The Birthday Issue #5
Disney Distorted, Jake Barrett-Mills - 4 Party Fouls, Melissa Taylor - 6 DJ Iceblast’s Part-ay Playlist, Alex Kassab - 8 Photography, Freddie Foot - 10 Rayography, Alice Martineau & Lily Tonge - 12 No Homo, Felix Clarke - 14 The History of Happy Birthday, Alex Throssell - 16 Five Social Stereotypes You’ll meet in Seminars, Annie Kelly - 18 Illustration, Evangelisa Zoylinos - 20 Photography, Emily-Jane Morgan - 22 Barney’s Wonder Years, Barney Horner - 26 Prague, Lauren Razavi - 28 FC Bilbao, Liam Knight - 30 Helium, Sammi Gale - 32 My Birthday Wish, Leo Hunt - 34
www.facebook.com/whitepaintmagazine photography on this page by Declan Anderson
appy Birthday to us! This anniversary edition marks the end of one year of White Paint and the start of another. Hopefully the vivid pink does a good job of demonstrating how excited we still are about putting it together. There’s no denying that over the past year White Paint has changed a lot. We’ve slowly evolved into something resembling an actual, proper magazine - there are adverts, the dimensions are bigger, and we’ve managed to make enough money to start printing in colour. Despite the superficial changes, though, our essential aims have stayed the same; it’s been really satisfying developing so many creative relationships over the past year, and sharing the prolifacy of talent we’ve discovered is what makes the whole venture worthwhile. With each new issue we seem to discover new writers, photographers and illustrators, and this issue is no exception despite exams, essays, and other obligations, the various people involved with the mag have contributed a solid 40 page present to these birthday celebrations.
f you were born on the 22nd of November 1991: congratulations. You cried along with everyone who went to see Beauty And The Beast on the day of its theatrical release. A tale as old as time that, after 21 years, hasn’t wrinkled a bit. Like a lot of kids, I was brought up wading through puddles of video boxes emblazoned with little holographic authenticity stickers and I like to think that, somehow, they made a man out of me. They offered inspiration, ambition and determination – all the bare necessities for a toddler to grow into a real boy. Regrettably this doesn’t last. Eventually, there is the advent of a kind of awkward age somewhere between child and adult where one is embarrassed about all these infantile affinities (which is incidentally why it took Simba, Hercules and Tarzan all
By Jake Barrett-Mills
of three and a half minutes to come of age.) As soon as you can walk up to the counter in HMV with a copy of Scary Movie 3 on DVD and hand over your passport to prove you’re old enough, all the wonder of talking toys melts away a tad. Nobody admits to watching animated films in a less than ironic capacity when they’re fifteen. Just blame it on your little sister instead. But then, come eighteen, when there are no mountains left to climb, something mystical happens. Ruminate while I illuminate. Like in Terminator II, that stagnant wet patch of seemingly vanquished cartoon love mutates and reforms into something different. Familiar, but different. The sipe-cup of microwaved milk morphs into a tin of lukewarm Carlsberg. The chocolate fingers start burning up with a sour/sweet odour and the fruit pastilles – well, the fruit
pastilles are still pretty much just fruit pastilles but they’re nice for nostalgia. It begins as a semi-joke. You’re thinking that everyone’s a little inebriated and wouldn’t it be quirky to find a ten part version of Peter Pan online and drink every time Captain Hook comes across as an oily man who should be on a register? You start youtubing a multitude of conspiracy videos that basically prove the heroines to generally be coquettish, coitus craving ho-bags. Especially Meg. Then there’s the secret messages the animators have tucked away like the priest’s erection in The Little Mermaid. One bold soul sings along to a chorus which then turns into a full scat rendition of “I wanna be like you.” Before long it’s five AM and all the drunks are bawling their eyes out at that scene in The Fox and The Hound where Todd gets left
in the woods. I well up just thinking about it. Walt must have been loaded on malt in a hazy boardroom when he dreamt up these films because they permeate even the most addled mind and what’s more, they make perfect sense: I was pretty into my degree for a while, but as soon as the band flares up in Muppet Treasure Island; screw it! I want to be a professional pirate. Yeah, The Notebook was emotional, but that part where Simba nuzzles into Mufasa’s lifeless paw (you can tell he’s dead because his whiskers have gone all crooked) will reduce a drunk man into a drunk mess in a fraction of the time. So come all you who delight in Dumbo. All you man-cubs and mermaids, ladies and tramps. Revel in the Distorted Disneyland. Follow Rafiki, he knows the way.
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by Melissa Taylor
kins’ has created a massive and fatal misconception across a whole generation; underage kids think they know how to party. Of course, they think they’re doing it right. They think their nights out are the best thing in the whole world ever. For years, drinking a two litre bottle of Strongbow in a park is better than Disney-land and literally nothing is funnier than cling-filming the skinniest boy they can find to a tree. As their 18th birthday descends, slowly and surely they will realise the myriad ways in which they were little dickheads. Because, not only are teenagers stupid, they think they know best. I truly believe that if I had listened to my parents when they told me it’s really not cool to hang out in a bus shelter and wear sunglasses when it’s raining, I would be a better person. It’s a bit like an illness. This crippling inability to party primarily targets the nice, posh and well-behaved kids. The ones that light the wrong end of cigarettes. The ones that don’t know what filters are so smoke roll-ups without them; ignorant to the fact
that getting a mouthful of tobacco is not part of the standard, cool and grown-up smoking experience. Let’s be honest; I, for one, was a dick. More than once have I attempted to drink spilt archers and lemonade out of a carpet. At the time, I was convinced this illustrated my dedication to partying hard and all night long. Now I realise it is just disgusting. The antics of my misguided youth may be embarrassing and stupid, but I’m pretty sure yours were too. Everyone’s been to a party that’s so horrific you’d really rather just forget it, but you can’t because you have to pretend every social occasion you attended was so unbelievably cool that you had to keep your jacket on. I had a ‘friend’ whose parents went away a lot so he had a lot of house parties. When I say ‘friend’, I of course mean ‘a psychopath that I knew and was terrified of but whom could obtain a fuckload of Smirnoff ice and blue WKD’. At one of my ‘friend’s’ infamous parties, we were told “Don’t let the cat out; she’s just had an operation.” “Oh, ok. That’s fine, we definitely won’t because you’re
scary and we don’t want to do anything that might vaguely anger you. Frankly we don’t really want to be here, it’s just that social convention dictates that we must attend all possible parties.” Obviously, someone then let the cat out. He was so angry he smashed up his own house and we all got thrown out, without our shoes, whilst the sweaty, raging host refused to let us back in until someone found Tiger. It’s not just that being underage makes you a total idiot; it is accompanied by a relentless conviction that you are always correct. Consider, for example, the time I thought buying my 14 year old brother two bottles of vodka was an appropriate bargain so he wouldn’t tell my parents that I had a little party when they weren’t there. This backfired when, two hours later, an intervention was necessary to stop my naked, wasted brother from giving his best friend a very unwanted bear hug. I then had to bring him a glass of water as he lay on the bathroom floor vomiting. He proceeded to smash the glass and roll in it, rendering
it necessary for his friend to remove shards of broken glass from my little bro’s arse cheeks. In retrospect, it was a poor idea. Likewise, at the time, pouring salt over red wine stains with wild abandon seemed like such an easy solution. No wine stains = mummy and daddy won’t know I had a party. Of course, mummy and daddy did want to know why the hoover was now full of salt. Apparently, “salt causes metal to rust so now the mechanism won’t work”. And I have to pay for the new hoover or something? I dunno, I’m 15, LEAVE ME ALONE. So what have we learnt? Children are physically incapable of partying, fact. Also, that white wine is very erosive when spilt on a natural stone floor. So is vomit, apparently. But I, like, definitely think my parents should have thought about that before they used it for the bathroom floor so really, it’s not my fault. And that spin the bottle always ends awkwardly. ALWAYS.
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1. I like to kick things off with a classic from the Baha Men; ‘Who Let the Dogs Out?’ always gets the fellas going. I often like to turn up the PA and ask ‘where my dogs at?’ just before each chorus and encourage people to bark in response. Small touches like that are what I pride myself on. 2. Next up I turn to some old friends of mine, Eiffel 65. We used to tear up the Italian Eurodance circuit back in the 90s and my remix of ‘Blue (Da Ba Dee)’ actually featured on the B-side, but that was under my old alias, DJ Ice Pop. 3. At this point the party might feel like a bit of a boys club, and if action on the part of the DJ is not taken then the boy/girl divide could last all night! This is when I drop ‘Girls
Just Wanna Have Fun’, proof that the DJ is the most influential and important person in the room. 4. Once the fellas and ladies are mingling I like to play cupid and attempt to cultivate some love on the dancefloor. ‘Hey Baby (Uhh, Ahh)’ (the DJ Ötzi version of course) allows for the guys to point at the girls during the chorus – always a smooth move. 5. Now for an oldie. Taking everybody way back to 1960 with ‘Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini’, a true party classic. 6. I also like to think that I am up to date with new music as well; I do keep my ear to the ground after all. The Crazy Frog released his third album a couple of years
by Donald Jay Iceblast back and his cover of ‘The Cha Cha Slide’ has been in my record box ever since. I like to drop that part way through my set to keep people guessing. 7. After that excursion into the less mainstream, I like to put the party back on track with a big sing-a-long and there is no better than Tony Christie’s ‘Amarillo (Is This the Way to…) 8. No party is complete without ‘The Macarena’ – end of. 9. Songs that actually have the word ‘party’ in the title always go down a treat and Pink’s ‘Get This Party Started’ is no exception. Although this song logically should be played at the beginning of the night, I feel that the art of DJing isn’t about
being logical. There is no rhyme or reason; I just go with the flow. 10. I normally close with ‘Last Night a D.J. Saved My Life!’ I don’t even really like this song very much, but I play it on the off chance that it might remind people that I have been the ‘life’ of the party and come thank me. Let me tell you it has worked a few times, sometimes even with the ladies. I then mix in the theme tune to ‘The Great Escape’ as people move towards the designated exits. I usually have to wait around a bit for my pay packet, so I like to stand by the door soaking up praise. After that I go back to my bedsit, watch the Red Dwarf box set, and eat a multipack of Space Raiders. 9
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Freddie Foot
flickr.com/freddiefoot5
Alice Martineau & Lily Tonge wings-of-robots.blogspot.co.uk
by Felix Clarke s this is the birthday issue I thought I should write something partythemed, but I have to admit this presented somewhat of a challenge. I wanted to avoid recounting some boring story that would sound like a bad episode of Skins, especially if it made me out to look like that lame kid who does magic tricks in the corner. Then it hit me – who parties harder than gay dudes in Brooklyn? Better yet, who parties harder than the out-and-proud MCs emerging from New York’s ‘ball culture’ to carve their own niche in the predominantly homophobic world of hip-hop? New York balls celebrate the flamboyant side of the city’s gay community, with prizes going to everyone from the best dancer to the most convincing drag queen. Until recently ball culture was best known for its invention of ‘voguing,’ the dance made famous by Madonna’s 1990 pop classic, but this year the ballroom community has a new star in Mykki Blanco. Michael David Quattlebaum Jr., the 25-year-old behind Blanco’s female teenage rap exterior, discovered the pleasure of cross-dressing at the age of 16, when he ran away from home to the “dark playground” of New York’s gay and lesbian subculture. The rap character began life as a series of tonguein-cheek YouTube videos in December 2010, taking shape with the publication of poetry
collection, From the Silence of Duchamp to the Noise of Boys, last summer. Autumn 2011 saw the arrival of Quattlebaum’s first musical release, ‘Betty Rubble (I Got the Midas Touch),’ a lo-fi peek into the mind of Mykki Blanco, as she delivers a confident flow through a pitchedup filter over a sparse electro backdrop. Further uploads reassure us that Blanco is no gimmick rapper, with punchlines to rival any other newcomer, as in latest demo, ‘Fuck the DJ’ – “I give that good head, monkey brains – Temple of Doom.” Not only is Quattlebaum’s confidence immediately obvious, but also his courage; day-in-the-life style video, ‘Cosmic Angel,’ cuts between the plain-clothed Michael, at ease in beanie hat and hoodie, and the more outrageous Blanco as she stalks the streets of Harlem, reciting verses in full drag before a small army of bewildered teenagers. The last few weeks have been particularly busy for Quattlebaum, with everyone from Pitchfork to Vogue Italia to Elle wanting a piece of the artist. Forthcoming projects include a breakout mixtape, a 7” concept album and a slew of magazine features, as Blanco is set to become the poster-girl for homosexual hip-hop. A recent post on Twitter reads “I sucked the sweet off the street now let me sour these niggas.” 5 Sounds about right.
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by Alex Throssell
he Hill Sisters released their first demo track, ‘Good Morning To All’, in the late 19th century. The simple arrangement and catchy, twee melody found favour with the kids and the record soon became an underground classic. Realising the success their music had with the preteen audience, The Hill Sisters released a full debut album entitled Song Stories for the Kindergarten in 1898, with the remastered and reworked ‘Good Morning To All’ featuring under its new title, ‘Happy Birthday To You’. The album received mostly mediocre reviews; the infantile themes, basic composition and lack of tonal development throughout meant most of the songs on the record went unnoticed, but lead single ‘Happy Birthday’ (as it became commonly known), was the standout track by far. The Hill Sister’s subsequent nationwide tour cemented Happy Birthday’s success;
the rousing piano and anthemic, sing-along lyrics made the track a live favourite. It became tradition for the audience to hold their rudimentary cigarette lighters aloft during the song, but because the venues were often thatched barns, they would quickly blow out their candles after the song had finished; a ritual that has persisted ever since. Sadly, the Hill Sisters both passed away before they could see their song really flourish; families all across America began to sing the song to commemorate their loved ones’ date of birth, but it was not until TimeWarner Corps bought the rights for the song in 1998, a century after its original release, that Happy Birthday really received the critical acclaim it deserved. The song, then worth an apparent $5 million, found another wave of popularity. It was covered by Chumbawmba as the rare B-side on the original vinyl press of ‘Tubthumping’, per-
formed by M People during their 1996 world tour and in the same year was awarded the Brit Awards prize for Most Influential English Speaking Song Of All Time. A legal battle soon ensued, with several different sources claiming to represent those who held the original rights to the song, but Time-Warner held out and placed a hefty royalty on the song; at the extreme charging up to $10,000 for use in a feature length film. Collecting on average $5000 per day (that’s $2 million per year) from public performances of the song, the Hill Sister’s original, quaint ditty had been well and truly shattered. Now posing as the ultimate example of corporate greed, Happy Birthday is no longer sung to bring happiness and joy, but exists only to line the capitalists’ pockets. Think about that next time you have a little sing-song and maybe you’ll opt for ‘For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow’ instead… 17
by Annie Kelly
The One Who’s Done The Reading …And wants everyone to know about it. You wouldn’t discourage other people from doing university work, but it just so happens that this week you had better Take Me Out reruns to watch and you’re damned well not gonna feel bad about it. This person watches you squirm, attempt to blag your way through a cruelly simple question on Stuff You Should Know and then, just as you think you’ve got away with it announces, “Well, in the reading…” Fucking nerd. The Pretty Nice Girl How desperately you want to like/ fancy her (depending on your sexual preference). And you’ve never thought of yourself as one of those cynical people who didn’t like someone because they were too nice. But... This nice? Really? She agrees with every one of your points. You’re not that smart. She laughs at every one of your
jokes. And you know you have your moments, but nobody’s that funny at 9am. The real nail in the coffin of your dream is that she has to be this nice to everyone. She’ll be beaming and nodding at someone else and giggling hysterically at their pitiful puns next week, whilst you can only watch in a state of horrified betrayal, trying to resent her - but you really can’t, because she’s just too nice. The Cool Guy He seems to have gained the elusive default-invite to All Parties Ever. You’ve even talked to him at a few, or at least, you’ve kind of floated about whilst other people bought weed off him. But he was pretty friendly to you. Now you sit next to him, and have absolutely nothing to say. He asks how your weekend was, in the coolest way you’ve ever heard someone ask how your weekend was. You are an at least moderately intelligent, chatty person,
and you even definitely did stuff this weekend, how can you have nothing to say? You finally splurt out a lame answer and glance to see whether you’ve impressed him. His indoor Ray-Bans mystique gives nothing away. The Uni Lads I combine what is generally more than one person (for some reason they always learn in groups) into the same bracket because they are all the same person, right down to their matching polo shirts. You didn’t realise that anybody genuinely thought women-inkitchen or chunder jokes were funny anymore, but their ceaseless guffawing would tell you otherwise (stop joining in Pretty Nice Girl, you’ll only encourage them!) The only hope you have for any kind of real entertainment from these guys is in the case where an emotionally or politically sensitive issue might pop up, where you will get to watch them struggle between their in-
herent instinct for “banter” and saying something academically worthwhile. The Hills Have Eyes We’ve all got our quirks, our little idiosyncrasies which make us unique on the beautiful and varied spectrum of human beings. This guy just has a lot. The weird, rolling eyes. The high pitched giggle, always perfectly timed for moments of total silence in the seminar room. The nervous, fidgety actions of a man who has been away from Skyrim/the prisoners in his basement too long. His ‘people skills’ are so bad you can’t help but wonder if he was one of those children raised by wolves, and yet you bizarrely relish getting paired up with him (although this probably depends on your tolerance for government conspiracy theories). Deep down however you know, this pairing will at least always provide you with a story to top your other housemates’ around the microwave tonight.
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Evangelisa Zoylinos
evangelisa-zoylinos.tumblr.com
Photography by EmilyJane Morgan assisted by Scott Dover
4facebook.com/emilyjanephotography
his was the year that San Franciscan psychedelic rock went global. The results of experiments with LSD and other hallucinogenic drugs, by Ken Kesey, his bus of Merry Pranksters, and the many thousands that hung around the HaightAshbury neighbourhood of San Fran, spread eastward to New York and beyond the Atlantic. Psychedelic rock was characterised by innovative recording techniques in the studio with heavily allegorical lyrics about spirituality and promiscuity, with influences ranging from the anti-authoritarian Beat Generation to alternative instruments from distant cultures - the enigmatic drone of the raga was particularly popular. The days of simple two-minute pop songs about wanting to hold a girl’s hand were gone. It is, however, important to distinguish between psychedelic rock and LSD: undoubtedly, the drug fuelled the creative cogs of psychedelic pioneers 13th Floor Elevators and The Grateful Dead, but many
By Barney Horner
sampled the mind bending ambiguities on offer only once or twice - Pink Floyd (with the very notable exception of Syd Barrett) and The Byrds (same again, but with David Crosby) simply rode the crest of the ‘psychedelic rock’ popularity wave. Indeed the dropping of acid tabs did not translate automatically into high-quality music: by 1967 the Stones most definitely were on drugs but Their Satanic Majesties Request was not especially good - with the laudable exemption of the beautifully melodic ‘She‘s A Rainbow‘ - though it can be partly explained by pressing legal concerns. More symbolic of the era were The Jefferson Airplane with their two commercially successful singles ‘White Rabbit’ and ‘Somebody To Love’ from the stylistically psychedelic LP title Surrealistic Pillow, as was ‘A Whiter Shade Of Pale’ by the pretentious Procol Harum (Latin for ‘beyond these things’) and Scott McKenzie‘s ode to hippiedom
‘San Francisco’, written by The Mamas and the Papas’ John Phillips to promote the Monterey Pop Festival. The Jimi Hendrix Experience, led by their eponymous leader’s masterful manipulation of guitar feedback on debut Are You Experienced? and then some months later Axis: Bold As Love, were another group that massively boosted the sales of psychedelic rock. But the main legacy of 1967 was to be the shifting of preconceptions about the purpose of the album form itself. Psychedelic rock turned it into an art form. With more bands focussing their talents on studio wizardly and recording they started to place much greater emphasis on a progressive narrative or musical arc: like Pink Floyd’s - though in reality it was Barrett’s masterpiece - Piper At the Gates of Dawn, or Brian Wilson’s Pet Sounds from the year before (before his mind started to fall away) and, of course, the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. This union of art and music was most
visible with the promotion of The Velvet Underground by iconic pop artist Andy Warhol; his role in the formation of Lou Reed, John Cale et al was rewarded with an honorary credit as producer on their superb debut The Velvet Underground & Nico. 1967 wasn’t solely the playground of psychedelia however. The Doors released their debut The Doors which combined the structural liberation of psychedelic rock with the bluesy bass-less compositions that the quartet favoured, set behind the unfathomable poetry of leather-trousered idol Jim Morrison. The other recognisably main hits of the year were The Monkees Neil Diamond penned ‘I’m A Believer’, ‘Somethin’ Stupid’ by Frank Sinatra and his daughter Nancy, the anthemic early Bee Gees number ‘Massachusetts’ and a couple of crap Engelbert Humperdinck songs.
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by Lauren Ravazi ere, grammar school. I went to for three year. 1957. Different now – the people go to school much longer.” The taxi driver chattered away effortlessly, eyes gleaming and a rapturous smile stuck to his lips. I had been in Prague less than ten minutes, but I already felt at home with the guided commentary of this brilliantly overzealous local, as I watched the beginnings of the city appear. “Do you live here in Prague?” I asked. He beamed at me, visibly ecstatic that his monologue had just become a conversation. “For forty year, I live in middle of Prague. Now? Middle of Prague is expensive. I live outside Prague, but still very close.” I imagined for a moment how this sweet old gent might balk at the price of a coffee in central London. Away from the tourist track in Prague, a three-course meal is sold for the same price as a Starbucks frappuccino. But this is the reality of Eastern Europe, and one of the reasons that journeys to this part of the world are such an increasingly
appealing exploit for travellers, especially those from the wealthy West. Former capital of Central Bohemia and now capital of the Czech Republic, Prague is a significant European city with a fascinating history of turmoil and domination. Visually beautiful and culturally affluent, it’s difficult to imagine a bleak Communist or Nazi past in the Prague of today. Millions of people visit Prague each year; tourism is one of the city’s biggest industries, and as a result it offers a rich and vibrant tourist culture. Key sites include the Astronomical Clock, which features singing pop-out figurines on every hour, and Prague Castle, which dates back to the 9th century and holds the title of biggest ancient castle in the world according to the Guinness Book of Records. Located in the Old Town, the Jewish Quarter is another fascinating historical offering, and consists of a series of different sites cataloguing the tumultuous story of Prague’s Jewish community through the
ages. Franz Kafka’s birthplace, an enormous Jewish cemetery, and numerous synagogues and meeting halls are all located in this former Ghetto. The Vltava River conveniently splits the city into the New Town and the Old Town, with eighteen bridges connecting its shores. The most famous of these, the Charles Bridge, is a popular tourist spot by day, but is best seen at dusk or dawn to avoid the crowds and listen to the blissful quiet. Despite its thriving tourism, I found the real magic of Prague away from the major sites and their subsequent masses, in aimlessly wandering its cobbled streets, taking the time to absorb the character and atmosphere of everything I encountered. After the sun had gone down each night, the time had come to find a local hospoda (pub) and sample the food and drink of the land. Goulash, dumplings, soups and, quite peculiarly, Camembert burgers (a new spin on the cheeseburger) are staple feats of a traditional Czech menu. Eating local
cuisine is notably cheaper, and you’ll often experience an appreciative smile or nod from staff for going native on your palette. Local beer is tasty and inexpensive, and a concoction called slivovice (plum brandy) is also a regional favourite. On the last day of my trip, I ventured out of the city and into the Czech countryside, where colourful houses decorate the sides of winding roads as far as the eye can see. A tour guide tells me that many city dwellers in Prague keep a second home in the countryside for the weekends, usually shared by extended family, where activities include going on day-long hikes to pick wild mushrooms and growing fruit in the garden in summer. As I looked out over the pastel-coloured houses and their ornate rooftops, I found myself wondering if one of the homes I was looking at belonged to my friend the taxi driver. His name was Alfred, by the way.
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You’ll be forgiven for thinking that Athletic Bilbao’s run in the Europa League this season (knocking out great teams like Manchester United and Schalke) is down to some sort of foreign investment throwing disgusting amounts of money at the first team squad in an effort to ‘buy’ success. In fact, Athletic Bilbao has been following a policy of only buying players from the Greater Basque region of North-East Spain and South-West France. This policy, known as a cantera selection policy, is the result of generations of fervent Basque nationalism around Bilbao and the north of the traditional Basque area. Although the Basque region hosts other decent La Liga sides such as Real Zaragoza and Real Sociedad, the Real (‘Royal’ in English) part of these clubs’ names shows that they pledged allegiance to the old Monarchy of Spain and not to the Basque people. Therefore, Athletic Bilbao boasts a large pool of support from Basque nationalists who view their team as the ‘national team’ for the Basque country. Although many critics have accused Bilbao of being a racist club, their selection policy is merely out of a quest for national identity. Bilbao fielded their first Black player in 2007. Jonas Ramalho has an Angolan
by Liam Knight father and a Basque mother, and Bilbao quickly moved him up through the ranks to prove that they are a left-leaning nationalist side. Ramalho made his first team debut in a friendly at the age of 14, a club record. Although Basque nationalism has been violent at times, many fans see a degree of fervency as an integral part of Athletic Bilbao’s identity and have enthusiastically protested against any club policy looking to relax the cantera. Athletic’s ultras are not as overtly political when it comes to left/right wing as many other European clubs. Yet Athletic have a relationship with Celtic FC, as both clubs feel that they have been driven out of their homelands by an oppressive force (The Basque people by the Spanish and the Irish by the British respectively). Athletic is also a very religious club. Their stadium, the San Mammes, is named after a Christian Saint, and aptly nicknamed ‘the cathedral’ by fans. The only real party line when it comes to the Ultras is singing in the Basque language, not in Spanish, and waving the Basque ‘national’ flag. The club is an underdog in their eyes when it comes to fighting against the oppression of the Spanish and the French on the football field, and their fully Basque team, with traditions dating back generations, is a unique feature in the mass commercialised world that is modern football.
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The ceiling sinks into a mirror skin and so do all the streamers as air is drawn out;
by Sammi Gale
blood pulled back from a tic.
And our thoughts are allowed through, our voices finally thin our bodies slip down the sides of glasses.
The balloon collapses, someone else is laughing and their laugh, in turn, is taken from the air.
FIZZ FRY-DAYS, between 4-7.30pm for ÂŁ5 only, enjoy a glass of chilled bubbly with a jumbo If you are interested in purchasing sausage and advertising space, pleasechips contact us at whitepaintmagazine@hotmail. with your choice of gravy, mushy peas or curry sauce. EVERY FRIDAY