative spiritual practices. The films were also potentially a response to the monolithic popularity of the science-fiction genre, which was said to have “killed” traditional gothic horror. The Wicker Man sets up the themes explored throughout the folk horror genre – primarily, the horror of nature, the horror of superstition, and how the two intertwine. A remarkably ambitious and intelligent film, the Wicker Man is an incisive satire of unquestioning belief in authority and religion and is often described as the “Citizen Kane of horror films”.
It follows the story of a mainland police officer investigating the disappearance of a young girl on the (fictional) Scottish island of Summerisle. On his trip, he discovers that the inhabitants of the island have abandoned Christ (gasp!) and have reverted to paganism; holding orgies in graveyards, casting spells for fertility, celebrating pagan holidays and gods, and (worst of all) educating their children on their beliefs. There’s an explicit focus on the sexual aspect of the community’s beliefs; to them it’s natural, and therefore to be worshipped and encouraged. It’s a world away from the chaste, stiffly Protestant character of the visiting Sergeant Howie – and it’s exactly this character which seals his fate from the moment he steps foot on Summerisle.
Our folk horror protagonists are often originally from cities and towns; at the start of the film, they leave their bubble of civilisation and descend into the natural world. In Alex Garland’s 2022 film Men, our protagonist Harper leaves the city after witnessing her abusive husband’s suicide and decides to stay a while in a rural Hertfordshire village. The film is swathed in green – long shots of tiny Harper surrounded by the immensity of the woods, stalked by a threatening presence. There are, of course, less verdant examples; the VVitch (2015), directed by Robert Eggers, tells the story of a Puritan family banished from their settlement in colonial New England, and relocating to the edges of a deadened forest in the middle of nowhere. The forest sits silently alongside the family’s steading as the events of the film play out; its dense, unknowable interior the home of the supposed ‘vvitch’. Similarly in the Blair Witch Project, the forest swallows our protagonists (three student filmmakers making a documentary), and gradually deprives them of their resources, their sense of direction, their safety and their sanity. In these films, not only does the forest (or nature in gen-
photograph by Dylan
Martin
sylvan and sinister allure of Folk Horror
Ailsa Morgan (they/she) @a.ilsamorgan
eral) physically envelop, it also psychologically envelops; instinctively, or even ancestrally, our protagonists are awareof the threat that the natural world possesses. By secluding our characters in the woods, their lives are dependent on, and their view is obstructed, by nature – in the ultimate state of powerlessness. Nothing could possibly be more terrifying for these socialised, urban humans than a descent into nature.
And nothing could be more disconcerting than a return to that state which humans occupied for so long; their livelihoods insecure, their safety constantly compromised, and their superstitions running wild as they scramble for survival like any other animal. This is the true terror of the genre; all horror films ruminate the fear of the unknown (suspense being key to a good horror) but folk horror films consider that this fear actually is known, somewhere inside our psyche; that it has been known, or almost known, by our ancestors, those people that we work so hard to distance ourselves from. We love to think that our faith in science, in technology, and in our changed living environment insulate us from these fears. However, the motifs of folk horror remind us how much we have to fear from nature, superstition, and each other; how alike we still are to the panicked and powerless people who came before us. There’s still an ancestral kick in your gut as you realise that the forces which held such power over humans are not dead.
To end the article, I thought I’d give some homework: skip Midsommar, and watch some of the great folk horror films below…. But if you ever want to watch the most excellent, ridiculous, terrible remake ever, I really recommend the 2006 Wicker Man remake with Nicolas Cage.
Ailsa’s Folk Horror Masterlist
✴ Witchfinder General (1968)
✴ Lamb (2021)
✴ The White Reindeer (1952)
✴ Children of the Corn (1984)
✴ The VVitch (2015)
✴ The Wicker Man (1971)
✴ The Ritual (2017)
✴ The Hole in the Ground (2019)
✴ Woodlands Dark and Day’s Bewitched: A History of Folk Horror (2021)
My boyfriend and I recently went to Italy, so naturally, we had to try the country’s beloved Aperol Spritz. But as we individually ordered our drinks, the waiter insisted that he should instead get a Campari: the stronger counterpart to Aperol, considered more suitable for men. Sexism is deeply rooted in our current drinking culture, from women being caricatured as lightweights, to men mocking each other for ordering sweet and fruity drinks. However, can we raise our glasses - and spirits - without judgement this summer?
As long as media and advertising perpetuate the gender binary, this may present a challenge. While beer is marketed using stereotypically masculine characteristics such as strength and courage, wine and cocktails are feminised because of their sophisticated appearances and sweeter flavours. Beyond that, the notion that women only enjoy aesthetically-pleasing drinks is conflated with unrealistic (and unhealthy) beauty standards. It’s no wonder why low-calorie tonic is branded using labels like “slimline” or that the hour-glass figure was considered the ideal body type of the late 2010’s. Douglas Ankrah, creator of the Porn Star Martini himself, justified the name by saying it looks like something a porn star would drink.
But what if we don’t care to mimic our drinks? Don’t get me wrong, I love a cocktail every now and then, but beer has always been my personal preference, along with many of the women I know. Yet only 17% of women in the UK drink beer on a weekly basis, one of the lowest percentages worldwide, according to a survey called the Gender Pint Gap (yes, there is such a thing). The majority of the respondents claimed this was because they dislike the taste of beer: to each their own. However, male-oriented advertising, high-calorie content and fear of judgement from other people, were the following key barriers. Of course, everyone is entitled to drink what they believe tastes best, but women shouldn’t feel excluded from drinking beer, nor fear the infamous beer-belly.
Fortunately, changes are being realised within media and advertising to debunk these myths, but not without controversy and backlash. Take Brewdog’s pink Punk IPA, released with the aim to challenge the gender pay gap and sexist advertising (albeit ironic as they recently stopped being a real living wage employer). Or Dylan Mulvaney’s promotion of Bud Light beer on her Instagram, a small but applaudable move from Anheuser-Busch, the world’s largest brewing company, to increase trans representation in the industry. But are these companies really doing enough, and perhaps more importantly, are people’s mindsets changing? Mulvaney received death threats from conservatives as a result of the campaign, with Bud Light sales decreasing by over 21% within just a week. If the public (cough cough, conservative white men) aren’t willing to accept that your gender isn’t related to your alcohol preference, women will still be perceived to only desire Sex on the Beach.
There’s so much irony surrounding this situation. If men truly have superior alcohol tolerances, why would they opt for a 4% Tennents instead of a 24% Negroni? What makes tequila rose the “right” way to end a group night out, and cider particularly feminine? If you choose to drink, you shouldn’t have the motivation to curate an image that aligns with society’s gender expectations. Rather, focus on your personal enjoyment (in moderation, of course) and having a good time with the people you love. As I mentioned, I’m not a cocktail connoisseur, but Glasgow offers some great bars with unique options. From All Bar One’s Little Moons mochi cocktails to The Alchemist’s creme brûlée vous, any sweet tooth will be buzzing here. So, cheers to whatever’s in your glass this summer!
Don’t Mockthe Cocktail!
Fleur Kas (she/her)
Junk Pups ‘Ball and Chain’ EP review
Lachlan Mackay (he/him) @maybemackay
Glasgow based Junk Pups have seen some big moments in the past year. The self-described ‘queer-rock’ quartet headlined King Tut’s in the final night of the venue’s New Years Revolution ’24, graced the airwaves on BBC Scotland’s Introducing Scotland, and most importantly, this June we were treated to their debut EP Ball and Chain.
Released a few months prior, opening track ‘Trophy Wife’ sets the pace with Jack Faulds’ glam-rock-esque vocals and dynamic snare heavy rhythms provided by drummer Sophie Madigan. ‘Trophy Wife’ is an unapologetic opener, a critique of traditional ‘white wedding, two and half children’ heterosexual marriages and the implicit gender bias attributed to roles within them. ‘Hoi Polloi’ keeps the train rolling with lyrics disparaging the now departed Tory government and chants of the title, serving as a jibe at their disconnect from the masses they ‘represented’. As strong as the lyricism and overall composition, all plaudits must go to Dylan Hutton’s B-52’s-esque bassline that hooks you in and continues to hold the track together. The social commentary of the previous tracks is left behind as ‘Mortified’ takes a more reflective approach. The self-deprecating lyrics are juxtaposed by Isabella Fraser’s bluesy guitar riffs and the general swagger of the track. The contrast takes the paranoid words and turns them into a self-assured anthem. Also released as a single, ‘Spoonfed’ slows the pace and takes us back to the time of The Yardbirds and The Kinks. The hypnotic rhythms from Hutton and Madigan compliment the warm wah-wah guitar tones pulled straight from the ‘60’s. And as is the case throughout the track, Faulds’ impressive vocal range and style is yet again put on display without retracting any attention from other elements of the composition.
Each of the four tracks falling around the three minute thirty-mark, Ball and Chain is bound to leave you wanting more. However, the array of themes explored, both musically and lyrically, leaves enough room for the band to take themselves in a variety of directions going forward. If their debut EP is anything to go off of, no matter what path Junk Pups take, it’s going to be exciting.
Caragh Rose MacFeeters
Sugar-sweet memory
Morning, Summer 2008.
My mum has honey-rose hair and forget-me-not eyes; she smells like secrets and swans. She breathes lilacs and stories, Belief and coffee shops—important stuff. I rest my head against her arm. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, the rain tip-tap-taps against it like an old friend. The living room is coloured in the light latte brown of the mid-2000s, creamy and soft, with hints of ballet-slipper pink.
Bubbling at the bottom of a small mug is my favourite—pink milk. “That’s what fairies drink,” Mum tells me, once in a bedtime story to me and my baby brother Johnny. He is smaller than me, for now. We leave it out for them—in the story, that is—with the sunflowers in the back garden atop the picnic table next to jam sandwiches.
Her fingers dance through my hair, soft and sweet as sugar plums, weaving it into little plaits. A Yankee candle burns on the mantle, and though I can’t place it, it smells like rhubarb and acorns, blackberries and pinecones. She hums something, though I’m not sure what, but I remember it like a dream. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, tip-tap-tap.
The rain outside is gentle, inviting. It wants us to play. I put on my lily-pink raincoat and wellies to match. We got them from the garden centre. My dad drives us down every so often. Kate Bush plays on the radio. He loves to tend to the flowers, and he does a very fine job of it too.
We step outside, the air brilliant with silver and light. I hop down the stairs and skip to the front garden. She takes my hand. Our little house, with its apple-red postbox and the too-tall brown chestnut door, watches over all the little flowers happily. I think it’s the best house on the whole street. We sink to our knees onto the cool grass, dolloped in dewdrop kisses. Today, I am making perfume with my mum. I am touching the world with my bare hands because she gave it to me. And in that, there is god.
As we kneel, June stays perfectly still.
Petals pile onto my lap, peony and rose. It does not matter if I am odd or a bit dreamy because I am far away from all of them. I am inside of her. She is inside me. Today, I am making perfume with my mum. The kitchen table is a woodsy brown, round as pecan pie. No more pitter-patter or tip-tap-tap. Sunspots skip and skim its surface, hosting scattered petals and empty little perfume vials. I watch my mum work the concoction as if she is conjuring a secret spell just for us. Most little girls say they have the most amazing mum in the whole world. When I think about it, though, I really might. Swirling and soft, her hands move with precision, mixing it all in a big glass bowl. Outside, beams of buttercup yellow filter through the clouds, catching them in the gold dust of a mid-morning shimmer. Light beams flicker through the window like a hundred fireflies.
Tomorrow, we will make a fairy house. I will pick strawberries from the garden and spin until I am dizzy. I will feel hot concrete beneath my feet. Everyone will be here.
It is June and I am making perfume with my mum.
(She/her) @madelaine.gg / @madelainegg.art
‘Snowbedo’ by Madelaine Gómez Grouse
It is often with a ferocious vigour that adults leap to defend the supremacy of their childhood favourite films when compared with their contemporary remakes. Whilst the latter is most definitely not an attack on the former, for the many fans of the original works, it certainly seems to seem that way. The authenticity of these projects appears to its audience as lost to time as their bygone childhoods. But why must that be the case? Why must the halcyon glaze of nostalgia remain so alluring, and why does it seem so near impossible to recreate?
The etymological roots of the term nostalgia can be traced back to Greek, with ‘nostos meaning the act of ‘returning home,’ and algos meaning ‘pain.’ Nostalgia, if it were to be translated this acutely, alludes to a sense of homesickness, although today it would perhaps be more accurate to extend this definition to a more general longing for a past state that we can never return to. Nostalgia is a phenomenological experience, but the essence of nostalgia is not limited just to the domain of thought. In order to understand the nostalgic disposition, we must acknowledge that memory functionality is not linear, and often considerations of the past are caused by physical reminders of it in the present. Nostalgia must be triggered then, by tangible and perceivable matter. This would of course, notably include popular media, and especially, film.
During the late 20th and early 21st centuries, those transitioning from childhood to the irreversible stage of adulthood did so with the strong cultural presence of film ever present . Film contributes itself well to the lexicon of ‘culturally’ nostalgic icons, with figures of childhood films being widely associated with, ‘the good old days.’ Asides from providing easy entertainment , film has the transformative ability to introduce children to love, humour, mystery, grief, and adventure, in an easily digestible format that is most of all, enjoyable. These films become beloved and important symbols of the most formative of our years and the idea that these stories could be brought back to life again through a contemporary, matured lens, has its appeal.
But the materialisation of this concept, seems to have left an overwhelmingly disappointing mark on its audience. To blame this on the individual artists and filmmakers involved in these projects fails to address the source of the problem, the actions of the studios. It is impossible to talk about the countless failed remakes of childhood classics without mentioning Disney. Disney has churned out innumerable ‘live action’ remakes over the course of the last decade, to little critical acclaim, in some cases barely garnering enough box office success to justify their existence in the first place. Especially bizarre, the ‘live action,’ or computer-generated failure that was ‘The Lion King,’ remake, received a rather abysmal response from critics and fans alike. The out of touch disconnect from the adored anthropocentric cartoon charm of the original, created an uncanny, and dull, audio-visual experience that appeared more like a nature documentary than narrative feature. This refusal to acknowledge what makes the original films so endearing, in favour of profit and lazy writing, exposes Disney’s biggest issue- they are solely motivated by capitalising off nostalgia. Funding a project just because it is associated with something considered to be culturally nostalgic, ignores the essential fact that nostalgia is a personal experience. Whatever it touches, is something that cannot be recreated. These films seem wholly uninterested in trying to understand that.
Whilst all of this is disheartening, it does not mean nostalgia media cannot be created successfully, rather it should not be created in this fashion. Studios should welcome filmmakers that draw on their own relationship with nostalgia rather than the disconnected idea of ‘cultural nostalgia’. In doing this they will give form to authentic experiences, that rather than pointing out that what is gone can never be recreated, instead understand the fact completely. In doing this, filmmakers have the power to prove the universality of this addictive sense of homesickness, creating a cyclical, fluid relationship between the past and the present with their viewers, and themselves.
‘Better When We Were Kids’ Nostalgia Media and the Rejection of the Remake
Honor Kerr (she/her)
Death of the nightclub,
I am a sucker for the indie sleaze epoch: I think back to the 90s and early 2000s, when I was either non-existent or an infant, with a certain wistfulness for a time that passed me by. I imagine the Yeah Yeah Yeahs blasting through my iPod nano while I apply my garishly blue eyeshadow, donning a cheetah-print number from American Apparel and heading to a club to hear the Black Eyed Peas as clearly as if I’d really been there. The club is alight with flashes from people’s digital cams capturing a bleary joy, that sweaty, fizzy excitement of being young and in a club, a simpler time when Lindsay Lohan was our biggest inspiration. Whilst clubbing had its heyday, slowly but surely, the appetite for it has waned. The lights have come on and we stand naked and afraid on a sloshing dance-floor where we are suddenly sober to the fact that we have been pretending to enjoy a terrible DJ set while cautiously covering our overpriced drink. The truth is, since and even really before COVID, people are going out less: since June 2020, over a third of clubs have shut down. A particularly devastating loss this year is that of Klute in Durham, designated the worst club in Europe and the awfulness of which I actually had the privilege of experiencing before it met its untimely end. But ‘worst clubs of Europe’ aside, why is it that these places, which once formed a major part of the UK’s cultural capital, are now being shut down?
As someone who turned 18 when COVID restrictions were still in place, I only got to experience clubbing in the post-apocalyptic aftermath of a global pandemic. And honestly, I was not especially taken with it. Paying £10 on the door for entry and £15 for a double rum and coke (my first clubbing experience was in central London) just about sealed my aversion towards it, and that was before I was even confronted with the sex pests who swarmed the place. Nevermind that when I went to uni, the pressure to go out a lot in my first months met equal anxieties over the sheer amounts of spiking that was taking place, to my friends and people I knew rather than allegorical figures without faces. I couldn’t help but compare these anxiety-ridden club nights I spent a lot of money on (for very low payoff) to the beloved underage park drinkups and gaffs of my sixth form days. Lockdown stripped everything back to reveal what was most important: that it wasn’t necessarily the going out itself that everyone missed more so than the people. There have definitely been multiple occasions where the pre-drinks in someone’s flat have far outshone the rather anticlimactic club dance floor for me, full of laughter and games and singing along to our own selection of tunes. And even those with a puritan disdain for nicotine know the only place true connection can be found in a club is in its smoking area, a delicious microcosm of a houseparty, where tongues slickened by alcohol wag nonsense and people are brought together in beautiful, drunken harmony.
With all guests usually being accountable to either the host or the person who invited them along, parties feel much safer than clubs and facilitate more familiarity and connection between people. The French phrase for a nightclub ‘boîte de nuit’, literally translated into english as ‘box of the night’, feels apt when you’re standing trapped in a room feeling something akin to what it must be like to be waterboarded as multiple mistimed beat drops wash over you, unable to hear anything unless someone is shouting in your ear. On the other hand, music at a house party is usually played at a level where conversation can still occur and depending on your mood, you can glide between the drinking games happening in a bedroom to the dancing happening in the living room to the sincerely earnest conversations happening on kitchen countertops. Not to mention the wonderful resurgence of themes that seems to be occurring with house parties. Thinking back to the last gaff I went to only affirms my allegiance: the party was pyjama themed, meaning I got to sport my rainbow galaxy wolf Oodie. My friends and I pregamed in the flat until late, with none of the same stress concurrent with a club outing about last entry. This meant we could watch the gummy bear music video in multiple languages before setting off. Once at the party, I joined a breakdancing lesson given by a random girl in someone’s bedroom and went to the smoking area (the street) about 4 times with the ‘smoke nation’ that seemed to have formed, talking up a storm with people I’d only just met. All in all, everything on my checklist for a great night had been ticked off.
From the Bacchanalia of the Ancient Greeks to ‘suits and sluts’ themed gaffs of Murano, the desire to rejoice in human connection has remained consistent. Clubbing may once have fulfilled our party needs, but with the rise in cost of living and the influence of COVID, I think it’s safe to say that house parties are the order of the night.
Artworks by Bee Pritchard
How the US Supreme Court Created a King
Henry Tsang
The US Constitution is what five out of nine Supreme Court Justices say, not the document itself. In the case of Trump v. United States, the majority held that all presidents have absolute immunity for core official acts and presumptive immunity for non-core official acts. In practice, this distinction is meaningless in the way that Chief Justice John Roberts sees it. He understands this as a President carrying out the functions of the office so long as he is not ‘manifestly or palpably [acting] beyond his authority’. This effectively exempts most Presidential actions from criminal liability. It is a shield for the executive to hide behind, and a move away from 250 years of American constitutional jurisprudence.
In Justice Sonia Sotomayer’s dissent, she sees this as the process of ‘invent[ing] immunity through brute force’ which ‘is inconsistent with text, history, and established understandings of the President’s role’. The delegates at the original Constitutional Convention intentionally decided not to give the President immunity, unlike legislators, who were given limited immunity for their speech and debate duties. Writing in The Federalist, Alexander Hamilton emphasised the important distinction between monarchy and republicanism. The king was held to be ‘sacred and inviolable’ unlike the President, who would be at least ‘amenable to personal punishment’. Once a President is no longer restrained by the ordinary rules of society, they are free to rule with absolutist rule as a king. That a president can approve a political assassination carried out by a Navy SEAL Team 6 was given the green light by the Chief Justice because it falls under the core constitutional powers endowed to the nation’s Commander-in-Chief. A court cannot even investigate their motives, which plainly contradicts the intended nature of the presidential role. This sheds doubt on the validity of President Trump’s speech on January 6th. If attempting to prevent the peaceful handover of White House keys, his acts were clearly in the pursuit of power and should not be protected under the Presidential cloak of immunity. Even though most MAGA Republicans hail this as a success for the former President Trump, they fail to see how this judgement explicitly goes against their own roots. Their persistent calls for less power to the executive have fallen flat on their face, yet they celebrate the downfall of their ‘principles’.
The fear that this strikes in the heart of one of the most lauded democracies cannot be understated. It is powerfully summed up by Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson, who views this decision as “[a] discarding of a model of accountability for criminal acts that treats every citizen of this country as being equally subject to the law”. This ruling allows the President free reign to flout every established constitutional norm and law he wishes to, placing him above the democratic society he was elected to lead. The people must hope for a benevolent dictator, which flies in the face of the Founding Fathers’ principles and intentions for the United States of America.
Not to Read? or To Read
Eva Casey (she/her) @evacasey37
Shakespeare’s reputation as one of the greatest writers in the English language is so widely accepted that I’m always a little embarrassed, as a literature student, to admit that I’m only familiar with a handful of his plays. This summer I decided to change this. However, I found myself stalled by a choice - how should I be consuming Shakespeare’s plays? Are they best when read or watched?
The most common response to this question insists his plays must be watched to be fully appreciated, however I’ve stubbornly believed the opposite ever since reading Hamlet for school. It was the first time I really ‘got’ why Shakespeare is so revered, an experience I owed to reading it first. The antiquated language seemed, at times, like a riddle to be decoded. Before fully appreciating Prince Hamlet’s existential spiels that resonated so strongly with my 16-year-old self, I had to first carefully examine each line for references, double meanings and metaphors. To simply watch a performance of Hamlet would be to miss out on plot, character intricacies and language that demanded to be read, reread, and digested slowly.
I felt vindicated in this position after watching a performance of As You Like It ,Shakespeare’s heroine led comedy. Having not read the play beforehand, I struggled to engage with what was probably a fantastic theatrical experience because I was missing not just details of the plot but the play’s nuances and depth. I sat confused and frustrated for three hours because of the format it had been presented to me in, convincing me that it would’ve been better to read it instead.
Reading is the way to go then - at least that’s how I felt until I read The Tempest at university. With a strong grasp of the play I could discuss the colonial themes in my seminars, yet the scenes and characters seemed somewhat flat on the page. For a play woven with magic and fantasy, it was a bit uninspiring. Perhaps, by simply reading it, though allowing me to grasp the play’s language and themes, I was missing out on the emotionality of a theatre production?
Finally, I sat down with another Shakespeare performance: The National Theatre’s 2018 recording of King Lear. Keeping the Wikipedia page handy so I wouldn’t have to focus too hard on keeping my understanding of the plot straight, I felt finally that this was the Shakespeare I had been missing. A few bits and pieces of dialogue may have passed me by, but it didn’t matter; the actors’ performances transcended the outdated dialect, and I almost forgot I was watching something written 400 years ago. Characters’ motivations were made instantly obvious by the acting, staging, and all the other facets of the theatre’s production. For the full three hours, I was absorbed, convincing myself that my TikTok fried attention span wouldn’t be able to cope.
The case for watching plays had finally made a strong point, but accessing a performance makes it a little tricker. PDFs of Shakespeare’s plays are easy to come by, but it can be far harder to find a quality, recorded performance for free online. While I felt giving a tenner to National Theatre at Home was a justifiable expense, it’s not an insignificant amount of money to payo yet another streaming platform. And of course, watching a production on your laptop is a far cry from the full experience of watching it live, but that’ll cost you even more. Though perhaps, for those who can spare the money, it’s especially worth attending local performances as theatres continue to struggle financially, especially after severe funding cuts.
Returning to the initial question of whether one should read or watch Shakespeare, I wonder if this is something we must figure out ourselves, exploring each option and weighing up the benefits and drawbacks. Whether we watch his plays on YouTube, read them alone or out loud with friends, or even save up for a ticket at The Globe Theatre, the importance liess in engaging with a writer whose influence on our culture and language is utterly ubiquitous. Anyone passionate about English literature or theatre owes it to themselves to find out which format resonates with them personally, so they can develop their own relationship with his work, something I will continue to do.
Artwork by Tilly Holt
National Playboys — No Feeling
Lachlan Mackay (he/him) @maybemackay
A little over a year since the official release of their first single ‘Red Spy’, National Playboys have brought us their fourth, No Feeling.
I caught up with frontman Kyle McFarlane and guitarist Ewen Kerr, to ask them about the track, changes within the band and what the future holds.
L: Ewen, how does the writing process begin for a song such as this which relies on every individual so heavily, are you building it from a simple riff, or do you set out with a clear idea of what you want to achieve?
E: I believe we’re quite unique with our writing style. Some of our material is structured and put together by Kyle which he then brings to us to add our own personal and distinctive touches. Then we have tracks we’ve conjured by simply jamming out a certain riff. With No Feeling we had a skeleton laid out by Kyle which we all built upon. We didn’t know how the track was gonna end up. It has changed a lot since we first jammed it out. In the studio is where a lot of our creativity shined. Adding keys and polyrhythms to birth a beautiful record.
L: You’ve expanded the band this year. Kyle, how do you feel that’s helped you, has it brought any new challenges?
K: It has enhanced our sound and brought more expertise to the group. No real challenges however, we all get on well and it’s helped our writing process as a whole.
L: With No feeling, is there anything you’re particularly proud of in the song or something you’ve achieved that has escaped you previously?
K: I believe I did well to compliment the track with my riffs and spacey ambience. I did sneak a cheeky 7/4 polyrhythm at the end. Something I never thought would work but ended up sounding sick! I tried some more radical ideas on this track which I want to continue to do in future.”
L: And lastly, Kyle, what have we got to look out for from the band in the near future?
K: More gigs and better songs, hopefully. A full body of work would be great and a tour around the UK and maybe Europe. But that is something to worry about in the future. For now, We will keep doing what we are doing and we will have fun doing it.
The Edinburgh post punk outfit have quickly become regular figures in the central belt’s live scene. And whilst the eerie sense of dread built within their sound has always been present, the energy and immense soundscapes of their live shows has never quite been captured until now. Frontman McFarlane is stronger than ever, his signature proto-goth vocals now enhanced by an ability to move through his range with a sense of effortlessness without losing any of the edge he brought to their prior work. Guitar from Ewen Kerr beef up the foundations laid by somethrashing rhythms and Dave Reed’s basslines. Together an imposing wall of sound is created that breaks only to highlight the lyricism and vocals of McFarlane. No Feeling is a wonderful display of musicianship with each member of the band complementing one another. Rare, in a genre that so often sees the quality of a song sacrificed for individual flair. Easily their strongest release date, No Feeling is a positive look to the future both for the Playboy’s and Scotland’s music scene.
by Freya Ashenden
collage
In Defence of the Depop Resellers
Amy McGlip (she/her)
If you are a devotee of second-hand shopping apps like myself, you may be familiar with the reviled ‘depop reseller’. A search for the term ‘depop reseller’ on Twitter or Reddit yields an array of insults, such as: ‘depop resellers are made of evil’ and ‘I hope you depop resellers rot in hell’. The reason for such hostility? Depop resellers – and those who resell second-hand clothing online, generally – are believed to reduce the financial accessibility of second-hand shopping, through purchasing all of the fashionable clothing in charity shops before ordinary buyers have the chance to, and reselling these items for increased prices on apps like Depop, Vinted, or Ebay. As an experienced buyer of second-hand clothes, I am here to set the record straight.
Firstly, the idea that resellers are depriving other shoppers of fashionable options at charity shops is absurd. According to the Council for Textile Recycling, only 10 to 20 percent of donations to UK charity shops are able to be sold on to customers[1]. Therefore, the idea that depop resellers are draining the charity shops of their items couldn’t be further from the truth. In reality, they are barely making a dent. So, what happens to the clothing that can’t be sold? Well, 5 percent is sent directly to landfill, 50 percent is made into insulation and industrial rags, and the remaining 45 percent is exported to foreign markets in countries like Ghana, which imports around 15 million pieces of second-hand clothing per week.
Ghanian second-hand clothing markets, such as Kantamanto, have been described as ‘sprawling complex[es] of thousands of stalls crammed with clothes’ – some with their charity shop price-tags still attached. An estimated 40 percent of these items cannot be sold on so are dumped in local landfills, and the sellable clothing undercuts local clothing manufacturers, negatively impacting the local economy. Wealthier nations, like the UK, are creating environmental and economic catastrophes with our clothing waste, which has even been termed ‘modern colonialism disguised as donation’. I am of the opinion that anyone who can repurpose charity shop clothing, and thus prevent its contribution to these crises, is doing a great thing.
Something else to consider is that for the most part, these second-hand clothing resellers are not the parasitic rich girls that they are portrayed to be online. Many professional clothing resellers are individuals who are unable to take up conventional employment – for example, those with caring responsibilities or certain health conditions. Reselling charity shop items can be an accessible way to supplement a low-income. Furthermore, reselling professionally is not a low-effort endeavour. Reselling involves curating items, cleaning them, taking photos, creating listings, communicating with buyers, packaging orders and shipping them. Resellers also take on the risk of buying an item, not knowing if it will sell. Overall, the reselling process can be quite laborious and time-consuming. Hence, resellers are earning their profits from skill and hard work.
Additionally, as someone who exclusively shops second-hand, I appreciate that resellers make it easy for me to find high-quality vintage items when I have the extra money to buy them. And when I don’t have the extra money? I can simply avoid seeing these items by filtering search results on the apps by price. At time of writing, when I search Depop for the term ‘mini dress’ and limit the price to £5, I am shown over 17,000 results. When I filter for my size, I am shown over 10,000 results. Vinted reports that it has over 800 million items for sale on its marketplace, and Depop reports over 180,000 new items listed every day. Consumers of second-hand fashion have never had so many options at such low prices. So, why is there so much vitriol directed at the small number of high-end resellers?
I would attribute this phenomenon to the increasing switch that consumers are making from fast to slow fashion options. The advent of fast-fashion allowed consumers to buy just about any type of clothing, in copious numbers, at just about any price point. We collectively grew accustomed to absolute cheapness and convenience – and now, we’re struggling to adjust to going without. However, if consumers wish to develop truly sustainable shopping habits, we need to content ourselves with not-buying and not-owning things that we might want.
So, if you can’t afford to buy an item from a reseller, it’s not the end of the world. In fact, the depop resellers may be helping to prevent the end of the world.
