FAT SQUIRRELS, FAT PEOPLE AND AN ORDER OF CHIPS
Thursday 22nd February 07
Letter from the Editor. So here I am writing my second editor’s letter. Episode 1 as we are now referring to it was a huge success, although the trouble we went through to get it into people’s handbags was immense. Think back to Thursday morning, two weeks ago.... it has snowed throughout the night, in fact it’s still snowing, the car is wedged in the drive, the buses are stuck in an unbelievable amount of traffic....so 400 copies of the other side issue 001 were packed into backpacks and three of us begun an epic journey towards Highgate, Wellington Boots and Twix’s in hand. As we drew closer to the station it became evident that there were less people than normal going to work... schools were closed so parents took the day off...that kind of thing. Resting on our laurels we decided on a swat style hit on the tube during afternoon rush hour. Jumping on the train at Highgate we made our way up and down the carriages and found ourselves inundated with requests for ‘The Other Side.’ Thank you to everyone who has been in touch and we hope that you enjoyed Issue 001 as much as we did....now get your glasses out, sit back and make your way through Alex Zane in a chippy, thieving squirrels and how we could make the tube a better place.
Contents Fair’s Fare
All about Censorship
7 Stops
Listen Up Mr Smith
Torture me
-Sam Chip Shops & Museums
“What a refreshing change. A strapping young lad wandering down my platform on a Thursday in rush hour offering me something different from the normal free papers. I wish you the best of luck with the magazine and am already looking forward to my next copy.” Andrew Wells, Highgate
Northern on the Northern Line
NICO
The Size Zero debate As the size zero debate rages on I would like to take a minute to contemplate the issues from the Northern Line perspective. As I travelled home from the 9-5 tonight (on a north bound High Barnet train in case you’re inter-
forward thinking social observer and
insulted with my
possibly fitness guru (does ‘Dr’ Gillian
callous, spiteful words, I
McKeith have a design background
want you to know: It’s not that I hate
I cry)?! I say this because the
fat people; I too have been known to
GENIUS behind the Northern
carry around the odd spare tyre (or two). All I ask is for you to close your
line trains placed Big, Black, Plastic waist-controlling
eyes for a minute and imagine your
ested), I watched in stunned disbelief
devices between the seats (cunningly
rush hour journey if everyone were a
as the young buck opposite ignored
disguised as arm rests)! Genius I
size zero..............................................
my frantic eye warnings and offered
tell you! Although this doesn’t totally
........................................
the middle aged woman in front of me
solve the problem (as fat is pretty
Now tell me that wouldn’t be a more
a seat. She was NOT pregnant; just
malleable and still manages to creep
comfortable ride.
a bit paunchy. I know this is a total
over and under the barrier
cliché, but it actually happened, and
and encroach on the
as the tragic scene unfolded in front of
space of unsuspecting
me (and I half-heartedly tried to hide
stair-walking Londoners)
my embarrassed laughter), I thought;
you’re still much better off than
nowhere is the size zero debate more
on the buses where you stand no
relevant than on the Northern line.
chance of claiming your paid for rite!
No. Public transport in general! For a while now I have been
Which brings me to my next point in the size/transport equation. For
contemplating the relationship
years now I have been arguing that
between obesity and public transport,
fares should be relative to size. Just
and as with dancing and crop tops
think about it; Why should us slimmer
it’s not a happy one. I mean, we’ve
Londoners have to pay the same
all suffered the sheer inconvenience
price for transport as the (now, how
of sitting next to a fat person on a
can I word this sensitively?)....greasy
train or bus and it’s not an experi-
burger munchers? We’re already
ence to be savoured. However, in
paying our gym fees anyway! But
many ways we Northern liners are
seriously. If someone’s taking up
fortunate. If for instance you ride
1 1⁄2 seats, they should pay for 1 1⁄2
some of London’s less civilised lines
seats. It’s not discrimination, its just
(no names mentioned) you will find
common sense! Forget Oysters, what
that there is no discernable boundary
we need is size-related fares. Now
demarcation to stop the gym-dodger
that would be fair!
next to you claiming more than their
For those of you writhing in your
fare share of the seat! However, our
seats with what you have just read.
trains were obviously designed by a
For all the people out there I have
MISS IMPECCABLe editor@theothersidemag.co.uk
THROWING STONES AT MR GREY BY CARDOROWSKI So, I’m sitting there in my safe European home, washing dishes and pondering the beauty of my snow-covered north Lunnun garden, when an obese grey squirrel swings into view. Sprawled upside down across the wire globe of a bird-feeder that has followed a catalogue, literally, of other bird feeding tools. All of them abused or obliterated by the omnipotent and ever-fattening Grey to the exclusion of Tits, Great and Blue, Robins and the few remaining Sparrows. Mr Grey is not my friend. On the sill of the window before me lies the children’s paltry rock and shell collection, and my antipathy to Mr. Grey is growing as his swinging on the globe increases. Suddenly, from nowhere, a rock sails entire feet wide of the bush-tailed rodent. It’s a left sided window and my arms are all rights. But in this instance all wrongs. And another, not getting any closer. In the boldest manner of a discovered and unrepentant bully Mr Grey looks at me, clambers down with a grace that belies the great heft and says: “ Was that a nut you were trying to feed me?” Seething in my wrath /shame I, accidentally on purpose, swing the adjacent door too quickly, knocking the smug rodent across his self-satisfied, half-empty skull and give chase across the melting snow in my slippers. I shout “Footsaque!”, in my best hand me down Afrikaans, fling a rotten apple, wide again, and retire with sodden feet, an at best pyrrhic sense of victory and a thought. Why would I be permitted to print “Phootsak” or even “Vai nel culo” virtually at will, but not F*ck or the C word? “Footsack” is a South African term used for the shooing away of bolshy dogs and vagrants in the strongest possible terms if you catch my drift. So it can’t be the meaning, nor even the aesthetic agglomeration of letters for as has been noted even the posh spelling of Phuque will raise temperatures and
cause offence. Is that it? The causing of offence? In these days without limit do such delicate sensibilities exist? The astonishing power of the written word to enrage, mollify or encourage is an exchange truly gladdening to witness, likewise the extraordinarily greater power wielded by the captured image. Gladdening because the current proliferation of images and words is become a veritable Ocean of information, opinion and confusion that threatens to submerge us and drown our senses, delicate or otherwise. This Ocean seems at present especially uninformative, unmonitored and, most sadly, untidal. Where is our Canute when we need him? Having trampled all thought of moderation under the galloping feets of those brazen Riders; Circulation; Viewing figures and Hits, is self-regulation really all we have? Where is the body that can self-regulate? The Daily Organ that will contain itself within 40 pages; the image that restrains itself within an A4 page; the broadcaster that can transmit within one channel? And yet we receive the accusation that the proliferation of information and ‘choice’ is merely an answer to our ceaseless request for greater choice. Our tireless demand for more stuff. When exactly did ‘WE’ ever make that request? Through which Venerable Media did ‘WE’ rise en masse to demand “More” of anything? Who is it that slackened the reins of credit, the Debtor? Who sprawls the word ‘MORE’ before every offer, the Buyer? And who baits ‘consumption’ with the banner “FREE”? Isn’t it first and foremost the mantra of Fat Rats wishing to break down the barriers, natural or otherwise, that rule the tides and appetites of World and Man? The destruction of natural limits is well discussed, its effects growing more obvious daily. However, The
artwork by Jaime Jackson
Rats, obese or otherwise, responsible for all that desecration have also promulgated a veritable tsunami of 2-dimensional matter, page and screen, intending to dilute Fact and Truth in their pursuit of High Tides and Low Appetites. This is NOT discussed. The possibility that all this manipulated ‘choice’ leads only to homogeneity. The Comments and Analyses increase without a thought for Man’s ability to ingest them. The Glossies become a bizarre cut and paste version of reality: liposucked smiles, pneumatic breastage, abnormal abdominals on air-brushed air heads that all look the same. TV spends more on the ads than the programmes that adorn them and who can tell the difference anyway? The web, but a virtual pit made fast, furious and functional by the cash dropped by the Gambling and Porn Fraternity. There’s a girl up North England, a student who calls
herself “Charlie Girl”. She’s one of many saying no to the nuts that give no nourishment, calling porn porn, not gentlemanly leisure, and brave enough to act. She’s standing on a beach, getting drenched as the tide runs in (Who says Canute has to be either a King or a him?). She reports that the Rats have sprawled their rags over the shelves marked out for kids and those with less gluttonous interests; have dropped loss leaders in the sweetie racks; and have taken to hanging round the playground, seeking young addicts on the sports field. Charlie Girl is met with derision when calling for an ebb in this tide of dross, poo-pooed by the Opinion-ated when she dares to suggest that maybe the magazine covers are unhelpful or unnecessary, let alone untrue insulted for suggesting that maybe entertainment should have a higher aim than Onanism. She, like a rare and courageous Sparrow braving the snow for that solitary seed of Truth, is being barged aside by a rapacious Rodent that’s lost both sense and sensibility and found only appetite and an expanding girth. My wife sometimes says, when irked by somebody taking the surgical option to weight loss, “Why don’t you just eat LESS!” Difficult as it may be in these times of plenty, I will stand with her and eat less. I will stand with ‘Charlie Girl’ and turn the Porn Mags over. Not buy my sons Tottenham Shirts with the gambling logo. Throw rotten apples at the Grey that would starve a Great Tit out of existence, just as they did to the Red. And make another choice when the word “Phuque” or even “Footsaque” sits on my lips. Refine my sensibilities. I hope.
editor@theothersidemag.co.uk
7 Stops
Wednesday’s
Don’t quote me on this as my pub quiz experience is normally bad, but I have been to the Mucky Pup on a Wednesday night and actually taken part in quite an exciting quiz. Start brushing up on yer general knowledge and have an enjoyable evening in this nice little boozer.
5th AY 2 SUND If you’re into the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s and don’t have a ticket for the brilliant SHINS then get yourself down to KOKO on Sunday night for some Indie/Alt>country in the form of HOWLING BELLS. Tickets are £12.60 check them out at www.myspace.com/howlingbells
KOKO
East Finchley
Archway
Highgate Brent Cross
The Mucky Pup
39 Queens Head St, N
Camden Town
Tufnell Park
Chalk Hampstead Farm
Golders Green
Old Street
Kings Cross
Kentish Town
Belsize Park
Mornington Crescent
Euston
Angel
Moorga Tottenham Court Road
Warren Street
Goodge Street
HOT FUZZ
But watch it at the Everyman. Where I find going to the cinema becomes an absolute luxury. Take wine, brownies, nuts, tea and coffee into the film with you and then sit back and enjoy Simon Pegg, Nick Frost et al in their latest movie adventure!
Leic
The ICA
Friday 23rd February If you can, and you shou be able to...even if it i from a tout, go and see Fi Music at the ICA. I’d c them a more romantic popp version of the Futurehead £8.50
£10
The best things going on in and around the Northern line both sides of the River
TATE MODERN
If you havn’t already been then get your lazy self to the tate modern to see Gilbert and George’s MAJOR EXHIBITION. £10 will get you in and while you are there have a go on Carsten Holler’s chute. I recommend getting off at Borough and walking along the Thames.
N1
Borough
Bank
ate
Elephant
London Bridge
Charing Cross
cester Square
uld is ield call ped up ds
The Starchy Gallery
OK..so it’s in Dulwich. Nothing a short bus ride from Stockwell can’t fix. Ok...so one bus (the P4) and a change to Brixton ..Maybe you should drive! HOWEVER...go and see the potatoes at the Farmers Market in Dulwich College. £1 to enter a potato! From Monday 26th
Waterloo
Kennington
Stockwell Oval
Clapham Common Clapham North
Embankment
The Science Museum
GAME ON - Until the 25th CHANGE AT EMBANKMENT ONTO THE CIRCLE LINE Just for shear childhood enjoyment go to the science Museum before the 25th and play the games that you were brought up on.
£8.50
editor@theothersidemag.co.uk
LISTEN UP THE FOX AND THE MONK. john smith. Let’s think about the worst job for a moment.....maybe you’re sitting on the tube, it’s early (before 10, that’s 10 in the morning!) and you’re thinking ‘well mine’s pretty crap’...or maybe it’s Friday night and you’re on your way out to a gig say, reading this thinking ‘who gives a flying **** about work’.... I don’t want to spoil your evening, but stick with me for a minute. Try to imagine you’re in a room with say, 2,000 people ....and it’s a ‘party’ you haven’t really been invited to. You don’t know anyone and nobody is making the effort to make you feel wanted ...then ...you start to sing! Well ok, I accept that it would be a bit odd arriving at a party and singing...BUT hopefully
you’re moving in the same direction as me (just check to see you haven’t missed your stop ....) ...because I’m going to tell you about a young man who shuffled onto a stage with a guitar and a ‘voice’ and crashed the party....JOHN SMITH. I know what you’re thinking ... I didn’t believe it either when he said ‘hi my name’s John Smith...and I’ve got a web site. Unfortunately johnsmith.com had gone ....so its johnsmithjohnsmith.com’. (or check it out – it’s not a windup) Anyway, John sat down with an acoustic guitar at the Roundhouse (Chalk Farm) and did his party piece. He sang beautifully (a bit John Martyn...whose party he was crashing... and John loves a party... in fact at times there was a debate about whether this was John’s, er the other John ...John Martyn’s son) and he played and stroked and hit and open tuned and played it on his lap and jumped off his chair and
made up chords and got noises out of an acoustic guitar I thought only ...er cant think of anyone else off hand (email the editor with suggestions)...well think Jeff Buckley with acoustic guitar (not in another Jeff clone type way ...more how did he do that! kinda approach.)... And then he said ‘goodnight...thanks for being so warm and I will be selling my cds in the foyer during the break before the ‘Boss’ comes on’ ....so I found a very young, shy, tallish, bespectacled man with cash being stuffed into his hands...suddenly, the belle of the ball. I told him I’d enjoyed the show and was as knocked out as I was when I first saw Jeff Buckley live. I don’t think he believed me and I don’t think I believed me either, but I had to say something. I hadn’t been prepared for a purchase in the interval... ‘Who would you like the album dedicated to?’ ‘...er Rebecca’ ....so I’m listening to John
Smith’s album ‘to Rebecca, love John’ if you can get hold of it you should... acousticsmith.com myspace.com/johnacousticsmith by Mark Long
Make Doherty History #002 Send him on tour with the Police. It’s a short term fix...but will do for a while!
TIE ME UP Let me start with a series of vehement disclaimers. I am not gay/bi/even slightly curious. I have a long-standing hatred of dress codes, poseurs, make-up and quite specifically and especially “Goths”. Moreover I would certainly not describe myself as a ‘clubber’. A walk in the park on a brisk winters day dressed only in the
round her neck and has no shame dragging her from the darkened dance floors to the all too bright hallway and into the men’s toilet.
drabbest most practical clothes is more my cup of tea.
A septuagenarian man wanders around in a leather bikini and a shirtless youngster writhes around for no one in particular’s entertainment, preening his far from Adonis-like torso. I should be repelled but I am not. I’m not even particularly shocked. In fact I feel quite comfortable with all this. Next door there’s a huge split-level dance floor like Ibiza plus hardcore pornography. Everybody is loved-up, sexed-up and dressed like cyberpunks.
wee hours my mind was buzzing with excitement. The night was a whirlwind of bodies, colours and flagrant exhibitionism. For days afterwards it all kept running around my head, stirring up my creative and sexual self. In some ways, this
Downstairs is where one finds the “torture” part of this garden. Scantily clad women are chained to racks, whipped, tickled and caressed by their willing slaves, men line up to take a brutal caning from whoever feels like
by Joe King
How is it then that I find myself having an exciting, provocative and above all memorable time at a club full of gay men, Goths and poseurs with a strict fetish dress code being enforced by the bouncer, who checks for any signs of latent normality. I just make the grade, with zips and metal hoops running the length of my tight black trousers and a smattering of eyeliner. Once inside I feel positively overdressed. Two women walk past wearing nothing but thongs and some gaffer tape over their nipples, another is led around completely naked by a rubber masked giant who shows no tenderness in wielding the chain
We head up to a burlesque themed room with pole dancers and sassy cabaret tunes. The first thing I notice is that there is NO shame.
dishing one out and everyone else stares, shamelessly, at whoever and whatever they want. In the corner is the ‘Couples Room’ where couples do what couples do in full view of all the other couples. Once again, this is really NOT my thing, but as I headed home in the
was the most pretentious and superficial party I have ever been to, but in others it was the most honest and accepting. I’m not an s&m convert by any means, but I would DEFINITELY go back!
editor@theothersidemag.co.uk
Cultural Comment
Just one hug
It’s a peculiar world we live in. Especially for residents of Muswell Hill. Thursday afternoon was particularly surreal. Whilst sauntering down the Broadway I stumbled across numerous film crews hanging around the local Chippy. It soon became evident that they were there for the once hugely hyped Damon Gough aka Badly Drawn Boy’s national chip shop tour, an effort to boost flailing sales of his latest album. Unfortunately for him the hoards of people standing outside were more interested in the, how can I put this...nice (this is in no way sarcasm, I think he is actually really nice), Alex Zane. One girl’s fastidious attitude was a chore on my ears and I’m sure my photographer and I were probably picked out as raging Zane groupies.
Eventually we were granted access into the Pop World shoot and we lurked at the back whilst Zane interviewed Gough; Gough repelled Zane’s questions and chose to interview the chip man instead, “Could you batter a bicycle?” the strong Greek reply was even better:“for you I would build a machine big enough to batter a bicycle!” Quickly jumping on the bandwagon Zane asked about battering a human whole, to which Gough responded “would he survive?”. I was surprised that, after almost an hour of this, nobody had suggested battering the Pop World presenter...Or at least Pop Worlds script writer! Simon Amstell’s move from Pop World to Buzzcocks was a brave one but it has left the T4 Sunday morning show bereft of ideas, whilst Never Mind the Buzzcocks is now must-watch TV and if you missed it, find Preston walking out on You Tube. Pop World’s terrible script doesn’t help Zane whose funniest moment came as he told us how he was thrown out of the Oasis Brits after party as he was not on the list. The image of this makes me warm inside.
Donʼt drink and game So it’s Sunday morning. Football has been cancelled and you and your mate are hungover to a new level. It’s possible that the hangover hasn’t actually started yet and the glass of Sauvignon Blanc at 6.35am was not such a good idea. After the obligatory fry up courtesy of the Sainsbury’s local and an hour or so of watching Alan Partridge the mind wanders on what you could possibly do. Well, it’s possible that the answer to the drunken/hangover mess could be fixed with a short trip down to exhibition road in South Kensington. Not for much longer, the Science Museum plays host to the Game On exhibition. In fact it finishes on the 25th so be quick. Every console and game you could imagine under one roof. Relax with a game of Space Invaders and play 7 generations of Street Fighter, flight simulators, train driving, to the modern day greats of Pro Evolution Soccer and Super Monkey Ball. Hangover....what hangover? You are taken through the years, the c64, Atari’s, the SNES, mega drive up to the unbelievable realism of the PS3 and Xbox 360. Go out of the exhibit and upstairs to the aviation section, It sounds geeky, well it is geeky but it is fun. We left the science museum and headed for the dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum. A great day out but once home it has become painfully evident that the Sauvignon Blanc at 6.35 in the morning was an atrocious idea. by Sam Pleasure
Northern on the Northern Line
Northern on the Northern Line
Hold on to your hats, seats, kids, clogs and boobs, for I am coming to see you all! Not literally, please don’t call the rozzers just yet. What I mean, if you’ll calm down and give me a minute (Jeez! Louise! – is ‘Louise’ the Big Dog’s middle name then? Jesus Louise Christ? The answer, of course, is ‘Maybe!’), what I mean is that I am moving myself and my shell (pretending I’m a snail here - prove I’m not!), from Liverpoo’ to ‘that London’, and shall soon enough be moshing with the rest of you on the Northern Line. That’s not the only reason I’m moving down, to be on a train, but that’s by-the-by! Remember Ox Bow lakes? They’re making a come back! Huzzah! But anyway, back-to-back and sideby-side and on with sho-o-ow! Or something So I was on the Northern Line last week, winging my way to a job interview, after coming back from Prague. If you’ve been, isn’t it nice? If you haven’t, it’s nice! Anyway, I was recalling the Metro system of trains in Prague. There are basically three lines. Same in Liverpoo’l, really. But London has, like, literally, infinity! Being a little tired and dazed, I got to thinking about this.
The tubes, metro, or ‘trains’ – as we call them in Liverpoo’ – keep people connected, keep whichever city they are in alive. Some cities, such as my homeland, the ‘Poo, opt primarily for buses, Prague has more trams (nice, but nightmarish to navigate on!). If one bus or tram breaks down, there are usually others that can be employed to transmit you around. Ok, so, if we think of tubes/metro/ trains as arteries or veins, and buses/trams as capillaries, the smaller red coloured blood....tubey things!.... then....what?! I got to thinking that the London tube would, in essence be the heart of the city, or even of England. When there are tube problems, when a line is down (that’s ‘line’, not ‘lion’ – they’re not allowed on tubes, I know from experience) then it effects everyone using it, and as a person’s mood is generally affected by those around them, it follows that the annoyance, disappointment, stress or whatever, caused by the sporadic workings of the tube network should be passed on to others around the city, causing a sort of heartburn. Terrorist attacks, likewise, could be considered akin to heart attacks. But even then, the heart never flatlines! I think this magazine would be a sort of cuddle and kiss to the heart. Hmmm!
So, my final thought, tubes are a pain in the bottom (I’m English, I don’t say ‘arse’) but don’t let them get you down. You know how it works, they aggravate you on a daily basis and you just have to put up with it. Roll with the punches, but please, don’t get punched by a train, I hear it hurts! You need them, and they need you, the blood, to stay alive. Symbiosis is everywhere, it always has, and always will be, and you’ll be happier if you embrace it. Incidentally, if London, or its tube, is the heart of England, then Liverpoo’’ could be the ear lobe, or a nipple, or something, good at what it does, and functioning to the best of its abilities, but not as at risk as the heart. And maybe, for me, not as essential to my life at the moment, as I’m moving away! Ahh, it’s making a little bit of sense to me now! Just a little bit! northern@theothersidemag.co.uk by Peter Quinn
editor@theothersidemag.co.uk
W H A T ' S N ICO
HINKING T N BE E
K E E W T HIS