Replica Magazine Issue VI by Bob Bean

REPLICA MAGAZINE 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.

Issue VI The Tissue Issue

Bless You According to Wikipedia the key properties of tissue paper are: strength, absorbency, basis weight, thickness (bulk), brightness, stretch and appearance. I truly think that this issue of Replica captures that perfectly. However; tissue: an ensemble of cells... didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think of that one did you? Clearly we must not expect scientific input when advertising Replica as a magically creative forum. Anyway. Thank you very much to Tibby (Replica Shorts) for your generous contribution, you really have gone way

This magazine is a compilation of articles, artwork, photos and other bits and pieces sent in by its readers. Anyone can contribute: contributions@replicamag.co.uk Try to keep articles under 800 words. The next issue is out on 18th May. All submissions must be received by 11th May to be considered for inclusion. Cover: Damian Zuch www.flickr.com/photos/45841296@N00/ Left: Photo by Enko Orchlon www.flickr.com/people/36198006@N06/

beyond the call of duty. Yes so generous. Thank you also to the tissue queens for simply existing, your boundless creativity is astounding. It saddens my heart to report that Luke Chilton (pages 16- 21) was sectioned last week, following a horrific nipple piercing accident. But he has promised to keep sending us his mad ramblings. It is Replicaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first birthday next issue so we are expecting lots and lots of presents and a massive surprise party please. Rosie Allen-Jones, Editor

Replica Magazine Global Tat Productions Chief Custodian Thomas Foxley thebrains@replicamag.co.uk Editor Rosie Allen-Jones editor@replicamag.co.uk Illustrations Damian Zuch damianzuch@gmail.com www.replicamag.co.uk

III NEXT ISSUE’S THEME: Table of Contents On the Wrong Side of the Court Room by Mini-P................................................... IV Top tips for lawyers: do not get emotionally involved Replica Shorts........................................................................................................... VIII A small collection of some of the little gems we get sent A Handful of Tissues by Josie Stanbrook................................................................. X Edward gloats at what a wonderful person he is Money Can’t Buy You Everything (If You’re a Woman) by Katy Taylor................... XII Katy wants a gigolo A Glimpse Inside the Mind of... Luke Chilton.......................................................... XVI Featured artist Me and My Tissue by Sam Muston.......................................................................... XXII Sam has gone a bit weird Last Orders..? by Matthew Wainhouse................................................................... XXIV Matt loves his local Replica Gallery.......................................................................................................... XXXXII The finest art and photography from around the country An Adventure Involving Shellfish by Abigail Palmer................................................ XXXXVI An out-of-date food review Breakspoll Awards@ Fabric 2009 by Bob Bean....................................................... XXXXVIII Bob reviews a night out he can’t remember

MENTAL HEALTH ARTWORK AND ARTICLES PLEASE DEADLINE 11/05/09

Uncle Wetlegs: Collective Agony............................................................................. XXXXX Uncle Wetlegs is ill Tissue by Abigail Palmer.......................................................................................... XXXXXII Poem

III NEXT ISSUE’S THEME: Table of Contents On the Wrong Side of the Court Room by Mini-P................................................... IV Top tips for lawyers: do not get emotionally involved Replica Shorts........................................................................................................... VIII A small collection of some of the little gems we get sent A Handful of Tissues by Josie Standbrook............................................................... X Josie looses a friend and finds it hard to let go Money Can’t Buy You Everything (If You’re a Woman) by Katy Taylor................... XII Katy wants a gigolo A Glimpse Inside the Mind of... Luke Chilton.......................................................... XVI Featured artist Me and My Tissue by Sam Muston.......................................................................... XXII Sam has gone a bit weird Last Orders..? by Matthew Wainhouse................................................................... XXIV Matt loves his local Replica Gallery.......................................................................................................... XXXXII The finest art and photography from around the country An Adventure Involving Shellfish by Abigail Palmer................................................ XXXXVI An out-of-date food review Breakspoll Awards@ Fabric 2009 by Bob Bean....................................................... XXXXVIII Bob reviews a night out he can’t remember

MENTAL HEALTH ARTWORK AND ARTICLES PLEASE DEADLINE 11/05/09

On the Wrong Side of the Court Room Ongoing case could shape the future of British law. by Mini-P As an aspiring barrister the golden rule is: never get emotionally involved. Especially if your sympathies lie with the opposing side. During my week as a minipupil in one of London’s top sets of chambers, I found myself sitting on the wrong side of the court room more often than not. First was the former employee being sued by a local authority for ‘misrepresentation’- failing to disclose the fact that she had mental health problems in her job application form. I watched in horror as the woman, who allegedly had suicidal tendencies, burst into tears as various local authority councillors produced damning evidence in an attempt to extract thousands of pounds from her. I was sat amongst the local authority’s ensemble of lawyers, technically ‘for’ the local authority. Second was the sex discrimination claim brought against a bank by a female employee. The essence of her claim was that a senior male employee who had discretion over company bonus schemes was using his position to sexually harass female employees. The claimant alleged that Mr. X had once commented that she had ‘nice breasts’ and asked if he could suck them. She consistently resisted his advances and later discovered that the female employees, whom she had good

reason to believe were sleeping with Mr. X, had received bonuses three times the amount of hers. I was sitting behind Mr. X in the employment tribunal, technically ‘for’ him. However the case that inspired this very last-minute article (apologies Replica Mag) is an ongoing, high-profile House of Lords case which I had the privilege of attending, again on the wrong side. After jumping into a black cab with my fellow mini-pupil, views of the Thames, London Eye and The Gherkin whizzing past me, I walk into the glorious Houses of Parliament for the first time, basking in the glamour of this ‘honourable’ profession. Rubbing shoulders with Jack Straw and catching snippets of great moments in history, I make my way into the House of Lords. “All Rise.” And in walk the panel of 9 Law Lords and Lady. The size of the panel is indicative of this case’s importance. The largest panel I’ve ever heard of is seven. I feel slightly star-struck as my eyes meet those of Lady Baroness Hale, the first and only female member of the Lords. The case that has brought 9 of England’s greatest legal minds to this room

Background picture by Klaus With K, licenced under Creative Commons Attribution ShareAlike 2.5

Illustration by Damian Zuch www.flickr.com/photos/45841296@N00/

On the Wrong Side of the Court Room Ongoing case could shape the future of British law. by Mini-P As an aspiring barrister the golden rule is: never get emotionally involved. Especially if your sympathies lie with the opposing side. During my week as a minipupil in one of London’s top sets of chambers, I found myself sitting on the wrong side of the court room more often than not. First was the former employee being sued by a local authority for ‘misrepresentation’ - failing to disclose the fact that she had mental health problems in her job application form. I watched in horror as the woman, who allegedly had suicidal tendencies, burst into tears as various local authority councillors produced damning evidence in an attempt to extract thousands of pounds from her. I was sat amongst the local authority’s ensemble of lawyers, technically ‘for’ the Local Authority. Second was the sex discrimination claim brought against a bank by a female employee. The essence of her claim was that a senior male employee who had discretion over company bonus schemes was using his position to sexually harass female employees. The claimant alleged that Mr. X had once commented that she had ‘nice breasts’ and asked if he could suck them. She consistently resisted his advances and later discovered that the female employees, whom she had good

Background picture by Klaus With K, licenced under Creative Commons Attribution ShareAlike 2.5

Illustration by Damian Zuch www.flickr.com/photos/45841296@N00/

VI concerns the right to a fair trial that is guaranteed to each and every one of us by Article 6 of the European Convention on Human Rights. The claimants are ‘terror’ suspects who have been subjected to non-derogating control orders. There is no actual deprivation of liberty, counsel for the Secretary of State for the Home Department eloquently argues, ‘just’: -Confiscation of their passports -Prohibition on the use of mobile phones and the Internet -Ministerial permission is needed to have visitors in the controlees’s homes -Restriction of movement to within a 9 mile radius and compulsory house arrest for up to 16 hours a day. 15 people have been subjected to such

VII control orders since the system was introduced in 2005. At the heart of this legal drama is the fact that these men have no idea what the evidence against them is, and it is against this lack of disclosure that they appeal. The Government contends that as a matter of national security, the evidence cannot be disclosed, citing ‘classified information’ and the safety of its agents as reasons. The claimants, civil liberties groups and human rights groups, all contend that this is a violation of fair procedure which is fundamental to the rule of law. Counsel for the Secretary of State for the Home Department contends that judicial probing of controlled evidence and the use of ‘special advocates’ will ensure a fair trial. Special advocates are barristers who are ‘security approved’ and along with the Law Lords, are the only ones

allowed disclosure of the evidence. The claimants submit that without knowledge of the evidence against them they cannot issue effective instructions to the special advocates or build an effective defence. The Government alleges that the weight of the evidence against the controlees is so damning that there is no prospect of the control order ever being reversed. But surely the whole purpose of the court process is to determine whether the evidence is so convincing. As I listen to intelligent arguments being fired back and forth across the room, my mind wanders to a dark place: where I am part of a ‘labelled’ group... with beliefs that those who misunderstand my culture would call ‘extremist’... and one morning I awake to find myself in one of the most restricted, dehumanising and miserable states of

existence... and there is nothing I can do to defend myself... because I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. The decision of the panel will ultimately set a precedent and the world will be watching to see if the UK lives up to its self-proclaimed image of fairness, justice and adherence to the Rule of Law. Their Lordships and Lady are in dangerous territory and it is my sincere hope that the terrorist-hype that grips our times does not result in an infringement of our rights that are firmly well established in law. It is easy for the British public to take its history of good governance for granted. However, times change, governments come and go, but Laws remain entrenched. This decision could potentially equip any future government with sweeping powers to erode the civil liberties of its people.

CONGRATULATIONS MINI-P, YOU ARE THIS ISSUE’S PRIZE WINNER! YOUR ARTICLE HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THE THEME, BUT YOUR PRIZE DOES- A LOVELY BIG BOX OF KLEENEX MANSIZED. WELL DONE YOU.

Background picture by Klaus With K, licenced under Creative Commons Attribution ShareAlike 2.5

CONGRATULATIONS MINI-P, YOU ARE THIS ISSUE’S PRIZE WINNER! YOUR ARTICLE HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THE THEME, BUT YOUR PRIZE DOES- A LOVELY BIG BOX OF KLEENEX MANSIZED. WELL DONE YOU.

Background picture by Klaus With K, licenced under Creative Commons Attribution ShareAlike 2.5

VIII

IX REPLICA SHORTS bits

of the odd A selection of some get sent… and pieces th at we

Dear Replica, I have some brilliant jokes for you (from www.duckecho.co.uk). If you put them in the next issue I would be very happy. I was stealing things in the supermarket today while balanced on the shoulders of a couple of vampires. I was charged with shoplifting on two counts.

I went to the local video shop and I said "Can I borrow Batman Forever?“ He said, "No, you'll have to bring it back tomorrow”. I went to buy a watch, and the man in the shop said "Analogue?“ I said "No, just a watch.“

Dear Replica,

Cartoon by Damian Zuch www.flickr.com/photos/45841296@N00/

Dear Replica, So, you like tissues do you? Check this out: Here is a picture of, well, my cum. His name is Spermy the sperm whale. And yes, that is just how it came out. Enjoy. Lots of love, Tibby Farrow Thanks Tibby, that’s lovely.

www.tissuequeens.com ‘We bring non-nude to the next level.’ They’re not nude because they’re covered in tissues. Spray the tissues with water and they become transparent. Brilliant.

VIII

IX REPLICA SHORTS bits

of the odd A selection of some get sent… and pieces th at we

Dear Replica,

Cartoon by Damian Zuch www.flickr.com/photos/45841296@N00/

www.tissuequeens.com ‘We bring non-nude to the next level.’ They’re not nude because they’re covered in tissues. Spray the tissues with water and they become transparent. Brilliant.

XI A Handful of Tissues Josie Standbrook struggles with the loss of a friend

When Oli died, after his moped was hit by an off-duty copper outside Brockham Harvester in 1997, I was on a PGL (Parents Get Lost) holiday in France. At the exact time of impact, as it turned out, he and I were probably in rather similar states of inebriation. Less than an hour after my return, Emily told me what had happened: how he had been hospitalised with a massive head injury which then got the better of him. I cried but within a few minutes was recovered. Life carried on. He was 16. I, 14. My first friend to die. I was inconsolable at his funeral, my face a watercolor kept contained only by a couple of peach tissues, which Emily’s mum passed to me early on. The musical choices, ‘Return of the Mack,’ by Mark “Pinchbeck-rude boy” Morrison and ‘Bad,’ by Michael “Face-is-a-permanentwatercolor” Jackson, have transported me back to Leatherhead Crematorium every time I have heard them since. During the boozy wake, I clumsily fell on the handle of Oli’s bedroom door, opening it in front of all the guests. Then later on at the after-hours remembrance at the rec, when informed by a local scaly that he was crying over Oli, I mortally-shamed myself by asking “Oli, who?”. After all the official mourning was over, I found myself unable to bin my cluster of

peach tissues, even though all the tight fists and hot tears had inflicted a sort of papier-mâché effect on them. That pathetic clump of uselessness, along with a photo of Oli in black-tie, and an article from the Dorking Advertiser about the accident, were all I had left of him. The newspaper report gave me slightly more to cling to and think about than the tissues, professing as it did that Oli’s fate had lain in his absurd and implausible combination of

misdemeanors: drunk, stoned, holding a kebab and thus riding with one hand, on the wrong side of the road, without a helmet or sufficient lights. Many were outraged at the article’s ‘fabrications.’ But I was not. I knew Oli well and of old. I knew how reckless he was, how foolish he could be and how partial he was to a little intoxication. Whereas some swore vendettas against the entire ‘murdering’ police forcewhich materialised in little more than

spray-painted abuse on abandoned farm buildings- I drifted into a period of personal grief that sometimes manifested itself as mild-psychosis. Every day I would take out the tissuey-mass and envelop it in my hands whilst talking to Oli. Or berating God- it varied. Then I would cry and channel my energy into my hands, as if they actually contained the limp, destroyed body of the boy who had gambled his fate and lost, and I had the power to reincarnate. This went on for a year- the amalgamation of childish disbelief, bitter sadness and empty loss lapping into my school life, my social life and many, many of my private moments. Just after I turned 15, almost a year after Oli’s death, my parents sold our house and we prepared to move to Cobham. Shortly before we relocated, I decided to leave Oli’s ghost where it belonged, in our village, rather than taking him with me. So I pocketed the remains of the tissue and walked down the road, past the house of Oli’s family, through the field where we had shared many cigarettes together, down the path to the little bomb shelter that served as our den. And, after a few minutes sitting inside, contemplating and reminiscing and having a word with the boy himself, I placed the only tangible legacy of Oli’s funeral on the floor, and left.

Artwork by Mariana Mendes marianapcm@gmail.com

XI A Handful of Tissues Josie Stanbrook struggles with the loss of a friend

Artwork by Mariana Mendes marianapcm@gmail.com

XII

XIII

Money Can’t Buy You Everything (If You’re a Woman) Angry feminist Katy Taylor is upset that there aren’t more male hookers Men who pay for sex haven’t had their leg over for a while. They can’t get it anywhere... or so goes the stereotype. It’s not a new idea, and it’s not accurate, but if you go with it, it raises interesting questions about sex as service- a service that most women appear to be missing out on. A while ago I went to see ‘Rue Magique’ in the Kings Head Theatre: a musical about a 13 year old girl forced into prostitution by the Brixton-brothelmadam she tried to call 'mum'. (Yes, really, a musical. It was awful.) Each problem was explained away with a simplistic tune which often repeated a well-worn stereotype: drugs numb pain, abuse leads to abuse, homelessness is because of bad luck... none of which are untrue, but all of which are too simple. Anyway, I’m unconvinced that belting out a song is the best way to deal with society’s ills. It was the ‘vipers’ though that were the most infuriating. The brothel customers each sang a catchy number about their reasons for visiting prostitutes. One man apparently couldn’t 'get a woman' which he blamed on his burgeoning stomach, another sought to be dominated and a third had been pushed into it by his

parents, who wanted him to deny his homosexuality. “We're fat, masochistic and gay,” they gleefully sang. There followed another song about a 15 year olds experience of losing his virginity in the brothel. These are well-worn common assumptions about why men pay for sex, but totally unfounded ones. An Observer Poll showed that 27% of British men have or would use a prostitute. Other studies have shown that the average man who uses a prostitute is in his 30s, employed and in a relationship- not gay, not past his prime and (probably) already getting some. A Brixton police superintendent who had talked to scores of men picked up for kerb-crawling over the years told me most of them had wives and girlfriends. It’s the naughtiness that appeals, not the actual sex. And everyone likes things that are a little bit dirty and a little bit wrong. (It’s just a pity this form of guilty pleasure often involves the abuse and exploitation of vulnerable or desperate women.) But brushing all this aside, (although not half as tunefully as the musical did) this misconception does raise the issue of sex as a service, not a luxury. Illustration by Damian Zuch www.flickr.com/photos/45841296@N00/

XII

XIII

XV And so it leads me to question: would the female population, many of whom are also unattractive, unusual or uninitiated, not also benefit from such assistance? Some women might also want to spend an few hours with someone whose got a good working knowledge of where the clitoris is. Some might want the opportunity to learn the art of giving perfect head. Some might just not want the strings. Cari Mitchell of the English Collective of Prostitutes believes it’s women's historical lack of cash that’s prevented them from buying sex: “If we had the financial opportunities it's a fair assumption that today, as part of the adult world, we would be doing it. In the same way that if we all had the money we would have our dinners cooked for us every Friday and Saturday night”. There are clearly differing power dynamics though- putting a 15 year old girl in the hands of an older man to lose her virginity, for example, is not something society would tolerate as readily as it accepts men's escapades.

The same Observer poll found that less that 1% of the UK's women have paid for sex and that more than 2% would consider the possibility. A quick bit of research though shows there has been a quiet explosion of on-line male escorting services such as gentelmen4hire.com. There is obviously a growing demand. A statistical breakdown of the class or occupations of female purchasers of sex doesn’t exist but that websites target 'executive women who may be in town on business' speaks for itself. Societal attitudes demand that women require discretion more than men and hotels will always cost more than brothels. Issues of safety mean that women would be at far greater risk drunkenly stumbling into a brothel for a late night shag. So it seems that sex by the hour will remain a luxury service only afforded by wealthy women. For the rest of us, those that want strings free sex will have to carry on sifting through the drunken approaches.

XVI

XVII

A Glimpse Inside the Mind of... Luke Chilton, closet doodler Luke sent in pages and pages and pages of his drawings, here is a selection of some of our favourites.

XVI

XVII

A Glimpse Inside the Mind of... Luke Chilton, closet doodler Luke sent in pages and pages and pages of his drawings, here is a selection of some of our favourites.

XXI

XXII Me and My Tissue by Sam Muston Tissue. Such a limp, tight word to describe the mighty instrument that encompasses all. From the placid Kleenex to the dastardly Tesco-homebrand-nose-scraper (the Enemy). Where to start? A confession, perhaps. I must admit- and I apologise for this, reader- to a certain lull in spirits when I saw that Replica meant to explore the complex relationship between man and his tissue. When Thomas Foxley, chief custodian of this publication, contacted me and said ‘400 words on tissues, please, thanks, bye’. I thought he’d lost his reason, or at least his reason had lost him. I laughed. Or at least I smirked whilst coughing. After all, what does a man such as me, a man of the world, a man for all seasons, know of the humble snot rag (or the papier de snot, as our French cousins so jauntily call it.) Then I sat. Then I sat and thought. Then I sat again. After said sitting, it hit me like a rounder’s bat to the forehead- tissues have always been there for me. Who does one reach for when the nose starts to dribble and the throat starts to tickle? For whom does one long when an injudicious cream cake has rendered our mitts unclean? Who has always been

there when an act of self-love reaches its messy conclusion? Man’s best friend? The dog? (Have you ever tried wiping your nose with a Cocker Spaniel?) No, the noble, selfless tissue- that’s who. I vividly remember my first tissue. The sun is shining. I’m four. And everything is well in the world (or at least in this part of Cheshire). I’m playing with happy abandon in the fields that enclose my house and eating an ice cream with my friends James- now a successful management consultant- and Sara- now on the game. Alas though, an ill thought out lunge at a passing butterfly has rendered me dangerously unstable, and lo! I fall on said ice cream. My motherwith alacrity surprising in a woman of forty- produces a vast sheet of silky paper from her equally vast bag. Reader, I knew heaven that day. With three swipes of a man-sized Kleenex my face is clean and I’m soothed. Thirty summers separate me from that boy; yet, I am proud to say, I still have that tissue. For that reason- and many more- I implore you, friends, send the dog away, ignore the kids and spend some quality time with your tissue. Cherish it, care for it, love it- for the keys to Heaven aren’t in that little book on the shelf but in that little plastic packet in your bag.

XXIV

XXV Last Orders..? The pub. A quintessentially British invention. Matthew Wainhouse fears that they might be disappearing...

A perilous cloud hangs forebodingly, not too distant on the horizon, threatening a storm that may have an impact so brutal and cruel that it has the potential to change how we lead our lives forever. I don’t mean the threat of a global recession (or dare I say depression) to send us into economic despair, nor do I mean the looming devastation that climate change is set to bestow. But as these two mammoths of misery battle it out for the headlines, a more subtle mistress is beginning to pick up steam. The threat I talk of is the decline of the traditional Great British pub. News hits us this week that in 2009, an average of 39 pubs a week are calling last orders for the last time; this is way above the historical background level of 2 or 3 permanent closures per week. The sudden rapid increase in closures is largely due to a struggle to cope with a two-pronged attack from ever increasing prices and crippling legislation. Taxation on a pint continues to rise 2 % above inflation every year, acting as a guaranteed ‘get rich quick’ scheme for the

exchequer. The result is an economic repulsion away from extortionate pub prices and into the back pockets of supermarkets, with reality TV as a reassuring partner compensating for the lost human interaction. The second burden of legislation and regulation seems to be strangling everything these days and the pub has no immunity. The smoking ban, obligatory wheelchair access and compulsory pension schemes are just three of the bureaucratic nails in the pubs coffin. While these ‘nanny state’ rules may not seem too drastic and indeed offer a glimmer of positivity and modernisation, they are being enforced at a time when the small amounts of petty cash that can be generated are not sufficient enough to be channelled into such measures. The load is particularly heavy for the few remaining independents. So maybe I exaggerated the impending doom that pub closures will bring unto our lives through parallels to climate change and the recession. The issue is an attack on culture as opposed to survival.

At a time when British culture is gradually dissolving into a grey and inoffensive multiculturalism, do we really want to kiss goodbye to one of the last institutions that proudly displays an iconic Britishness? George W. Bush is famously said to have fulfilled a lifelong dream of drinking a traditional English ale in a traditional English pub when Tony Blair took him to his local in his Sedgefield constituency. But at the current rate of decline it’s probably not too long before the ‘local’ becomes yet another Greggs or a Subway, denying future tourists of the same pleasure and continuing the trend in monoclonal high streets devoid of character and variety. The one-pub village will become simply: village. It is important not to underestimate the social importance of the pub. They form a neutral community hub that does more than just serve drinks to locals. Any soap affiliate can quickly point out the integral role the Woolpack, Queen Vic, and Rovers have in their respective communities. And it’s the same for real pubs too. There are the sports teams that play for the pub and the local societies that need a socially

neutral and cost-free place to meet. They offer a forum for political debate (tits or arse?), the first kiss, the first fight, the winning goal and of course the ale. With every closing pub we see an independent brewery heading in the same direction and I for one, don’t want to be left drinking tasteless commercial lagers for the rest of my days. But this week we also hear of Scotland’s stand to increase supermarket alcohol prices in an attempt to curb reckless drinking and the accompanying alcoholism. I think this is a great idea and welcome this policy whole-heartedly, providing that it’s met with a similar (albeit unlikely) reduction in pub pint tax. Get people out of their houses, away from the TV and into the pubs. Where better to get drunk than in the care of a trained licensee? So my advice is this: If you really care about a symbolic institution of this countries long heritage then get out, have a drink and support your local before it disappears completely like the music halls before it.

XXIV

XXV Last Orders..? The pub. A quintessentially British invention. Matthew Wainhouse fears that they might be disappearing...

REPLICA GALLERY Welcome art lovers and pretentious arseholes. This is the Replica Art Gallery.

Rebecca Lever Rebecca is the smiliest person in the world. rebeccalever@aol.com

James Page James is a freelance artist based in Brixton. â&#x20AC;&#x153;I have tried to reconsider and reconstruct the way in which we draw inspiration from nature but unconsciously contaminate everything we touch or use with humanistic emotions.â&#x20AC;&#x153; www.jamespage.net

Neale Garside Neale is an amateur photographer and DJ who lives in London. neale.garside@tiscali.co.uk

Solo One Solo One is a south London graffiti artist. To quote Cultural Criminology Unleashed by Jeff Ferrell, at the turn of the century Solo One was ‘...unanimously considered ‘king of stickers’’. www.myspace.com/soloone_vopstar

Asli Narin “Asli Narin is from Istanbul/Turkey and lives in London since September ’08.” www.aslinarin.com

Sangam Sharma â&#x20AC;&#x153;I'm a radical geek, artist, eclectic sheep, minimalistic with an edge, casual fashionista with punk rock attitude, vegetarian, chocoholic (it's gotta be dark though as my soul requires), skateboardbeat, chick flick diggin, wanna be club kid, front-side rock'n'roll disaster, forever droning urban wasteland.â&#x20AC;? www.sangamsharma.com

Bob Bean “Baked bean by day, photographer by night; this is about as saucy as it gets.” www.myspace.com/beanzmeanzme

STREET ART SPECIAL, INNIT A selection of fine art from the streets of Rio de Janeiro, selected by Amelia Grape

Photos by Amelia Grape

XXXXVI

XXXXVII

An Adventure Involving Shellfish An out-of-date food review, by Abigail Palmer I sometimes wonder if crab meat is worth the bother. It always takes me at least half an hour just to figure out the shellcracking device, gently manoeuvring it like the young lady that I am before I eventually realise there’s no way I’m getting into this beast without an awful lot of pain. I grip. I squeeze. It explodes in my hands. The charm and delicacy of the dish is instantly destroyed by my own deformed creation, and such efforts are generally rewarded by a miniature forkful of stringy white flesh. Inevitably, this is also accompanied by a well-disguised piece of shell, which shatters (along with your teeth) that fresh white, almost springy texture that makes it all worthwhile. Certainly it’s easy to see why those processed seafood sticks took off so well in the ‘70s: a satisfying session with a piece of cellophane and presto! You’re rewarded by a whole chunk of meat. The only downfall is that it tastes nothing like crab… So there’s this really swanky Fort Rocco hotel on Cardiff Bay, in a state-of-the-art glass building that’s entirely wasted on the Welsh. It’s the sort of place where they offer a complimentary spa experience, complete with three different temperatures of swimming water (heaven forbid that anybody should have to adapt their own body heat). Anyway it’s got an equally state–of–the–art restaurant

where they’re offering a seafood platter at a moveable price. How they determine who pays what is beyond me. Perhaps it’s something to do with region: “Sounds like a Londoner, Jim, better add another zero to the end of that price tag,” or “Shit, he’s a local. Make it cheap before he realises that you can drag this lot out of the harbour for less effort than it takes to book a table.” Harbour-dragged freshness, however, was not what they had to offer. I had a great bit of crab at Loch Fyne in Bristol once where they served the brown meat blended with a soft truffle mayonnaise. For a moment I was under the impression that the trend had spread, given the large chunks of black slime surrounding the unfortunate creature. Truffles they were not. It was the rancid smell and one pukeinducing mouthful that gave it away. The staff were frightfully apologetic, but then so would I be if I thought a customer might get food poisoning. Can you sue for food poisoning? It seems like a pretty stupid claim- anyone foolish enough to put a bit of rancid crab into their mouth deserves what’s coming. Blame aside, if it were my restaurant I’d have taken the double precaution of giving my customers their meal for free. But alas, they must have clocked my Surrey accent and charged me a ridiculous 35 quid for the privilege. Don’t expect a tip, love. Illustration by Luke Chilton

XXXXVI

XXXXVII

XXXXIX Breakspoll Awards @ Fabric 2009 Bob Bean doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about... I know nothing about breakbeat. That was kind of the point when I decided to undertake this review- an outsiders guide to breakbeat- however I have now realised that it may be slightly problematic. Review a break beat night with no understanding of break beat. I suppose it is kind of like doing a school essay: ‘Discuss the fundamental issues raised in Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew, despite the fact that you have never read it’. I managed to blag my way through school and even on to university, so I reckon I can give this one a shot. At least I can recall what happened at the night itself. I had a fantastic time, I know that much. There was lots of dancing. I definitely enjoyed the music. What else..? It was busy. Hmmm… I should really have endeavoured to stay a bit more with it, but with people shoving various substances up my nose and down my throat it was always going to be tricky. And when that guy offered me liquid acid I should probably have declined. Actually, come to think of it, my memory is rather hazy. So, what I am trying to do here is review an event without background knowledge of the scene and a vague memory of the night itself. Please bear with me. Right then, breakbeat is a term used to describe a collection of sub-genres of electronic music, usually characterised by the use of a non-straightened 4/4 drum Stereo:Type Live. Photo by Chris Barnby

pattern (as opposed to the steady beat of house or trance). Thank you Wikipedia. Breakspoll is the International Breakbeat Awards which, this year, was held at Fabric, London. Scene set. So, I walked into Fabric at about 12:30 expecting things to be just about warming up. I was wrong. The club was absolutely heaving. And the crowd was going for it. The music in the main room was dark and nasty, and the other rooms were equally dirty. This is the point where my memory starts to fail me, but I have flashbacks of furious arm-waving, huge cheers and lots of sweat. What I remember of the music was top quality. In all, an awesome night. Oh yeah- there were awards too. Stanton Warriors won best DJ, Atomic Hooligan got the award for best live act and the prize for best album went to Ils for Paranoid Prophets. The full list of this year’s winners can be viewed online here: www.breakspoll.com/winners2009.asp And that’s just about it. I can’t offer any intelligent insights into the world of electronic music. I can’t give you any up-to-date information about what is going on in breakbeat. Sorry. If you want to be ‘ahead of the crowd’ then go and waste £4.00 on a copy of Mixmag. So, to summarise: breakbeat is great, Breakspoll was awesome, Fabric is huge and drugs are bad for your memory.

XXXXX

XXXXXI

UNCLE WETLEGS COLLECTIVE AGONY I’m afraid that everyone’s favourite uncle is still ill. A life of fighting evil in tropical lands has left Uncle Wetlegs’ liver in a bad state. Replica still needs your help. We need you, our readers, to download an agony sheet and put it on a wall in your home. Here all housemates can anonymously post their problems, and others can endeavor to

As my vision gets progressively worse I am finding it increasingly hard to avoid traffic. I am worried I am becoming a mole. -Maybe you should take some time to re-learn the basics of crossing the road. Ask a hedgehog if you can’t remember. Look left, look right, listen, look left again then RUN. I have a massive spot on my nose. -See jobseekers.com. I believe a Mr C. Cringle is currently recruiting for courier work.

answer. A problem shared is a problem everyone can enjoy. You can then type up your solved problems and send them in to a frail Uncle Wetlegs for him to mull over and dream of his problem solving past. The questions and answers featured in this issue are from the walls of 67 Longtodger Avenue, Leeds.

Sick. -Lucozade + chicken soup = better. I am having a crisis of faith. I don’t believe that Uncle Wetlegs is ill. Or even a real person for that matter. -That is just ridiculous. Why on earth would the good folk at Replica invent a fake agony uncle? Wash your mouth out.

The shower is blocked with feathers and I don’t know who to blame. -Come on, this can’t be that tricky. Sit down and have I smell like a man, but I’m a girl. a think... Who in the house eats the most worms? Do -And I bet you can’t remember where (or who) that they tend to whistle tunefully around dawn? Who’s manly odour came from, can you? Hussy. bedroom is full of sticks moulded together with saliva? If all of these questions have the same answer then I think you’ve Download an agony sheet and put it on your wall: got your man. Or man-bird hybrid www.replicamag.co.uk/Uncle_Wetlegs_Notice.pdf beast. Approach with cautionGo on, entertain the Uncle. some types of hybrid beast can lash out when confronted.

Richard won’t be my valentine. -Buy him a present. Rohypnol always goes down nicely. Maybe keep it as a surprise present. I’m sure he won’t be able to keep his hands off you. I bullshit myself too much. -No you don’t. I have a problem with my feet. They stink. My girlfriend is threatening to move out. What do I do? -How much do you love your girlfriend? Enough to cut your feet off? That is clearly the only option. This might well turn out to be a decisive point in your relationship. Choose wisely. This is a waste of paper. -No it isn’t.

XXXXX

XXXXXI

XXXXXII WE NEED CONTRIBUTORS

Tissue by Abigail Palmer Forcing conversation But it’s all banal Cause no-one understands… Just like masturbation with no point: It’s just a way to fill your hands.

“REPLICA NEEDS

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

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

XXXXXII WE NEED CONTRIBUTORS

Tissue by Abigail Palmer Forcing conversation But it’s all banal Cause no-one understands… Just like masturbation with no point: It’s just a way to fill your hands.

“REPLICA NEEDS

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

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

THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO CONTRIBUTED TO THIS ISSUE

End.