Replica Magazine Issue II by Bob Bean

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Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this magazine are those of the contributors and are not necessarily shared by Replica Magazine or Global Tat Productions. No responsibility is assumed by Replica Magazine or Global Tat Productions for damage or offense caused by any of the content contained in the material herein.

â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;COLLECTIVISM AT ITS FINESTâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;

Welcome to Replica Replica Magazine Global Tat Productions www.replicamag.co.uk Chief Custodian Thomas Foxley thebrains@replicamag.co.uk Editor Rosie Allen-Jones editor@replicamag.co.uk Music Editor Charlie Gilmour musiceditor@replicamag.co.uk Uncle Wetlegs Himself agony@replicamag.co.uk Illustrations Anna Chilton doodles@replicamag.co.uk This magazine is a compilation of articles, artwork, photos and other bits and pieces sent in by the public. To contribute: contributions@replicamag.co.uk Word limit 800 words.

Editor’s Note This issue plays host to some real intellectual rants. Ranting is good. I rant. You rant. We rant. He/she rants. Together we rant. Coherence and infidelity, violence and music, Aquatics and all things wet. Enter our competition and win not just one but two free tickets to an awesome dance festival. Talking of festivals Glastonbury was incredible, Leonard Cohen is a God. It is definitely summer and there are so many more festivals to grace with our presence.... can’t wait. How many thoughts can an editor have? Aren’t we supposed to just make other peoples thoughts better? I want to go on holiday. Let’s go fishing. Don’t eat fish. Take your mum raving. Replica is amazing.

Cover by Chloe Frouz www.flickr.com/photos/chloefirouzian Left: ‘Bob’ by Zo Jones www.doodlebeasts.com

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NEXT ISSUE’S THEME: NUDITY

PUBLIC OR OTHERWISE ARTICLES AND ARTWORK TO MATCH Image by Juame Ventura, licensed under Creative Commons Sharealike 2.0

Table of Contents Facebook: Friend or Foe? By Rebecca Jackson Rebecca attempts Facebook suicide

Not a Good Look by Amy Tipper Public rage is not as cool as it is in the movies

A Sticky Situation by RAJ Accident-prone moron finds a ‘foreign body’ up her nose

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Cheating: the Biological Norm by Matthew Wainhouse Science tells us that infidelity is OK

VIII

Global Gathering Review by Ken Dog Review of Global 2007 and ticket give-away

Monster Mom by Dusty Gilbert Mums are great

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Borneo Bends by John Owen Is it really possible to have a mild case of the bends?

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Branded by Alexandra Haddow I wish celebrities would stop telling us what to do

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Charity Tourism by Andrew Rogers Ethical travel or new colonialism?

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Peteuros by Peter Beckett A closer inspection of the motives surrounding the Iraq war

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Cluekid Interview by Charlotte Raynesford Interview with a young Dubstep hero

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The Highs and Lows of Spain by Nikol Danielle Gow Football and hangovers in and around Barcelona

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The Joy of the Internet by Charlie Gilmour There is a lot of offensive shit out there…

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III

NEXT ISSUE’S THEME: NUDITY

PUBLIC OR OTHERWISE ARTICLES AND ARTWORK TO MATCH Image by Juame Ventura, licensed under Creative Commons Sharealike 2.0

Table of Contents Facebook: Friend or Foe? By Rebecca Jackson Rebecca attempts Facebook suicide

Not a Good Look by Amy Tipper Public rage is not as cool as it is in the movies

A Sticky Situation by RAJ Accident-prone moron finds a ‘foreign body’ up her nose

VII

Cheating: the Biological Norm by Matthew Wainhouse Science tells us that infidelity is OK

VIII

Global Gathering Review by Ken Dog Review of Global 2007 and ticket give-away

Monster Mom by Dusty Gilbert Mums are great

XVI

Borneo Bends by John Owen Is it really possible to have a mild case of the bends?

XXVIII

Branded by Alexandra Haddow I wish celebrities would stop telling us what to do

XXII

Charity Tourism by Andrew Rogers Ethical travel or new colonialism?

XXIV

Peteuros by Peter Beckett A closer inspection of the motives surrounding the Iraq war

XXVIII

Cluekid Interview by Charlotte Raynesford Interview with a young Dubstep hero

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The Highs and Lows of Spain by Nikol Danielle Gow Football and hangovers in and around Barcelona

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The Joy of the Internet by Charlie Gilmour There is a lot of offensive shit out there…

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Facebook: Friend or Foe?

In a recent edition of Newsweek, journalist Steven Levy tackled the tendencies of two Internet giants: Facebook and MySpace. As we move along at a frightening pace of globalization these two dot.com phenomena continue to mould the “norms” of social behavior. The positive results of these two social networking sites have been well charted. We all know the blurb: Bringing people closer together. Needless to mention the much applauded sharing of photos and co-ordination of events, the pros are largely indisputable. The heyday of Friends Reunited is long gone now. But after reading Levy’s disturbing revelation that MySpace exec Steve Pearman had taken the unprecedented step of befriending a potato on his website, allow me to borrow a phrase from Sex and the City’s Carrie Bradshaw in stating: “I couldn’t help but wonder… Facebook: Friend or Foe?” I do not think it is too bold to say that most of us are now familiar with the Facebook routine. The excited buzz when a friend request is patched through to your account. The feeling of worth that is attached to the much desired ‘(1)’ in your inbox. But we are equally familiar with the rejection that comes when you log in to find a distinct lack of activity on your page, only to have the “newsfeed” thrown at you, charting the goings on in other people’s internet spaces.

After a heightened amount of ranting on my behalf in reference to the evils of globalization and the unhealthy results of this website, an animated discussion in a quiet Yorkshire pub escalated out of control and I realized it was time to put my money where my mouth was. A bet was placed. I was to join a movement that was growing in momentum: Facebook suicide. If only such a thing could really be achieved. Instead I met with Facebook Deactivation. Your account is to be stored on the Facebook annals forevermore. Refreshing as it was to no longer learn of the termination of acquaintances’ relationships or decisions to join a new group as inane as “we hate Tom from Shipwrecked”, isolation soon followed. After failing to hear of a dinner party at my own house, as I was not a part of the event on the web community, I

realised that the decision to die a Facebook death actually had real social implications. I started to have withdrawal symptoms. As the end of University edged nearer I unceremoniously logged back in. It is with a heavy heart that I admit there was no real fanfare upon my return but on the whole my Facebook resurrection has been advantageous. Although my “editor” wouldn’t have been able to hassle me as easily without the return of my profile, it would be naïve to think that a Facebook death is very black and white in the day and age that we live in. This article serves no real purpose other than the opportunity to rant and vent and deliver a few already wellknown facts. Yet for what it is worth, my conclusion would certainly be this – by all means tread the Facebook boards but probably best to do so with caution and armed with a very cynical approach.

CONGRATULATIONS REBECCA, YOU ARE THIS ISSUE’S PRIZE WINNER! YOU HAVE WON TWO TICKETS TO ALTON TOWERS. PLEASE GET IN CONTACT. YOU MUST COLLECT YOUR PRIZE IN PERSON BEFORE SEPTEMBER. SAFE, BRUV.

Facebook: Friend or Foe?

CONGRATULATIONS REBECCA, YOU ARE THIS ISSUE’S PRIZE WINNER! YOU HAVE WON TWO TICKETS TO ALTON TOWERS. PLEASE GET IN CONTACT. YOU MUST COLLECT YOUR PRIZE IN PERSON BEFORE SEPTEMBER. SAFE, BRUV.

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DOMESTIC

Not a good look

A Sticky situation

Amy Tipper

RAJ

The Sunday Times published an article a few months ago on the art of female rage. I say ‘art’ because really, if you’re going to get it right, it’s far better to do it with bombastic flair as well as getting the aesthetics in tune. Stilettos do help. Rage, used in the right setting, with the perfect countenance can appear rather glamorous, it’s associated with red lipstick and ‘sticking it’ to polite societal conventions. It is especially effective When it’s done in an icy rage – think Meryl Streep in just about any part she’s ever played. Unfortunately rage is far better played out on the big screen. If the performance isn’t backlit and lacks a Hitchcock score it looks far more like a temper tantrum, mildly amusing to watch on a four year old girl; hideous on anyone old enough to tie their shoelaces. If anyone has admired a ‘don’t fuck with me - Seriously’ glare it’s likely it came from someone un-hormonal and sober. Because, sadly, drunk rages are far more common than a controlled arsenic-laced look. Mine took place in a lovely restaurant on the Kings Road. Arguing with my boyfriend about something that was vitally paramount at the time but almost as important as the lychee martinis my brain was swimming in. A rather rude woman, wearing the wrong shade of lipstick, leaned over from the next table and told me loudly to “Shut up” to which I made no reply. After finishing my sentence which was of little

or no relevance whatsoever, I stood up, left the table and threw my drink over the women’s face. Drunk and indignant I trotted out of the restaurant. I was euphoric. My boyfriend, who had been left to pay the bill and asked to leave the restaurant, was less so. Home to bed – well, bed for him, sofa for me. The next morning I was hugely ashamed, full of self-loathing and utterly, utterly ill. And it served me right. I’m only now beginning to stop blushing and the ‘sensible’ voice in my head is slowly starting to quieten its tirade of condemnation. But sadly I’m wondering if I’ve actually learnt anything from the experience. Because if I’m going to be perfectly honest the bit that really, really gets to me when I play the tragedy over in my head, is the fact I was wearing a pair of battered converse when I did the deed. What a bloody waste.

I take myself back 16 years to April fool’s day, 1992 and I am sitting in front of a very important looking doctor who is sternly inspecting my face. He draws back and resolutely informs me that I have a foreign body stuck up my nose. My imagination runs wild and I am convinced that he is talking about a worry doll, tiny African dolls made of cotton wrapped around wire that, traditionally, you tell your worries and put under your pillow as you sleep so they can get to work and make them disappear. I try to think back to a situation when I may have shoved one of those little foreign things up there. Perhaps in a moment of pure madness or of youthful exploration? But then I remember... Twelve months before I had had a great time at the school fete but when we got home my friend, her dad and I were locked out of my house. While we waited for my mum to come home we decided to play a treacherous game which involved trying to reach pieces of silly string that lay on the grass of my next door neighbour ’s front garden. Resting our tummies on the wall we stretched as far as we could, battling it out to get the most string. Within about five minutes I found myself flat on my face with blood gushing from my nose. I had never had a nose bleed before. Eventually my mum came home to find me covered in blood and my friend’s dad completely freaking out. She let us all into the house and after about an hour of balling my eyes out and at

least six boxes of blood soaked tissues, drove me to hospital. The doctors xrayed me and sent me home reassuring us that my nose was not broken and that it would stop bleeding. After a year of suffering endless sinus infections, colds, bad breath and numerous doctor appointments I have finally met the specialist who took one look at me and gave me the rather bizarre diagnosis. He offers to put me under general anaesthetic to get the “foreign body” out but concludes that it would be quicker and easier to just pull it out on the spot. I sit wide eyed and terrified as he collects his tools. He comes towards me with an anaesthetic spray which he sprays up my nostril, I retch from the taste it leaves as it trickles into my mouth. The tweezers he uses are huge and sharp. After what feels like hours of fiddling around he starts to pull. It is fucking agony. He kindly explains that the object has begun to calcify and that’s why it might hurt... a little! So what he ends up pulling out of my nose is actually a 2.5 inch long, hollow stick. The fact that it was hollow enabled me to breath. The fact that it was 2.5 inches meant that it went straight into the sinus that runs under your eye, any longer and it would have gone straight to my brain. Of course no one believed my stupid tale at the time but it was no April fool. Honest. Artwork by Anna Chilton www.annachilton.co.uk

VII

DOMESTIC

Not a good look

A Sticky situation

Amy Tipper

RAJ

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BIOLOGY

Cheating: the Biological Norm Matthew Wainhouse “I was drunk,” they say “It meant wouldn’t think he was such a great catch. By forming pairs each individual ensures nothing.” But no matter how much they plead and however hard you try to forgive, the fact that they were 8 pints none the wiser does fuck all to rebuild two years of faith and devotion. Being cheated on hurts. A lot. But knowing this, we still do it. 80% of married men in America have had extra maritals and the longer the relationship the greater the likelihood of having a cheeky quickie with the neighbour. Maybe, as humans, moral depravity is in our nature as a remnant of original sin. However, in my opinion cheating is not a question of the morality of human nature but an immutable fragment of the meaning of life. Evolution teaches that life has 2 goals: The first is to reproduce and get your genes to the next generation as much as possible; the second is to survive long enough to do it. The truth of the matter is that this applies to humans too. Birds, like humans, form monogamous pairs. They rely on physical looks for an accurate description of genetic quality, which will in turn be passed to their offspring. A swallow picks a mate with a symmetrical tail because it suggests it has no developmental diseases or parasites. Looks can tell a lot about someone. For example, if you saw the elephant man bopping up and down on the dance floor, dragging his club foot behind him to the bar, you probably

they have a partner to do the dirty, make a baby, and pass on their genes.

But if big daddy evo really wants us to reproduce as much as we can then why are we putting all our eggs in one basket? B-Bum Chee. The more seed you sow the bigger the harvest. And by sowing more seed (or growing it if you’re a lady) the better the chance of your genes surviving to the next generation. Females can only get pregnant for a limited time a month i.e. oestrous in humans (the mechanics are different for birds but a similar principle exists). In the lead up to oestrous, male birds will guard the females more and more closely. This way he knows he’s not going to mistakenly raise some other little love rat’s chicks in his nest. That would not be productive. And it’s the same in humans. The closer a women gets to oestrous the more attentive we boys become and the more aggressive we get to guys that get too close. It’s a subconscious mortise lock that gradually rotates to keep grubby fingers (and other bits) out of your cookie jar. But it’s not quite as easy as that for us boys, because the moment we actually want to get close to our girls, they’re hell bent on getting away. Studies have shown that women find their husbands less attractive at this impregnation point, while other guys appear a whole

lot more sexy. Mate guarding works as a good defence in the animal kingdom against those pesky extra-pair sexy-times, but it’s not impenetrable. We still need to do all those things we may need to do alone: eat, sleep, take a shit. So it’s good to have other guards. Almost all animals from insects to apes possess the ability to manipulate the number of sperm in each load. When there’s little male competition, the sperm count goes down and facing a high level of competition the relative cum count goes up. It comes then as little surprise that when a lady has been unfaithful a man will overcompensate his sperm number. This puts the sperm lottery in his favour, and when you’ve got to be in it to win it (literally), you want the balance tipped in your favour. Male sex behaviour also changes in response to adultery, or even the thought of possible adultery. The deep, hard thrusting of that dirty, angry post-argument sex is a guy’s action of removing another male’s sperm from the womb with his penis. Even the shape of our cocks acts as an anti-cheat tool. It has evolved to create a vaginal vacuum that forces the first guy’s spunk under the bell end of the second guy’s cock so he can scoop it out in the return motion. But if all the sperm isn’t scooped out and some get through then all is not lost. Enter the Kamikaze sperm. Over 20 different Kamikaze sperm have been discovered so far, with no DNA or function other than to seek and destroy enemy sperm. When two cum loads are mixed, it breaks down to all out

biochemical warfare as each load attempts to disarm and destroy the other. It is human vanity that assumes we are anything more than just animals. Yet in the case of our cheat-defence armoury we may be a cut above the rest. We have the ability to feel emotions beyond the primal sensations of fear, hunger, anger etc. Complex feelings of guilt and sympathy require self-reflection and recognition of our own actions. I’m sure some amongst you will argue that these feelings are the heart and soul that give life to our moral backbones. Selfreflection is the nuke in our evolutionary armada that stops us from doing the things that will come back to haunt us and that includes being a cheat. Morality implies right or wrong. But human (or animal) nature is not as black and white. It can’t be right or wrong. It simply…… is. Self-reflection brings a greater responsibility for our actions and although biologically normal, we are in a unique position to choose not to do it. So what really is the point of this rant? That cheating on your loved one is the biological norm. When the Bloodhound Gang were singing “…we aint nothing but mammals, so let’s do it like they do on the discovery channel,” they weren’t making a crude reference to getting a bone on doggy style, but ‘let me go fuck other women in the vain hope of levering my genes into the next generation’. While this sentiment may not be entirely relevant to the 20 th century homo sapien, we cannot escape the fact that as animals we will cheat.

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BIOLOGY

they have a partner to do the dirty, make a baby, and pass on their genes.

Global 2007 Review

COMPETITION

Ken Dog Global Gathering was the highlight of the summer for me. Get there early on the Friday, as four-hour queues just to get in await those who think they’ll get there twenty minutes before the first act. Once in it’s a scramble to find a 3 foot area to pitch your £5 tent which it turns out looks EXACTLY the same as everyone else’s and will result in some “comedy” misunderstanding at 5 in the morning! Having navigated around those who got a bit over excited, (the world gurning champion rolling around in a puddle before the first day had started), it’s quick and easy to get into the actual arena. Once in, make your choice- if your feeling energetic there’s the drum and bass tent. See some upand-comers at the Mix Mag tent, trance classics in the God’s Kitchen or lose the plot and bounce off the walls in the hard house arena. These are just a few of the numerous musical options you have to pump your fists to.

There is also the fairground which hosts some of the most mental rides around, but if you’ve spent the previous hour talking to your hand and licking the wall of one of the tents then getting thrown 60ft in the air at 90 miles an hour really isn’t the best idea. All in all though the acts, for the most part, are amazing. There is something for all dance music tastes. The atmosphere is friendly, facilities plentiful and I cannot wait for this year ’s event, though hopefully this time I’ll remember my fucking wellies! Highlights of 2007: Van Buuren, Eddie Halliwell, Faithless, Boyz Noize Lowlights: Rain, people up all night misquoting human traffic in the next door tent, getting hassled to buy generic white powder which is marketed as something else by some of the more dubious characters in there.

Replica are offering one lucky winner the chance to win a pair of weekend tickets to the world’s biggest and most popular dance and live music festival, Global Gathering. Kanye West, Mark Ronson, Moby and Roisin Murphy will headline the world’s biggest electronic festival, joining a line up that features the greatest DJs on the planet including Armin Van Buuren, Tiesto and David Guetta. 50,000 people are once again expected to congregate at the Long Marston Airfield on the 25 th and 26 th July to soak up the incredible atmosphere. The festival assembles the greatest DJs from all around the world and the best live bands on the scene. Winners will be able to explore the

sixteen arenas over two days that play host to every genre of music from Disco House to drum and bass, block rocking beats and pumping euphoric trance. For full details see www.globalgathering.co.uk. To enter all you have to do is write a short article about an interesting festival experience. It can be about anything- an embarrassing story, a performance not to forget, whatever. Please send entries to competition@replicamag.co.uk. The winner will be published in the next edition and will receive two tickets to this year ’s Global Gathering. Articles should be about 250 words (350 max) and can include photos too. The closing date for the competition is the 15 th of July, so get writing.

WINNERS TO BE ANNOUNCED IN THE NEXT ISSUE

Global 2007 Review

COMPETITION

WINNERS TO BE ANNOUNCED IN THE NEXT ISSUE

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Thank fuck a few people noticed that the theme was â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;aquaticâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. A big thanks to Mark Mitchison for this incredible photo of a whale shark, taken on a diving excursion in the Seychelles.

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MISC

Hybrid Hero

Three Blind Mice

TGF Of course, hybrid cars wouldn’t be around were there not a market for them , but are they really saving the planet or are they just a marketing man’s ploy to part us from our cash? I think it’s fair to say that the people at Toyota were exploiting the ‘green fad’ when they designed the Prius. Although it is not the ugliest of beasts, it does still have the awkward, frumpy look of an electric car. It cries out: “I’m saving

the environment, what are you doing, scumbag?” And that is all it is. Filling a gap in the market. The Prius is not a must-have item for only the most dedicated of tree-huggers. It is for people who want to look like they care but only want to put in the smallest amount of effort. Imagine the amount of emissions given off in the creation of a new car. Smelting of metal, transport of parts across the globe. If you really want

to help the planet then buy an old car that has already been built. In doing that, you have probably

Oliver Soden After, if you still really want to jump on the hybrid bandwagon then you can get your old banger converted. There are companies that will do this for you: http://www.ecobusinesslinks.com/hybri d_conversion.htm

I’m not saying that hybrids are a bad thing, they are a great thing. People will always want to buy new cars and the new cars being sold should be as environmentally sound as possible. The point is that giving up a new car for an older model will help reduce emissions. Until we are on the brink of a massive crisis people will not realise that by opting for the new car you are actually sacrificing more. A Prius is a fashion statement for the middle classes. You can NOT claim that you are saving the planet by buying a hybrid. It is a trendy, lazy option that people think makes them look good.

I. Oh mice with ears so pink and whiskers grey, Oh mice with glasses dark and sticks of white P’raps ne’er again shalt see that jocund day For blind thou art and shalt not see the light. Observe how fast in pace and speed they run Though tripping over tables, chairs and feet. For ‘though their eyes are distant from the sun, In dark or light they steal the farmer’s meat. But lo! What foot is heard upon the stair? A woman’s tread, no Farmer’s manly clump, The knife is raised, an aim is ta'en with care, And all that’s left to see’s a bloody stump. For oh! Was ever such a thing so seen, For farmer’s wife to cut their tails so clean?

If you really cared you’d walk.

saved more emissions than you would in a lifetime of driving your new hybrid. Simple.

NAFF Artwork by Anna Chilton www.annachilton.co.uk

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MISC

Hybrid Hero

Three Blind Mice

to help the planet then buy an old car that has already been built. In doing that, you have probably

If you really cared you’d walk.

saved more emissions than you would in a lifetime of driving your new hybrid. Simple.

NAFF Artwork by Anna Chilton www.annachilton.co.uk

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PARENTING

Monster Mom

tucked in pockets of my favorite musthave (and mom-funded) Calvin Klein jeans. Upon discovery of the hidden minions of grossness, my initial fearinduced outburst was quickly followed by that familiar giggle and, now, joined with the uncontrolled laughter of my two tiny brothers. “Your sister is an old soul, boys,” she explained, “Since she was born, she has been older than me.”

Dusty Gilbert Many mothers, at least I am told , teach their children life’s lessons through words of wisdom illustrated in metaphors and serious life discussions. But, that’s not my mom’s style. With as little as 5 or 6 years of life experience under my belt, my eyes would often fixate on the speedometer of her eighties born Le Car and, in my most serious mouse-sounding voice, I would spout out commands like “Mom, slow down you are going almost 9.5 miles and hour over the speed limit.” She would look at me, lovingly smile and say, “You are an old spirit. You were older than me since the day you were born.” Then, she would laugh, press on the gas and wait for my utterly appalled reaction. Giggling again, she would proclaim, “Sweet girl, I am not laughing at you. I am laughing with you.” I, of course, was never laughing. Monster Mom, her favorite alter-ego, consistently made random cameos in my childhood. When I was giving my mom a particularly hard time, or sometimes for no reason at all, she would stop, shake around a little and undergo her signature theatrical possession sequence. “Oh no, Dusty,” she would shout, “Its coming. I can’t stop it. Monster Mom!” I knew what was next; running was my only option. Chasing me down the street, through our West Houston condo, up and down the beach or around just about any location, she would channel her best

To this day, my mom loves to peak at Christmas gifts, hides around the corner waiting for the big scare and sings “Back to Life. Back to Reality” on the airplane returning from every vacation. There is no doubt that, given the opportunity, she will hide a plastic rodent somewhere in my newly purchased first home. And, when I find that nasty creature, I will still shriek and roll my eyes. She will still laugh.

monster voice, roaring as she caught me and tickling me into submission. Topping it off with a shower of kisses, I would plead in agony for Monster Mom to retreat as I raised my hypothetical white flag. The battle was lost, my snotty attitude was not only intact but momentarily on steroids. Rolling my eyes at her childish behavior, she would just laugh. In my tween and teenage years, Monster Mom did not come around as often. She quickly learned that my little brothers, both very young, were different than I had been. They were terrified, rather than irritated, by the appearance of her “clone” from the

dark side. Seeing as Monster Mom now inevitably resulted in a crowded bed, no sleep and a collection of small bruises from the kicking legs of sleeping little boys, my familiar maternal nemesis seemed to be a victim of circumstance. I was wrong. Monster Mom was reborn. Her reincarnated form was an impressive collection of dollar store plastic rats with beady red eyes, long spotted snakes and synthetic toy roaches. These vermin would appear under my pillow, in my box of popsicles, in the bathroom drawers and even

You see, my mom doesn’t usually speak in metaphors. Her words of wisdom are expressed in harmless practical jokesAerosmith and Madonna tunes playing way too loud, forwarded text messages of our shared Scorpio horoscope and an outspoken opinion about the boring nature of blueberry muffins. Her lessons remind me to laugh, to embrace the moment, to break the rules sometimes and to strive for something more than ordinary. So, don’t tell my mom this, but I have always secretly loved being “older” than her. She and I are kindred spirits. My mom keeps me young and sometimes, I make her turn down the music.

Artwork by Anna Chilton www.annachilton.co.uk

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PARENTING

Monster Mom

Artwork by Anna Chilton www.annachilton.co.uk

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TRAVEL

Borneo Bends John Owen Now that the sirens were wailing and the boat was waiting, I couldn’t help but feel I was slightly out of place. The ambulance, which had been taking advantage of its right to break all speed limits, pulled over to the side of the road. Cigarettes firmly gripped, the two medics emerged from the front of the vehicle to take advantage of their swift progress for a brief smoke and a bit of small talk. Despite not being able to live up to the emergency status with which I had been labeled, I still felt a pang of bemusement. Weren’t these guys supposed to be rushing the kid with the bends to a decompression chamber, and quick? People would have you think that scuba diving is a potentially dangerous pursuit. This may or may not be correct, but I would say that at 6 meters down you wouldn’t think the chances of death/crippling injury were all that high. Having picked a ‘charity’ in my gap year which conveniently was charitable enough to let us do some diving (in aid of a reef survey, of course) I had spent a few days enjoying the aquatic expanses that spread beyond north eastern Borneo. Learning my BCD’s from my regulators I had bumbled my way through the diving course and was looking forward to a day or two of surveying some reef. As it happened, the reef would miss out on my inept attempts to catalogue it. The sleeping facilities on the island on which we were diving consisted of deep,

coffin-like arrangements. Made from rectangular bits of fabric, they were attached to long wooden supports at the head and feet. They seemed practical enough but any weight on them would cause the middle to sag dramatically, leaving the user immersed, womb like, in their sleeping quarters. It was in this foetal state that I woke up one morning, desperately needing a piss, with an urgent sprint seeming likely. My bladder weighing heavily on my mind, my body got ready to lurch out of bed and go through the process of functioning normally. Except that it did nothing of the sort. Instead, it lay there, pathetically immobile. Through a bit of will power and a shuffle that had more in common with a decrepit pensioner than a 17 year old gapper, I managed to avoid wetting myself. After this close shave I figured it was time to have a word with our group supervisor, because I had no strength in my body and also because I figured that older people knew everything. "Drink more water". So I drank. This didn’t help. In fact, it meant that half of my hours for the next few days were spent shuffling to the toilet. The "drink more water" mantra quickly lost its novelty and I was sent back to base camp once the supervisor realised frequent liquids weren’t the answer to all of life’s problems. After a partial recovery, fed by terrible movies and general idleness , things started getting a bit bizarre. The chief medic back at base camp came to the conclusion that I had decompression sickness and that I had to be immediately rushed to the local hospital. My argument that, far from

being paralysed and nearly dead, I actually felt quite rested was deemed irrelevant at this time. The feeling of being a bit of a fraud kicked in and before long I was in A & E, amongst the maimed and suffering, making the appropriate noises and grimaces. I spent a night there with a drip in my arm accompanied by a soundtrack of life support machines and the next day was shuttled, via speeding ambulance, to a passenger ship. Complete with paying passengers, it was waiting for this kid (me?) who had the bends and supposedly needed an urgent lift across to the naval base. Here was one of only two decompression chambers in the whole of Borneo. Having failed to persuade the woman from the charity accompanying me that calling my parents after, and not before, the whole decompression thing would be a good idea, I was led by some very excited staff to the decompression chamber. I had an image of mum and dad freaking out a few continents away and contemplating a paralysed son whilst I prepared to enter what looked like a tiny submarine hunky dory save from a dubious nights rest. I was checked for the usual signs of decompression sickness "does it hurt here?" "err, yes?" "and here?" "now you mention it…" before climbing in by myself, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy in hand. This was noted as unusual by the medic, who said most went in nearly dead, full of bubbles and unable to move. Aside from worrying what a decompression chamber might do to someone who didn’t need it and having

to wear one of those face masks they put on in TOP GUN when things get tough, it was an easy 6 hours. I became an object of interest, and curious faces peered in at me through the portholes along the side. They waved, I waved back. So things passed. Once out, I went through a similar routine, slightly altered, to the one I had when I went in "does it hurt here?" "not anymore!" "and here?" "oh, no, far better". It’s not that I was trying to be a fraud, it’s just that I was going into the chamber whether I liked it or not and I figured it was better not to disappoint the morbidly fascinated. Having called my parents to let them know I could move and was alive and stuff, I slept over at the naval base, drip in arm as before. The next morning saw things getting a bit more glamorous and I was photoed, drip still in arm and big white sheet for clothing, by a doctor who said he wanted to put me in a journal. It would be as a case study for the mildest case of the bends he had ever seen. I never saw the article. I sadly don’t know where I can find it or for what purposes it has been used. All I know is that I am out there, somewhere, eyes blacked out and pulling an awkward pose next to some spiel claiming something that is probably untrue. After all this, I was sent on my way with a tin of condensed milk courtesy of the Red Cross.

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XXI I may be a medical fraud, but then again who knows? My only theory, aside from the unlikely idea of having a ‘mild case of the bends’, is based on the consumption of something that was supposed to actually protect me; malarial tablets. They are wide ranging, and it seemed a good idea at the time to get those which only needed to be taken once a week, proving perfect for the traveler who is either lazy, forgetful, or both. The small downside of this is that they were also

most notorious for side effects- from nightmarish dreams to diahorrea, they may temporarily screw you up. I’ve accepted the fact that I will never actually know. For those looking for a point to this tale, I guess the moral of the story could be choose your tablets wisely. However, I prefer to think it’s a bit more British; when everyone else is convinced you are a near death bends victim when you are not, don’t rock the boat.

aer·o·em·bo·lism (the bends) Noun An acute condition caused by a rapid substantial decrease in atmospheric pressure, as in high-altitude flying and coming up from deep-sea diving, characterised by the formation of nitrogen bubbles in the blood, severe pain in the lungs and joints, and neurological impairment. fr·au·d (no bends) Noun A person without the bends; a normal person, feeling a bit woosy?

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I’ll admit I’m an addict, a slave to the drug of Kate Moss and her undeniable allure and mystery, combined with her fashion sense and rock’n’roll lifestyle. With Kate’s new summer collection for Topshop just launched, we are once again reminded of that all powerful creature - the celebrity. With high street labels falling over themselves to get a famous name ‘designing’ a range for them and designer labels employing the celebrity to front advertising campaigns, I ask, are we being exploited as consumers? Has the celebrity brand come too far into our lives, setting its course for world domination? Kate Moss’ opening range at Topshop caused a media frenzy and congestion on Oxford Street as thousands of shoppers barged their way into the Monday night opening. Although not the first, Moss was the landmark event that brought to our attention the growing trend of celebrity ‘designers’ lending their name to and boosting sales for high street stores, as well as bagging a lorry load of cash I don’t doubt. I myself have not bought anything from any of these collections (not to say that I definitely wont) however I increasingly see them popping up on everyone on the high street. Is this what we want as consumers? To all be given a uniform by a celebrity and look like them? Apparently so. "I think it's a response to the fact that we live in a celebrityobsessed culture. Look at the best selling newspapers and magazines - people are obsessed," said New Look spokeswoman Sarah Walter. "As long as our customers want to identify with celebrities, we will continue to try to supply exactly what

they need.’ But then, the other voice in my head says who cares? If you don’t want it, don’t buy it! Surely everyone is out for themselves, if Kylie wants to launch a successful perfume and make millions good on her! Maybe it makes people happy, people like the perfume, so what? To quote Katie Price, aka Jordan; “doing my underwear is a good way girls can feel and look like me." So she wears underwear from Asda? I think not, the narcissism in this comment and the tragic reality that society does want to be its own celebrities, is all contributing to the quickly and cheaply produced products we see hitting our high street stores. Designer brands know not to miss out on a marketing gem, creating their own spin on the celebrity obsession, resorting to using celebrity models to front their high class campaigns. Recent ones include Kirsten Dunst for Miu Miu, Madonna for Versace and Ashton Kutcher for Pepe jeans. Using a celeb as their model inevitably boosts sales and higher the profile of the star, but is the fashion industry manipulating its customers and using branding as an unabashed method of selling their products. If so, is this wrong? Who dictates the trend? I asked a few people what they thought of the recent celebrity obsessed fashion trends:

What the public say:

What they say:

Virginia Newman, 20: Student – ‘I think that celebrity designers is just another aspect of society putting celebrities on pedestals and wanting to be them rather than dressing as themselves.’

Kate Moss, model and designer – ‘I love clothes and I just thought it’d be fun to do really. I’ve been modelling for fifteen years so I just thought it was a natural kind of progression. I shop at Topshop, before, you know, I have done for years, I was really happy to do it for them.’

Jess Edwards, 20: student and MSN employee: ‘In our current consumer crazed society everything has become reduced to an abstract. Nothing has real material value anymore. Take for example the hundreds of pounds extra some people would pay to have a logo on their clothing. Everything becomes an end in itself; where products are produced just so they can be consumed without thought process or contemplation. This concept is also evident in the endless reel of 'popular' television that swamps our screens.’ Michael Foster, 21: student; ‘I think its inspiring to see new ranges of clothing. As to whether or not models and celebrities should be given the freedom to do this, as opposed to experienced fashion designers is another question. Are they designing what they want or what the public want?’

Lily Allen, singer and designer - "I don't really understand why anyone would come and buy these dresses, so I am preparing for the shame of tumbleweed in Oxford Street when no-one wants them,“ "They asked me to make six dresses that I would wear, so that's what I did, it's their problem if they sell them or not." Lily Allen seems to have given a truthful opinion about how she feels about her collection, and the attitude she had towards designing or inspiring them. So the question remains, are these celebrities truly aspiring designers? Or a further snowflake on the ever growing snowballing capitalist commercialism of contemporary society? I will leave you to pick your side.

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What the public say:

What they say:

Virginia Newman, 20: Student – ‘I think that celebrity designers is just another aspect of society putting celebrities on pedestals and wanting to be them rather than dressing as themselves.’

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Charity Tourism: Ethical Travel or New Colonialism? Andrew Rogers It’s that beautiful time of year again. Schools, universities and colleges everywhere break for the summer and many weeks stretch aheadasking to be filled. The growing culture of volunteer work and the increased ease with which young people are able to travel in developing countries means that this year vast numbers of students, ‘gap-yearers’ and general adventurers will be moving onto pastures new in the form of Volunteering Projects. But is this a good thing?

thing to do? Having spent a month last year involved in two short term gap year volunteering projects, I feel safe in suggesting that they do not always run totally to plan.

A Times article written in 2006 accused the growing trend of ‘charity tourism’ of adopting a ‘colonial attitude’, and many suggest that unskilled young volunteers can do more harm than good. With so many options out there and so many ethical considerations, what is the right

In February 2007, our team arrived fresh faced and energetic at the Jajiwal Brahmana primary school in Rajasthan, India. Our task- to repaint the school, build benches and install electric fans. Put like that, it sounds a little mundane, but for me, the project worked. What came across as we spent those two weeks at the Jajiwal Brahmana was that whilst our physical contribution to the school (and the money we donated towards its completion) was important, the people we met and the insight we gained into a way of life so different to our own made a far more lasting impression on us and those living

DON’T

Research the company you go with Gain some understanding of the local language and customs Try to interact above and beyond basic requirement Cooperate with your group Get stuck in and have fun

Overestimate the impact of your contribution Shirk out of work responsibilities Get angry!

around the school. Conversation was, admittedly, limited to the three sentences of Hindi that I had learned and the English skills of the Rajasthani’s which was not much better. What made the project work was the willingness of everyone to lend a hand; although our group was 16 strong, that number was doubled most days by the locals. Although the achievements of two weeks graft could never be large, the games of football we played, the cigarette swapping and so on left a lasting impression on me and I hope on everyone else involved. In this instance I find it difficult to accept the claims of new colonialism, as whilst the work was unskilled and perhaps fairly minor in the long run, there were a vast number of positives that could be taken away. It is worth stating that not all projects run so smoothly. I have also been involved in a dam-building project that was managed differently and which raised a lot of questions about the ethics and, frankly, the point of what we were doing. Even at this time, some positives can be taken, but for me at least these memories are vastly overshadowed by negatives. So for those getting involved in volunteering projects abroad, how can you make sure that you go through a company which ensures that you have a good time, and that the project is a success for everyone involved? Firstly, researching the company that you go with is of great importance. With the

reputation of ‘charity tourism’ becoming increasingly tarnished, picking a company whose primary aim is not simply to profit and which sustains the project that it undertakes is not always easy. Some volunteering companies can lure in customers without offering a great deal of information about the projects being undertaken or the long term goals of the company. Due to the short term and unskilled nature of these volunteer programs, when the time is up projects are often left unfinished or unsatisfactory, with no way for people in the community to finish or improve the work that has been started. Bearing this is mind, it is worth doing some homework into the policies of the company you chose, to ensure that your time, effort and money are used in a responsible and ethical way which you can feel proud of. Having spent time involved in one project in which resources were possibly misused, I can testify that it is not a good feeling. Although you can do a lot to choose an ethical company, you can only do so much. Volunteering companies operating within the UK will often partner companies in other countries, and even when all harbour the best intentions, things can still go awry. In fact, both volunteering projects that I have undertaken were with the same UK based company, but were very different in terms of how well organised and useful they were. I have even heard stories of people turning up for projects which were nonexistent! Photo by Andrew Rogers

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thing to do? Having spent a month last year involved in two short term gap year volunteering projects, I feel safe in suggesting that they do not always run totally to plan.

DON’T

Research the company you go with Gain some understanding of the local language and customs Try to interact above and beyond basic requirement Cooperate with your group Get stuck in and have fun

Overestimate the impact of your contribution Shirk out of work responsibilities Get angry!

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Fishey Fishey Fishey TGF I am writing today to air my disgust at Tesco’s recent announcement of its new range of wild meats. As of September the supermarket will be introducing wild caught venison, fowl and even Wildebeest. A spokesman had this to say: ‘Wildebeest meat

is very similar to that of domesticated cattle, and there are so many of them in Africa we do not see a problem with culling a limited numberabout 1 million a year.’ Don’t worry, THIS IS A LIE. But imagine if it were true- there would be national outcry. Greenpeace would go to arms. So why does no one bat an eye-lid when Captain Birdseye gets on

TV and starts raving about how good his ‘wild-caught’ Salmon is? The problem is that ‘wild-caught’ sounds good because of some fashionable infatuation with organic food. If people could actually see the effect of catching wild fish then it would be different.

Fishing is the only major food source that is still obtained mostly from Mother Nature. We said goodbye to a primitive hunter-gatherer life style over 10,000 years ago when we decided to cultivate our own crops and animals, yet somehow this one has managed to escape the net. In 2003, the total output of world fisheries was 132.2 million tonnes, of which farmed fish contributed only 41.9 million tonnes (about 31%).

That equates to over 90 million tonnes of fish being pulled from the seas each year. Is it really possible that this is having no effect on aquatic ecosystems? Of course not. Not only that but bad fishing practice causes untold damage to the sea. There are many examples of fishing being damaging; ‘bottom trawling’ is one of them. This is essentially dragging a Artwork by Anna Chilton www.annachilton.co.uk

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net along the bottom of the sea

and pulling up everything practice continues in line in its path. Slow-growing sea- with current trends, wild floor corals are destroyed; huge clouds of silt are washed up resuspending large amounts of phosphates which cause algal blooms that in turn de-oxygenate the water. The list goes on. Tuna fishing kills dolphins as the tuna follow the dolphins to find the best food. When fish are processed at sea the waste is thrown straight back in.

Shark-finning. Resource depletion. Oil spills. Blood. Guts. Murder. OK, let’s not go over the top now. My argument does not rest on bad practice. My point is that

it is

primitive to still ‘go hunting’ for fish when we have managed to domesticate and farm everything else. With ever-increasing demands for food and a global population set to grow from 6 billion to 9 billion by 2050, if we don’t sort it out soon then over-fishing is going to become widespread. Nature published a research paper in 2006 predicting that, if fishing

fisheries will be depleted by 2048. There is some good news however. ‘Aquaculture’ (fish-farming) is a rapid growth industry at the moment (10% increase a year), while output from wild fisheries has stayed essentially the same for the last decade. In the USA, approximately 90% of all shrimp consumed now come from aquafarms. Worldwide, farmed salmon production increased 10-fold from 1985-95. Slowly our fishing practices are ‘growing-up’. The greenhouse effect was first described over 100 years ago and it wasn’t until the 80’s that global warming was really recognised as a threat. It is only now that we are starting to get our acts together and do something about it. If the Captain can still use the term ‘wild-caught’ in his advertising campaigns then it clearly says something about the understanding of the general public, and suggests that it will take a long time for people to realise that perhaps primitive methods of food gathering are a con, rather than a pro. Think about it next time you’re at Tesco’s.

BUY FARMED FISH

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net along the bottom of the sea

Shark-finning. Resource depletion. Oil spills. Blood. Guts. Murder. OK, let’s not go over the top now. My argument does not rest on bad practice. My point is that

it is

BUY FARMED FISH

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Peteuros Peter Beckett Since the WMD theory went down with the titanic and the facts began telling us that Bush probably knew there had been no one in Iraq since the early nineties, there lies a question that very few who support the war are prepared to answer with any clarity. Some will mutter something- poring over the past not helping us to solve the current crisis; while others will accuse any who ask of treason, for refusing to support the troops. But the question must be posed – if we don't look back how can we possibly plan to look forward? One man who has tried to answer this question, William Clark, thinks that the war wasn’t about weapons or democracy. In fact, he argues that

what the world witnessed in Iraq was the world’s first ‘currency war’. Under the Bretton Woods agreement, all world currencies are pegged to the dollar, establishing it as the world's reserve currency. Two-thirds of world trade is dollar-denominated; as are twothirds of most central banks' official foreign exchange reserves. All international organizations use the dollar as their monetary benchmark, and IMF loans are only given in US dollars. But crucially, every oil trade

from Nigeria to the

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Netherlands, Bahrain to Bangkok, or Saudi Arabia to Singapore – operates through the US greenback. As you can no doubt imagine, this requires a lot of dollars. Countries need dollars to repay their debts to the IMF, to conduct international trade, to build up their currency reserves and to buy oil. The US provides the world with these dollars by buying goods and services produced by foreign countries. These dollars are then held in American banks (the Saudi royal family has billions invested in the New York Central Bank, CitiBank and the Bank of America), who reinvest them in, for instance, sub prime mortgages, stimulating (or, given the current situation, undermining) consumer spending and propping up the retail end of America Inc. But since it does not have a need for foreign currency itself, the US sells far fewer goods and services in return. America can run a huge trade deficit year after year without batting an eyelid. If any other country in the world does that they end up broke and impoverished – Zimbabwe being a prime example. But America can simply print more money without worrying about the value crashing because there is always a need for more dollars. It's the closest you get to a free lunch in international economics.

The position of the dollar as the world's top dog had never been contested before the euro.

Federal Reserve and three years later Iraq suddenly had weapons of mass destruction and needed to be liberated.

Immediately, European central banks and the European Central Bank started reducing the amount of dollars they held. Much of Europe's trade with many of its neighbours was now being done in euros when before it would have been done in dollars. Were the euro to become a reserve currency equal to or instead of the dollar, countries would reduce their dollar holdings while building up their euro savings. In other words Eurozone countries would be able to reduce their subsidy to American consumption and would find that other countries were now subsidising Eurozone consumption instead. But what does this have to do with the War in Iraq? In November 2000, Saddam Hussein decided to switch to the euro for all its oil dealings. Almost overnight, the value of the euro climbed 30% against the US dollar. Alarm bells started ringing at the

A move away from the dollar towards the euro could have a disastrous effect on America as it would no longer be able to spend beyond its means. It would probably have to become a net currency importer as foreigners would probably seek to spend back in the US a large proportion of the estimated three trillion dollars which they currently own. The

free lunch would be well and truly over. The worst case scenario would be a full on dollar crash, which would happen if other countries sought to replace their dollars with euros quickly and at the same time – sending the US into a massive and long-term recession. But the volume of currency Europe can get away with producing is fairly limited by the fact that all oil deals are still done in dollars. The first thing US did when they got to Iraq was to secure the oilfields. The second was to switch all oil transactions back to dollars.

Simply put: yes, it was all about oil.

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from Nigeria to the

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The position of the dollar as the world's top dog had never been contested before the euro.

Federal Reserve and three years later Iraq suddenly had weapons of mass destruction and needed to be liberated.

Simply put: yes, it was all about oil.

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CLUEKID INTERVIEW Charlotte Raynesford interviews one of Dubstep’s rising stars London has always had a thriving underground rave scene. From the old days of 90’s Acid house and hardcore; to the more recent and internationally acclaimed Dubstep, which formed its roots in the deep bass lines of Old school Dub, Garage, Jungle and even HipHop. I caught up with Cluekid, The 20 year old, Star trek and Mr Bean obsessed producer and creator of his own independent label Bullfrog Beats. Young but well sort after and straight out of South London, Cluekid strives for an individualist approach to his Dubstep creations. Aside from his crazy character he is known for the variation of his sounds: his famous “Toad” bases, his collaborations with other producers and the ever growing old jungle influenced sounds. Cluekid walks beside his three dogs in South Norwood Country Park, on this bright and first sunny English day. Typical of his mad character, he starts mumbling comically “I tell you what I think!” with his best Mr Bean voice. Having been asked to be serious he explains why he started to make electronic music. “Right, um, I’ve always liked electronic music, I used to listen to it and wanted to make baselines in the first place, I always wondered how it was made”. He refers back to the days when he was a young drummer, playing songs by The Who and Black Sabbath: “I didn’t actually make it in them days”.

But to the present, Cluekid has progressed to making full and heavily jungle influenced baselines with a fair mix of Dubstep and old school Jungle vibes. He had been going solo with his creative jungle sounds for a while but recently started to work with a fellow south London based producer; L.D.“With the jungle thing, I always liked old school jungle. It just kind of happened by accident about two years ago.” He turns down a path and asks if we should go that way, turning back he says “I did a couple of jungley sounding things like ‘Round 2’ (Bullfrog 002) back then and went from there. That’s the kind of thing I want to push now. You know bringing back a bit of 95’.” “The old rave stuff; I’m trying to re-spark it off. A lot of the music I hear nowadays, everything is jump up and noisy and there’s not really a lot of pads and stuff being used in it”. As many people have said Cluekids knowledge of music seems to stretch far beyond his years. I am curious to find out who inspires him within the scene and our conversation turns to Dubstep producers who have made an impact on him. “Defiantly, Digital Mystiks and Scream. A few people, Cyrus; I like the minimal stuff.” As well as being inspired by his fellow producers, Cluekidhas also worked with a few of them. He made one of the Photo by Emma Dalzell www.emmadalzell.co.uk

biggest tunes of 2007 with Scream‘Sand snake’ (Disfigured Dubs), which sold thousands of copies. “I’ve started a couple of bits with Loefah, I’ve done coproductions with Chefal, L.D, Cotti”. Cluekid famously started as tag team with Cotti, making many co-productions and separate projects but always playing out together. More recently they came out with separate labels, Cluekidwith Bullfrog Beats and Cotti with Baseface. “It’s good the way it is now. Nothing’s really changed, I suppose, we used to only really play out together. But now we’ve got separate labels and separate things as well. It’s good the way it is. That was then.” Would Cluekid ever like to go back to his roots in Grime? He started out making Grime with Cotti and released his first E.P in 2005 with the crew 4N4MAT. “I think Grime is a load of S**t at the moment. It’s too ego driven. There’s no real conscious tunes. Coming from Grime, I suppose I was younger back then, we did a few conscious tunes, you know what I mean? I still had stupid lyrics,” Talking about the aggressive side of things, Cluekid states “Mc wise, it was always quite aggressive music, but I suppose when you’re young, you get caught up in it. There’s not really any imagination in it anymore, it’s not really something I want to go back too”. “But, the thing I liked about Grime was tunes like Pulse- more base driven tunes”. Coming out of Croydon, South London; Dubstep is the Bass driven sound that has been tearing through raves

worldwide. It’s ‘scene’ has really come about over the past two years. It has become an internationally big movement among young people. The likes of a small rave like Forward at Plastic people (Shoreditch, London) a few years back as a dark, half empty room is now bursting to the brim with long queues outside. Cluekid stops and explains “With Dubstep I think it’s basically similar to what happened to older music like old jungle. Since jungle sort of died and drum and base took over and got quite tinny, there hasn’t really been a sound like Jungle- you know a base driven genre. Dubstep does that so I think it had to happen. People can relate to it” He calls back to one of his dogs and says “A lot of the people that listen to Dubstep; most of the time you look at them and wouldn’t think that they were into that kind of music. They appear to have come from an indie background and then on the other side there’s a lot of people coming from Drum and base too.” It’s true that so many people are drawn to the raves from different areas. The diversity in the crowd is a common observation that people comment on. “Dubstep has a nice tempo, it’s not too quick, you can still move to it. The whole time it’s been around, it has had a nice atmosphere. There’s’ never no trouble. I mean people generally don’t wanna go out and have a bad night.”

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CLUEKID CONTINUED…

Photo by Charlotte Raynesford

As a producer, Cluekid is accustomed to serious sound listening, “I usually listen to the beats more than vocals.” On the topic of vocals, we move onto the singer that Cluekid works with regularly and has just released a tune with on his labelArorah. “If my mic wasn’t broken at the moment, I’d be using her a lot more!” he laughs. “We’ve got a few bits lined up to come out. The way I work with her I

suppose; I like the sound of her voice. It kinda matches the stuff I do. She’s got quite an old school feel to her.” He moves closer to the Dictaphone and says with a more powerful tone “she’s not into all this bol***ks, breathy not even singing stuff.” Pioneering producers like Scream and Benny Ill have watched a whole lot

change in the short time Dubtsep has been alive. It was often referred to as “watching a baby grow” a few years back, but even Cluekid has watched changes since his first date with the Dubstep. “When I first came into Dubstep, late 2005DMZ was in 3 rd base. No one really knew about Dubstep; Well, no one I knew anyway. The baseline seemed to be a lot more filtered; it had

an under watery feel to it. There was a lot of half- step, it was fresh.” Larger crowds have become attracted to dubstep recently. Cluekidsays “more and more people have come now. Even the people that slated it before have probably come to realise now, yeah, this is alright.” And so the show goes on...

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CLUEKID CONTINUED…

Photo by Charlotte Raynesford

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Replica Does Not Recommend Angry psychotic Rafael LeFevre is back to tell you what’s wrong with the world... The Metros

The Pigeon Detectives

We have a personal dislike of these hideous pretenders to the indie throne. Bunch of over-styled brainless wankers. Think Oasis but with absolutely no charm or musical merit at all. And the lead singer apparently suffers from coprophagia, a compulsive shit eating condition often disguised as innocent halitosis. If you like derivative bollocks like the Fratellis or that mockney poser Jack Penate (sorry Jack, nothing personal…) then by all means feel free to follow this band. But your grandchildren will just laugh at you and fart into your life support machine and shit in your mouth because it is a scientific FACT that ‘music’ like this rots your brain. They supported the Pigeon Detectives on their recent tour. Says it all really.

So yes, having a shit name is de rigueur for indie bands at the moment but this is just plain crap shit, rather than good shit of the witty ironic variety. Also, they choose cunts like the Metros to support them and come from Yorkshire (!!) of all places. In a trial run at the Huntingdon Life Sciences Centre in Cambridge eight out of ten Marmoset monkeys subjected to their debut album suffered brain haemorrhages. In all they get a decisive thumbs down, from us and from the monkeys. Pick a better name next time cunts. And write some good songs. And get someone other that Jo fucking Whiley to tell us all how “good” you are.

Radio 1

Music

We blame Chris Moyles; Who really needs radio now with iPods and stuff? Boycott the fat obnoxious cunt and make your own dull, inane conversation and listen to your own shit music. You don’t need him to do that for you really, do you?

Sorry, music in general gets thumbs down too. Bit overrated really isn’t it? I mean what modern human needs a bunch of sonic waves to exhilarate their senses, what do you think drugs and sex and Grand Theft Auto IV are for?

Artwork by Anna Chilton www.annachilton.co.uk Right: Artwork by Laura T www.longblondelaura.com

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Replica Does Not Recommend Angry psychotic Rafael LeFevre is back to tell you what’s wrong with the world... The Metros

The Pigeon Detectives

Radio 1

Music

Artwork by Anna Chilton www.annachilton.co.uk Right: Artwork by Laura T www.longblondelaura.com

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Glastonbury 2008 Bob Bean Torrential rain and rivers of mud are a bad start, Glastonbury looks as if its going to be wet and miserable for yet another year. Luckily, after the first day the sun sun sun came out and all was well. I fucking love Glastonbury. Wondering around the enormous site you really feel like you are somewhere unique. The only real problem is that the food (and beer) is far too expensive. It is meant to be a ‘hippy’ festival, yet the food venders are quite happy to exploit people’s hunger and the lack of anywhere else to go for food.

Capitalist swine. What ever happened to free love and sharing? Walking around on the last night and watching some boy being violently sick, I really noticed just what a nasty state everyone was in. Why do we do this to ourselves? People are vile. But its fantastic fun. The ‘Leave no Trace’ slogan was not adhered to. The site at the end of it all was an utter tip. Its pretty sad really- so much waste but much treasure to be found. Working must be the best way to do Glastonbury. My friend got a free ticket, free food and hot showers and in all only had to do about 8 hours ‘work’. His job as ‘green police’ involved going

around and making a

spectacle of people pissing in public. It sounded like the sort of thing I would have liked to do anyway. The Highlights: Laura Marling (I bought her album as soon as I got back) Manu Chao (a proper musiciangenius/prodigy, speaks ten languages) The Verve (only played about 6 songs; only have about 6 good songs though) Leonard Cohen (quote: ‘It is an honour to be performing for you angels born of the mud’. Amazing.) Florence and the Machine (Brilliant performance- Florence has an incredible voice) Kings of Leon (Brilliant, they do not look as cool as they sound though) Crowded House (Dubious) Atomic Hardware (Good performance but perhaps a bit cheesy) Trash City & Shangri La (Maybe not as good as Lost Vagueness but a worthy replacement) I did not see Jay-Z but I hear he was very good. Glastonbury

is not

dead. People say its not what it used to be but that is probably just nostalgic nonsense. It is not a gathering of peace and love. It is a music festival with a fucking good vibe and fuck of a lot of good music. I shall return.

Photo by Thomas Foxley

XXXVI

around and making a

is not

Photo by Thomas Foxley

XXXVIII

XXXIX

TRAVEL III

The Highs and Lows of Spain Nikol Danielle Gow 7.45 a.m. – caught red-handed in blissful slumber. “Where the fuck are you? Bus leaves in 15 minutes” Emma’s

goal in the 90 th minute hovers over me like a mirage in the Sahara.

frantic voice blares down the phone. One minute later, furry-toothed and clad in pyjamas, Adam and I are running down Christchurch Road, Reading wheeling bulky suitcases.

The forsaken coach carrying our future lawyers, bankers and doctors arrives in Salou – a town lacking character, substance and soon any dignity. Each of us is tagged with a wristband- the gateway to cheap drinks and free entries.

Hop on the coach with seconds to spare and off we are to Salou. Put our blistered feet up in anticipation of a restful ride – wishful thinking. Out comes the booze – the legendary ‘Port Challenge’ and all hell breaks loose. Midday arrival at Dover Port and the coach stinks of B.O, cheap cider and human excrement. The Rugby boys spot an unsuspecting Netball girl and shove her into a dustbin. Then, like a pack of wild animals, whip out their tiny willies and begin their mindless ranting. Mindless ranting that was to plague Adam and I for the next 28 hours. One doesn’t realise how large a country France is until trapped on a coach with a bunch of University Jocks. I eventually drift off into restless sleep to the sounds of “We’re Reading till we die.” Adam awoke at 5a.m to pin-drop silence and looked around to find bodies sprawled over chairs and the coach floor. The remnants of a sordid affair. One million times I asked myself how the fuck I got myself into this. All for the love of football and my incessant need to travel. A vision of me scoring the winning

Four days of shit parties, Cheese and sleep-deprivation is all Adam and I can take. I eventually collapse under the pressure near a construction site. Tearstained and desperate we stumble into an English pub. An English pub which turns out to be Liverpool terrain. The ceiling, the walls and even the pool table are all ordained with Scouse memorabilia. How much worse can it get for two United fans? “You know we don’t usually let your type in” says the women behind the bar. Do I have Man U printed on my forehead? Her glare shifts to our wristbands. Suddenly a glimmer of hope – someone who shares our sentiments. My mirage in the Sahara takes form as my poor performance on the football field, the endless nights of chanting and fancy dress all dissolve in this drink of normality. We kept our loyalties to ourselves and drank with the Liverpudlians, desperately clinging on to our sanity until the free day trip into Barcelona – from which we would never return.

Farewell Sweet Salou. Everything seems more bearable as we drive along the Spanish East Coast. The Hung-over silence a breath of fresh air, followed by a burst of laughing gas as our feet touch neutral Barcelona ground. We disembark at Le Rambles, the heart of Barcelona, close to the water ’s edge. I feel like a Traveller once more. “I have Hash – I have Charlie – Good Shit. Good Price!” “No. We’re looking for a place to stay.” “I have room – 20 Euros a night.” I almost consider this offer –But those days are gone – I will be sensible. Barcelona has a certain magic that is hard to describe. Pedestrian pavements are twice as wide as trafficked roads and filled with entertainers. There are Headless Women, Fairies consecrating children, Devils popping out of caskets making children cry; Michael Jackson and Magicians. Restaurants spill out onto the streets. Sunglasses on, sipping Sangria. tales of tapas, intricate infrastructure.Smells of the Spanish kitchen. There are two things we must do before we leave Barcelona – watch a live match at the legendary Camp Nou stadium and find a good rave. “SABRE – Renegade Hardware- DnB” – Sounds promising. We take our chances and venture out of our safety zone into an unfriendly part of town. The MC is a 40 something year old female hippie who shrieks like a banshee

and moves like a plastic bag in the wind. It feels like I’ve heard the DJ’s entire set before. Not enough bass. Not enough Ecstasy in the air. The venue is a bit too ‘nice.’ We fall from our three day high with a painful thud and make our way back to Le Rambles mending the holes that the night has left in our pockets. Our last day in Spain was as follows: 12:00 – Check out of Hotel 15:00 – 16:50 – Man U v Liverpool 17:00 – 18:50 - Barcelona v Valledoid 21:00 – Flight to England Departs So little time, so much room for something to go wrong! And something does go wrong. Horribly wrong. The only way to watch both matches is to find a pub near Camp Nou. We get off at the Maria Cristina underground station at 14.00 and realise that there are no pubs for miles. We run through the streets and search the area in vain. 14.45 and I am ready to accept defeat but Adam stands strong. He pulls me down the stairs to the underground, “Are you insane? We’ll miss BarcelonaValencia if we go somewhere else!” I scream. But Adam is one of those peculiar creatures known as Dieharidcus footfanaticus aka Diehard Football Fans. These specimens will risk anything, a 50 Euro Camp Nou ticket, a year-long relationship, even their lives (for Adam it was when he blindly crossed the road three stations later) to watch their team play. And Barcelona is not Adam’s team, United is.

PTO

XXXVIII

XXXIX

TRAVEL III

The Highs and Lows of Spain Nikol Danielle Gow 7.45 a.m. – caught red-handed in blissful slumber. “Where the fuck are you? Bus leaves in 15 minutes” Emma’s

goal in the 90 th minute hovers over me like a mirage in the Sahara.

frantic voice blares down the phone. One minute later, furry-toothed and clad in pyjamas, Adam and I are running down Christchurch Road, Reading wheeling bulky suitcases.

PTO

XXXX By 15.05, Adam looks suicidal as he glances around the deserted streets of a Spanish suburb that we’ve ended up in. I want to shake the boy for being so God damned OBSESSED, but he looks so genuinely broken that I continue our search as he kicks a wall in frustration. “Adam, come here!” I’ve stumbled across a charming little restaurant, traditional in every sense of the word, full of families eating Sunday lunch. In the corner rests a tiny old television documenting events at Old Trafford. The owners tell us in broken English that they are delighted by our company as tourists never venture into this part of Barcelona. They bring us a selection of cold meats on the house which compels us to order a jug of Sangria. As I sit back and feel the pleasant buzz of an alcoholic beverage in the afternoon, I understand why we’ve pushed ourselves to limitless limits- you just can’t miss a United-

XXXXI Liverpool match so close to the end of the season. The sheer energy of such a match is unbeatable. Even as I sit, on top of the world (for that is what it feels like to have seats at the top of Camp Nou), watching the likes of Henry and Ronaldhino in the flesh, I do not feel the vigour of witnessing age-old rivals battle for victory. I had already climaxed when United beat Liverpool and now I was experiencing the quiet contentment that follows. And there could be no better place for such peaceful reflection. One cannot help but marvel at the splendour of Camp Nou. The architecture is reminiscent of the coliseums of ancient Rome. The manic journey to the stadium and the laborious climb up its stairs is the perfect metaphor for the journey that brought us here. Because when we emerged into the clouds of the reddening Spanish sky, I was sure I’d climbed all the way up to heaven. There was something very special about being in that place, at that precise moment.

Music Editor Charlie Gilmour presents...

The Joy of the Internet A collection of the most weird, wonderful and down right tasteless sites that the world wide web has to offer. Enjoy. http://www.ratemypoo.com/ Pictures of shit. Nutty, runny, mouldy, lumpy, floaty. Green brown, light brown, red brown Shit. And you get to rate it all. http://icanhascheezburger.com/ The cutest and funniest animal abuse collection since that Dutch goosefucking performance artist. Home of the LolCat and other shit, it’s apparently well loltastic. A real Lolocaust for the 21 st Century. http://kittywigs.com More animal abuse related fun times. http://www.brettgilbert.com/fetusinaj ar.html Foetus, who claims he was “gagged out of his mothers hairy love bucket” a little early, answers your many weird and wonderful, well mostly weird and disgusting, questions. It’s a talking foetus in a jar, but is it also a subtle statement about the complexities of the abortion question? No, not really. http://www.jpfo.org/ “Jews for the Preservation of Firearms Ownership”. An honest American society for Rabbis with itchy trigger fingers.

Photos by Nikol Danielle Gow

http://www.loopsmagazine.com/ “If you rope calves, or just like the sport of calf roping, this is the place for you” they say. We say if you like laughing at people dumber than tongueless lobotomy patients this is the place for you. http://www.priestsrapeboys.com/ Does what it says. Uncircumcised old members of the Catholic clergy forcibly penetrate the virgin sphincters of prepubescent boys for your viewing pleasure. Before the dirty mac brigade scrabble for their keyboards and desktop lube, that is a lie, a disgusting lie. See for yourself. http://www.godhatesfags.com/ Whatever. http://www.ouchytheclown.com/ Sadly based in America but for the right price will render his services overseas, Ouchy will fulfil all your sadomasochistic clown fantasies. “Your premier provider of Adult Clown Services” will make you laugh while he hurts you. Trust him, he’s a clown. A leather clad whip wielding sexually deviant dominatrix funny man.

Go ahead, wash, but you’ll never be clean.

Music Editor Charlie Gilmour presents...

Photos by Nikol Danielle Gow

Go ahead, wash, but you’ll never be clean.

XXXXII

XXXXIII

AGONY Dear Uncle Wetlegs, On first impressions, people seem to a) dislike me b) also think I am gay.

UNCLE WETLEGS

Why do you suppose that is? It takes a long time for me to make friends or hook up with girls.

Back again, Lord Wetlegs is here to listen to your woes, solve your problems and collect your tears for the fermenting of Wetlegs Manor Vintage Wine in his private vineyard. Dear Uncle Wetlegs, My johnson has sprouted strange hairy warts, I'm scared. What should I do? Concerned, from Staines First I'd stop molesting the local wildlife (and I'm not trying to be cute about the women of Staines). I mean no more bodgering badger! Then you want a vat of industrial strength sulphuric acid for the eradication of those hairy warts. Just dip your penis, flaccid or otherwise, into the acid for at least one minute. You may feel some discomfort at this but the good news is that it's a once only treatment and I guarantee you will never have a reoccurrence of the warts in that area.

Awaiting your reply, Paul Soskin

Idiot of the issue: Dear Uncle Wetlegs, Why are you such a stupid? Dear Uncle Wetlegs, Is it true you are hung like a donkey? Donkey, racehorse, elephant, puh. I scorn upon making a simile of my python penis. Lets just say I can pleasure a woman from across the room without the use of Tantra.

Paul, let me say first that I don’t think you’re a gay bastard, but that fact most people first think that means you probably are. Don’t worry, just try to avoid doing the following when meeting people for the first time: • Sticking your phallus in their ear. • Exposing your phallus whilst shacking their hand. • Playing gay chicken when sober. • Starting a fight. • Anally rape them. All the best you camp t***.

Lost Without You

Dear Uncle Wetlegs, Do you have a Jeremy Beadle hand? This is supposed to be the section where you beloved readers write in with your deepest and darkest secrets and problems which I, Lord Uncle Wetlegs, compassionately and expertly help you to resolve. Instead I get an abusive question that is not only directed at me but makes a mockery of a legend. By god, I almost choked on my port! But, no I do not have a "Jeremy Beadle hand" and the correct term to describe his withered and deformed little mitt is Poland syndrome.

Fact: Did you know that Jeremy Beadle was partly responsible for the organisation of the first Glastonbury? Don’t believe me? Click HERE. What a legend.

So many issues he has to solve, Gallant and wise he is so bold. Oh Wetlegs without you where would we be? Lost in a world where problems run free. I’m so glad you are my uncle, my friend, my Lord Guide me through life, be my shield, my sword. Anon

Do you have any problems ? Let Uncle Wetlegs know: www.replicamag.co.uk/index_unclewetlegs.htm

XXXXII

XXXXIII

AGONY Dear Uncle Wetlegs, On first impressions, people seem to a) dislike me b) also think I am gay.

UNCLE WETLEGS

Why do you suppose that is? It takes a long time for me to make friends or hook up with girls.

Awaiting your reply, Paul Soskin

Lost Without You

Fact: Did you know that Jeremy Beadle was partly responsible for the organisation of the first Glastonbury? Don’t believe me? Click HERE. What a legend.

Do you have any problems ? Let Uncle Wetlegs know: www.replicamag.co.uk/index_unclewetlegs.htm

XXXXIV

Think that travel is expensive? It has already been demonstrated by the boys at Top Gear that you can buy a car and drive from Surrey to Manchester and back for cheaper than getting the train. We at Replica have just found an even cheaper method. The postman.

The train from Leeds to London costs ÂŁ79 return on the day, which is just ridiculous. Visit http://www.dpd.co.uk and find that overnight delivery of anything from 31-99kg will cost around ÂŁ30.

Bargain.

Artwork by Anna Chilton www.annachilton.co.uk

THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO CONTRIBUTED TO THIS ISSUE.

XXXXIV

The train from Leeds to London costs ÂŁ79 return on the day, which is just ridiculous. Visit http://www.dpd.co.uk and find that overnight delivery of anything from 31-99kg will cost around ÂŁ30.

Bargain.

Artwork by Anna Chilton www.annachilton.co.uk

THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO CONTRIBUTED TO THIS ISSUE.

XXXXXII WE NEED CONTRIBUTORS

Untitled Louisa Michel I cannot say anymore what made him tick over. He knew that she knew and I inked the lines. We’d gone on as always. He said too much she said too little but we three, we didn’t care about words.

“REPLICA NEEDS

YOU” Get off your arse and do something. Air your opinions. Get published. Start a riot (just make sure you tell us about it).

REPLICA MAGAZINE Combating apathy and boredom Nationwide. www.replicamag.co.uk