SCOURGE Magazine Issue One by Simon Regan

SCOURGE MAGAZINE

The voice of re

ason,

Prose - Poetry - Opinion - News - Reviews

and ling

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ll bond

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COURGE

MAGAZINE

PRODUCED IN ASSOCIATION WITH AMBIDEXTROUS

INDEX

IN THIS ISSUE OF

SCOURGE MAGAZINE

ABOUT US

Editorial - ‘The Quietest Coup’

--POETRY CORNER-Free Tibet Journey Home My First Mistress Pet Peeves Scourge The First Cup of Coffee... The Kiwi Words

8 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

--PROSE AREA-Change Dead Red Tire Tread Rail Replacement The Boring Keith Wild Child

17 19 21 22 25

--THE SOAPBOX-‘Teaching Consideration’ Coverage - Poetry Slam

28 30

--MISC ITEMS-Review - Invisible Monsters Review - Casino Royale

34 36

Got an idea for an article? Send it to us at scourgemagazine@gmail.com, or check out at www.SCOURGEMAGAZINE.co.uk for more details!

COURGE Magazine is a cutting-edge literary/arts journal, providing students in the Bath and Bristol area with a unique forum to share their work, express their ideas and discuss issues that affect them in academia and the wider world. If there is to be a true revival of scientific thought and democratic values in our society, it needs to start with a media that is willing to engage in true, fearless examination of contemporary issues. SCOURGE Magazine’s name reflects this, being suggestive of the inquisitorial, irreverent attitude to life that must characterise anyone who is truly dedicated to seeking out and discovering the truth. SCOURGE is unique amongst modern print publications in offering a “right of reply” to (suitably focused and insightful) responses to any piece previously published. Most of all, however, SCOURGE is about showcasing talent and providing writers, philosophers, story-tellers and poets with a platform from which to speak. If you’ve got a brain and an opinion, we want to hear from you, so drop us a line.

Article images are permission pending.

EDITORIAL

THE QUIETEST COUP Their crime? Tracking and cataloguing the international online traffic protocol known as Bittorrent. Despite the lurid name of their service - The Pirate Bay - they hosted no illegal material, a fact that the prosecution has already admitted. However, by offering the indexed ‘peer-topeer’ files that link individual users together to share a huge assortment of music, films and software, they are being charged with aiding and abetting the distribution of copyrighted material.

In the past year, a loose confederation of copyright and patent lobbyists, and totalitarians in the guise of social conservatives have done more to deconstruct individual property and creative rights than at any other time in history. But by their own admission, the vast majority don’t want to know.

he news comes in from all corners of the globe. In Sweden, a group of men face an extraordinary show-trial, where the witnesses against them will be high ranking media executives, corporate CEOs and government lobbyists.

No ‘tracker service’ has been subject to this high-profile a legal assault before, and analysts predict that if The Pirate Bay is forced to walk the plank, all file-sharing trackers will be vulnerable. And it’s not just the real pirates who are at risk - open source projects like Linux rely on the Bittorrent protocol to distribute their operating system. Independent musicians, unable to afford to host their music online, are similar dependent on peer-to-peer. America. Having sold its creative birthright for a mess of corporate pottage, YouTube is going the way of Esau.

EDITORIAL

The ‘safe harbour’ provisions of the Digital Millenium Copyight Act (a name drawn straight from the Big Bumper Book of Orwellian Legislative Nomenclature) applied to the popular movie-sharing site only if they didn’t make a profit from user-generated content. After Google acquired the site, this was no longer enough, and YouTube soon announced it was going into business with a number of major music labels to provide legitimate access to their artists’ productions (carefully avoiding the issue of the legal status of its thriving community of fan tribute and amateur music video makers after the change). Unsurprisingly, YouTube proved unable to come to an agreement with record companies who still see the Internet as competition, and this January the giant Warner Music Group decided YouTube wouldn’t be profitable enough, and declared war. Since January WMG have bombarded YouTube with a continuous automated battery of takedown notices, forcing it to remove or mute almost every video on the site utilising music from any of its hundreds of artists, from Madonna to Linkin Park.

Silenced: Bands have been told they have no right to publish their own music online. The errant music giant has even directed legal threats at videos uploaded by its own artists, including Led Zeppelin and Death Cab for Cutie. The result? YouTube has practically gutted itself, erasing 16% of its videos since the start of the year. Some of the users caught in the crossfire who have found their videos blocked or their accounts banned from the site have raised their voices in protest, convinced that they were doing was protected under the US ‘fair use’ or UK ‘fair dealing’ laws. Unfortunately, WMG usually has an answer for them. The girl who sang “Winter Wonderland” was performing an unapproved cover.

EDITORIAL

The mother who uploaded her baby’s first steps with a Prince record playing faintly in the background (not added to the video - just audible whilst the scene was captured) was stealing revenue from the Artist No Longer Known As Squiggle. And anyway, the current fair use defence is exactly that - a defence should a massive corporation with unlimited funds take you to court. Maybe you weren’t doing anything wrong. Maybe you were. The law has nothing to say on the matter until you’re up before a judge. Australia. Despite research warning that it could slow domestic surfing speeds by up to 97%, the conservative Australian government is pushing ahead with plans to censor the Net. Galvanised into action by demagogues like prominent Australian journalist Clive Hamilton, who in February produced a column in Australian IT (“Web doesn’t belong to net libertarians”) effectively calling for an end to Net anonymity, the proposed legislation will force ISPs to censor all traffic they process to the equivalent of a G-rated movie.

As with ISP-level censorship programmes in other countries, including China, the criteria used to ban sites and the blacklist itself will be kept secret and fake ‘page not found’ errors displayed when a banned page is requested (ostensibly to prevent purveyors of corruption from realising they are being blocked). With no public accountability whatsoever, the controllers of Mr. Hamilton’s “democratic” national firewall will have the power to censor anything or anyone, at any time. Alarmist, you say? It’s already happening, right here. The United Kingdom. In December 2008, the entire country was blocked from editing Wikipedia for four days. The reason? The entire country had been funnelled into just two IP addresses (which normally identify each computer or local network). The cause was the cack-handed implementation by the most popular ISPs in Britain (including BT and Virgin Media) of a ban of a single image by the Internet Watch Foundation. The who? The what? You’d be forgiven for any confusion.

EDITORIAL

Since 2004 over 80% of domestic broadband connections have been filtered using a blacklist created by the IWF - ostensibly material such as child pornography or terrorist websites that would be illegal for British citizens to view - rising to 95% in 2008. The blacklist, of course, is secret (with Virgin Media and other ISPs using the fake 404 error message technique to disguise censored pages), though we know it includes “criminally obscene content hosted anywhere in the world” and will shortly expand to include “incitement to racial hatred content”. The IWF is not officially a government agency, and does not answer to the taxpayer. The Wikipedia image in question was the cover art for an album freely available in the UK since the ‘70s, but the real issue was the fact that the IWF instructed ISPs to block not just the image but also the entire article. But what came next raised raised even more eyebrows. Wikipedia, in its inimical fashion, quickly created a separate article (absent the offending image) discussing the controversy. Within hours the IWF had banned that, too.

On this occasion it appears the IWF underestimated its target - some opined Wikipedia was a ‘test case’ - if it could get away with suppressing dissent there, it could do it anywhere. Whatever its intentions, an outpouring of fury forced the IWF to back down, though it reserved the right to re-ban the online encyclopedia at any time. What remained of UK netizens’ goodwill towards the IWF evaporated this January, when they banned the entire Wayback Machine (a not-for-profit archive of sites as they appeared in the past for academic purposes) through Demon Internet and other ISPs. Once again the IWF refused to specify which images were blacklisted. Did you read about this in the news? Perhaps not. The mainstream media seems uncomfortable addressing the subject. Perhaps that’s because they have some sympathy with the censors. In 2008 the Daily Mail printed an article from Mastermind presenter John Humphreys castigating the Internet as “A World Strip (sic.) of Humanity”, where Humphreys explains he was:

EDITORIAL

“Puzzled because I could not understand how perfectly intelligent people with apparently busy lives could spend even ten minutes engaging in such childish pursuits.” It should be noted that in the print edition of the paper the article was in close proximity to a double-page spread challenging readers to “match the celebs”. In Clive Hamilton’s manifesto in Australian IT, he argues that the current options available to parents to keep unsuitable material out of the hands of their children are simply not being used. Parents can supervise their children online, install PC-based censoring software (such as Net Nanny, a commercial software suite made available free to every Australian citizen by the government), use an Operating System with built-in parental controls like Apple’s ‘OS X’, or even sign up to a “family-friendly” ISP that already censors the Internet to child-level. But, says Mr. Hamilton, all that is just too much bother. One commentator writes in support of Hamilton’s thesis this charming anecdotes of parents’ responses:

“Too hard, not a real problem, do it later, gotta get a haircut... whatever. Few did it.” The rationale seems to be that parents won’t or don’t look after their children online, so the State should do it instead. You don’t care about your free speech, so we’ll take it from you. The same approach applied to a library would have us tearing volumes and pages off the shelves to feed the flames.

- Simon Regan Our editorials aren’t exempt from our ‘right of reply’ policy. If you don’t agree with what you read above and can express your opinions cogently in the same number of words or less, send it to us at scourgemagazine@ gmail.com. We’ll host it online at our own expense and provide the link in the next issue. If your reply is 600 words or less it’ll appear in the next issue as an Interest Article/Opinion Piece.

POETRY CORNER Contributors: Daniel B. Cooper Nathan FitzPatrick Elspeth Hinde Celia Jenkins Emelie Lamplough Simon Regan

POETRY

FREE TIBET

JOURNEY HOME

History, like an old broken record, Plays another melodious chord. Drums smashed in the valley are heard on high Along with the hauntingly quiet cry.

Suited men sit enveloped by their self importance, “If I miss this deal that’s it!” one proclaims to the carriage at large.

Prayers are stripped of their heart’ning goodwill, While throughout the country people feel the chill. Tibet’s silence is carried on the wind, Like a bird, to the West in search of friends.

An old lady tuts returning to her tattered book, in her mind his statement is cut from the little memories in her head.

But try as it might it will not be heard For no one has time for two little words. We mourn with clear conscience those laid to rest, Telling ourselves that we know what’s best:

In the corner young lovers, ignorant to the world, cuddle dreams in their arms under covers and caress one another’s soul.

The desecration of a peaceful nation; Assassination of reincarnation.

Outside flashes by, leaving fleeting glimpses of other’s lives in my eye. We sit alone, on our journey home.

- Elspeth Hinde

- Daniel P. Cooper

POETRY

MY FIRST MISTRESS A Poem by the State of England

But you deceived me, I know that now, I danced to your tune, to that awful row. You dulled my senses with potions and drugs, Whilst from under my feet you stole all the rugs. And there are others, don’t think I can’t see; It never has been just you and me. And yet you can’t leave it, you always want more. Like dogs we all ran to go fight in your war. My power is gone now, you hold the full deck. The people detest me, I’m left an old wreck. You Parasite, Cuckoo, you Wolf-In-The-Fold, When I was but young, ma’am, you were already old.

- Nathan FitzPatrick When first I met you, it seemed You were the answer to all that I’d dreamed, A fresh young face with brand new ideas To nurture my hopes and soothe all my fears. And thus began our sordid affair And caught was I in tight tangled snare. My aging wife, the old monarchy, To you relinquished her crown and her key. Those wild nights, all those things we tried So inkeeping with national pride. And all the others who soon joined our group, Faith, Freedom, and Justice; a merry troupe.

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POETRY

PET PEEVES When you have to inform five different sales assistants that no, you’re just browsing? When you open a can of soup and the lid falls in? When thin people ask if they’re fat? (When fat people ask if they’re fat?)

When the radio won’t tell you who sang that song? When you had that pen in your hand only a second ago but now can’t find it? When restaurants refill Heinz bottles with cheaper sauce? When you grow an afro and people call you “Cabbage Head”? When the seat at the bus shelter is wet after rain? When co-workers wear flip-flops to the office? When you rub on hand cream and can’t turn the doorknob to get out? When the checkout woman packs the bananas together with cold things? When people put a cross over an ‘i’ in place of the dot?

When your friend explains that the orange juice is veggie-friendly? When the petrol price rises not falls? When supermarkets wrap water melons in clingfilm? When Shakespeare is on the book list? When the phone rings but the cat’s curled asleep on your lap? When that man at the front just won’t stop cracking his knuckles? When celebrities give their children such Godawful names? When there’s butter in the marmalade jar? When application forms want to know all those things that you can’t remember? When people slam hotel doors at seven a.m? ...again and again and again.

- Emelie Lamplough

POETRY

SCOURGE And in the darkness around Our circles of firelight We meet the scourge Little more than the void That looks back at us. And it alters our perceptions When we hear and are told we are nothing but A bag of nerves wrapped up in a tin With the string that holds the heartblood in. In my wasteland There is nothing but houses And people and TVs and Microwave Dinners and Blackpool Illuminations. And the only sound Is the sound of the radio And the sound of the fluorescent tube Singing In the space between The circles of yellow light We try and fail to understand The things we cloak in words Defy our analysis

And it alters our perceptions YES, it alters our perceptions When we look up at the sky and see Only an ozone layer And an ionosphere And that very, very empty space We recognise.

- Simon Regan

POETRY

THE FIRST CUP OF COFFEE IN A NEW CAFÉ

I ordered and sat down surrounded by leather. An Agatha Christie in one hand, I looked around satisfied. This would do nicely. On my way back to the bus a couple stopped me and asked for directions. I smiled inwardly, and gave them.

- Celia Jenkins I was lost. I needed directions, but the woman shook her head and looked at me, disgusted. How does one display the joy when they find something they’re looking for in a place they’ve never been? What to try? The usual, a new blend, perhaps the New York expresso, a Swiss hot chocolate? Where to sit? A window seat, in the corner, or converse with the friendly man who smiled when you walked in?

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POETRY

THE KIWI I sliced and diced, peeled away skin and squeezed a lemon that stung my hands. It was done. It was only when putting the bowl in the fridge, my utensils washed and dried, that I saw it. The kiwi still sat on its shelf.

- Celia Jenkins It started with a kiwi, as it sometimes does. I had bought a few as a treat, but I was down to the last one, and the charm had worn off. A fruit salad, I decided would be the best thing to help me dispose of this lingering kiwi. I gathered an apple, two oranges, an avocado which I did not use but am saving for breakfast a banana, and a fruit we decided looked most like a peach.

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POETRY

WORDS Words obscuring meaning, The message lost in haze; Now wading through Chaucerian verse Can take us days and days. Is it inclination Or simply time we lack? Shakespeare once made love with words, But now we’ve lost the knack. Words obscuring meaning A poet’s gravest curse; Where what was once poetic Turns to forgotten verse.

In an age obsessed with images, From Radio to TV, We think less of what we hear And more of what we see.

As lovers turn to fighters And youngsters soon grow old, So may the best of poetry Eventually turn cold.

One picture’s worth a thousand words; But what is worth one word, Which conjures up a million thoughts And waits only to be heard?

It was written to remember, To survive “lest we forget,” For we know the human condition Is far from perfect yet.

Words obscuring meaning, The plot is getting dense, But without such words would Hitchcock be The master of suspense?

So what is it we’re scared of? What causes all our grief Over some few ancient words First written as relief?

Our language is evolving, And changing as we grow. But just where is it heading to, Or shall we never know?

POETRY

ADVERT Words obscuring meaning When the original is lost. Sense upon each essence Like a window ‘neath the frost. The world is full of meanings, They’re growing day by day, Making it more difficult To find something new to say.

- Elspeth Hinde

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PROSE AREA Contributors: Emelie Lamplough Richard Oxenham George Terry James Williamson

PROSE

CHANGE Deeply involved in the distant childhood struggle, she glances up only momentarily at each station, turning the pages in search of the author’s next minutely described account of abuse; being beaten, burned on a stove or just starved for days on end. Not the cheeriest of reads.

riumph over personal trauma, now that’s the bestseller. ‘Mislit’ they call it, misery literature, market mostly female - what does that say? It flatters the reader’s sense of moral outrage. “What are you reading?” one elderly woman says to another sitting opposite her on the Tube. The other lifts the paperback up only slightly to reveal the front cover, thumb still holding open the pages - A Child Called It. The title and colourless picture of a wideeyed boy together scream for sympathy. The woman was just trying to make conversation, but the other had barely acknowledged anyone had spoken to her. Maybe she’s going deaf at sixty-one. Doubtful.

As she is reading, a young man boards the trains at the far end of the carriage. He’s bony and grave with a rough-looking face, and is dressed in tattered jeans and a grubby jacket. He can’t be any more than twentyfive. In one arm he carries a sign made of cardboard: “Please help - spare change?” In the other, he gently rattles a Starbucks coffee cup of coins, walking down between the aisles of passengers. They don’t want to see this. Nobody wants to acknowledge this man and people suddenly become immersed by the second-hand news in their Metro magazines, or checking old messages on their phones. The woman is more engrossed than ever before in her jovial little book.

PROSE

Perhaps if he says something?

Now here he is, on the bus.

“Spare change?” The words come out in a raspy sort-of-voice and he coughs and asks again more clearly, though careful not to be too loud. “Any spare change? Any spare change you may have greatly appreciated. Spare change for food ladies?”

Which is okay. But he wouldn’t get on the “Tragic Life Stories” shelf in Waterstone’s. Spare change?

- Emelie Lamplough

The woman shakes her head without looking at him. The one sitting opposite guiltily roots her pockets and drops a few pounds in the cup. He thanks her and is obliged to move on. The young man’s name is Steve. Years ago he’d married and moved in with his teenage sweetheart. But people grow leaps and bounds in their twenties and seeing her life in a whole new light (those were the words), she’d left within a year, taking half the monthly payments. This might not have been such a problem had his job not been cut soon after. And then there was the eviction so it wasn’t his best of times.

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PROSE

DEAD RED TIRE TREAD He climbs over the safety railing dividing the walkway from the road and quickly draws a crumpled green binliner from his corduroy pocket, opening it out against the funnelling wind.

The juggernaut enters the underpass. Water cascades from the rattling undercarriage and sprays from the deformed wheel arches. e wonders if itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s retrievable.

The tire tread imprints its flattened ribcage and its intestines are trailing from its anus. Its eyes are hard-boiled eggs; pupils bruised yokes beneath the surface. Its tongue hangs from its jaw, shrivelled and dry, and its matted fur is crimson beneath the indigo of the underpass lights. The traffic is unabated and he knows that an unobservant driver will soon crush its skull. He looks up the road to the crest of the hill for a sizeable gap. There is an interval after a rusting juggernaut, which pulls a ton cargo of timber. The thick logs have swelled beneath the banks of rain and frayed cords, and its grill resembles bared teeth, packed with mercury fillings. They grimace at him, promising to ruin his prize.

He is unseen from within the shadows of the tunnel scaffolds. He reaches down and grips the fox by the tail, peeling it from the tarmac and lifting it towards the flapping bin-liner. The fibrous innards brush his forearm, cold against his skin. Its stomach shifts like a pendulum and it reminds him of a hot-waterbottle. He delicately places the carcass inside the bin-liner. It isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t heavy, but any part of its jagged anatomy can penetrate the plastic. The juggernaut closes in, suffocating the road. Grating gear changes awaken echoes and rats from damp crevices. He lifts the wrapped cadaver in his arms. He can feel the sharp contours of its recently exposed ribcage and his fingers close around stiffened limbs.

PROSE

He can’t associate the rigid remains with the animal it was; it has become something else. The juggernaut sounds its horn, an unearthly bellow, rooting him to the spot. The headlights envelop him; he is a burning silhouette. He is suddenly aware of the lifelessness he holds and it provokes him to run to the railing. The monstrous vehicle tears past, plastering his back in rainwater and log splinters as he drops to the walkway. He lies still, feeling his clammy shirt grow cold against his spine. The fox’s maw protrudes from a split in the bin-liner and it gapes as if it wants to say something. He stands and turns to watch the juggernaut exit the underpass. The tight formation of logs reminds him of the Gatling gun on his father’s Chinook helicopter. He wonders when Argentina will surrender, when they will let his father come home.

The depressed route he took to reach the underpass has now formed a stream, which eddies around his Wellingtons. He shivers and slings the bin-liner over his shoulder, pushing up the embankment, gripping the underpass wall with his free hand. He reaches the summit and takes a moment to gather his breath and massage his sore hand. The city spreads across the valley, littered with amber streetlights. Buildings are obscured by swollen rainclouds, which spit tattooed lightning along the horizon. His home isn’t the same without his father. It is an empty place, kept by an empty woman. There is no sound of laughter, just the radio, just the Falklands. He wonders if it’s retrievable.

- Richard Oxenham He lifts the bin-liner and tucks the snout back in. He follows the walkway till he reaches a steep embankment. The rain is fine but fast, gathered and carried in chaotic directions by the wind.

PROSE

RAIL REPLACEMENT I glance back at the giggling couple now and again. Try and make it look natural. Look at them without looking like I’m looking. Catch her eye, look away. The flashing headlights in the gloomy black outside my window focus my vision totally on my immediate surroundings. Soon there is nothing but this coach, travelling through a void of darkness and lights. We are an aluminium tube of souls hurtling endlessly into uncertainty.

o tired. I’m sure the couple behind me were giggling at me just now. Perhaps that’s what couples do. Perhaps I’m bitter. The busy station seems like a far-off dream. A gasp of violent air before I’m plunged back into the deep numbness. I look around at the dim-lit figures in their seats, in the same vegetative state as myself. I feel almost a connection with them; our fates for the duration of this journey are bound together with this coach. I start to think about who I’d save first if it all went up in flames. I wonder if anyone would save me.

I feel accepted - we all have at least something in common. We are all here together on this coach, now... right? No-one is really alone here. The couple obviously have each other, it’s true, but what we do on the coach effects everyone else on it. It’s us against the blackness outside, the cruel harsh lights. I feel true peace and harmony. I am safe. But then we stop. Lights come on and the figures scramble like animals towards the exit. They want out. The giggling couple, now silent, get off too and I follow. So tired. I come up again for air, but I can’t breathe.

- James Williamson

PROSE

THE BORING KEITH “Yeah,” I said, “yeah.” I stared out the window for the rest of the journey, looking at all the people on their way to work, thinking - you poor, poor, fuckers. Thinking not one of them ever stood a chance. The taxi came to about £15 - we threw 20p in coppers at the cabbie and legged it the rest of the way. ***

“T

rust me - when I’m old, I’m never going to forget what it was like to be a kid. ‘Cause that’s all growing up is, man, forgetting what you were, forgetting who you were. You get that?”

I’ve always hated that time inbetween dialing a number and someone picking up the phone. It gives you too much time to rethink what was probably a bad idea in the first place. “Hello?” “You alright Kelly? It’s Dowling,” “Dowling?”

“I’m telling you, man - you chat some shit when you’re pissed.” “I’m not pissed, man, I’m just saying, yeah? People like us - you and me - we’re never going to get old, not if we don’t want to.” “Alright Peter Pan, chill out, taxi’s almost home.”

“Yeah, I met you the other night after work with all the boys from management. We’re on the same floor together.” “What? Is this Keith Dowling?” “Yeah that’s the one - Keith Dowling from Accounting.”

PROSE

“Oh, hello Keith,” “Yeah, hi - umm. I was just wondering if you fancied going out for a drink at some point - later this week?” “A drink? Yeah sounds great, who’s going out?” “Who’s going? Well, I was kind of thinking...” “Oh, oh right, umm. Well I’m kind of busy this week, Keith, you know - it’s that time of year again at the office,” “What time of year?”

“You might.” *** “You know Keith, when you first walked through those doors... do you remember the time you first walked through those doors Keith?” “Yeah, it was a Tuesday.” “Yes, it was. Anyway, when you first walked through those doors, I took one look at you and I said to myself, I said: ‘Richard, if you take that boy, get rid of that skinhead look of his, and give him a real suit’ - that was one of your Dad’s old suits you wore on your first day, wasn’t it Keith?”

“You know, the busy one,” “Yes Richard, yes it was.” “Yeah - yeah, you got to hate this busy time of year, you probably haven’t even got time to be on the phone, really, have you?”

“I can always tell! Anyway, what was I saying?”

“No, no not really,”

“I think you’d just finished actually.”

“Well I’ll leave you to it then, Kelly,”

“Ah, so I had. Yes, well, the long and short of it is, I think you’re a real asset to the company. You know that, don’t you?”

“Cheers Keith, I’ll see you on Monday,”

PROSE

“Yes, yes I do.” “And I think you’d be an even greater asset up here with me. Do you see what I’m saying, Keith?”

*** “I’m sorry mate, we don’t have any of that in here,” “You what?”

I saw what he was saying. I just wished he wasn’t taking so long to get to the point. “I’m saying assistant manager, Keith, that’s what I’m saying.” *** “Hi Keith. It’s Kelly. Congratulations on yet another big promotion! I know you must be busy and all nowadays but I was wondering if you fancied going out for a few drinks - or a meal to celebrate? You can call me anytime - or come and see me at the office if you like.”

“I said we don’t have any of that. We’re only a pub.” “What? What the fuck kind of pub doesn’t serve Cristal?! Come on Monique, let’s get out of here.” We walked down the street to some place called “Chez Pierre”, or maybe it was “Chez Perry,” I wasn’t looking. But it had some massive chandelier in the middle of the place and everyone was wearing suits. “This is more like it,” I remember thinking on the way in. “This is what I’m about.”

- George Terry I never called her back; Kelly was the past, Kelly was the old Keith, the boring Keith, the Keith without an Impreza on the drive and a fuck-off widescreen on the ceiling of his bedroom.

PROSE

WILD CHILD I ate with them too, sharing their mash. This was usually slops; oats, corn and barley ground to a watery pulp. It was really intended just for the pigs but I could get in on the action if I was lucky. Not that they minded me sharing, but first come first served - you had to be quick. Sometimes we devoured the goo quite contentedly side by side, but fail to reach the trough in time and your share was cancelled. There was no room to squeeze between the pink slabs of flesh and nothing was ever wasted.

here was a shallow, wet ditch that lay at the edge of the wood near the farm. The pigs liked to bathe there during the summer. Lazily tossing and turning in the cool pool of mud, they found relief and smiled in their pleasure, eyes closed. I enjoyed watching this. I liked the pigs; they didn’t seem to mind my company and I was quite fond of theirs. Sometimes I even lay down and joined them. Laughing as the chill of the slime hit my belly, I let myself sink.

It didn’t always mean hunger though. There was a couple who lived in the house nearby and they were quite choosy with their meals. The rattle of their waste bin was as good as a dinner bell. Now and then it was just to tease me - I’d sprint to the back door to find nothing there. But when there was something, it could be quite generous: chewy pink meat, lumpy brown sauce, squares of black bread, all mashed together in abundance. I polished the bowl. The village children scorned me. All frayed grubby rags and lion-mane hair, I wasn’t one of them, that much was clear. And so I was shunned from their play.

PROSE

Sometimes I became the game though - when they came after me. They armed themselves with any debris they could find and pelted me with it, laughing at the sport. Look at the feral child, they’d taunt, look at the beastie! Screaming at them, I roared and I snarled, leaping at the nearest person only to be pinned down by the group. Trapped in a circle, I couldn’t win. Sal was a goat I regularly played with; nearly my height had he the horns. He was a dull-looking creature, large pendulous ears drooping down over his head like those of a squat-legged basset hound. Still, he had the soul of a kid and the litheness of a dancer, and together we made a fine pas de deux: tossing our heads, we sprang and we spun, whirling in circles with vigour and skill. This wasn’t our best pastime though. My favourite game was Animal. The rules of Animal are simple: mimic as many different voices as you can. I loved this contest as I always won. The challenge would start and I’d be three creatures at once. Lion, tiger, panther - I roared furiously.

HEE-HAW, I’m a donkey, ARF-ARF, I’m a hound. Sal would give it his all but could only do sheep. Sometimes the pigs tried to join in but could not pass beyond human squeals. KLURKKLURK, I’m a chicken, MUUUUU, I’m a Something strikes the back of my head with such force I’m knocked down, my chin slamming against the ground. The earth is hard and pebbled. There’s a warm taste in my mouth. Shut the hell up, says a voice. And so I don’t speak. I can’t.

- Emilie Lamplough

THE SOAPBOX Contributors: Sabrina Ward Kelcie-Gene Schaffer

OPINION

TEACHING CONSIDERATION The rise in anti-social behaviour in our society is a matter of record. But what should be done about it? Sabrina Ward argues it’s not enough to rely on the nuclear family to teach young people consideration for others.

Yes, it is a fairly radical solution, particularly since children and young people are part of a wider problem and this is an issue that should be tackled by society as a whole. However if we target the young, we may be able to effect change in future generations. Start tackling the root of the problem, as it were. Let me first make it clear what I mean by ‘consideration’. In our modern society of different lifestyles and religions it would, of course, be wrong to impose our own moral standards on others. I am talking about the act of showing respect and thoughtfulness to others that should be practiced by everyone.

s society getting less considerate? On the whole, I would say not. But with the recent rise in anti-social behavioural orders (ASBOs) being given out by the police, many people will agree with me when I say that there are a number of individuals increasingly lacking in this area. What then is the solution? Teach consideration in schools.

Now there will be those who object to this proposal; in particular, people who don’t believe that there is a problem. There will also be parents who are worried about what the school might be teaching their children. But a child who says “please” and “thank you”, a child who will hold open a door or give up their seat for an elderly person; would any parent really be upset if their child started to display these kinds of behaviour?

OPINION

And wouldn’t society be better for everyone if the majority of people behaved that way? I also know that some of you will be blaming the parents for their children’s rude and unruly behaviour thinking “if they taught their kids some manners we wouldn’t have this problem.” And I would be compelled to agree - but for the fact that I suspect that the parents who have not taught their children such high standards of consideration are the ones who have the most difficulty with it themselves. In a ideal world, all children would be getting this basic education at home: but as we can see this isn’t always the case. The extent of social teaching varies greatly from family to family. Now you can argue that it depends on background, class, income, religion or any number of other factors.

“IN AN IDEAL WORLD, ALL CHILDREN WOULD GET A SOCIAL EDUCATION AT HOME: BUT THIS JUST ISN’T THE CASE”.

But I would say it boils down to one thing - education. Not whether the parents went to a private or a public school, but their own moral education. After all, you can’t teach what you don’t know. So where are they going to get this education if not from school? And how many more children are we going to let slip through the net? How many more parents are going to end up unable to teach their children the basics of how to treat others? If we want to transform society as a whole we should be working to prevent the problem in the first place. And if we want to effect change we have to act now, before this negative behaviour becomes not only more common but even, more worryingly, more acceptable. And if we do, who knows how our society may improve.

- Sabrina Ward

OPINION

STUDENTS PUT IN FIRSTCLASS PERFORMANCE TO SINK STAFF TEAM On 13th March Bath Spa University’s School of English and Creative Studies hosted its annual Students Versus Staff Poetry Slam in association with Ambidextrous: this year raising over three hundred pounds for charity. Kelcie-Gene Schaffer was on the ground for SCOURGE Magazine.

Bath Spa University’s Creative Writing department came up trumps on Friday night, with twelve riveting performances in the ‘Students Versus Staff’ poetry slam. Ambidextrous organised the event, raising £343.11 for Comic Relief.

With the bar open and a cake stall at the ready, poets and poetry fans alike flocked to the Michael Tippett Centre to show support for the two teams of contenders. From firstyear media students to creative writing lecturers, the audience was artistically charged and busily debating the talents of both teams before the slam had even begun!

The format of the slam consisted of two rounds: the first being the round where students got to choose their staff opponent, the second being vice-versa; although two members of staff short, the faculty team managed to persuade third-year Creative Writing students Agatha Knowles and Jason Curley to compete along with them.

OPINION

The student team boasted the talent of six performance poets, all of whom are undergraduates in the Creative Writing BA. These included Jack Dean, a fiery first-year and a promising talent, skilful newcomer Jennifer Walter and Molly Case, a clever worker of words and fabulous teller of stories. Vice-Chancellor Frank Morgan, the official vote-counter, brought some welcome comic relief - no pun intended - to what proved to be a fairly tense event. Equipped with green cards to vote for the staff and red cards for students, the audience had their means of voting. The lights dimmed, and the charming comperes took to the floor to kick off a memorable evening. Molly claimed a quick first-round victory for the students, but Agatha secured the staff’s position by triumphing with a truly inspiring performance of an exceptional poem in the second round. First-year creative writer Jack Dean delivered a brilliant parody of the well-known video piracy advertisements. Although the performance was well received by the audience, it wasn’t tough enough to break the soft but sturdy stanzas of Lucy English’s poem - written in the voice of Ted Hughes.

Third-year Jason Curley bolstered the ranks of the lecturers: but to no avail. Anna stepped up to level the score for the students, but Dr. Colin Edwards then swiftly won the next round to put the staff in the lead. His story of ‘old boy Tippett,’ an epic Wild West tale of Newton St. Loe, literally brought him to his knees. In the final battle of the first round, Jennifer Walter equalised the score with an articulate and clever performance. ‘Word Case Manifesto’ was a humorous and expressive poem and a definite hit with the audience. After twenty minutes of cake-eating, cigarette-smoking and wine-gulping, the poets and poetry enthusiasts gathered back into the slam space, ready for the final round.

OPINION

Molly made it two wins out of two with her tale of nearly-but-not-quite losing your virginity whilst watching Matthew Kelly on TV. Lucas gave the students a two-nil lead with his terrific age recognition poem, ‘Boyman.’ A pristine performance from Agatha then pulled one back for the staff, winning the audience over with a profound account of personal empathy. Anna and Lucy English won their respective rounds to leave Jack Dean against Dr. Colin Edwards, presenting the students with an opportunity to win the slam. Colin Edward’s piece was well-researched and elegantly performed, but Jack ‘Mighty Morphin’ Poet Power Ranger’ Dean caused an unexpected upset over his tremendously more experienced opponent. His performance was full of energy and captivated every member of the audience, giving the students a hardfought victory.

RESULTS OF THE STUDENTS VERUS STAFF POETRY SLAM 2009 FIRST ROUND

STUDENTS Molly Case Lucas Hadley Anna Freeman Jack Dean Jake Tupman Jennifer Walter

STAFF Andrew Turner Agatha Knowles Gerard Woodward Lucy English Colin Edwards Jason Curley

3-3

SECOND ROUND

STUDENTS Molly Case Lucas Hadley Jennifer Walter Anna Freeman Jake Tupman Jack Dean

STAFF Gerard Woodward Jason Curley Agatha Knowles Andrew Turner Lucy English Colin Edwards

4-2

FINAL RESULT: Students win 7-5!

MISC. ARTICLES Contributors: Molly Case Steven Sutton

MISC

INVISIBLE MONSTERS A REVIEW

Don’t expect the norm; a bizarre road trip of drag queens, drug trafficking and ultimately self-destruction.

Now released as his third novel, Palahniuk’s monster is finally ready to escape from the darkness under the bed. Take the novel’s tardiness in being published as a small warning; it is horrific, it is hard to swallow, but hey, isn’t that the reason we read Palahniuk’s stuff? Invisible Monsters confronts the reader directly. The narrator admits they will shift between time zones, change the setting and even occasionally change gender. Don’t expect the norm; Palahniuk creates a turbulent narrative that the reader must try to decipher along the way. Our protagonist - a disfigured gunshot victim who befriends a pre-op transsexual - takes us on a bizarre road trip of drag queens, drug trafficking and ultimately self-destruction. Along the way we discover the strange twists of fate that led up to the shooting and the sex change.

nvisible Monsters is the monster lurking beneath your bed, the childhood nightmare suppressed for years. It was originally intended to be Chuck Palahniuk’s first novel, but at the time was hailed by his publisher as ‘too disturbing’.

The energy of the book is exhilarating; reading on is integral to fitting the narrative puzzle together. Palahniuk consistently creates characters that defy social conventions; antisocial creatures that have to find ways to adapt in their world.

MISC

We are immersed in their make-believe lives where they must struggle to survive and grow. Palahniuk frequently uses dark humour and ‘gross-out’ scenes to illustrate this struggle: one scene in particular - in which a misunderstanding occurs over a polite dinner with the parents - will have you reading through squinted eyes. The crude detail and level of embarrassment generated by the characters’ misunderstandings is hugely amusing, and will have you laughing out loud. However, Palahniuk hasn’t merely gone for gold on providing us with horrific scenes and dark humour. There are also subtle questions, posed to an increasingly imageconscious society, which create a thoughtprovoking and chilling end to his tale. Palahniuk takes the idea of beauty and the efforts we go to achieve it in the West to the extreme, yet never comes across as preachy or didactical. He subverts anterior works in his own way; the drug-addled road trip reminiscent of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, the bond between the two ‘female’ characters like that of the ill-fated Thelma and Louise.

Surely the love child of Hunter S. Thompson and Callie Khouri is worth a read, even if the result is something quite seriously horrific.

- Molly Case

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MISC

CASINO ROYALE A REVIEW

Before reading this book, shake off all notions of Daniel Craig’s performance in the film of the same name. His James Bond is nothing like the real James Bond. The real Bond is a human being. He’s a product of 1953. To us he’d be chauvinistic, bigoted, living an extraordinarily unhealthy lifestyle, but a hero. This James Bond went through the war, has a smile on his face, and like a human being, gets hurt. We follow Bond as he sets out to bankrupt the villainous Le Chiffre at the poker table. What is the hidden agenda behind Le Chiffre’s need to win? Who is pulling the strings in the casino? What threat is there to Europe’s safety? Can Bond defeat the more experienced player?

t’s hard to believe, but the James Bond franchise is almost sixty years old. The twenty-two blockbusters to date - along with the merchandise, parodies, tributes, and remakes - all originated from Ian Fleming’s first Bond book, Casino Royale.

The naive loyal citizen has a routine: the most unhealthy English breakfast, cigarettes until the lungs are filled, and surprisingly quaint little destinations. In Casino Royale, James Bond has two constant companions: the seductive Vesper Lynd, and Lady Luck. Any time the story goes Bond’s way, it is only because circumstances and Fleming favour him.

MISC

ADVERT The result is a civil servant who waltzes into danger, and waltzes out again. But that is exactly the point of this novel. James Bond knows the skills, knows the language, knows the game, but knows no judgement. Casino Royale is a learning curve, and a thrilling learning curve at that. The book comes highly recommended, and has a growing need to be reintroduced to the 21st century of movie fans. The two versions of Casino Royale have virtually nothing in common beyond the very basic plot. One is a Hollywood blockbuster - the other is an emotive and exciting tale of a human being. Fleming has a style of writing that fulfils every sense and places the reader in the scene, smelling the cigarettes or feeling the warmth of the south of France. Be warned that Ian Fleming does have a tendency to use the word ‘reflected’ on every other page, but also be prepared to be astonished by the superb story and the suspense. Expect to see real characters in fanciful yet gripping situations. Expect the best of Casino Royale.

- Steven Sutton

MR. B’S EMPORIUM OF READING DELIGHTS Mr B’s was created in 2006 to offer the people of Bath an independent bookshop with quality personal service and a relaxed browsing environment. Just some reasons to buy at Mr. B’s: - Enthusiastic hands-on service. - Next day ordering service. - Regular author events and two clubs - Unique gift ideas. - 10% student discount. Why not drop in on John St., Bath? Or check out www.mrbsemporium.com ADVERT

MISC

NOTES

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INSIDE ISSUE ONE... he Quietest Coup” - Internet censorship

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is coming - but what are the motives of those arguing for it? Is the average person concerned - and should they be? We examine the issues in SCOURGE’s first editorial article. eaching Consideration” - Should the teaching of consideration for others and the social contract be extended into secondary school? Sabrina Ward argues we can no longer rely on parents to transfer cultural values. oetry Slam - Students sink Staff efforts and raise money for Comic Relief: full coverage and a blow-by-blow tournament roster within!

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PLUS... iterary Review - Chuck Palahnuik’s

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“Invisible Monsters” and Ian Fleming’s “Casino Royale” given a critical eye inside!. rose and Poetry - Thirteen of the best short stories and poems by local writers, including Emilie Lanplough, Richard Oxenham, and Elspeth Hinde.