PRETTY
girl gangs and gladioli
contents editor’s letter playlist first of the girl gangs
a month of no work just be charming it’s a girl thing
on what happened to us and laura walker girl gang running round in my brain
online friends journals the silver trio
hathersage how to make the perfect girl gang this is what makes us girls
more than a girl band electric ghost girl gangs you should join today
PHOTOGRAPH BY JESSIE OWENS
Dear readers, This issue has been a long time coming. Issue 7 was released 2 years ago. A lot has changed since then; in my life, zine publishing, and, of course, in the world. Pretty stopped when I got swept up in uni life and just didn’t have the time to keep it going. However, I have been lucky enough to continue creating in other ways, and that is partly down to the wonderful young women I have met over the past two years, many of whom have contributed to this issue. Having gone to an all girls school, I used to be a bit cynical/intimidated by girl gangs, but lately I have truly realised the importance of strong female friendships. Issue 8 explores girl gangs through the lens of subculture and online friendships, and features a thrilling story exploring the potential dark side of girl gangs. The more abstract theme of this issue is gladioli. Associated with Smiths-era Morrissey, these flowers represent strength of character and infatuation; a state of strength, and a state of weakness. The word gladioli derives from the word gladiator, as the flowers are shaped like swords. They defy the delicate flower stereotype. In this issue we explore these meanings through poems on infatuation, an article on The Smiths and a gladioli adorned photoshoot. It is more important than ever to stand up for your beliefs and if there is a flower to symbolise that, then it is gladioli. The theme is girl gangs and gladioli. Enjoy! Love, Sophie
ISSUE 8 PLAYLIST this is what makes us girls– lana del rey this charming man– the smiths team– lorde
rebel girl– bikini kill flowers– galaxie 500 kool thing– sonic youth
smells like teen spirit– patti smith flower fight with morrissey– cherry poppin’ daddies
girl gang– kate nash flesh without blood– grimes nadine hurley– skinny girl diet
and i will send your flowers back– hinds flawless– beyoncé bad girls– m.i.a.
girls like us– pins townie– mitski
First of the girl gangs The 20th century saw the birth of many new
aesthetic whilst doing so. Although there is
subcultures. They provided a place for girls
little historical record of them, teddy girls
and young women to gain freedom from
existed too, as the first British female youth
mainstream society’s gender norms. How-
culture. They proved that girls could have
ever, the media’s desire to sensationalise
just as much attitude as boys and played an
the violence of working class teenage boys
essential role in constructing teenage lei-
meant that girl gangs were largely over-
sure. Photographer Ken Russell, whose
looked until the end of the century when
study of the girls at the time was rediscov-
riot grrrl provided a space that women
ered in 2005, described them as “tough”
were allowed to dominate for the first time.
and “proud.” It has been suggested that one
Although there have always been groups of
of the reasons why teddy girls have been
artists and independent thinkers forming
largely forgotten is that the media was only
groups on the fringes of society, it was not
interested in sensationalising the violence
until after WW2 that there was a seismic
of working class boys, in a time when wom-
shift towards counter-culture. In the UK it
en’s activities were still supposed to revolve
was teddy boys who differentiated them-
around the home. This could explain the
selves as teenagers for the first time and re-
dismissal of girl gangs throughout the 20th
belled against post-war austerity, maintain-
century. With the degree of violence exem-
ing a particular Edwardian inspired
plified firstly by teddy boys and followed by
mods and rockers, then mirrored at punk concerts, it is unsurprising that many teenage girls felt alienated by counter culture scenes as they became increasingly male dominated and centred on macho interests.
Arguably, it was not until riot grrl in the 1990s that girl gangs came to the fore and Kathleen Hanna shouted “All girls to the front! Boys be cool for once in your lives.” Though other subcultures existed to rebel
against all societal norms, in many cases, gender stereotypes were too deep rooted to shrug off entirely. Young women in pre-1990s counter cultures were significant and brave but undoubtedly marginalised. For all its progressiveness riot grrrl was let down by its lack of intersectionality. Perhaps we have yet to create a subculture that is completely inclusive and provides a safe environment for people of all races and genders. It’s up to our generation to create it. Let’s make the best girl gang ever!*
PHOTOGRAPH BY OLIVIA SINGLETON—WORDS BY SOPHIE WILSON
A month of no work We have sacrificed our art to love one another. You write when girls break your heart,
I write when I break my own; and we quickly knew neither would be permitted here. The only pain that can be cause by two windows is a sharing of heat too hot. So we wait, to see who will shatter, which of the heartbroken will join the other side, break the stalemate of breakfasts and a fondness of walking hand in hand instead of doing our work. I know if I smashed your guitar you’d write about me. But I feel so good sat on your sofa, eyes still, watching your mouth sing songs about the last brick that went through you.
PHOTOGRAPH AND WORDS BY LUCY HARBRON
Just be Charming Since their rise to fame in the
Marr were featured on a chil-
early ‘80s, The Smiths have
dren’s TV programme, where they
been played from the bedrooms
were asked, “Why do you hold
of alienated teenagers across
flowers when you sing?” Whilst
the world. Flowers, and gladio-
characteristically waving said
li in particular, became a sym-
flowers above his head, Morris-
bol of solidarity between hard-
sey explained, “I think flowers
core Smiths fans as much as a
are very beautiful things, very
Morrissey-esque quiff and
nice and innocent things. They
glasses; providing an entry in-
don’t harm anybody. They don’t
to “Smithdom.” Like green car-
burp. They don’t do anything
nations that were worn by Oscar
ugly. So, why not?” This atti-
Wilde and his entourage a cen-
tude is something that many
tury earlier, gladioli were
people find appealing about The
carried by Morrissey and his
Smiths. This simple morality
devoted followers. Though Mor-
and reverence for nature is
rissey now prefers blue roses,
more synonymous with the Roman-
he continues to be most associ-
tic poets than indie band mem-
ated with gladioli
bers. Flowers proved to be the
In 1984 Morrissey and Johnny
most uncomplicated and innocent
way to include everybody who
flowers are shaped like swords.
wished to be included, as Mor-
The Smiths’ timeless under-
rissey demonstrated by handing
standing of adolescent angst
them out and throwing them into
and passion for social change
the crowd during early Smiths’
means that their songs are like
concerts.
gladiators for the causes they
Today people still
hand flowers to Morrissey as a
believe in. Vegetarianism and
way of conveying adoration. The
republicanism are fought for in
handing of flowers from one
Meat Is Murder and The Queen Is
person to another is an aged
Dead. However, the fact that,
romantic gesture and it is all
as Morrissey said, flowers are
the more tragically significant
“very nice and innocent things”
seeing that so many Morrissey
gave these violent, lyrical ar-
songs are about unrequited
guments more moral backing. If
love.
writing about longing for the
The Smiths were criticised for
Queen of England’s demise could
being “flower wimps”, but their
be deemed offensive, it is
songs were not mild or pathet-
lesser so if the songwriter
ic. They reflected the anger
keeps a bunch of innocent flow-
and frustration felt by young
ers in his back pocket.
people. The name gladioli derives from gladiator, as the IMAGES AND WORDS BY SOPHIE WILSON
The second meaning of gladioli
the woes of unrequited love or
is “give me a break.” This sig- political oppression, flowers nifies the softer side to The
will always be there; both em-
Smiths; the side that easily
powering us and letting us take
admits weakness and vulnerabil- a break from the cruel world ity. Songs like Asleep and That that exists outside our teenage Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore plead for some kind of release or break, be it from sleep, requited love or death. Most importantly, a key message from The Smiths is the importance of nature. No matter
bedrooms.
it’s a girl thing by tilly shillam soft sighs between soft thighs soft lips on soft hips
pink kisses high pitched hisses long lashes tongue clashes lace and frills feminine thrills
ART AND WORDS BY TILLY SHILLAM
ON WHAT HAPPENED TO US AND LAURA WALKER By Albert Rabell As I watched those pages burn I had the funniest of thoughts. I saw Michael shouting at me from the other side of the living room: “What is wrong with you fucking psycho? I swear to god if you don't put down those flippin' flames I'll tell momma you went NUTS for real this time. I'm not even kidding”. “BIG DEAL, honey!” would I answer, laying on the oldest sofa like a real diva, covered from head to toe in the whitest, silkiest of night gowns, holding this glass of dry Martini on my left hand, an equally burning cigarette on my right one and some hardly recognizable lipstick stains on the translucent glass. “Darling, fancy a smoke while we witness this beautiful nightmare?” He's already thirty-two though. And I've only ever worn pajamas. I also saw old Jessica there, the unconditional number one fan of Bradbury's fiction and John's “most caring girlfriend so far” at the time, warning me of the highly suspicious similarities between 'Fahrenheit 451' and my raging act of throwing Lauren's diaries into the fireplace I had curated to be already burning long before the moment felt right. But neither were Michael nor Jessica living in that house anymore, and we could arguably consider my own presence in the room quite doubtful as well.
they knew they were destined to become oddly shaped ashes, dragging down to the flames my own personal memories of her and us. And how liberating it was to watch all of that disintegrate while I waved her goodbye, thinking of Ruth and, specially, Janet.
“Melissa, I don't really remember sending you an invitation”. That was the fist thing that came out of Lauren's peachy lips when me and Ruth ringed the bell of her contemporary cottage (courtesy of a cheap Van der Rohe imitator), and she took a look through the spyhole just before opening the door, convinced it would be Yolanda, North Philadelphia's sweetheart-to-be, who was bound to bring a couple of whiskey bottles to the “improvised” pool party, which she tended to steal from her papa's milliondollar cellar, just after she finished bleaching and blow-drying her Sleeping Beauty mane (she did it every Saturday according to Jessica; big deal). So while Janet was sneaking into Lauren's majestic toilet just to find Marlene and David choking each other from their “aggressively passionate making out” as she would later describe it to me in the dorm, Ruth and I actually managed to get inside the house through the front door, convincing Lauren that “we genuinely thought this was an open party, you It was all so very dreamy. The heavy smell know, that kind of 'no invitation needed'”.* impregnating the room managed but to make me smile and disappear even more. Still rejoicing alone in the heat of those Lauren was already gone, and now her flames, I was suddenly taken back to Laupersonal memories were vanishing, as if ren's first and strangest revelation: “You
are the bomb, Melissa”. It was May 1990: she had recently bought “a new super cute, light blue notebook”, which seemed destined to behold every memory her stupid brain decided to retain from then on, at least until the end of her Forever. Between the pancakes and the syrup I had bought on our way home from school for 3,20 dollars, the grief that infused the nasty air of that Wednesday afternoon and the intense presence of Lauren's mother's collection of lilies, tulips and gladioli, Lauren came to the realization that I could potentially become one of her personal maiden-puppets for years to come, seducing me with the “very honorable” rank of “one of my new best friends”. “Your name will be on the front page of my diary FOR SURE”. There's something about that midnight panic that the half moon wouldn't have told us about. Janet had a gun. She never mentioned it, so I guess the whole situation was insanely unexpected. Half an hour into the research of Lauren's diaries my brain was already threatening to reward my stupid decisions with an award-wining headache. There wasn't room to breathe in that dorm, and the oxygen seemed to have been replaced with poignant grapey perfumes and former sweat coming from the gym clothes that hid the carpet. We knew that if we stayed there any longer the chances of being caught would increase exponentially, as would the chances of dying from asphyxia, so everything became frenetic. I was likely to vomit. It was only me and Janet in that room. The first years Lauren recorded onto that notebook revealed nothing special to me. Needless to say my name was nowhere
near the front page. But further on the reading, on page 79 to be exact (that is July 1994), there was an entrance where Lauren manifested how much she loathed Janet, blaming the fact that I was already drifting myself away from her numb league of servants on my recent friendship with “that new whore”, which she literally describes as “fucking disgusting”. From that page on and with a total length of five or seven sheets, her diary became a dirty trashcan of guttural hate, in which she also mentioned a couple of physical fights between both that had taken place that same summer, in Glenwood neighborhood where Janet lived, under the light of August's fireball. “I broke her fucking nose, that's what I did, 'cause I had no choice”. Then I really dig into the diary, only to find out, one year of absurd recollections later, what Lauren had to say about that one show she put on three days before her last pool party. At 00:36 I could feel the nausea gripping my throat with tremendous strength. At 00:37 I took a second look at my yellow plastic watch, anticipating immediate fainting. With a stone cold spine I managed to turn my hurting neck to face Janet. She was hectic, infected by some kind of thick paste hanging in the air like mayonnaise, moving through each object of the chamber at a wholly inhumane velocity, turning everything upside down with her right hand. She wasn't trying to find the notebook, which I later on knew she had already encountered at 00:17. Her body responded to the sole aim of creating collapsing catastrophe. Only then, with me rapidly leaving the blended reality of the dorm behind, did I realize she was desperately clutching the gun with her left hand, facing the now open
door. The last thing I saw was Lauren's image, standing there alone, her visage disfigured with visceral fright.
what about Janet?” was my next unfortunate question, to which Ruth only answered “Janet's dead”.
For what I could finally cast some light on, I have the following explanation: Bridget, Janet's mother, apparently ran Pep Boy's publicity department in their North Philadelphia headquarters. Brenda, apart from the mother of the presumably well-off “Walker family”, had been a succesful businesswoman in charge of said company for almost fifteen years, that is until Mr. Banderlet overtook her command in the distinguishably rainy October of 1993. While Brenda was pushed into the backgrounds of their immense managing body, Bridget was being considerably promoted, in which position she finally spoke to Mr. Banderlet in person. After a series of highly questionable encounters, Mr. Banderlet decided to freely name Bridget head of, then his, publicity department, putting her in a much more influential rank than Brenda's. That seemed to seriously infuriate Lauren, who called this occurrence a determining “this is it. Janet and her family are trying their best at destroying me and mine, and you know what, they fucking did it. CONGRATS”.
I wouldn't want to be wrong but I'll affirm it was Janet's idea. On Wednesday 16th July 1995 Lauren showed up to her pristine olive-green detached house on the outskirts of Glenwood at 12:57. As she expected and had long anticipated, it was Bridget the one to open the door to the sound of the banging. No sooner had Bridget seen Lauren, she knew that sunny morning wasn't going to end on a particularly nice note. Janet was sitting in her manicured room, listening to The Beatles as she would usually do during the first weeks of summer, because “their voices just calm the wind down, it's like pansies”, when she overheard a conversation comprised of “I'm so sick of your shit!” on a tone exclusively meant to make all the neighbors aware of “this whole fucking situation”.
The next thing I remember was Ruth's eyes, steadily interrogating me amongst the dense silence of an empty Mac Donald's parking lot. “Did the plan even work?” I recall articulating, while I slowly recovered consciousness of my body and my unrecognizable voice. “You've got her diary between your hands and I've got Yolanda's wallet in my pocket if that's what you're talking about” said Ruth seemingly shocked, with a strong hint of anger in her response I could copse right away. “And
“You know Janet's gun wasn't hers, wright?” _ Ruth “What? Who was it then?” _ me “It was Lauren's dad. Lauren kept it in her room. Janet just found it.” _ Ruth “And what did Janet do with that gun?” _ me “Nothing.” _ Ruth “So, she comes to my house and is shouting at my mom the ugliest stuff, and I swear I saw it all from my window. Then Bernard calls the Police and then she freaks out and leaves on her stupid scooter like the asshole she is” claimed Janet. We all laughed. At that time I didn't acknowledge the rivalry between both families, so I candidly guessed the soul of
the matter was my very own estrangement towards Lauren and the role she believed Janet to play in my life. Oh, failed guess, I see, and it couldn't be further from reality, where that issue had been left behind compared to the real hatred Lauren felt for Janet and her family; not me anymore. “So, what's the plan?” whispered Ruth, who had decided to climb onto Janet's rooftop with us despite her being exaggeratedly afraid of heights. I forgot to mention that I wasn't aware of their previous fights as well; Janet had tried to keep everything away from us two. “Jessica told me Lauren is throwing a pool party this Saturday. What about we show up?” muttered Janet, her eyes sparkling with mischief. The touch of Ruth's woolen armchair appeared to bring me back on track. My mouth felt so sour and extremely dry, but I didn't try to complain because I knew something comforting was on the making. Under the sole light of an ancient lampshade and while Ruth roamed around her kitchen, I tried to push my own memory to uncertain paths which deceptively lead me to what I already knew. “Al-most-nothing” I said, surprisingly not only for myself. That's when Ruth finally reached her brown sofa, placed an embroidered cushion with, oh god, pansies on her back and handed me a cup of warm coffee, gazing expressionless at me. She looked all grownup. She looked handsome. “When you say you saw Lauren by the door of her dorm, Janet with the gun, did you immediately pass out?” she inquired. “I guess I did”, I replied, clearly not sure about it at all. There was another similar cushion with pansies on right next to Ruth towards which I suddenly deviated my sight. Nothing but her
cuckoo clock wanted to make the slightest sound that night, not to interrupt at least the insightful, omnipresent thought of Janet's fresh death. “When I came for you after hearing the gunshot upstairs” burbled Ruth, hiding seemingly embarrassed the most honest of tears, “I expected the worst. And then I saw Janet. And you, but not bloody Lauren. Not her at all.” She stopped, right before her mouth also refused to pronounce any another sound.
No one can, to this day, reasonably argue that we weren't close friends by the time of the incident. Despite the fact that all of that “the three of us, forever” was relatively new to everyone, the names Melissa, Janet and Ruth have always had a joyful resonance to me, perhaps even before we unmistakably knew we were meant to be “the three of us, forever”. On her rooftop, Janet and I immediately chose to take precious possession of Lauren's diary at that pool party, willing to know the insides and outs of her unique, noticeably “over the top” teenage years narrated by hers truly, expecting for us to play a leading role in them. Meanwhile, Ruth would find Yolanda's wallet and pilfer it as well, in sweet revenge to the tremendous list of obnoxious insults she had had to swallow from North Philadelphia's power-babe herself. I won't extend on that topic, but all I'll say is Yolanda couldn't take the fact that Ruth “dressed like a freaking skater dude”. The plan was highly risky, but extremely thrilling nonetheless: “god, we ARE Charlie's Angles!” exclaimed Ruth with excitement. “Is Melissa home?” demanded the manliest voice my ears had ever heard. My head was still spinning around just like the loudest
washing machine in town, and it came as no surprise considering the short and insufficient two hours of sleep, which I seemed to have purposelessly fit in with far too realistic nightmares. “Melissa is me sir” retorted my oxidized metallic vocal chords, quite rudely. “I'm officer Young. We need to talk.” That was early on Sunday morning. Janet's funeral was just as pretty as her milky skin. So very velvety as well. So very sad too. Ruth and I bought a handful of fresh cut violet pansies my mom decided to pick herself, which we threw over the burgundy wooden coffin as I stared at the ashy skies, my eyes refusing to accept what was so painfully obvious. Janet was porcelain, Janet was dead. I also shed tears and I also hug Ruth tightly from the seats on the left of Janet's niche. But I didn't, not even for once, pictured Janet not being with us ever again. “Forever” had nailed himself to the electric flesh of my brain. Brenda actually came by the cemetery near the end of the saturnine ceremony to express Janet's parents her most sincere condolences. Bridget's eyes where tainting with sadly extreme fury and anger towards the Walkers as she took Brenda's words: “Lauren has gone missing”, she muttered, full of true fear. None of Young's inquiries had revealed conclusive in any sense. What North Philadelphian police officers had managed to reassure about that night's occurrences by Monday the 21st of July 1995, was already obvious and established inside my teen head as a chronological series of events. “While Melissa and (poor) Janet were in Lauren's dorm, Janet found Lauren's dad smallest gun inside a drawer. When
Lauren entered her dorm, she saw Janet with the gun in her trembling hand, pointing at her doubtfully, scared of her suddenly showing up. Lauren then took the gun off her hand right away and pulled its trigger, shooting the bullet which crossed Janet's brain, a “potential victim” for her, causing (obvious) immediate death. After that, she just ran to leave the house, and no one attending the party could confirm having seen her in the act.” North Philadelphia Press (21st of July, 1995) The main issue regarding Lauren's whereabouts remained unanswered. Officer Marcus sat and chat to Ruth and I the afternoon before Janet's funeral, in a very badly chosen cafeteria soaked with the smell of sadness, confusion and bacon. “We could find Lauren's fingerprints on the gun. But you both know that's obviously not enough. Someone mentioned Lauren kept a diary; do you have any further information that could ease the investigation?” Without looking at each other once, Ruth replied so sharply and convincingly for the both of us: “We don't, sir, we were just having fun”. Even in front of the ecstatic, almost cinematographic flames where Lauren's memories were but a long lost final hint of light from a dying light bulb, I kept on wondering, almost asleep, why I hadn't chosen to turn the “light blue” covers and cluttered pages with fancy handwriting into orange and then brown and tar black nothings earlier in my life. I guess if someone ever asks me I'll tell them I didn't find the right moment, when the honest truth is I just couldn't let go, because letting that one notebook go was a painful synonym of letting the last pieces of Janet (I miss you
dearly) go with her. Nonetheless, after long years of inexplicable anticipation, a force in me started to mimic the strength of a little match, warning me that “it's this summer or never. Its been 20 exact years. Burn it Melissa. BURN IT”. So, without Lauren nor Ruth within earshot of my actions, I finally lit the fire in August 2015, and decided to let go Lauren and Janet forever. And then that radiant, sudden, flashing happiness invaded everything in me and around me at the same time, with the glorious angelic potential of someone smiling of the most sincere stomach warmth, lifting me up, up, up, up like the bullet fired off a gun that's heading towards the emptiness of the bluest of skies, impulsed from every single atom of my body; infused with every single memoir of the “three of us, forever” floating vigorously through time, mirrored by a vision of a rooftop and Janet. When all of that slowly melted, going down exceptionally delicately, hyper-gently, so motherly, and my body was again laying on the sofa of my living room, excessively warm from the unceasing flames, I had that holy vision of me in the nightgown, and my brother Michael, and my older sister Jessica. And I couldn't help myself from laughing louder than three furious hyenas seeing Lauren in a safari trip, three furious hyenas that resembled me Janet and Ruth. * Every piece of writing that appears in cursive are fragments of Melissa's personal diaries from 1995 and 1996, which comprised the piece of news from North Philadelphia Press (July 21st, 1995), all courtesy of Melissa Gunter.
GIRL GANG RUNNING ROUND IN MY BRAIN
PHOTOGRAPHED BY JESSIE OWENS
Online Friends It’s too late, And I’m lying here again
Thoughts are spinning endlessly in the Darkness. Always running-
Worry and fear, Little black holes Eating up every other feeling. The cell phone light shines like the only star that My eyes can get a hold of Your words.
The unknown words of a stranger. The feelings of an innocent soul Spread across the www Your misery detangles mine.
Fingers on the message button, I type in every positivity left in me. I tell you, you’ll be okay. I tell you, you’ll get through this. You always will. Hold on to the little things.
And it helps. With every word I share; Letter over letter, word over word. You know,
These words weren’t just for you. I needed to hear them too.
- GIA G
Girl gangs
Strength of character Infatuation The Smiths Give me a break
IMAGES BY SOPHIE WILSON
THE SILVER TRIO Rebecca explores online friendships Since I was a child, I was always warned to be careful online. You should never give out your address or your full name or your phone number or...well, you get the point. Having an internet presence required you to detach and, while that is wise advice, it’s not advice to be followed blindly. Caution is such a good thing to exercise online but if I had followed that advice when I first made my way onto the internet, I would never have found the best friends in my life.
tions themselves, instead gravitating to the forums. It was here that I found a roleplay for said TV show! I immediately jumped in and, at 8 years old, started trying to run with the big dogs in terms of writing. Despite my inexperience and, looking back, some frankly shockingly bad writing, there were two other girls in this group that I immediately got along with – although both were a few years older than me.
In these girls – Taryn and Cherie – I found my two best friends. The original forum we I began my internet career a first met in is long gone now little earlier than most. I was but we’ve been writing together eight years old, on my mum’s consistently for almost 10 laptop, desperately scouring years now. We’ve watched each the internet for anything reother grow, helped each other lated to my favourite TV show, improve and, as it so happens, which at the time was ITV’s we’ve been there for each other Primeval (a show that I remain as we’ve all advanced in life. invested in to this day). In In September this year, I head doing so, up popped a website off to university to study Engthat almost every individual lish Literature, a passion that who’s part of fandom culture I realised at a very young age. knows all too well. Good old However, without the internet fanfiction.net; the premier and these two amazing friends, site for fan works before ArI would never have fully comchive Of Our Own even existed. prehended my love for literaIn truth, I never really paid ture. Throughout the expanse of much attention to the fanficour friendship, they’ve been
witness to the end of my primary school career, the entirety of my time spent at high school and now, they’ll get to see me progress through university and onwards. I know that they have taught me a lot of things in my life – how best to use the written word to my advantage, the correct way to drink at parties, the joys of fashion and interior decorating and so many other things. I fully expect to have them in my life until the day I die, whether that be as Internet friends or whether it be the stuff of dreams and we end up in the tiny little London flat we’ve been dreaming of for years. Together, we’ve created full, coherent universes to rival blockbuster films in terms of character development and continuity. We’ve pitched novel ideas and podcasts and web series. They know me better than any other friends I’ve ever had and I doubt that will ever change.
up, I’ve learnt that, all too often, women are the worst culprits for tearing each other down. Some women comment on others' appearance and talents and lives in general. To me, this has always seems pointless. Building each other up is the best thing we can do. Be each other's hype man and watch your own confidence improve in leaps and bounds because you know that there's always someone who believes in you. In a world where women need all the support we can get, why would you further their own insecurities? We need to be a community and being a community means unconditional support for each other.
If you take anything from this, please take away the idea that female friendship can be the most powerful force in your life. So smile at the strangers in the street, compliment that cute outfit someone is wearing and encourage everyone in your life to pursue their dreams. It's what Taryn, Cherie and I My friendship with Taryn and Cherie has gone to prove that a have done for each other and true ride-or-die friendship, a we're all the better for it. proper girl gang, doesn’t need Harry, Ron and Hermione might have been the Golden Trio of to be strictly offline. There is a level of support and trust our generation but myself, Taryn and Cherie will forever between the three of us that be the Silver Trio in my eyes. I’m unlikely to find anywhere else. They are my biggest fans Perhaps less universally appreand I am their biggest admirer. ciated but hey, I always have preferred silver. Which is, of course, exactly how it should be! As I’ve grown
PHOTOGRAPH BY OLIVIA SINGLETON—WORDS BY REBECCA GAULT
WORDS AND IMAGES BY LUCY HARBRON
HATHERSAGE It has taken you a month To push me over the edge. But that’s where I met you, the cliff we both fell off on day 5 is your hometown; peaks, hope valley where you were chased by police, drove cars into walls when she broke your heart, while I stayed inside and wrote about that. You dreamt of being a cowboy, I couldn’t decide between an artist or Juliet, You’re telling me to be both.
And I can tell you were raised outside. You’re a field in summer, your smile Your smile is the golden time After school before your mum called you in for dinner. But I’m industrial, a concrete floor Park with one tree, a brick wall. But stuck glow in the dark stars to yours, Do that to me. Take me out Walk me around where you grew , In the hope the air Will make me more like you, let me taste the recipe. The month has left me Aware that this Can be more fun.
HOW TO MAKE THE MORE JOURNALS
PERFECT GIRL GANG
This is what makes us girls
Photography: Ethan Weatherby Models: Maddie Halls, Olivia Singleton
MORE THAN A GIRL BAND: FEMALE ICONS AND THE DANGER OF TOKENISM WHEN I FIRST LEARNT TO PLAY GUITAR ALL OF MY IDOLS WERE MALE. The posters I decorated my room with, the songs I’d listen to; all male. With the music that defined my early teens being absent of women to look up to, you could almost be mistaken for believing that to be taken seriously was to reject femininity. Or at least that’s the impression I got. It’s impossible to pin point the exact moment I realised the importance of this inequality. Constantly seeing male dominated headliners of festivals and being brushed off when I’d ask why majority of the celebrated “rock gods” were made up of aging men. Where were the women and why weren’t they celebrated in the same way? While going to a gig and seeing band after band made up of men didn’t take away from my enjoyment of the music, seeing women on the stage inspired me to try and write my own songs; to dream of one day having my own band.
DISCOVERING THE RIOT GRRRL MOVEMENT IN MY MID-TEENS CHANGED EVERYTHING FOR ME. Hearing raw lyrics of daily struggles backed up by gritty music inspired me more than any stale guitar hero ever could. Alongside praise and support for these female positive movements also came fierce criticism. Kathleen Hanna reflected on this in her biopic The Punk Singer, on threats and abuse she and her fellow bandmates received for playing shows and publishing zines on women’s issues. Courtney Love once famously summed the experience of a female musician perfectly, “you have to be prepared for the names they are going to call you compared to your male peers...” highlighting the difficulty of succeeding in a space that wasn’t created to accommodate.
Fast forward twenty years on from the riot grrrl movement and you can still see women being treated harshly. Look through comments under any article or video focusing on female musicians and you’ll find the same thing, judgement of their looks, gender and literally everything else while ignoring the work itself. The everlasting criticism and reductive labelling proves the disparity in treatment between male and female acts and how there’s still a way to go. There needs to be more space to celebrate women, their contributions to music and their impact on the lives of teenage girls and young women. However, it’s also important not to fall into the well-worn traps of typecasting female musicians solely on the basis of their gender.
IT’S A SAD REFLECTION OF THE MUSIC INDUSTRY THAT WE FEEL THE NEED TO MAKE THE SINGLE IDENTIFIER OF A BAND THE MEM-
bands being haphazardly lumped together, having physical attributes being pointed out as their sole identifier, so why do people believe its fine to do this with women? Referring to female musicians in this way enforces the idea of a male in a band being the norm whereas a woman is still seen as something rare. As if you somehow can’t be a band if you’re a group of women, you have to be a “girl band” and this doesn’t even acknowledge the fact that referring to grown women as “girls” is bizarre and infantilising. Reducing work to no more than someone’s gender is reductive. However, at the same time, its very existence enabled me to discover music I could identify with. teenagers especially, the songs they listen to can shape who they are as a person. At a time where the world feels overwhelming, something that can provide you with sanctuary can mean everything. As a teenager, I needed to see female fronted acts and “girl bands.” However, as a woman, I can now see why these tropes are irritating and unfair. There has been greater exposure for female bands in recent years, however the motive behind this is somewhat disheartening. Feminism in general has become ‘cool’ in the past few years and many are jumping on the cultural zeitgeist in order to make easy money wherever they can. Like the individuals who flog shirts painted with semi-feminist slogans in high street stores for no other reason than to make a quick profit, these movements do little to actually benefit the women they are marketed at. The narrative of all women being thrown into the same box with their gender being the sole signifier is lazy and, for the acts themselves, tiresome. Created by men who either
PHOTOGRAPHS BY ETHAN WEATHERBY—TEXT BY BRENNA COOPER
still haven’t grasped that women too can be complex individuals with differing experience’s and stories or those who are only interested in hearing half the population when they’re financially beneficial. WHILE IT MAY APPEAR HARMLESS USING
FEMALE VOICES IN A TOKENISTIC MANNER THREATENS TO UNDERMINE EVERYTHING THEY SET OUT TO DO.
Instead we need more women in places of success and where they can control their own narrative. I can’t movement that helped shape me but that doesn’t mean It’s time to move on from the trope of a “girlband” celebrated in the way they deserve.
places to celebrate women and sneer and turn my back on a I can’t recognise its problems. and allow women the space to be
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PHOTOGRAPH BY OLIVIA SINGLETON
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WORDS BY HARPER STEPHENS—ART BY SHEEP
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Contributors
Brenna Cooper
Rebecca Gault
Gia G
Tilly Shillam
Lucy Harbron
Jessie Owens
Sheep
Olivia Singleton
Albert Rabell
Harper Stephens
Ethan Weatherby
“Flowers are very beautiful things. Very nice and innocent things. They don’t harm anybody.” - Morrissey