Mornge by Snöar

ISSUE ONE // FALL 2013 WET NUNS // DRENGE // COLD CAVE // NAI HARVEST

CULTURE // ARTS // ENTERTAINMENT // SPORTS // LIFE

HALLå

couple of months ago we wanted to go and see The Fall perform at a festival. However, we did not want to pay an extortionate fee just to watch one band. We emailed the organisers of the festival on a whim and asked if we could get press passes with no evidence what-so-ever to back it up. Somehow we were given the passes and we got to go and see The Fall for free. Somewhere throughout that day we got it into our minds that starting up an actual magazine would be a good idea. This is where we are today. Mornge Magazine is based in Sheffield although it is not limited to a specific area. Our aim is to support artists, writers and musicians we believe in along with companies whose ethics we can trust. Mornge is not about mindlessly promoting bullshit, it’s about moving forward and living a lifestyle we believe in. Ben Goulder – Founding editor James Edwards – Founding editor Matthew Kay – Creative director Sam Wright – Cover photography Contributors: Alex Cheesman, Matt Collins, Lauren O’Neill, Toby Sims, Samantha Milligan, Chloe Shepherd, Andy Jones, Sam Wright, Joseph Hayes, Mira Gonzalez, Chris Darwen, Carl Fleischer, Lewis Currie.

Thank you John Parry for the inspiration.

SAMANTHA MILLIGAN pHOTOGRApHS PAGE 49

EIGHTIES BRITAIN WASN’T AS ROMANTIC AS YOU THINk IT WAS, AS TOLD BY ‘THREADS’ PAGE 5

REGURGITATING CULTURE PAGE 53

CONTENTS

THE REMAINS Of SHEffIELD SkI VILLAGE PAGE 1

COUTURE CAffEINE - A GUIDE TO SHEffIELD’S BEST COffEE SHOpS PAGE 7 WHILE SHE SLEEpS PAGE 13 WET NUNS PAGE 18 DRENGE PAGE 20

NAI HARVEST PAGE 23

GIRLSONDRUGS PAGE 26 THE WYTCHES PAGE 29 COLD CAVE PAGE 30 NOTHING PAGE 34

SAM WRIGHT pHOTOGRApHS PAGE 37 ANDY JONES pHOTOGRApHS PAGE 43

NORTH kOREA: WAR Of THE WORDS PAGE 55 A LA VUELTA: THE REAL OVIEDO STORY PAGE 59 fEMINISM IS NOT A DIRTY WORD. PAGE 63 THE LONELINESS Of THE LONG DISTANCE fOOTBALL fAN PAGE 67 fENCES PAGE 74 “THE MAIN pURpOSE Of THE HEART IS TO MAkE HEART SOUNDS” PAGE 77 HER LONELINESS MIxED WITH MY LONELINESS PAGE 78

THE REMAINS Of SHEffIELD SkI VILLAGE By BEN GOULDER The edges of Sheffield are rotting. The area around the city centre is gradually becoming more and more flooded with abandoned buildings. Old factories left to rot. The death of industry. The most recent to fall from grace is the Sheffield Ski Village. Sheffield’s ski village was the largest artificial ski resort in Europe. After the fourth fire in a year, the ski village closed in April 2013. Now dilapidated, 1 MORNGE

the ski village has been left for nature to decorate. I could indulge you with memories of yesteryear and how beautiful and wonderful the ski village once was. However this is the first time I’ve been here. My only knowledge of it from the past is that a kid at my school once broke his leg there on a school trip. Burnt to crisp and covered in litter and graffiti, to me, it’s never looked better.

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EIGHTIES BRITAIN WASN’T AS ROMANTIC AS YOU THINk IT WAS, AS TOLD BY ‘THREADS’ By JAMES EDwARDS 1984. A pretty grim time to be alive. Iran accuses neighbouring Iraq of using chemical weapons. US scientists discover the AIDS virus. Britain is struggling to come out of recession. American President Ronald Regan jokes he’s going to bomb Russia in “five minutes”. All of this terrified eighties Britain. At a time when Margaret Thatcher ruled with an iron fist, the Tories aim was to encase society in bubble wrap so tight that it would protect them from the grim 5 MORNGE

reality of the big bad world outside. Thatcher herself said she wanted to preach “Victorian values” on society. Clean cut, well-spoken and morally ‘sound’ faces would occupy television screens across the country. In London, yuppies in their sharp suits would ride around in Miami Vice esque Porsches, striking deals on mobile phones bigger than house bricks. The city of London was booming and so were the suburbs where the wealthy city boys would live. A real north/ south divide was starting to

open up across the country as those employed in the more traditional industries such as coal, steel and the motor industries didn’t fare as well.

so does society. The Kemps are all suffering from radiation sickness, with the mother of the family also covered in horrific burns.

While northerners were preoccupied by the thought of nuclear bombs dropping, or their houses being repossessed, Barry Hines, author of Kes, created a film portraying what it would be like if a northern city (specifically the industrious hub of Sheffield) was destroyed by Russian nuclear missiles. Sometimes nothing is a grisly as fiction.

One of the grimmest scenes is when the Kemps venture out after a nuclear attack, searching for their son. Whilst surveying the utter destruction outside caused by the bomb, they see him lying there, dead and buried under a pile of wreckage in their own front garden.

Haynes paints an extremely grim picture. ‘Threads’ is centred around two families, the Kemps and the Becketts, two fairly normal working class families bonded by their respective son and daughter who marry, due to an unplanned pregnancy. The innocence of the two lovers and their unborn baby serve as the perfect aid to the backdrop of imminent disaster. As the crisis escalates, Britain is gripped by fear. Looting, profiteering, rioting and a police force arresting anyone for anything don’t help ease the tensions. As the film unfurls,

As years go by, society degenerates to the level of Medieval Britain. Scores of wounded, ill and malnourished people seek help. But as the narrator puts it so nonchalantly: “as a source of help or comfort he (a doctor) is little better equipped than the nearest survivor.” The film caused controversy galore when first broadcast on the BBC, after it was shown on BBC in 1984, it would be another nineteen years until the BBC showed the disturbing film again.

“Even bad coffee is better than no coffee at all.” – David Lynch

As a juvenile, I loved social drinking. Pubs and bars were not only seen as the perfect end to any social activity, but the only end to them. Setting the world to right over a pint seemed such a grown up thing to do at the time, the novelty of drinking being a major part in this too. As friendships matured, as well myself, coupled with the initial excitement of drinking pint after pint of piss warm lager wearing off, setting the world to right over a coffee seemed so much more appealing. The mellow atmosphere and the intense flavours of the various exotic coffees went together better than any lager and light discussion. That, coupled with the ‘third wave of coffee’, makes todays coffee experience that bit better. The ‘third wave’ is the idea that Coffee isn’t just a commodity, it’s a luxury. Gone are the days of coffee mate and instant coffee that tastes like sand. Enter the modern day, were high class coffee shops occupy high streets all over Britain.

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Sheffield in particular has felt a sudden surge in quality coffee shops over the past year or so. Here is my humble take on some of the best coffee shops in Sheffield:

BRAGAzzI’S CAfé AND DELI – ABBEYDALE ROAD No, you’ve not walked that far down Abbeydale Road that you’ve ended in Milan or Turin, this is just an Italian themed coffee shop. But yes, you could be mistaken that you’re in northern Italy, it is THAT good. The minute I saw the signed Paolo Maldini shirt on the wall I knew this place oozed class. An old shop that has now been converted, the owners had the bright idea to section it off, creating two different parts to the coffee shop. On the right, you have the coffee shop, full of a wonderful array of different coffees. Fridges full of authentic Italian drinks (try the flavoured san pelegrini water, perfect for any hangover) just give it that extra touch that makes you believe that Bragazzi’ is the real deal. Just next to this is the deli, a small counter full of fresh produce, produced in house. 8

TAMpER COffEE –WESTfIELD TERRACE The minute you walk in you know you’re in for something special. The shop is so small the windows steam up on a busy day. Yes, the table and chairs may remind you of year 10 chemistry class, but still this doesn’t take anything away from the charm of this coffee shop. With two daily ‘grinders’ of various fresh, interesting coffees – something is always there to stimulate your taste buds. Their Twitter presence is also a massive help, twisting your arm every time you refresh your news feed, persuading you to come and sample some of the delights they have in store. Their light snacks and fresh sandwiches served till 3, it really does feel like you could be sat in your Grandmas living room, with the comfort you feel. This is of course if you grandma has impeccable taste in coffee and doesn’t just offer you rich tea biscuits.

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THE SHIpYARD – ABBEYDALE ROAD When I first visited the Shipyard, I was a little confused at first. No staff were to be seen… This was due to the fact that they were so busy, due to the amount of punters sampling their coffee. No bad thing, in my eyes… Converted from a house into a coffee shop, something you are reminded of at times, it’s very boxy and you can’t help but think you’re sat inside old Mr and Mrs Smith’s bedroom. The Shipyard has a unique spin though – it also serves as a try whilst you drink your coffee -bookshop. Many different books line the wall, all at reasonable prices. From ‘A Cat in the Hat’ to some strange German novels I’ve never heard of, there’s a book for everyone to spill over whilst drinking their coffee of choice. The perfect coffee shop for the bookworms amongst us all.

THE GRIND – GREEN LANE Hidden amongst the factories and greasy spoons in Kelham Island, The Grind is a gem amongst a puddle of shit. Everything in The Grind is perfected to a finite detail. The coffee, the food, even the decorations. The Grind caters to vegetarians, something that almost everywhere in the area doesn’t bother to do. And when I see cater to vegetarians, I don’t just mean a salad. Proper locally sourced goodness.

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MOTORE CAfé – HOWARD STREET Located at the bottom of the hill between Sheffield Hallam University and Sheffield Train Station, Motore Café provides a slightly different caffeine experience to the norm. Nick Pears and Neil Midgley serve coffee from a Piaggio Ape Van imported from Italy. And they stay outside, rain or shine. Mainly rain probably. The coffee is roasted by local roasters Pollards. Sheffield for Sheffield for Sheffield for Sheffield.

wORDS By BEN GOULDER AND JAMES EDwARDS PhOTOGRAPhS By CARL FLEISChER

WHILE SHE SLEEpS As I spoke to Aaran and Sav from While She Sleeps, they were dishevelled, jet lagged and had just returned from Warped Tour. Focus now set on preparing to play their biggest stage yet; the main stage at Reading and Leeds Festival. “Me, Sav and Loz used to work at the main stage bar at Leeds” says bassist Aaran “although this time we’ll be facing the other way”.

rock star lives and constant touring appearing as an almost dishevelled facade. “You’ve got to stock up on cans so you can eat on tour” says Aaran. “Beans and stuff like that”. “You gotta take shit from your home to survive on tour” Sav adds. So they could tour full time, Sleeps quit their jobs, signed on the dole and received as much support and backing from their families as possible. In fact they still live with their parents. “It’s cushty man, I like it” muses Sav. “If the financial situation was a little better then we’d probably move out. But not at the minute, we can live comfortably whilst living at our parents” says Aaran.

“My favourite shows are the small fucking ratty ones”

“My favourite shows are the small fucking ratty ones” says drummer Sav reflecting on the past in comparison to the stature of the band right now. “Everyone’s sweaty and on top each other and having a laugh. The bigger shows aren’t always the best”. Despite being a full-time touring band for the past five years, they’ve recently only been able to make the band sustainable with their 13 MORNGE

“We had no money from the start, we were on the dole, getting paid £90 every two

weeks, we were getting paid literally nothing at all for shows” recalls Aaran. “There was no plan B, it was just Plan A”. Fortunately Plan A worked and While She Sleeps are even able to wage themselves, something which they thank their current label and management for. “We’re not Chad Kroeger yet though” muses Aaran.

So there you have it. If you want to play on the main stage of a major festival; work at the bar there, go on the dole for a bit and collect canned foods. Good luck. By BEN GOULDER

THREEâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S A CROW

Ignoring the typical format of a band in Sheffield with wet Nuns, Drenge a debut albums in 2013.

S WD

d, two-pieces are making waves and Nai harvest all releasing their

By BEN GOULDER AND JAMES EDwARDS

WET NUNS

et Nuns are a two piece from Sheffield. At one point they were a three piece Crust punk band. They’re not anymore. They’re a two piece from Sheffield. “We had a bit of interest from labels but we thought we’d just do it ourselves and keep all the money” said Wet Nuns ginger bearded drummer Leki. “We started our own label so might as well”. “The song writing’s matured loads since” he says on Wet Nuns’ most recent output, a self-titled album, “although it all sounds the same to me”. According to Leki there’s a mixture. A country song, some doomy songs and some straight up blues. “The overall sound hasn’t changed, just some songs are really heavy”. Wet Nuns caught a lot of people’s attention originally by

adopting southern American accents between songs. “We stopped when it stopped being funny. Although it was funny for ages” he muses. “I guess it got kind of embarrassing”. “We were supporting Book Club at Queens Social Club and we were chatting to these young lads and they said ‘I can’t believe you’ve come all the way from America to play in Sheffield’ and I just kept it up for ages doing the accent and every now again I’d do a Sheffield accent to take the piss out of them and they’d be like ‘you’re so good at that!’”. Accents aside, Wet Nuns have recently returned from South By South West in Texas for no other reason apart from just wanting to go. Then they realised how much it would cost. “It cost us about ten grand and we’ve only just finished paying that back” he says. “It’s weird from playing punk gigs where you can’t hear

yourself. Like a practice room but full of drunken people” says Leki on playing festivals and bigger more ‘professional’ shows. “It’s a lot easier to play when you can hear stuff. It sounds obvious but it’s kind of a revelation to me”. “I miss playing local punk gigs but usually when there’s a stage manager and stuff things run like clockwork. The thing I like about things that are done properly is that stuff doesn’t normally run over because going on late kind of sucks and it’s just boring waiting around”. Aside from playing in Wet Nuns, Leki and guitarist/vocalist Rob put on shows and festivals under the moniker Detestival. They also run the label Throng Of Nobs. “We wouldn’t go with any other label unless they can give us something that we don’t already have, like a lot of money”. 19 MORNGE

DRENGE

Allow me to cast aside many of the usual musical clichés. Drenge aren’t a band about to ‘save guitar music’ nor are they two brothers who are going to ‘take you on a musical journey’. The only way to describe their debut album is if you imagine being grabbed by the scruff of your neck and pulled through a mile of the prickliest rose bushes and thorns you can imagine. Then being laid to rest … in a bed of nettles. “We recorded the album in Attercliffe. It’s a bit of a rough area and the studio was across from a brothel.” Drummer Rory Loveless told us. “But it was great, really intense. We’ve never really recorded with anybody before, so we were kind of thrown in the deep end with Ross Orton, who has just recorded the new Arctic Monkeys album. We had to track it professionally and have a professional attitude, but for

us this is still a hobby.” Like the Neville’s if they listened to Dinosaur Jnr. instead of playing football, the albums tenacity and intensity doesn’t let up throughout. Opening with ‘People In Love Make Me Feel Yuck’, vocalist and guitarist Eoin Loveless lays down a real marker for what is to come with the rest of the album with the lyrics “I found a bird on the floor, that was covered in blood / Its feathers littered the carpet, it had given up”. This is not an album about pulling girls and drinking lager. “The album is just the result of us just pissing about in the studio” mused Rory. “But Ross understood us and was really patient. We did four tracks in September two years ago and we did another three of four a year after that. The album is in chronological order. Then at the start of this year when 20

we got our deal, we tried to tie it all up together in that final session.” The brothers from Castleton have come a long way. From their first gig, playing to a handful of people at the Redhouse in Sheffield, to packing out the the Noisey tent at Beacons festival, their rise has been meteoric to say the least. But now they’re signed to a label, with a touring commitments and an album, how can they still keep it as real as possible?

Local Natives and loads of others. We don’t fit in with their roster I don’t think, but that’s a nice thing. “I don’t really know what influences me. I just eat aload of stuff and whatever I shit out, well I don’t know if it’s the same.”

Rory sat and thought for a second. “We’ve got a deal so we play live shows and we do this full time. Sometimes we might have to sit in a meeting about strategy or something, which can be a pain, but it’s always a pleasure to do this.

The brothers are also renowned for producing their own ‘zines and selling them at their live shows. However, Rory wasn’t too happy when the label decided to print it themselves: “If you’re doing a zine it needs to be done right; photocopiers, hand stapled and just stressing out with everyone and getting angry and shit like that. We’re going to try and get one done for this tour though, I think that’s important.”

“We’re signed to Infectious Music; it’s a really small label. Only five or six people work there and their like a real family, we have a good relationship with them. They also have Alt J, Temper Trap,

Drenge have got a “pretty hefty” tour forthcoming, with dates all across the country this October. So buy a ticket, buy a ‘zine and immerse yourself in Drenge’s filthy, unapologetic, red-raw rock music. 22

ai Harvest may be the band flying the flag for UK emo at the moment but it wasn’t always the case. They originally formed as a three piece screamo band in 2011. Guitarist and vocalist Ben Thompson remains the only original member. Lewis Currie makes up the other half of Nai Harvest. “Our original drummer Sammy moved away” says Ben. “We were going to stop being a band but Lew got in touch and said he’d play for us”. Bass player Jake left shortly after Sammy for a reason that Ben says he is still unaware of. It was at this point that Ben believes they became a real, serious band marked by the release of their debut 7’’ Feeling Better. This was then followed by their first album Whatever in 2013. Something which gained them the attention of the press and music industry, as well as adoration from the scene. 23 MORNGE

But where now for Nai Harvest? “we have a 7” coming out at the end of the year” says Ben. “Dog Knights are putting it out in the UK and a label is doing it in the US but we’re not allowed to mention anything yet”. Moving away from the twinkly emo sound that gave them notoriety, apparently Nai’s new record is going to take influence from the likes of Pavement and Dinosaur Jnr, “It’s not as catchy, but who cares? If people don’t like it, they don’t like it”. After the new release, Nai plan to tour the UK, Europe and hopefully even make it across to America. The band seems to be distancing themselves from the uk emo scene that they effectively created. In fact, Ben even made the Facebook group. “It’s become a buzz word” he muses. “I only made that page to help bands book shows. I was sick of booking agents in the US emailing shit people in the UK trying to book shows. Like 1994 playing to 20 people and I was like ‘I know full well that more than 20 people in Manchester like 1994’ so I thought I’d get everyone together in one big place”. The group has a directory of all the promoters, bands and labels in the UK emo scene. Although now it’s mainly used for shit talking and bitchy arguments. “I don’t really look at it anymore. I just let it be a monster”. “We’re having to drop a lot of things to do the band” says Ben on the impending business of Nai Harvest. “I’m going to be skipping uni a lot, Lew’s going to be ringing in sick at work a lot”. Everything is planned finitely for the release of the new 7”, a drastic contrast from Whatever which was released two months later than originally planned. “We’ve got all the time in the world to plan for this and make sure it’s perfect”. “It’s going to be an exciting and busy year for us”.

GIRLSONDRUGS;

the new face of yorkshireâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s electronic scene.

By Chloe Shepherd

Luke Lount. A promising artist originally from the sleepy market town of Selby, North Yorkshire. Performing and producing under the musical guise of ‘GirlsOnDrugs’. Luke’s complex musical creations bring future dance to the present. Lacing wistful chords, strong beats and atmospheric vocals together and creating a unique yet perfect blend of compelling production. After performing and session recordings for numerous bands over the years, thus showcasing his musical talent, Luke seems to have finally found his niche creating and producing electronic music. The twenty year old now currently attends Leeds Metropolitan University where he is studying for a degree in Music Production. ‘GirlsOnDrugs’ success is evidently growing, with songs on Soundcloud reaching thousands of listens; his incredible remix of Alt-J’s breakthrough single ‘Breezeblocks’ entitled ‘Pass the ∆’ has surpassed an astonishing 27,000 listens and G.o.D shows no signs of slowing down. His second EP is currently in the pipeline due to be released on Anonymous Records very soon. With his ever growing reputation and success, there seems to be no stopping this talented artist and self-confessed ‘perfectionist’ who looks set to take the electronic music scene by storm… How would you describe or categorise the genre of music that you produce?

Have you always been interested and passionate about Electronic music?

I create what I call ‘Future Music’ so naturally, the definitive sounds of such a fresh genre are blurred. It’s hard to categorise because I try to make a unique sound. If you like Future garage or Modern Electronic Indie you’re in the right ballpark.

Surprisingly not, I didn’t really start listening to more electronically inclined music until I was about 15. It was visiting europe the first time that opened my eyes, and I could really see how big it is out there, especially in Berlin.

I became obsessed with all things electronic, and after listening to hundreds of genres I really discovered the niche I love. I went to Berlin again last year, and I was finally old enough to appreciate what goes on behind the doors of the largest clubs in the world. Who are your major influences in producing and creating your individual music style? I listen to a lot of music that inspires me, but I don’t necessarily take direct influence from those artists. I love FKA twigs at the moment, Arca’s production is sublime. As long as something is original and interesting then It will inspire me in some way or other. How and when did your signing with Anonymous Records happen? I was contacted a few weeks ago, and Stew from the label had shown great Interest in what I do. I truly believe in what we can achieve together. 27 MORNGE

He understood me well, so it was an easy signing. Your most recent song ‘Washd’ features the whimsical vocal talent of Kat Mchugh, how did the collaboration come about? And do you plan to work together in the future? I had been friends with Kat for a few months and we had worked together in various college projects. I always loved her voice, and it wasn’t until I worked with her on ‘Washd’ that I realised that not only was her voice perfect for me, but she shared the exact same work ethic and mentality towards music. I have no doubt that Kat will be a long term confederate of mine. How is work going on your most recent EP? Amazing. Two tracks down, half way there. The next step is bringing Kat to the studio so we can sit and talk ideas, then start recording vocals. The best step of creating music is definitely the recording of the

vocals and working together, I can’t wait. You’re currently a student at Leeds University, is progression of your music diﬃcult at university? * I actually think studying at University has really helped me and my music. Aside from the education and training I receive, I have access to millions of pounds worth of equipment and facilities. My tutors are also very supportive, and many of them are in the industry so can offer real advice. What does the future hold for ‘GirlsOnDrugs’? I have my next EP to release in the winter and I’m currently orchestrating a series of live shows, starting with Leeds University Freshers Fair. I have a lot of plans with Anonymous, including weekly club nights and growing my internet presence. In short, I’m working hard. I’m growing.

“It’s like dark riffs with echo and that” is how guitarist and vocalist Kristian describes the sound of The Wytches, a threepiece from Brighton who often get describes as ‘doom surf’. “We did a show in a barn when we were in a hardcore band. We got really muddy” Although nowadays The Wytches are more likely to be playing on a real stage with lights and other shit like that. They even played this years Leeds and Reading festivals despite being a band for just about a year. “It’s like a milestone” says bassist Dan. “We won’t be on the TV or anything though” says Kristian. Despite being around for such a short space of time, the future is looking very 29 MORNGE

promising for The Wytches. They have a follow up single to Beehive Queen (released through Hate Hate Hate Records) due out imminently, they recently recorded a Maida Vale session and they’re making progress with their debut album. Although there is no release date set in mind “the sooner the better, the sooner the better” says Kristian. By BEN GOULDER

COLD CAVE

Wesley Eisold is the physical embodiment of his latest musical output Cold Cave. Draped entirely in black he is mysterious, he is nihilistic and he is intriguing. Over the past year or so there has been significant changes in Eisold’s world. From his music by the fact that he has returned to his roots and now is the sole musician behind Cold Cave, stating that his previous and most popular record Cherish The Lightyears was not to his taste due to the other people involved in its creation. “It’s just not my favourite because the other records were made and recorded by me alone” he says, “I do hate some people on the album though”. “I just got bored of the routine really. Bored of the others in the routine” says Eisold on the changes in his personal life. His previous poetry zines and book Deathbeds focussed heavily on

drugs, sex and living to the excess, however, now he is vegan, straight edge and in a monogamous relationship. On the effects of his lifestyle effecting his writing style he believes it will only expand his range. Despite Cold Cave taking obvious cues from British bands from the 80s, Eisold’s first band American Nightmare revolutionised hardcore punk in a way by bringing lyrical influence from the likes of The Smiths and Joy Division to the blistering sound of the music. “Since I can remember I was obsessed with music. In the mid 80s I watched MTV religiously even though I didn’t really like too much of the music. Then the Just Like Heaven video premiered and I just felt this rush in me. It was some inexplicable connection, but I knew the sentiments in that song was close to how I felt as a person at that age. It was as if I was waiting for it”. “Shortly after, a family friend asked me if I knew what the people in the mall who dressed in all black were listening to. I said, ‘No’. He said, ‘The Smiths’” American Nightmare reunited in 2011 to play two shows. One in the band’s home of Boston and the other in Los Angeles. “Well, we do it for ourselves and the people who love AN and then there’s nothing else” he says on the reasons behind the reunion. There were subsequently five other reunion shows in 2012 and 2013. Shedding light on any plans for UK or European shows he vaguely states “It’s possible but there are no plans to”. Eisold is currently planning and making demos for the next Cold Cave release. “Sometimes it’s good to envision the final record before even making a note for it”. By BEN GOULDER

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Hi Nicky, How are you and what are you up to at the moment?

the record with the title, imagery etc? What does it all mean?

I’m currently sitting in a small bar in Philadelphia. It’s 12:30 pm and I’m just fine.

Thanks. Downward was a nod to several poets who I have been heavily influenced by over the years. All had taken their own lives as well. It was a way to show my appreciation for their works.

Do you just want to explain how Nothing got together and what your original goals were? I had been sitting on a bunch of songs I had recorded on my own over the span of 2006-2010. I was living in Los Angeles at the time and finally seeing light at the end of an eight year nervous breakdown tunnel. I realized music was the only thing that’s truly ever made me happy, so I moved back to Philadelphia and began looking for members to help me get the songs off the ground. Downwards Years to Come was probably my favourite record to come out last year. Is there any particular concept to

As far as the art goes, Brandon and I wanted to use something that would compliment the density and fullness of the music on Downward by playing on the opposite, using a far more minimalistic approach. How did A389 come about releasing the record? They’re a label generally known for putting out darker hardcore and then all of sudden released the Anne record and your record. Dom is a brilliant individual. He runs the best independent hardcore/punk label in the US. We were ecstatic to find out he was interested. He contacted 34

me and we had a ton of mutual friends so it was all a very easy process and a no brainer of a decision. Your debut LP is going to be called Guilty Of Everything. Can you shed any light on what that means and any other info on it? Again I’m very inspired by things I read. I discovered Herbert Huncke a couple years back. Many believe he was the start of the Beat Generation due to his influence on the likes of Ginsberg and Burroughs. His writing was less of an accomplishment rather than the inspiration he sent out. Robberies, scams, drug deals and usage. His autobiography is titled the same and it’s generally about how whatever corner he turned, in whatever direction he looked, there was some unhealthy negative thing waiting for him and he learned to greet them all with a smile. This book and person inspire me deeply.

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We will be releasing the LP on Relapse Records by the end of the year. It will sit well next to DYTC in the grand scheme of Nothing.

Can you just explain why you were imprisoned? What were you charged with and what happened etc? It’s not as complex as it may seem. I was involved in an altercation with some guys when I was about 18 years old. It got out of control fast, like most things did back then. The next thing I knew I was looking at a slew of charges including Attempted Murder and several different types of Aggravated Assault’s that I didn’t even know existed at the time. I was sentenced to seven years, I managed to slide out in two. It’s hard to imagine there aren’t more details, but unfortunately the Prison system isn’t as exciting as you may be led to believe. It was the beginning of an even

darker point of my life filled with far worse tragedies to come, but I managed to come out unscathed. Eventually anyway. Horror Show play the occasional show again. How is it playing songs you wrote all those years ago? Horror Show will always be very important to me. It started in the best point of my life and rolled right into the beginning of the worst. Regardless of what good and bad things came during the bands time, it held the most feeling. When we would occasionally play after, it was just to try and breathe in that nostalgia again. The hardcore scene you were part of spawned some good post-punk/shoegaze bands, yet those bands have never fully left fled their hardcore connections, why do you think this is the case? Well, it wasn’t really a planned thing. We tend to want to stick with a label who cares for the release as much as we do and that has a good track record for being trust worthy and loyal. Just happens to be that most of those labels are punk/hardcore. Our first release, “Suns And Lovers” was released by a small boutique label in Tokyo called Big Love Records. Not many punk releases, but the label still has a very punk approach. Has the way you approach writing lyrics differed from playing in a hardcore band compared to what you’re doing now? Not much has changed, just more things to cry over I guess. By BEN GOULDER

SAM WRIGHT / ABANDONED BERLIN AIRpORT 37 MORNGE

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ANDY JONES - pUNk SHIT A short study into the aesthetics, the bands and the people of the Hardcore Punk scene in Leeds, Sheffield and Bradford 43 MORNGE

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REGURGITATING CULTURE ‘The Ouroboros often symbolize selfreflexivity or cyclicality, especially in the sense of something constantly re-creating itself, the eternal return, and other things such as the phoenix which operate in cycles that begin anew as soon as they end.’

s time passes by, originality becomes harder to come by. Ideas become tired, scope for new ideas becomes smaller. But like a snake eating its own tail, why does pop culture always seem to end up eating itself? The idea of ‘retro’ is a marketing vehicle for wheeling out the old and the tired, when there’s nothing new to come about. Pop culture today is made up entirely of fragments of the past, hastily cobbled together. Fore thinking artists and musicians of the sixties and seventies all almost certainly looked to the future,

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sadly that can’t be said of the artists and PR firms around today. The internet, but more specifically YouTube, hasn’t helped this manifestation at all. Stuck for ideas? Delve through the deluge of clips on YouTube and see if there’s a song from the sixties you can change a chord sequence around to get an ‘original’ song. The most prominent example of this, being Amy Winehouse. A phenomenal voice, but after trying her own thing with debut album ‘Frank’, decided it didn’t make enough of an impact. Three years later, out came ‘Back to Black’. Double

platinum in the US and around fifteen million copies sold worldwide. Why was this? It’s because Winehouse had reverted back to a familiar style what people were comfortable with. She was almost unrecognisable from three years previous, modelling herself on fifties pin ups, Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holliday. If all else fails, let pop eat it itself. Pop culture’s past is growing even quicker than its present. Hollywood remakes, album reissues and reformation of various bands from the past thirty years are eclipsing any new, bold ideas from coming through. Why would a Hollywood big wig commission a ground breaking new film when it’s guaranteed a steady revenue stream from the upcoming ‘Saw 23’ movie? Even when it comes down to two of the most successful shows of the past twenty years, the X Factor and Britain’s Got Talent, we’re still stuck in a rut. Simon Cowell, the brainchild

of this dystopian dancing and singing dog future, wasn’t exactly original when it came to developing his biggest cash cows. God awful programmes from the seventies like ‘Opportunity Knocks’ and ‘New Faces’ laid the foundations for Cowell to get so fucking rich, that he wipes his arse with crisp fifty pound notes. In short, looking forward to twenty years time, we’ll be having a ‘teens’ revival. Everyone will be ripping off the current ‘B-town’ bands, who at present borrow heavily from nineties bands such as Suede and Elastica. We’ve not really got much to look forward to, only the hope that the bands who do this in the future, hone the art of ripping off, better than the bands that did before. Let’s just all be cyber punks. By JAMES EDwARDS

NORTH kOREA:

wAR OF ThE wORDS

n a peninsula hanging from the largest continent on Earth, with bitter air gusting in from the sparse tundra of Siberia, lies a country infamous for its defiance against the global community. As you are no-doubt aware, North Korea is a land consumed by aggression. The provocative actions earlier in the year, where dialogue spoken by the country was surrounded by threats of a pre-emptive nuclear strike on the US, proved to the world that this little country still has a big voice. The combat-ready rhetoric emanating from the borders was supplemented by footage of proud Korean soldiers, eager to 55 MORNGE

fill their duty for the ‘supreme leader’, who were told that their rockets and long-range artillery were ready to attack; Combat duty posture no.1. Their targets: South Korea, the U.S. Mainland, and military bases in Guam and Hawaii, adding in a not-too-brief statement: “The hostile forces will clearly realize the iron will, matchless grit and extraordinary mettle of the brilliant commander of Mt. Paektu that the earth cannot exist without Songun Korea.” So what became of all this? Aside from a few rockets lobbed from a part of the North to the sea in the South; a surprise nuclear test at their facility embedded in the mountains; and the forceful closure of an industrial park, jointly owned with the South in Kaesong, not much else. No bullet, or bomb, or flying hatchet met with any human’s demise, as far as we know. While the weapons seemingly remained cool, the words immolated. By playing the world’s media to show the level of patriotism conditioned into their soldiers and citizens, the strength of their propaganda over their people was readily visible to the rest of the world. But the propaganda does not lay exclusively to the people of North Korea, no. You too can enjoy a wealth of different videos that have their roots in the peninsula. You too can watch the Supreme Leader, Kim Jong-un, taking a stroll around a new supermarket and rustling through items with his pudgy hands, or of how he mastered driving at the age of 3. In all seriousness there is one YouTube video which does well in showcasing the true length and breadth that the pro-DPRK measures are willing to go to in captivating a livid audience. Plainly titled as North Korea Documentary PROPAGANDA 56

– REAL FOOTAGE, you really begin to get a taste of just how psychopathic the smoke and mirrors department of NK can be. In the video, you are lead along a number of topics by an unknown figure of authority, narrated by some chirpy woman with a British accent. Then out pour flashings of horrific images, some of which remain on screen for brief seconds, others that linger for a fuller effect, begin to barrage you with footage ranging from war-crimes, terrorism, narcissism; greed, lust, animal cruelty; and all the banalities and commodities that constantly strike the shock, horror tones. The topics discussed are already some of the most contentious and important in our society, such as: reality TV, the state of Israel, Government spin, control, capitalism, tweens, Paris Hilton and Katie Price to name a few. Many of these things you probably have an opinion on already, and I’m guessing some of them aren’t too positive, which leads me to the conclusion that the NK 57 MORNGE

officers, yeah, they’ve done their homework. What’s lacking in this video, however, is a retrospective of their own regime. This is a video that is so rife with contradiction and hypocrisy that it beggars belief. Take, for example, the first few minutes where they describe the state of global propaganda. They practically outline their own ideologies and methods, their own ‘psychological warfare’, that has numbed and quelled the rational mind of their own people, and chastise the other governments for doing similar. Let it be made clear their main political agenda is that of Songun, or the military-first policy. So when they describe the US as ‘the only nation insane enough to use nuclear weapons on their fellow human-beings’, how does this look when compared to their recent threats of a pre-emptive nuclear strike, despite whether or not they are capable? It is obvious; North Korea is still in disparate pain. Their consistent tugging and pulling at the global community, their jealousy for control and lust for power is another aspect destined to keep the two Koreas from ever peacefully becoming one. As for how seriously we should take threats from the North in the future, I’ll leave you with a quote from former US Secretary of State Henry Kissinger: “For purposes of deterrence, a bluff taken seriously is more useful than a serious threat interpreted as a bluff.” By TOBy SIMS

A LA VUELTA:

ThE REAL OvIEDO STORy “Trust me, they’ll make a film about this one day” I said to a couple of the slightly more cynical people when I told them what is been up to at the weekend. What had I been up to? The usual, in between watching the usual rubbish Saturday night tv and waiting for Match of the Day to start I’d been messing about on Twitter. How does that link to getting involved in a Spanish football club I had barely heard of? Well blame Sid Lowe. Sid, quite a cult journalist who writes the occasional piece for the Guardian, had posted something on Twitter about buying shares in a club called Real Oviedo. Apparently this should interest us English football fans as they had given the Premier League Mata, Carzola and Michu. As X-Factor was as interesting as usual I thought I would

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investigate a little further. It turns out “giving the Premier League” meant the three Spanish players had come through Oviedo’s youth system. I like youth systems so I found this interesting - still no idea who Oviedo actually were though, other than some Spanish 3rd division side. What’s that? They used to be La Liga?! Why aren’t they now? I am glad you ask. It turns out that they used to have a very naughty owner that borrowed a load of money in the clubs name, then ran off with it (possibly to Panama legend has it) and left the club in dire financial trouble. This led to the club getting relegated all the way down to the 4th tier of Spanish football - yet still with a 30,000 all seater stadium. Being a Luton Town fan I am used no financial skull duggery leading to a much lower level of football, so I was compelled to learn more.

Why was I even following Sid Lowe? Back in the 90’s there was a tv show called Football Italia fronted by the pun tastic James Richardson. AC Jimbo now presents the Guardian’s twice weekly football podcast, on which Sid provides the Spanish football news. Hence me giving him a follow. So what was Sid after? Basically he had sent out an SOS tweet encouraging people to buy shares in Oviedo, via PayPal. £10 a pop, very affordable to many of us. Thinking this was better than voting aimlessly on X-Factor, I bought one and then announced to the Twitter world I had done so. Within minutes I was getting loads of Oviedo fans thanking me and telling me more about what they were trying to achieve. It was then I made a friend for life in Matias Garcia. Matty was the most eloquent in his thanks, and explained to me that we needed to raise €1.9m in the next fortnight or the club

would die. It was clear this meant a lot to him, so I started to spread the word as best I could - and it was amazing how changing my avatar to the player Manu Busto helped. I genuinely thought I would buy a share and forget, but through what was now daily contact with Matty I was falling in love with the club. As the deadline drew in we hit the number, and then to top it all off, obviously, the worlds richest man, Carlos Slim, invested a further €2.5m through his Carso Group. But then what? Club saved, job done? No chance, time to start supporting these guys. At that time I think they were 4th in the league and the was a promotion chase on! Suddenly the games were being beamed over the Internet and we we able to see the “talents” of the Doc, big Diego Cervero, my avatar, Manu Busto and our little bald winger Javi Caceres. I think we won the first game after the share issue 1-0 .

I was informed that supporting Oviedo would not be an easy ride, and I was not lied to. The standard was poor, the results were variable, the performances frustrating - but wow the players tried hard! Weeks and months passed and then it was announced that the club were going to run their first International Supporters weekend. Naturally flights were booked and off I went. It was the most incredible weekend. Lets just say, whenever I get off a bus now I expect a standing ovation. The Oviedo fans made us all feel the most welcome people on the planet and the weekend will go with me to my grave as a memory. They say football is often written in the stars. I totally agree. The beauty of this story is that so many things needed to happen to make this possible, each of them random, each of the vital.

No. Would Sid have sent that tweet had the first game of Oviedo he went to watch many, many years ago had not made him fall in love with the club? No. Had Michu, Mata and Carzola not been Premier League stars would English fans have cared enough to invest? No. Trust me, even with just those points aligning there were many more. This club, like many others, is the reason people get out of bed each day. To be a small part in saving it was the most amazing experience I have ever been involved in. I am now Oviedo. Now, then and forever. By ChRIS DARwEN

Would Oviedo have been saved if Sid had not sent that tweet? 62

fEMINISM IS NOT A DIRTY WORD. Some people are scared of the word “feminism”. I know a lot of real smart folks who have told me that “I believe in gender equality, but I’m not a feminist”. The thing is, there’s no difference between the two - if you believe that people should be treated the same regardless of genitalia, then yep, sorry, but you’re a feminist. Welcome to the club, your membership card and free gift are in the post. Because of the history and connotations of ~the f word~ people can be kind of touchy about openly identifying as a “feminist” (usually because of what it might make other people think about them), but the term is - for better or for worse - definitely making a resurgence, thanks to a number of high profile campaigns in the media recently. For a lot of people who are happy to say that they’re a feminist, their involvement and interest in feminism will have been sparked by something they’ve experienced or come into contact with which struck a chord with them personally and made them understand that inequality exists. For me - the lone girl in my group of friends, surrounded by dudes both attending and playing the hardcore and punk shows I would frequent - it was the riot grrrl movement of 1990’s America, which is still something I identify massively with. Riot grrrl is an entire subculture devoted to feminism for young people – not only as a punx platform for rebellion against established norms, but as a support system for those who have suffered at the hands of patriarchy on any scale. It leaves the judg63 MORNGE

mental stereotypes by which females are so often characterised in wider society (Psycho Ex-Girlfriend and Manic Pixie Dream Girl, anyone?) at the door, and allows for the development of self-love and a true appreciation of others through the collective sharing of ideas. Creativity is encouraged: riot grrrl music, because of bands like Bikini Kill and Bratmobile, remains indelible on the pages of the rock & roll history books; riot grrrl literature (mostly in the form of zines) is totally refreshing because it’s written by the grrrls, but not just for the grrrls – really it’s just for anybody who cares to listen. Riot grrrl is not a selective, inclusive club for which you need Kathleen Hanna bangs and Enid Coleslaw glasses to qualify for membership – in fact it’s the total opposite. To be a riot grrrl, all you need is a desire for change. In this way, it’s very representative of my ideals for feminism as a whole: at present there are critics who state that mainstream feminism only concerns a certain type of white person, but the riot grrrl philosophy shows that its possible for anyone, from anywhere, to be included and to know that their opinions and ideas count. Feminism today is (and, actually, always has been) about achieving equality for people of all genders across. It is about making sure that everyone has agency over his or her own life, and it’s about acknowledging that people who aren’t straight white men have important stuff to contribute to the world, too. Riot grrrl as a movement welcomes these people and provides a non-hostile environment (even if, today, it’s only one that exists online or at punk shows once a month) for their creativity and their views, and as an offshoot of more mainstream feminism, it does a great job of getting people from subcultures more interested in the bigger issues at hand. So. Though for a lot of people, “feminism” represents terrifying women who hate men and have nothing better to do than wax lyrical about bra burning, for some others, including me, it’s a place 65 MORNGE

to come when you feel like nobody is listening. Riot grrrl turned me into an extremely vocal feminist, and though for others, there are different things which caught their interest, everyone ends up in the same place - a friend of mine recently described developing an awareness of feminism, and therefore, of sexism, as “taking the blue pill”, and she’s totally right. Every day injustice and discrimination takes place on the grounds of gender, and so that word - feminism - which so many people still consider to be a dirty word, becomes for many others a symbol of empowerment and agency and self-possession. I’d like to know what’s so wrong with that. By LAUREN O’NEILL

ThE LONELINESS OF T FOOTBALL FAN It’s grim up north. Few things justify this theory more so than sitting in a coach station at 6:30am on a mild, grey morning in what is supposed to be summer. To my right was a small group of old people, a few families and a group of girls of about eighteen, all eagerly chatting about what their day might entail in jolly old London. To my left were about half a dozen blokes whose accents suggested they were from Barnsley, four of them were clad in spanking new United shirts and all of them were drinking Skol. In the middle was me, slumped in a chair and armed only with some sandwiches me mum had done me for the trip down, and a disposable camera a friend of mine had given me to document my day. The coach arrived at seven am and everyone queued to board. So it’s grim up north, but now I’m about to find out what it’s like down south... The coach trip was many things but it was seldom boring. The coach was a double-decker, I was on the top deck at the back surrounded by United fans from their various corners of Yorkshire. Some were necking cans, some were asleep, and one was reading Nuts. Being on my own and far from the most sociable person you’ll ever meet, I spent the majority of the journey just gazing out the window. Occasionally dipping into my goody bag of treats my mum had packed me, and every now and then listening into what everyone else was talking about. You hear some strange things when selectively divulging into other people’s conversations. For example a group of blokes to my left 67 MORNGE

ThE LONG DISTANCE were talking about buying houses, however my introduction to the conversation came in the shape of “the Estate Agent said he hadn’t died in it, but we went to view it and his bloody slippers were still there. We asked the neighbours and they said he died in the dining room. Cheeky sod lied to us! We had it though ‘cause it were going cheap.” I was making short work of my mum’s lovingly prepared cheese and corned beef sandwiches when an alarm sounded. Shortly after, a man came back upstairs from his trip to the toilet. “Wouldn’t bother with the bog if I were you” he cautiously advised his pals “I think I’ve bust the flush, it’s blocked” He went on to explain how the flush for the toilet was positioned behind him next to the as opposed to next to the toilet itself. He said there was a button next to the toilet itself, but it was an emergency alarm which he had pushed thinking it was the flush. From this point forward everyone who went to toilet returned with a similar warning of the blocked toilet, and every now and then someone would accidentally press the alarm. We stopped at Northampton services for five minutes or so where we were greeted by the sight of something somewhere between The Hills Have Eyes and Rise of the Footsoldier, as 20 or so roughlooking young men stood scowling at every coach that pulled in. I tried to look for signs of a team badge amongst them to decipher who they supported, I couldn’t find one, but I could tell they were going to the football. They did however lighten up for all of 15 seconds as a lad from our coach rushed off to be sick in a bin to which one of them shouted “Are you pregnant or can you just not hold your ale?” They all had a good giggle at that... After a 15 minute navigation of London - for 5 of which we got closer to the distant Wembley arch and for the latter 10 we got 68

further away - we finally arrived at Victoria Coach Station where the next stage of my journey would begin. After coming to the educated conclusion of avoiding the coach toilet, I ended up paying an extortionate 30p for a number two in the station. As unnecessary as I thought it was, it was a very fitting ‘Welcome to London’ as when I ventured out of the coach station and into a pub on the immediate right, I was charged £4.25 for a pint just over a £2 increase on my local pub price. As unimpressed with the price as I was it was something that I accepted I would have to get used to. As I sat and enjoyed my pint I had a slight realisation which was to make the day a bit more interesting. A regular match goer I drive across to Old Trafford on my own every home game, which has meant I’ve never really been able to drink at football matches because I always have to drive back. This however, was no such issue for today’s preceding, as I decided that if there was one thing that help ease the pain of these extortionate prices, it was getting hammered. I ordered another pint... I only had two as it was half eleven, kick off was at two and I didn’t how long it would take me to get to Wembley. I followed the GPS on my phone that took me down Buckingham Palace Road towards Green Park Station. On my way I stopped for a swift pint in three pubs, neither of which was cheap but I thought if the economy is as bad as they say it is then at least i’m doing my bit. In a somewhat more merry state, I continued on and passed Buckingham Palace. I’d never seen it before and to be honest I was disappointed. Smaller and slightly scruffier than I’d imagined, the surrounding area was unsurprisingly swamped with tourists taking pictures and speaking in foreign tongues, which ironically was what sort of what I was doing for the day... If there’s one thing I’ll compliment London on, it’s the underground, which I thought was brilliant. Basically a surprisingly cheap, underground network of trams to anyone 69 MORNGE

that’s never been. I was starting to see a lot more United fans as I boarded my train, and even though they were playing at the same place on the same day, I was surprised to see one Wigan fan. The train stopped at Wembley Park Station and most passengers myself included - departed... Out of the train station lead me straight onto Wembley way. They say Wembley is the home of English football, and to be honest walking down Wembley way summed up everything that football meant to me really. I’m no journalist, I’m a football fan, there’s a slight difference. More so than a football fan, I’m a Manchester United fan, there’s an even bigger difference. Being a United fan can be strange at times. Being from Sheffield I support United due to my mum spending part of her childhood in Manchester and being taken to matches by her Dad. My Dad never really supported anyone until I did so when I was getting into football it was my Mum’s influence that was to cast the deciding vote. Manchester being part of my ancestral heritage, and United being the team of my Mum, I suppose football means quite a lot to me. It’s something to identify with, something to take pride and interest in. Some of my happiest memories are of going to football matches. With my dad when I was little, right through to going on my own now, it’s something that will stay with me to the day I die. This though I felt, was a feeling which wasn’t shared quite as broadly as you’d expect between the clientele of Wembley way. Mostly in United colours or talking in Northern accents, pockets of fans were chanting a singing, ready and raring to see their team’s first competitive match of the season. Others however, seemed less than impressed with this behaviour. With ‘half and half scarves’ round their necks and six eBay bound programs in hand they fired dirty looks and utters of disgust towards the people that shock horror, had come to a football match to actually support their team... This partition carried on into the ground and sadly onto the 70

stands. After a few more pints of flat Carlsberg at £4.70 each I made my way to my seat. The teams were just coming out the tunnel and formed a line on the pitch ready for the nation anthem which is customary at cup finals. Manchester United are amongst several English football clubs whose fans are notoriously ‘club over country’. As the national anthem began to play it was met by boos and chants of ‘You can stick your fucking England up your arse’ and ‘World champions twice, world champions twice, once more than England, world champions twice.’ Luckily I was round plenty of fans who’d come to stand, sing and enjoy themselves, but I couldn’t help notice a few dirty looks coming from those who seemed more worried about the sound of the video that they were taking on their iPad being ruined. Robin Van Persie put us 1-0 up after about 5 minutes but the rest of the half was pretty boring. Half time came and the less enthusiastic of those around me had made the trip back on to the concourse a good 10 minutes ago. I gave it 5 minutes and decided to go exploring... The further I got down the queue for the Gents, the more apparent it became that there was smoke emerging from the exit. I finally got in to find a group of about 10 blokes stood having a fag and chanting United songs. Then, a young man who’d just finished at the urinal pulled a flare out from his jacket and lit it. This was greeted by great cheers from most people and with a shake of the head followed by a swift exit from others. ‘We’ll set flares where we want, We’re Man United, We’ll set flares where we want’ began echoing around the room. Two security men rushed in and were greeted by a wall of Mancs chanting ‘Red Army! Red Army!’ followed by ‘Manchester la la la’. The security men swiftly left. The flare faded and I made my way back onto the concourse. There I came across a mass of fans clapping and chanting. One bloke got up on a condiment dispenser, grabbed all the sachets of tomato sauce he could and proceeded to jump up and down squeezing the sachets in his hands and firing showers of red ketchup everywhere. These ten minutes had certainly been 71 MORNGE

the highlight of the day... The second half passed with a similar boring theme. Robin Van Persie had a shot deflected and into the net for 2-0 which became the final score. After half an hour of the trophy presentation and a run through of United’s vast back catalogue of songs, I decided to make my way back to the station. There were queues for around 25 minutes down Wembley way and the train back was packed. After an hour or so I finally made it back to the pub at the side of Victoria Coach station, where I sat down with a pint and conceded that I was battered. After a £9.00 pie and chips (they wanted to give me mash the dirty southern bastards) and another farewell pint I boarded the coach home... There were some people I recognised from the journey down but most of the people were different. I slept for the first 2 hours or so but was then awoken by the one thing I didn’t need when in a drunken tired state with a lack of leg room; a young Asian man trying to speak patois to his Caribbean sounding friend, and complaining that he was too warm and wanted a fag. Admittedly, it was very warm, but no one cared except him. He made several trips down to the driver to enquire about the possibility of air conditioning but every time he returned he just got more and more angry. After an argument with most of the passengers on the top deck, two fags and a go on his mate’s electronic shisha he finally shut up as we arrived back in Sheffield. The coach station was just as bleak and just as cold, but it was dark now and it was raining. I had made it to London and back with no major injuries except one to my finances. It’s grim up north, what is it down south? Bloody expensive. By MATT COLLINS

Fences

The window cleaner was outside her bedroom, looking in. She sat in the corridor beside her room, her back pressed flat against the wall and an ashtray balanced on her left knee. She had shut all of the doors that led to this upper landing, ensuring that she was completely out of his line of sight. This was her routine when the window cleaner would visit — scurry into her hiding place with a book and a cigarette and wait for the whole thing to pass. She had seen him a couple of houses away, working on the conservatory of a neighbour’s house; this stroke of fortune allowing her to prepare, arranging her possessions to make it seem as though she was out. She didn’t hide from him all of the time — sometimes he would catch her unawares when she was watching television or making dinner and she couldn’t ignore him; sometimes she would owe him too much money not to pay. When she did interact with him, he had a cheery demeanour that did not seem forced and he was never anything but polite. He was older than her, in his late forties probably, but in good shape, with a lean and wiry body that came from manual work. Though she had no real objection to him, just the idea of him looking into her house and watching her made her extremely uncomfortable. Even if she was partaking in the most picayune daily activity, writing an email or making breakfast, she’d feel as though she was somehow being judged. This wasn’t a man that she had commissioned to clean her windows — he’d been doing it for as long as she had lived there. She would have opted out a long time since if it hadn’t included telling him to his face that she no longer wanted him at her house. There was no discernible pattern to how long the window cleaner took to complete his business — sometimes it would seem as though he had come and gone almost instantly, other times his visits would be protracted and she would yearn for respite. She didn’t know how long it would take him to reach her house, only 74

that it was inevitable and it was better not to be caught unprepared. She made herself a cup of tea, rolled a cigarette, found a comfortable position in the corridor and awaited his arrival. Whenever there was a chance that he’d arrive, there was a strict ‘no noise’ policy. This had stemmed from one time when she had been caught in the shower during a visit and had been given away by the overly loud music blaring through her speakers. The appearance of the window cleaner took her by surprise and she hid behind the frosted glass, too afraid to try and turn her music down for fear of being seen. She wasn’t going to answer the door with her body slick with wet, wrapped just in a towel, hair bounded into a tight knot, so she ignored his knocking. Though he must have known that she was there, but afterwards he’d never even alluded to the incident. After a short wait, he arrived. She heard the soft rattle of his ladder as he lent it against the wall, the gentle squeaks coming from her bedroom window pane. The situation made her too tense to read any longer; she found herself scanning the same lines over, without comprehension. She placed the book softly beside the cup of tea, removed the cigarette from the crook of her ear and lit it with a match. She took languid drags, holding the smoke in as long as possible before letting it out in a thin, precise jet. When not smoking, she rested the cigarette on the lip of the ashtray, allowing the ash to casually drop without prompt. The window cleaner moved around the house, working around her in stereo. The part that she feared the most — more than being seen, more than being a prisoner in her own home — was the knock on the door. Even if she expected it, she would never fail to jolt her. The window cleaner had a knock that he always used — a little pattern consisting of four arrhythmic taps. It sought out every corner of the house and felt like an accusation, as though he knew that she could hear and that she wasn’t going to answer. She imagined 75 MORNGE

he got this a lot, that other people would hide from him, because they didn’t have the right change to pay or they had the same unease as her. The others would be sat in their very own corridors and they would fear his knock as she did. She didn’t know her neighbours well enough to ask them whether they felt the same; aside from a brisk ‘hello’ to the people living on either side of her, she didn’t know the neighbours at all. She didn’t even know if they knew each other, if they would hold dinner parties and talk about the local news and drink sensible amounts of wine. Did they talk about her? That young woman that never said anything to anyone? She doubted it — good fences made good neighbours and there was no fence more effective than a polite smile. Hers was perfect — not simpering or patronising, but without the warmth to invite further conversation. It was her defence against men selling broadband outside the supermarket and colleagues inviting her to out of work activities. She could deflect cologne soaked men that offered to buy her drinks and proselytising Mormons with nothing more than a twitch of her face and a soft half-laugh. Her smile was a skill that she had picked up without knowing, something that had always been there. The alacrity with which it sprang to her face was unsettling. At times she would catch herself in a mirrored surface and notice it, as though it was her default expression. She felt out of control, surrounded by people she could never know. With her free hand, she massaged the muscles in her cheek, and waited for the window cleaner to leave. This was a habit that she had developed and she found it helped to calm her at times of stress. The window cleaner knocked, causing her to jump with a slight shimmy of her shoulders. She gently squeezed her lower jaw, held her breath and tried not to move. wORDS By ALEx ChEESMAN / ILLUSTRATION By LEwIS CURRIE

“the main purpose of the heart is to make heart sounds” the next time you are driving your car you will think about that day we had sex in my dad’s bed when the bright sun was shining on us through white curtains and we felt comforted by the inevitability of death I know sometimes late at night we share the same thoughts we think that we only have free will when we are alone and that we don’t want to become better people the newspaper said that the sun erupted tuesday evening and that the higgs boson particle created a ripple in the space time continuum and that beer is good for you I will touch your face using my entire body and we will recall a specific warm morning when we felt numbness in the space between atoms and our mouths tasted like the unattainable closeness of years prior By MIRA GONzALEz

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HER LONELINESS MIxED WITH MY LONELINESS Sometimes it comes on like that first wave of bombing half a gram of MDMA. One minute you’re fine and the next you’re sweating profusely and touching yourself like you’ve never felt skin before. I don’t even know what triggers it. I could be blindly browsing the photos in my phone until I come across that picture of my ex girlfriend with a dildo in her cunt. Sometimes it doesn’t even need to be that explicit; I could just see some actress’s nipple for a split second or touch my dick out of boredom. Whatever sets me off, it never fails to get me so horny I feel like I need to fuck a hole in the wall. This all over hard on always surfaces some time about ten or eleven at night when it’s too early to sleep and I’m too lazy to go out and try it on with an actual real life person. Most of the time I’ll watch the same grainy camera phone video I taped months earlier of me fucking some girl from behind, watching my pixelated cum land awkwardly on some out of focus beige flesh (sperm looks strange as rectangles). Maybe instead I’ll watch porn or talk dirty to some girl I fucked ages ago over an instant messenger program on the internet. Sometimes I have it all on my screen at once and touch myself until I can’t take it anymore, getting to the point where the slightest breeze or gentle touch of my fingers sends shivers down the end of my cock. Then I’ll pound away until I reach that ultimate cathartic ejaculation. If it’s good enough, if it really hits the spot, it feels like an erotic exorcism, like dispelling a ghost through pearly ectoplasm. I’ll catch my breath, clean myself up and go to bed happy. That particular night was different though. I was in the mood to

do the job right, to take my time and really go for it. Unusually, it had been a few days since I had cleansed myself and I was looking for the sort of money shot that would leave me a few pounds lighter. It started with a kind of Google based pornographic Chinese whispers. I began looking for porn by typing in tame things like ‘Asian gangbang’. One click and a few minutes of watching later, I’d followed another link on the same page to ‘Gagging barely legal teens’, then from there onto ‘Demon black men inseminating your white wife’ and then ‘glorious glory holes’ and so on and so forth. There was an endless well of depravity, just waiting for my short term attention span and pent up frustration. The problem was that I’d seen it all a million times before and it wasn’t creating that special spark or flare that I was looking for. Sure, I was hard and I could have ended it all there and then if I wanted to, watching a gaggle of Asian school girls get penetrated in a variety of holes but this was supposed to be something special, some kind of out of body wank experience and the usual fake moans and choreographed dick riding just wasn’t doing what it was supposed to. Some advert appeared on the bottom corner of my screen, you know the type, they’re everywhere. There’s a picture or video of a topless girl with tits the size of your head looking suggestively at the camera with phrases like ‘she wants to get you off’ or ‘get laid tonight’. I was doped up with sexual aggression and any common sense or intelligence was subsided to dumb primal urges. With one hand cupping my balls, I used the other to click on the link and got transported to a loud, blaring ‘XXX’ site. The site was plastered with promising slogans of ‘fucking the woman of your dreams tonight’ and it was all obviously bullshit 79 MORNGE

but I don’t seem to reason too well when I’m that turned on. By the looks of it, it was a social networking site for people who wanted no strings sex. I signed up quickly and posted a few semi naked pictures on my profile, detailed my turn ons and offs and provided my location as ‘Brighton, UK’. I was about to finish the whole process when the fuckers asked me to enter my credit card information to join the site. Any other time, I would have scoffed at the idea and gone back to free porn videos, but not that night. I had this misguided idea that maybe at the least I could watch some dirty slut from East Croydon finger her arsehole on webcam as I watched. Feeling a little stupid but mostly turned on, I fumbled about with my wallet and entered in all the information. It was only £19.99 and I can regret it all after I wanked off. Right then I was on another planet and I wanted to stay there a little longer. It wasn’t long before I got a bunch of messages from girls trickling through. ‘BABY UR SO HOT! COME SPANK ME!’ read one. “OMG. YOU’RE A CUTIE” Said another. Most of the profile photos accompanying these illustrious correspondences were of down trodden, sloppy titted women with over hanging guts. Some photos consisted of just a pair of spread legs or soaped up nipples, headless genitals seeking other headless genitals. Nothing really did it for me until I got a message from ‘house_ wife_cum_slut’. Inventive profile name aside, ‘house_wife_cum_slut’ looked promising. Her profile said she was forty two and recently divorced. She liked ‘sex with strangers in stranger places’ but wasn’t too fond of ‘excessive body hair’. Her location was Crawley which it stated was approximately twenty two and a half miles from me. Her message said ‘Hi. God you’re hot. I like younger men. Do you like older women? I hope so ;)’

I did like older women and I don’t have much body hair so it sounded like we were a perfect match. We messaged each other back and forth. There was no small talk, no bullshit getting to know each other. We went straight into describing what we wanted to do to each other. She told me how much she liked to ‘suck men’s dicks whilst rubbing their arseholes’. She said she loved to ‘feel how hard she could make them’, how she liked to be ‘slapped in the face with a cock’ and ‘feel the pre cum dribble down her nose’. Then she told me how much she wanted to ‘spit all over my hard on and wank me off ‘with her tits. Computer screen bravado or not, it was music to my ears. Her profile pictures backed up her story so far as she had a good pair of tits especially for someone her age. They weren’t too big but looked like they could more than handle her claims. She had a decent body too from what I could see. It had that tightness in the stomach I usually like and she looked like she could pass for early thirties. She had a cute face and one picture of her tight arse in silk black panties got me all riled up. ‘Your arse looks pretty good’ I said to her. ‘I wish you were here at my place so I could spank it.’ ‘Me too.’ She replied ‘but I want you to slap it with your hard cock.’ She asked me to send her more pictures so I did. I mailed a bunch of webcam shots of my helmet and my fist wrapped around my shaft. She said she was touching herself whilst looking at them. She said she was imagining being on her knees sucking me off as she played with her clit. I told her ‘I wish you were here’ so many times that I sounded like a seaside postcard. The final straw, the breaking point came when she sent me a photo of herself bent over with her fingers deep inside her pussy, 81 MORNGE

her ring piece staring right at me. I’m a sucker for a good arse but I’d run out of words of encouragement. Blindly and without thinking I replied. ‘You need to come over here right now so I can fill that pussy of yours with my dick.” I thought I’d get the same old ‘I wish I could’ or ‘don’t tempt me’. I didn’t though. Something must have snapped inside her too because she called my bluff. ‘OK. I’m coming over. I can’t take it anymore. It’s late but I think I can ask my sister to come watch the kids until the morning. I think I can be at yours in about an hour. What’s your address?’ I stared at the screen for a minute or two without blinking. It was silent albeit the suckling sounds of my cock as I shuffled it in my hands still, like a calf milking her mother. I’d been doing it the whole time. The other hand hovered above my keyboard as I stared vacantly at the message in my inbox. I glanced at my cock, the purple head popping up from its veiny shelter every other second. I looked back at the screen. I had to type something. I thought for a second about how much better it would be to release all this barricaded cum into a real life vagina rather than a sweaty palm and made up my mind. I sent back my address and phone number and told her I’d be waiting for her. She sent me back a smiley face and told me to not put any clothes on. ‘One hour’ she said. ‘I’ll be there soon.’ And with that she was offline and I was left staring at the screen again with only my dick for company. I was still hard as a rock and I still had this fever raging from the tip of the head to my toes. I tried pushing my dick back down but it was so firm that it hurt to bend it. It felt so warm and ready, like it was begging to be stroked out. I kept teasing it as I looked around my room. The place was a mess. There was a half eaten sandwich under the bed from yesterday and clothes 82

littered the laminate flooring beneath my feet. I needed to shower and I needed to clean up this place. She probably lived in some nice suburban cul-de-sac and might regret her decision to try her hand with some overgrown adolescent if she saw my place looking like a teenager’s attic bedroom. The problem was, I couldn’t really move. I mean I could, but my dick felt so good being rubbed that I couldn’t bring myself to stop. I kept thinking about this hot middle aged slut driving her car all the way from her family home to sit on my face. I thought about how I had never fucked a vagina that had birthed a child. I wondered if it would be different. I was sure it’d be less tight but the thought of fucking some mother of two point four got me even hotter. This woman had lived, she’d probably had all sorts of cocks inside her and now she was desperate for mine. It was her hunger to have me inside her that got me all worked up. She was a hot older woman with a good body and she was salivating at the thought of my young shaved dick in her face. I mean just thinking about it, got me squeezing my cock with excitement. I was in the second half of my twenties and yeah I’d been married and I’d lived on my own and I’d done loads of shit that adults do but I also knew that as soon as I was fucking this experienced mother from behind, her hair clumped in my fist, I knew from that moment on I could safely count myself as a real man. I wouldn’t be a boy anymore if I could make this woman, this mother beg me to make her cum. All this thinking was getting me even hornier and my hard on was going nowhere. I knew I had to let go, put it down and get ready for her but I kept telling myself “I’ll do it in a minute. Just let me touch it a little longer.” If anything my cock had gotten stronger and it looked bigger than it had ever looked before. Thoughts of ‘house_wife_cum_slut’ and her waxed pussy kept me going and going. I thought about 83 MORNGE

her driving down to see me, sat in her car in just a rain coat and those black panties, her pussy leaking through to the car interior, one hand on the wheel, as the other flicked her clit. More time passed as I bounced in my faux leather desk chair. In my mind. Pre cum seeped out my urethra as ‘house_wife_ cum_slut’ welcomed my hard on into her arsehole, as she gobbled on my smooth ball sack, as I watched her in the mirror, down on her knees, sucking the life out of my giant, hard cock. In my mind. I couldn’t take anymore; she gagged as my cock plunged into her throat. She used one hand to stroke the base of my smooth dick. She slid the other one between my legs and stuck a finger in my arse. In my mind. Then, as I screamed and moaned with ecstasy she removed my prick from her mouth and slobbered on it like a Doberman as it exploded all over her. The hot milky cum splattered her face and hung from her hair, her nose, her eyebrows and her mouth. I exhaled loudly and she stuck her tongue out as far as she could to lick up the semen lathered all over her face. In my mind. In real life I looked down at my cock and the aftermath of the eruption. The same milky hot cum had dribbled down between my thighs and collected on the seat. It had dripped off my fist and pooled in my belly button. The once rock hard meat in my hand had softened quickly. I experienced an almost instant wave of sobriety wash out my brain. I suddenly felt stupid and awkward. I must have been jerking off for ages because it was almost an hour since ‘house_wife_cum_slut’ had told me she was on her way. I couldn’t understand where the time had gone and how long I’d 84

been locked in some masturbatory vacancy. Her pictures glared on my screen, her tits with their promises of tender firmness now seemed sagged and veiny. Why hadn’t I seen them like this before? Her slender frame didn’t seem so slender anymore and I was sure I could see a belly, a flabby slightly wrinkled stomach. Her face was deep set and almost sunken, dark rings circled her eyes. Dark rings? I started to think about her arsehole and her clammy fleshy buttocks surrounding it, little dark hairs sprouting near her rim. Some horrible sinking feeling materialized in my bowels and I felt myself panic. Then my head summoned up images of her cunt, her wide, human birthing cunt. I would probably get lost inside her, my dick falling in like a black hole and disappearing in her worn out insides. Fuck. What had I been thinking? My dick shrivelled at the thought of her pudgy old naked body, her middle class cul-de-sac detached house turned into a shit heap council flat. She would have been arriving soon in her cheap Primark lingerie with her rough common voice begging me to fuck her in her tired, shitty arse. I wanted to cry and I wanted to hyperventilate but all I could do was sit and stare at the computer screen as my semen stuck to the hair on the inside of my thighs. Paralysed by a gut wrenching fear and sickening sense of foreboding, I chewed the nails off my fingers and searched the depths of my mind for some kind of solution, for some way out of this fucking mess. It was about midnight and it was silent. All I could hear was the intermittent squawks of the seagulls outside. I thought about praying but I didn’t have a chance before that sickly silence was disrupted with the sound of a car approaching my building and pulling up outside. I wanted to scream for someone to help me, I wanted to just disappear, to curl up in a ball and hide under the bed sheets until it was all over. I was six years old again and I wanted someone else to make things better. 85 MORNGE

A car door opened and promptly shut outside and the piercing sound of heels on concrete got closer and closer. Then when I thought my ears could take no more, any hope that I could somehow escape this was shattered by the volatile shriek of my door buzzer, like an air raid siren or rape alarm. The fucking buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz lasted what seemed like minutes. I let out the sort of yelp that even little girls feel ashamed of. My heart was beating faster than I thought possible and I wondered if I could be having a panic attack. Part of me hoped I was. I did the only thing I could manage to do. I jumped from my seat and switched off the light. I turned off the computer monitor and dropped to the ground. There, naked and covered in my own cum, I hugged the hard, cold floor and pressed myself as close to it as I could. I lay there with my eyelids squeezed shut and tried to not breathe too hard. The buzzer went off again and I just held my breath and closed my eyes tighter. The silence after the buzzing was deceptively comforting as it went off again and again, each time grabbing my insides and twisting them all up. A couple of minutes passed and I hadn’t moved a muscle. I dared not even gulp for fear of it tempting some kind of karmic response. I wanted to adjust my dick as it was positioned uncomfortably between me and the floor and just as I determined it might have been safe enough to do so, the familiar sound of my phone’s ring tone ruptured the solemn tranquillity. I knew it was her. Why had I given her my number? I didn’t want to look at my phone. I didn’t want to see her number appear, I didn’t want any of this to be real. I thought about answering and making an excuse, some desperate get out. Maybe I had to go to hospital? Maybe I could pretend I had to be somewhere for some reason? I knew I would never have the courage to answer the phone so I let it ring and 86

ring until it finally went to voicemail. Without thinking, I jumped up and grabbed my phone and threw myself back down again, lying as if in wait for the blitz or some earthquake. I switched my phone off and flung it under the bed where it was no longer in sight. I kissed the flooring again and stuck my fingers in my ears. It wasn’t long before the door buzzer sounded off once more and when the fingers in my ears didn’t cut it any longer I started humming to myself to drown out the noise. There on the floor of my flat, my long, skinny six foot four body pressed against the laminate, completely naked and cold as fuck I hummed quietly the ‘happy birthday’ song just as I did when I was a little boy waking up from a nightmare to somehow make me feel safe. I regressed back to those frightened nights picturing dolphins and rainbows to dispel the images of ghosts and monsters. I lay there for what seemed like too long a time to be lying naked humming ‘happy birthday’. I didn’t want to look at a clock or check my phone for the time so I just stayed put. I wasn’t sure how long it’d been by then. Fifteen minutes? An hour? Two? I didn’t know but as long as I kept myself on the ground in the dark, everything would be alright. That was the only chance I had. I had been blocking out any sounds for a while and wasn’t sure when the last time I had heard the buzzer was. I thought about taking the risk and checking outside the house through a gap in the curtains but couldn’t summon the courage. I stopped humming and after a few minutes of evening out my heartbeat, I let my hands down and laid them beside me. I also decided it was okay for me to open my eyes then, especially as it was dark enough. For the first time I relaxed my body and stared at yesterday’s stale dinner under my bed before at some point finally succumbing to some sort of half sleep.

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When I woke up, it was light outside but I still had no idea what time it was. My ribs and hip bones hurt and my back ached. I turned over to rest on my elbows, searching for my phone under my bed. I found it and turned it on with a dread that was only dampened by a tired grogginess and stiffened body. A welcoming tone signalled the life returning to my phone and with a gulp I could see I had missed a total of thirty three calls from an unknown number. I had seven answering machine messages and fourteen text messages accompanying that figure. Without checking any of them, I deleted the lot and let out a sigh of relief. It was over. That was it. There was basically no evidence I did any of this and with enough time I could probably learn to forget the whole thing. I was ÂŁ19.99 down but I had made it. I managed a stifled smile of victory and looked down at my frail naked body. I looked at my soft, hanging penis and thought momentarily. Then taking my phone again, with dried semen encrusted on my hands, I wrote out a text message and sent it to as many of my friends as I could think of; â&#x20AC;&#x153;hooked up with some 40 yr old last night. fucked her in her arse until it bled. she loved it.hahaâ&#x20AC;? By JOSEPh hAyES