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1 - Front Cover 2 - We Are Shadows (I Am 5) Paul Insect (Barcode Coffin) 3 - Daniel David Freeman 4 - Dan Button 5 - Anthony Lister 6 - Andreas Laszlo Konrath 7 - Cat Sims 8 - Josh Jones (Aliases) Andrew Rae (Stuck On Shoe) John Slade (Wolf) We Are Shadows (Channel Cock) We Are Shadows (Sausage) (Too Many Skulls) We Are Shadows 9- Josh Jones (Lionel Richie) Andrew Rae (Mermaid) We Are Shadows (The Bug) We Are Shadows (Cult) 10 - Uber Mino 11 - Emily Evans 12 - Kelsey Brookes 13 - Steven Appleby 14 - Joss Humberstone 15 - Cameron Farrelly (Wake Up), Charlie Mellor (Lord) We Are Shadows (End Of The Day) 16 - Pure Evil 17 - Paul Camo 18 - Marie Berry 19 - Elwyn Reynolds 20 - Pure Evil 21 - Dean Martin 22 Arofish 23 - Samuel Cox 24 - Paul Sethi 25 - Matthew Green 26 - We Are Shadows 27 - We Are Shadows 28 - Ellannah Sadkin 29 - We Are Shadows 30 - Chrysa Koukoura 31 - Josh Jones (things I forget) John Slade (Dude) 32 - Arofish 33 - Andrew Rae 34 - We Are Shadows 35 - Tom Medwell 36 - We Are Shadows 37 - DUFFY 38 - PYKY (Mountain Mole Hill) We Are Shadows (Comments Here) We Are Shadows (Serving Boy) 39 - John Slade 40 - Ray Kane 41 - Dirk Metzger (Untitled) Andrew Rae (Boo) 42 - Mr Bingo 43 - Kenn Goodall 44 - Christopher Slevin 45 - We Are Shadows 46 - Thomas Genower 47 - John Slade 48 - Christopher Deane 49 - Shepard Fairey 50 - We Are Shadows 51 - Dora Dewsbery 52 - We Are Shadows Special thanks to James-Lee Duffy, Josh Jones, JT and Jarballs Printers for making it happen.
© PAVEMENT LICKER 2013
IF I HAD TO DISAPPEAR SOMEWHERE THESE WOULD BE MY ALIASES, IN CASE YOU NEED TO KNOW: Bunty Magnificent Rangold Businessmen Jeses Facet i me
BANGERS NORMAL BATTER SAV
IF LIONEL RICHIE DOESN’T PULL HIS FINGER OUT OF HIS CURLY ARSE...
I WAKE UP AT 2.25AM EVERY SINGLE NIGHT AND EAT A BOWL OF CEREAL THEN GO BACK TO SLEEP
THE LORD WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO So I was standing in a Victorian kitchen with a stag’s head boiling on the Aga, when the Earl of Cranbrooke dropped his robe and presented his Malaysian tribal tattoo. Naturally I was lost for words.
I work in advertising, and no, Bill, I won’t kill myself. Why don’t you fucking kill yourself? Oh, wait, you did. Who’s laughing now Bill? I am, because I sold you those cigarettes and you sold them to kids for me. ON MY BEHALF MOTHER FUCKER.
THINGS I FORGET: What t-shirt I put on today Why I walked down these stairs What flavour crisps you wanted Am I wearing a hat? To turn the oven on to oven and not grill I’m not 28 If I cleaned my teeth already today How to spell courdouroury Eggs To take that 20p out of my shoe I hate people watering down squirty soap How to leave a party
THE ABBATOIR OF INVENTION There’s a particular translation of Dante’s Inferno, which, read under a certain light, describes a sort of minor mezzanine in Hell, between the major circles; like a hidden level on a computer game. This is where the souls of artists, poets and other creative types go under the knife; to correct this errant faculty. At the gate stands a dreadied figure. He turned up with the others, the story goes, and the Devil said, “What do you do then, that got you sent here?” Whereupon the figure produced a set of clubs, and threw them high in the air. And caught them. And then did it again. And again. And again. The Prince of Darkness shifted uncomfortably as the show wore on, and finally could bear no more. “My arse hasn’t ached this badly in aeons!” he shouted, “Is THAT your act? Really?” “Everyone else here has spent years learning to draw, or compose verse, or play an instrument. Stretching their intellects to the limit in the pursuit of a passion. What you’ve just shown me is mechanical, repetitive, the very antithesis of the artistic impulse. It must take a mind simpler than a clock just to be bothered to acquire such an obnoxious skill as yours.” And as he spoke the words he had a brainwave. “Listen,” he said, infernal eyes agleam, “The very fact that you HAVE taken the time to learn to juggle proves beyond doubt that your intellect must be as barren as a fucking nuclear winter; so lobotomizing you would just be a waste of a good knife. So I’ll tell you what I’ll do: You will stand forever on this gate, FUCKING JUGGLING, as you have for me today, to the end of time - as an emblem of all that this place means.” And there he stands, the dreadied, crusty figure - day after day, watching the clubs rise and fall with a beatific grin of unearned satisfaction. And he never gets bored. Still, least that’s one less of them up here...
THERAPISSED What does one wear to go see a therapist for the first time? It’s a tricky one... Do I dress the way I’m feeling - therefore requiring some ephemeral garment of tears stitched together with soiled toilet roll - or dress up, as if to reflect a certain air of togetherness? You know, shirt and shoes, like a proper fucking grown up. God, he was going to be judging from the moment I walked in, wasn’t he? He sounded tall and handsome on the phone. Surely he wasn’t going to be tall and handsome? Nobody wants a tall, handsome, confident, self-assured, well-dressed, exquisitely dressed man’s man charging you 50 knicker an hour to listen to dribbles. Or maybe they do? Maybe I do? Or maybe I don’t. Maybe I want a four foot dwarf - four foot may not qualify one as a dwarf, feel free to check Wiki for confirmation, unless I subsequently change the entry to serve my own purposes with a beautiful wife and a nice car and a nice house and nice kids and nice wine in his nice wine rack, because those are the things that I’m lead to believe I want... I do want. Sometimes. Do I? Shit, yeah, so a therapist. A therapist. That’s a big deal, right? That’s what Americans do. Americans. Spherical, gob wobbling Americans. I’m not American. I’m with Bowie... I’m afraid of Americans. I’m Irish. No wait, I’m not even that. I’m Northern Irelandish. We’re nobody’s children. We’re the bastard offspring of the English and Irish. The unwanted skin on the chilling soup of Ireland. We don’t know where to sit or how to feel or where to call home or what flag to wave or what anthem to stand to or what way to say the letter ‘H’ or how to pronounce “Towel” or “Power” or “Shower” so anyone outside of our world will know what the shitting Christ we’re talking about. We think we can write and ramble on and on and on and on and on and on and on until someone will listen, assuming that we have something of merit to say. Some of us do. Some of us don’t. Fuck. What was I going to tell the therapist? What was I going to wear to tell the therapist the things that I don’t know how to tell anyone about but had spent the past 3 weeks telling anyone who’d listen? Shit. Shit. Shit pup. Shit the bed. I went with a dark Gap ensemble. Everything was creased and wrinkled, nicely reflecting my surface turmoil but with the ability to be ironed out. He could be my iron. The therapist. The rapist. Maybe he’d mind fuck me? Maybe he’d Derren Brown the shit out of me? Maybe he’d secretly bum me in the head and make things even worse? Surely if he “fixes me” it doesn’t make good fiscal sense? The dentist doesn’t really fix your teeth... The chiropractor doesn’t really fix your back... The mechanic doesn’t really fix your car... It makes sense to leave things unfinished. Not that I want to be finished. The finished article. I’m finished.
-UNTITLEDyou may ask, why do we keep repeating the same dance and all i can tell you is, it’s the only dance we know you ask me if i’m fine and i say, ‘yeah - I’m great’ and we both know it’s a lie so stop asking.