Nyx.
unveil the night.
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EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Shannon Lawlor
DESIGN
Zennen Thomas
PHOTOGRAPHY
All imagery (with the exception of main spreads) has been included under the Create Commons legal code. Details of licensing can be found at creativecommons.org
CONTRIBUTORS Keli Anne B Lady X (anon.)
for everyone that’s scared of the dark…
With a special thanks to Paul Tierney and everyone else who believed this was possible.
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CO NT EN TS
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TO DO
Top 5 things for you to try this season 00.00
What does midnight really mean?
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5 REASONS TO BE AT SECRET SOLSTICE FESTIVAL THIS SUMMER
Why you should be partying in Reykjavik in June OH! SISTER
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NIGHTWALKER
A memoir of an engaged woman seeking attention for another man THE AFTER PARTY
What really goes on after the club closes? MASQUE UP
BITE ME
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Vampires do exist
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THE FAMILY MAN
A cocaine dealer with a nuclear family THE DOOR
Nyx visits the door of a night club CURFEW
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Imagine a world that shutdown at night …… 68 WHOEVER YOU WANT ME TO BE
A tale of drunken lies and deceit WEAR.WATCH.EAT.READ.
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A poem by Keli Anne B
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LONDON TOWN
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ED IT OR ‘S lE TT er
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’ve always thought it terribly boring that some people feel as though their day ends at sunset. For many, including myself, sunset feels like the beginning of the day. By sunset, everything monotonous has been done: work complete, errands run, chores crossed off the list. Before creating this issue, I sat down to think about what makes the night such an exciting time. The fear of the unknown is a peculiar emotion. A hybrid of anxiety and excitement. I feel as though that is what the night is all about. When it reaches that time of day when the atmosphere changes from one of stress to one of relaxation, a sense of ‘what next?’ lingers. This almost unexplainable feeling is exactly what this debut issue of Nyx sets out to embody. If there’s anything that we want you to take away from this issue, it’s the concept that the day never ends. Time is merely a coping mechanism that humans have invented to get through the daily grind. It has become detrimental to productivity and our general levels of enjoyment and fulfilment. The night is not for sleeping. The day is not for work. Anything is possible at any time. The Greek Goddess that lends her name to this magazine has traditionally acted as the mother to all things associated with the night, including sleep and death. It seems almost depressing to think that she has to concern herself with such things. Her other children, however, include fate, friendship and love. Things that have loosened their ties with the night as time as gone on. The most important of Nyx’s children, perhaps, are day and brightness. It got me thinking that if day was born from night, shouldn’t we be thinking of both in the same way? Shouldn’t night be something that we rejoice in instead of fear? As hundreds of years have passed, what we know of Nyx has whittled into an area of mystery. One of the only things we know is that she is a Goddess so powerful, she is feared by Zeus himself. Night is such an important aspect of our lives that we waste and overlook. When I think about the young generation today, I think of how we have grown to become professional and driven and how that forces us to live our futures prematurely. We have forgotten what it is to embrace the night. If there was one thing that I wanted to do when I made the decision to pursue a career in journalism, it was to change the way that we think about what is defined as conventional and what is defined as weird. The happenings of the night have fallen into the ‘weird’ category that we have grown to distance ourselves from. So this magazine is for the people that have lost faith in time, lost faith in their purpose, lost faith in the night. I think it’s about time we started owning it again, don’t you?
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to do.
street feast
If you’re like the majority of people, the likelihood is that you are constantly in a mental argument with yourself over where to eat and what to have. However, fear not as this Summer sees the return of Street Feast to London. As venues reopen in Dalston and Lewisham in April, Street Feast have also introduced a new venue in Shoreditch, set to open later in the Spring. With traders coming from all over London to showcase their food and drink services, there really is no better way to spend your evenings. Trust us, your taste buds won’t be disappointed.
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hot tub cinema
We’ve all been recommended some open-air cinemas in our time and every year film companies spoil us for choice with bigger and better locations. Last year saw Everyman show an array on films at Battersea Power Station. This year, the hot topic in the outdoor cinema world is the return of Hot Tub Cinema to Shoreditch. Sit in a hot tub, with your friends and a beer, overlooking an incredible view of London’s skyline. Can you think of anything better? We can’t! Hurry up and book your tickets soon as they’re selling out fast.
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hinthunt london
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Stuck for what to do for an hour with your friends? Like a challenge? HintHunt London offers you an hour of hardcore thinking (but also being quite fun and hilarious in hindsight). With a group of 3-5 people, HintHunt put you in a room. You only have an hour to get out. You are presented with a number of puzzles and challenges in a themed room of your choice. It’s very hard to describe exactly what to expect from HintHunt without giving too much away. All we can do is tell you that you must go right this minute. Try to go with no expectations and be prepared to be surprised at how much you can squeeze into an hour.
london zombie bunker
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At £115 per person, this one might be a little steep but it is definitely worth the expense. If you’re an outdoorsy type that doesn’t mind getting messy and a small scare here and there then this one is definitely for you. In the middle of a zombie apocalypse, you are trained on how to fight the evil monsters. Four hours of paint balling and laser shooting in a role play environment? What’s not to love?!
museums at night
Never been a fan of visiting museums because you found them boring/busy/full of children tugging at your shoelaces? Us too. Running from May 13th-May 16th, many museums are opening their doors at night. With a wide range of entertainment from live talks to readings to live bands, it appears some after-dark excitement is being injected into history. If you’re feeling really adventurous you can even stay the night at the William Morris Gallery. So, if you’re feeling cultural and as though you fancy a bit of late night education, book your tickets now!
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00.00 And there shall be signs in the sun, and in the moon, and in the stars; and upon the earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and the waves roaring. Luke 21:25
words Shannon Lawlor
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ick-tock. Tick-tock. In most rooms, this is a familiar noise. However, the Bulletin’s office at the University of Chicago, stays absolutely silent. The clock on the wall makes no noise. Thankfully. If it ticked, we would have three minutes until the world ceased to exist. This is the Doomsday Clock. It reads 23.57. We have three minutes until the Doomsday Clock hits midnight. Not that it will ever see midnight. If all goes as the clock suggests, the clock won’t make it to midnight. Nothing will. For most, midnight marks the end of the day. The time that the world goes to sleep and re-energises itself, ready for sunrise. For some, midnight marks the beginning of the night. The time that the world wakes up from its horizontal slumber and turns its lights on. Midnight brings a sense of mysterious darkness. No one knows what will happen when the clock strikes twelve. At midnight, Cinderella’s spell was broken and she had to return back to her tiresome life. At midnight, the witching hour begins and all of the world’s evil creatures come out to play. But most of all, at
midnight, the world is ambiguous. It is the only minute of the day that we have no concept of time. Is midnight the end of one day or the start of another? It is three minutes to midnight and we have no idea what that means. The last time it was three minutes to midnight it was 1949, when the USSR first tested nuclear weapons. The only time that it has come any closer to midnight than 23.57 was in 1953 when the USA first tested the H-Bomb. It reached 23.58. Exhilarating. Two minutes until the absolute unknown happens. Now, however, what brings us close to midnight is not nuclear weapons but climate change. It doesn’t quite seem to have the same level of excitement or danger. The real wonder around the Doomsday Clock is what its existence really means. It was created, by the university, to represent the nuclear dangers that the world was facing. It was there to show politicians the extremities and importance of their decisions. Essentially, it is a make-believe scare-monger. When the hands move, it is broadcast all over the media.
“THE END IS NIGH”
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“THE DARKEST HOUR FOR HUMANITY SINCE THE COLD WAR” Interesting, isn’t it? That a small group of professors have the power to shake the whole of the western world into an unjustifiable frenzy. The future of international relations laying in the hands of a non-functioning clock. In 2007, the hands moved closer to midnight when North Korea were believed to have carried out nuclear tests. The question should be asked, what exactly would the clock look like if the supposed threatening enemy or country were to decide the time? Perhaps we are never as close to global apocalypse as we might think. Even if the clock is accurate and we are that close to the end of the world, is it really necessary for us know exactly how and when? The clock implies that we should be scared of what comes after midnight. That we should be scared of the night. This is an implication that is made rather a lot in society. When the Doomsday Clock strikes 12 we will all be blown into smithereens or vanish into thin air or die a very painful death. Let’s think about this more literally. What if we did assume the world ended at midnight on this very day? What would we do? Panic, probably. And cry. And all hug as a united front against this terrifying force that holds our helpless fate. This is the agenda of the Doomsday Clock. They assume that if it gets to 23.59 that we will all forget and surrender and try to turn back the hands
of time, literally, so that all if forgiven and we are able to save ourselves. They are wrong. It would simply create panic and a very undignified ending. A far more preferable ending is that we all treat the Doomsday Clock striking twelve as we would a normal clock. We have a preparty and prepare ourselves for the treats that the early hours usually bring us. It seems very old fashioned to think of midnight as a dangerous time. Almost as old fashioned as relying on a fake clock to determine the end of the world. Three years ago, the scientists in charge of the clock suggested that climate change should be taken into account when determining if and to what extent the hands should be moved. At that time, they should have also considered how bizarre it is that we still measure how close we are to global destruction on a clock that stops at midnight. Implying that midnight beholds ‘the end’ is something that only 60 year old men obsessed with modern history are possible of comprehending. It seems more fitting for the modern generation to feel as though ‘the end’ occurs at dawn on a Monday when we have to awaken to sludge on through the working week. It would be far nicer to believe that the world will end at dawn. When we have had our fun and hold the magic of the night as our most recent memory.
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5 reasons to be at secret solstice festival this summer 72 HOUR DAY Taking place during the Icelandic Summer Solstice, the sun doesn’t set over Reykjavik for the festival’s three days. This year will see the festival’s second year, running from June 19th-21st. When day merges with night, anything can happen at any time. There is no hiding at Secret Solstice. THE MUSIC Combining international acts with some of Iceland’s own talent, Secret Solstice is considered a hot spot for dance music. This year’s line up sees huge dance names such as Moodymann, Route 94, Daniel Avery and Jamie Jones. Alongside that, following the success of last year’s debut, the organisers have thrown in some more diverse headliners such as The Wailers and Charles Bradley. THE NORSE RELIGION The theme of the festival is based around the Norse Religion. Norse Religion centres itself on traditional mythology and Icelandic folk rituals. With beliefs such as an on-going life cycle and competitive accomplishment, a theme of Norse Religion provides a welcome break from modern daily grind to the festival-goers. Tradition states that followers of the Norse Religion battle at night and are reborn the next day, but what happens at Secret Solstice where night never comes? SCENERY Set in Laugardalur (literal translation ‘Hot Spring Valley’), Reykjavik, there is no argument that Secret Solstice has one of the best and most beautiful festival locations in the world. Deep valleys, striking views and thermal pools are just three more benefits of 72 hour day. ORGANISERS This year sees Secret Solstice collaborating with the team behind Croatia’s Outlook Festival. With Outlook becoming one of the UKs most visited international music festivals, there is no doubt that Secret Solstice will soon be Europe’s Summer hotspot.
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OH SISTER! The acts of the sinful nature are obvious: sexual immorality, impurity and debauchery; idolatry and witchcraft; hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage, selfish ambition, dissensions, factions and envy; drunkenness, orgies, and the like. I warn you, as I did before, that those who live like this will not inherit the kingdom of God. Galatians 5:19-21 STYLING Shannon Lawlor
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MAKE UP Paige Thompson
STYLING ASSISTANT Jade Parker
PHOTOGRAPHY Marianne R Photography
MODELS Madison Gritt, Issy Hickman
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nightwalker Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not commit adultery. Matthew 5:27-28
WORDS Lady X. PHOTOGRAPHY Thomas Hawk
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feel it may be necessary to begin with a disclaimer. The headline of this article may conjure images of a toothless, greasy haired and uneducated trollop with a questionable set of morals. You may deduce that anyone who could boast about such an atrocity might be so dim that they are simply unable to see the true implications of their own actions. You may have begun to feel that strange mingling of pity and distaste that comes from watching "cheaters" take lie detector tests on certain day time television shows. But I will stop you there. I like to think I'm not flattering myself too much when I say that none of the former criteria holds true in my case. I am a youngish well groomed twenty-something, proudly in possession of not only all my teeth, but a quality degree that I acquired while reading English at a respectable university not far outside of London. However I will say that my moral standing has come under a somewhat recent scrutiny within my own mind, most often as I lie awake next to my fiancée of 8 months, our summer wedding looming ever closer. But it isn't the thought of table settings or bridesmaid's shoes or how to tell Cousin Maria that we aren't allowing her darling, often scream-crying child to the ceremony that keeps me from closing my eyes and drifting off each night. It is temptation. It is guilt. They creep in under the cover of darkness, pulling me around to dance in circles with them as I stare up at the ceiling. Sometimes I am paralysed by the reality of what I have done to my almost-husband. Other times, I am not. I think it is those times that I am at my most dangerous, as I sneak off into the night. Leaving behind my warm bed, my security and my place next to my ever faithful and loving partner to chase the call of another man. I won't call him 'lover' - it is not love. But, hell, does it make me feel alive. Now you might be trying to rationalise my behaviour. I understand that it is natural to want to do this. I have tried myself. But the fact is that I love my husband-to-be more than anything in the world. We have been together a comfortable amount of time, long enough for him to have seen me makeup less, for him to have cried in front of me and all the other little milestones that people who are not in long term, committed relationships will not understand. I am aware how hypocritical this sounds, but the fact is that I am not in any way unhappy in my relationship. Of course, we have our moments as all couples do. But the essentials are good. Boxes ticked. He makes me a cup of coffee every morning before I head off to work and our sex life is very much alive and well. So then, how? Why am I doing this to him? To us? The sneaking started a few months back. I embarked upon the slippery slope that leads to my current predicament so slowly, so gradually. Finding myself in another mans bed was not the plan. The initial encounter happened entirely by accident. If I had been that way inclined I could have blamed my infidelity on a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, as I am sure many have done before me. After some crying and arguing and other forms of nastiness, I would likely have been forgiven. But the innumerable encounters following? I cannot forgive myself for those, let alone expect to be forgiven. I have come close to telling him many times. I’ve come close to telling my friends, my family, strangers in the street, anyone. There are times I’m overcome with the urge to rid myself of this secret, this terrible burden. But the words always seem to stick in my throat, as though the guilt in my heart were pulling them back in. Then my devilish mind wonders: why should I have to ask for forgiveness at all? I am a grown woman. I am enjoying myself. What he doesn't know won't hurt him. But what if he found out. It would hurt him. There would be questions. So many questions that I am unable to answer even for myself. And back around on the carousel I go. On a vicious cycle of fruitless self-psychoanalysis. Currently I am unable to see an end point. In a perfect world I would have my cake and eat it guilt free. But perfect? How dull. Nothing is perfect and in a strange way, I'm glad.
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Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour. 1 Peter 5:8 Words Shannon Lawlor Photography Bronx.
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’m going to tell you a familiar tale. I have a friend, a good friend, that came to London from out of town to see me not too long ago. I was thrilled. I don’t get to see her very often, after all. We’ll call her Rosie. She is the kind of friend that you usually see over a bottle of wine, tequila, sambuca and/or absinthe. The thing with Rosie is that when I see her, I have to prepare myself both mentally and physically. I must sleep well to ensure that I am well rested and I must eat well and stay hydrated in order to ensure that my body can hack the monstrous hangover that lies in its fate. Rosie is the fun friend. You know the one I mean. Everyone has a Rosie. She called me to say that she was visiting for four days as she had a long weekend off of work. She was staying at another friend’s in London on the first night and then she would be free to go out and stay at my place for the remaining three days. Sounded fabulous but I would definitely need at least a week to prepare myself for this visit. And so I did. I spent a week, that I will never get back, being as healthy as I possibly could. It was my way of apologising to my body in advance. Thursday night arrives and I text Rosie to let her know that I am anticipating her arrival the next day:
She didn’t reply, of course, but I knew that she was already out on the town with the ‘other friend’. My text was more of a reminder for her that we have important plans that she shouldn’t be hungover for. Two days later and I still hadn’t heard from her. I knew that she was safe due to some rather obscure Facebook updates. I was quite furious that she hadn’t even considered to let me know that her plans had changed. But then again, this is Rosie, everyone has a flaky friend like Rosie. My phone vibrates. Rosie is Facetiming me. I’m concerned. I answer. What appears in front of me is a shell of a face. Sunken, sweaty and alarmed. “Are you ok?!” I ask not sure if I really want to know the answer. “I am so fine. I haven’t slept in a long time but I am having so much fun! Come over and see us,” she replies. She spans the camera around to show many frail looking people of which I have never seen before. She is in a flat in which I have never seen before. She is snorting something in which I have never seen before. The rest of the conversation was very long winded but can be summarised in the following two points: it was 3 o’clock in the afternoon and I wasn’t going to go over to the palace of a bedsit to join her. Many weeks pass and I hear very little from Rosie. It’s odd as she is usually someone that likes to call me every other day to just double-check that I am still her friend. I probably should have mentioned that, at the time, Rosie was experiencing a very sudden and unexpected break-up. She was more emotionally unstable and reckless than usual. With this thought in mind, I took it upon myself to go and visit her. I arrived at her flat and found it hard to compare this made-up, professional woman to the gremlin I saw on my phone screen just a few weeks ago. When I ask her if she had a nice weekend away she sighed, looked me directly in the eye and said, “It’s fucking after-parties,
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Shannon. I can’t do it anymore.” This is where her tale begins. She had gone to a popular club in Soho for the night with her friend along with a few people from his work. They got very drunk. The club closed at 3am. The friend from work suggested to Rosie and her friend that they go back to her place to have a little after-party, it was only down the road after all. So, at 3am, Rosie, Rosie’s friend and Rosie’s friend’s friends from work got in a cab back to Brixton. This, Rosie explains, is where her memory goes a little hazy. She explains that they entered the flat and acknowledged how grim it was. The next thing, she says, is that a lady knocks on the door and provides them with many drugs. She believes it was an array of things: cocaine, mephedrone and ketamine. The next thing she says she remembers is being naked on a very stained sofa. Suddenly, it’s Sunday and she’s in a taxi. She doesn’t recall where the taxi was going but she showed me some texts she had sent to her friend that she assumes was still at the flat.
When she got back she decided she needed some fresh air so she went out on the balcony. It was at this point that she realised it was Monday morning. One of the girls was on the balcony calling in sick for work. Rosie said she must have been starting to sober up at this point as she acknowledged how funny the situation was and began to film the people around her on her phone so that she could show me. She showed me and we laughed about it for hours. At some point on Monday afternoon, Rosie ordered an Uber to the station and got on a train home. Despite the fact that she had to spend the next day at a spa with her very concerned Mother, Rosie admitted that she had a fantastic night. I felt as though it wasn’t my place to point out that it was in fact ‘a night’ that lasted four days. We have laughed over the videos, screenshots and blurred naked pictures ever since. It got me thinking, is this was nights out are all about now? Going out to a club for a few hours and then spending the next few days in an almost stranger’s apartment not being sober enough to care? I bloody hope so. For years, after-parties have been a thing. They have also become renowned for being the best part of the night. So much so that party-planners have started calling their parties ‘after-parties’ because it sounds that little bit more exciting. As we get older, nights out become meticulously planned events. We spend a lot of time deciding on what to wear, where to go, what to drink and manage to create great expectations. The night itself is therefore always a let down. It becomes forced. No one, however, puts any thought into the after-party. There are no expectations to feel let down over, just endless amounts of things to shock and entertain us. I hope it stays that way. And I think Rosie does too.
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Masque UP. For everything created by God is good, and nothing is to be rejected if it is received with thanksgiving. Timothy 4:4
STYLING Shannon Lawlor
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PHOTOGRAPHY Shannon Lawlor
MODELS Charlotte Brown, Christopher Prescott
ASSISTANCE Molly Hayward-Sampson
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bite me. It might come with a sigh of relief that 2015 is the year we finally managed to rid ourselves of ‘vampire-mania’. No more Twilight. No more True Blood. It really seems like the teen-vampire obsession is a thing of the past. We don’t have to look at any more Hollywood actors covered in talc with a black contact lenses rolling around their irises. Hallelujah. It is now nothing more than a past fad that went on for too long. We should all rejoice. No one, it seems, is rejoicing the death of vampire-mania more than the vampire societies. The real vampire obsessives. The ones that existed years before Stephanie Meyer’s wet dream. It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if you haven’t yet heard of the London Vampire Meetup Group. The LVMG meet on the first Thursday of every month and with over 1500 members, it is safe to say that London’s vampire culture can not be likened to teen fiction. “But do they serve blood?” Absolutely not. But don’t mention that. This group is not for people that like the sound of Edward Cullen. The LVMG merges the line between role play and reality. Pleas are posted on their online discussion bored by ‘mortals’ that long to be turned into a vampire. Their vampire alter-egos are not to be taken lightly. It appears that despite the popularity of the group, London’s vampire culture remains very much underground. The group’s organiser (who goes under the name ‘Thunder’) insists that no matter how deep your interest in the vampire lifestyle, anyone is welcome to join with a fee of £5 a year. However, with cryptic names and undisclosed meet-up locations, it appears that the LVMG are still keeping in tone with the mystery and darkness of vampire culture. Fancy it? Visit www.meetup.com/vampires-of-london for membership information. WORDS Shannon Lawlor
Photography greatbeyond
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The family man. What? know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own? 1 Corinthians 6:19
words Shannon Lawlor PHOTOGRAPHY eightprime
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t’s 1am and the bar is full of middle-class twenty-somethings making the most of last orders. One girl, sat alone at the only table, makes her way through what appears to be a jug of Malibu and Pineapple. A group of attractive men stand at the bar in silence, peoplewatching, a pint in each hand. The most notable thing, however, about this tiny bar, situated on the edge of town, is the queue for the toilet. Not something that an outsider would bat an eyelid at. An abnormally small bar, lacking charisma, with a twenty-minute wait for the toilet is usually enough to make any wayfarer move onto the next venue. But everyone that steps foot in here knows. They know about him. He stands casually at the back, appearing to socialise and blend in with the rest. He is the reason for the bustling crowds. He is the reason the long queues. The Family Man (as we’ll call him) is everyone’s source of cocaine. But more importantly, for local business, he is the source of a great deal of money being pumped into small bars that act as ‘pre-drinking’ venues for his clientele. I approach him without caution in hope of securing an interview, something that I know will be difficult considering his £40k a year profession and his fiancé and two-year-old son sitting home. “I’ll do it,” he says, “as long as it doesn’t affect business.” I kindly explain that there is no way that his manager at work could possibly find out and that I fully understand his desires to remain anonymous. “No love, you don’t understand. Business. Not work. I don’t want anyone taking me for a mug,” he laughs. We set a date for the following week. The next time I see him he is sat outside of a quiet Wetherspoons. It is 7 degrees. I go over, greet him and sit down. He is smoking a cigarette. I ask if he would like to move inside once he is finished to get out of the cold. He laughs, “It’s quieter out here.” I now understand. I stand up to get a cup of tea from the bar and ask if he would like one. He insisted I sit down and he get them. I know better than to argue with a drug-dealer. Why do I feel like I’m on an awkward date? “So, what do you want to know? I’m 24. I’ve got a beautiful fiancé. A beautiful son. I had a great upbringing. I’m a civil engineer. I drink only on special occasions. Smoke between ten to fifteen cigarettes a day. No overwhelming health problems. Got a lovely little house not far from here. Anything else?” he asks as he lights another cigarette. Apart from the fact that he’s a very successful drug dealer, he’s covered the bases. I can tell this isn’t going to be easy. Before I open my mouth, I think. I’m trying to work out if he is expecting me to answer. He is trying to make me feel on edge. It’s working. “The drugs,” I reply. Now he’s interested. “I’ve never had to tell anyone that I’m a drug-dealer. The words have never left my mouth. I like to think of myself as a brand. Is that obnoxious? If someone wants a vacuum cleaner, they go and buy a Dyson. If someone wants some coke or pills or whatever it is that people want at that moment in time, I like to think they come to me. My wallet implies that I’m right,” he stares at me intensely. He’s trying to prove something. I don’t doubt him but I feel as though I should. He seems intent on making sure that I think highly of him. Is he trying pitch his business to me? There is no doubt that he knows a lot of people, relying solely on word of mouth. He doesn’t look much like a drug dealer either. Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, nothing shouts out that he’s in possession of excessive illegally made cash, with the exception of the bulky Rolex on his left wrist. His face is not one you expect to be tarnished with the slimy appearance of a stereotypical dealer. “To be brutally honest with you, I make a lot of money. I’m quite well networked and I know exactly where everyone is going to be on what night. It’s extremely rare that I get a phone call from someone or a text. If I’m there and they want it, then they know they can have it,” he claims. With a well-paying, full time job, it seems fascinating that someone can still feel the need to make more money, especially in such a way. When asked about his life at home, he smiles and says, “I don’t need to worry about them. My fiancé, she knows what I get up to. The majority of my customers are acquaintances in some form or another so of course she knows. She’s clever though. If I’m going out for the night then she knows why, no questions asked.” And his son? “He’s two-years-old. This is just a hobby. It will all be over in no time. He’s too young to be suspicious and have any idea of anything,” he says. I can’t help but get the sense that he feels guilty. Or at least that he knows he should. I ask him to explain an average day, “I get up and start work at 7am. I work hard. I love my job as well, don’t get me wrong when you hear about the rest. I really do love my job. But where’s the excitement in building work? I go home, eat dinner and scroll through Facebook. Then I know exactly where people are going to be and what time. So I get in the car and go. People leave their wives at home with their children all the time, it’s no different.” If I was reading this, I would think of him as naive. Someone that isn’t quite all there. But trust me when I say that
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this man knows exactly what he is doing. He is extremely intelligent and appears to have no secrets. Until I ask him about the drugs themselves. He appears unsettled, shakes his head and shortly says, “None of it is my information to share. I can tell you anything and everything. But no details.” I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that I am drinking cups of tea with a dangerous man. I’m still quite hung up on something he mentioned earlier. How is it possible for drug-dealing to be a hobby? “Look at it this way,” he explains, “The people that I sell to aren’t drug addicts. They are young people that are out on a Saturday night. They take drugs much like a hobby. You don’t need to do it but you enjoy it. I believe that dealers should be aware of who their customers are. If my customers take drugs as a hobby, then I sell them as a hobby.” In his world of living a double life, this logic appears to make sense. I find myself reasoning with his theories. He seems to have no fears. No fears of being caught, no fears of losing the job that he has worked so hard at, no fears of losing his family. I’m intrigued by his way of thinking. I ask him how he thinks he gets away with it, “The clubs know. I half assume the police do too. I don’t worry about it though. I’m not going to be at this for much longer. I guess it’s all part of the excitement. The fact that everyone knows me makes me think that I’m never going to get caught because I’ve got no one chasing me.” I feel like I’ve heard all of this before on documentaries about drug traffickers that have spent 17 years in prison. It also seems fitting that he insists this is a temporary fix for dissatisfaction in life. It appears that money, a career and a family do not offer him the level of excitement that he craves at 24. A feeling that many people have but do nothing about. “Do you really think you’ll ever be able to stop?” I ask as we get ready to leave. “Of course,” he says without hesitation, “but it’s whether or not I’ll ever want to. Do you ever have that feeling that you know something’s not right but you take the risk and do it anyway? That’s how I feel everyday with the things that are monotonous in life. But at night? At night when I’m stood in clubs, watching everyone depend on me, watching everyone turn to me when they need something, that’s when I’m invincible. And who would ever want to change that?” It’s a good question, and one that’s had me questioning the definition morality ever since.
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The Lord tests the righteous, but his soul hates the wicked and the one who loves violence. Psalm 11:5
WORDS Shannon Lawlor PHOTOGRAPHY Frances, Juan Felipe Rubio
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The first thing to note is that a queue for a nightclub is much like that cafeteria scene from Mean Girls. Full of cliques. You have the obnoxious ‘lads’ that have iced-gem haircuts and like the recently popularised dance phenomenon, shuffling. You have their girlfriends that stand quietly in a group behind them not really talking to each other but poofing their hair up with their hands. You have the people that had not planned on a night out but quiet drinks at the pub led them here. You have the birthday group. You have the stag night. You have the hen night. You have the mini Hugh Hefner’s of our time. You have the people that are desperately trying to convince the bouncer that their friend isn’t drunk and he/she is just tired. And finally, you have the observers, the one’s that are out but not drinking, watching everyone in their stupidity. You can single these groups out of the queue before you even meet them, before the doors have even opened.
The door of a nightclub at 12am is quite an eye sore. Fat, bald men with tattooed heads check the IDs of barely there individuals that are drinking vodka/mixer out of old, battered Volvic bottles. A dolled-up girl sits, with her hand out and a face like a slapped arse taking money off of the party goers. It has always been a mystery as to why people that work on the door of a nightclub appear to hate their job so much. Such a mystery in fact that we at Nyx thought it was about time we experienced it for ourselves. We organised to sit on the door and be that dolled up, money-grabbing girl. So listen up, you’re about to read the ugly truth of what you get up to on a night out.
It’s fast approaching 11pm and the night is about to begin, although it can definitely be argued that the night began at least 3 hours ago for the club’s customers. The queue is starting to get rowdy and twitchy after waiting in the rain for nearly half an hour. A young man says, “Gonna get her into bed tonight whether she likes it or not.” The temptation to not let him in is overwhelming. Tonight, a well-known international DJ is booked to play a set at 1am. Whether the majority of this queue will physically make it to that time is a debatable situation.
The bouncers start checking I.Ds. Within thirty-seconds, one girl has had her’s confiscated on the grounds that she couldn’t remember her last name. They have their IDs checked and are made to wait five minutes longer. They don’t appear to be happy. How happy are they going to be when they’re asked to pay £10 entry?!
The answer: not very happy at all. The first group that approached the door, the birthday group, refused to pay and walked away. Many tried to sneak past and failed. A fake £10 note was handed over. One boy asked if he could get discount on the premise that he is well-endowed ‘down there’.
The birthday group are back after a three minute long heated debate. Turns out everyone was outvoted by the birthday girl. Suddenly they all seemed happy to pay the steep entry fee. Happy to the birthday girl’s face, not so much to anyone else. One girl informed the door staff that £10 is essentially thievery and that they would receive a stern e-mail from her the next day. Unsurprisingly, no one seemed to care.
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23:25 23:30 00:00 00:05 00:15 The queue has disappeared now that the back-log of attendees is inside sipping on their double vodka/Redbulls. Time to breathe.
Another burst of business arrives at the door. They walk straight up to the bouncer. No I.Ds are checked. Suspicious really as they only look about 17. They get to the booth and are asked for £10 each. They all snigger and walk through without paying. The bouncer says, “Oh, they don’t pay. Friends of the owners etc.” It is probably best not to question it.
“This is why it’s called the witching hour,” the bouncer turns around to say as the queue doubles in length. It seems that midnight is the time that the real crowd arrive. Suddenly it feels as though everyone that arrived previously were amateurs when it comes to drinking and partying. As one girl crouches down to go for a wee, she holds her playsuit to the side. The excrement runs down the street and through people’s feet. A group of boys start chanting the headlining DJ’s name as they all ‘down’ their cans of Fosters and proceed to throw them in the air. It’s uncertain as to whether the bouncers choose to ignore them or genuinely don’t notice amongst the madness.
The bouncers inform the queue that tickets for the event have officially sold out. A lot people get very mad. A lot of people try their luck anyway. As pre-bought tickets are checked many people tell the bouncer, “I’ve got tickets reserved on the door.” The truth is that they don’t have tickets reserved on the door and are expecting to get in anyway.
One of the boys gets inappropriate when handing the money over. He says, “I’ll keep my eye on you and when its time to leave, I’ll drag you into that taxi with me and make sure you don’t regret it.” It’s hard to work out if he is just a truly disgusting human being or if it’s the alcohol.
Commotion. The bouncers have had to restrain one boy. After finding a bag of what is apparently MDMA on him, he preceded to attempt in throwing a punch at the bouncer. The police arrive and he is taken away. His friends are asked to leave the club. They walk into the bar next door.
After many arguments over refusing entry to people with no tickets, there is now only fifteen minutes left until last entry. As the queue vanishes, the bouncers let the remaining five girls through the ropes. One of the girls points and shouts, “You’re the fat bitch that slept with Jonno!’ Before there is time to tell her that I don’t know a Jonno and would never do that, the bouncer is prising her off of me and yelling at me to leave and go home.
I have collected my things, sought the manager for my pay and am finally on my way home. As I walk down the busy streets and watch the people asleep on the side of the road or throwing up into drains, I can’t help but wonder if this is what people mean when they talk about ‘broken Britain’. Because despite some of the atrocities that I have seen this evening, I think about what great stories such events make and how much fun everyone appears to be having. So, at the end of the night and upon great reflection, I think the thing that I would most like to suggest to door staff is to not be quite so uptight. It’s about time they stopped taking their jobs so seriously and took a leaf out of their customers’ book. On the other hand, best make sure it’s only a small leaf. A very small leaf.
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curfew. For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind. Timothy 1:7
words Shannon Lawlor
artist Dr. D
photgraphy Adam Moralee
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“M
ake sure you’re home by dark,” parents yell after their children. For as long as can be remembered, curfews have been enforced on children by adults to ensure that they are home safely at a reasonable time. As you enter your teenage years, ‘before dark’ turns into ‘before midnight’. Nevertheless, the rule is always in place. It is etched in juvenile minds that the fear of being out past your curfew should be rooted in the danger of the night, not the wrath of your parents’ scolding. Many were jealous of their friends, who had far later curfews than them but the voices of their parents rang through their minds, “Well their parents obviously don’t care about them or their safety. You don’t know who is going to be out on the streets at this time.” The truth is that, to the children, curfews have always been made for breaking. The fun of a curfew was to see just how far you could push it until your parents grounded you for a week and sent you to your room. Rules are made to be broken after all. The freedom was there for you if you wished to risk it in exchange for a fierce ‘telling off ’. Of course, it was exciting to stay out past your curfew. You got to witness a whole new time of the night that you could usually only have spectated from your bedroom window. Breaking your curfew was always a possibility. And a very exciting one at that. Getting to see this new world that has been reserved exclusively for adults was enough to send any young mind
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running wild. More recently, the issue of curfews have been under intense scrutiny in the media. Not curfews in the sense that has been discussed in this article, but a different, more intense kind. In times of national turmoil, over the past two decades, national curfews are becoming more and more common. This year, Baghdad lifted its 12 year long curfew that ensured no one was out of their homes between the hours of 12am and 5am. The US military imposed the curfew on the Iraqi capital in 2002 as an attempt to minimise overnight attacks. Similarly, following a military coup last Summer, Thailand imposed a month long curfew that ruled no one should be on the streets between 12am and 4am. During the coup, the National Council for Peace and Order insisted that the curfew, alongside other rulings such as banning meetings of any more than five people in public, would keep peace following long-standing political street protests. Both curfews have now been lifted to encourage tourism and a greater sense of safety and freedom on the streets. Of course, passing curfews causes a great deal of unrest. Losing your sense of freedom through national curfews is much like your parents telling you that you must be home by 10pm without the option of ignoring them. In more politically unstable countries such as Iraq and Thailand, it comes as not-so surprising news that the government impose curfews
in an attempt to keep peace and maintain political power. National or local curfews are something that we hear of but don’t ever think of experiencing in the Western world. For years, the UK media have been discussing the pros and cons of passing a Child Curfew Law that outlaws children under a certain age to be out past a certain time. Despite many local authorities suggesting such laws, it has been pushed aside on the grounds that such laws are almost unenforceable in the UK. Teenage culture in Britain is built on the grounds of meeting your friends in the evening at the local park to drink copious amounts of cheap alcohol. When the ‘authorities’ turned up it was usually parental figures in a high-vis jacket with a badge that read ‘COMMUNITY SUPPORT OFFICER’. They would have a word and move you on to another location. Most young adults now have fond memories of Friday evenings chugging a bottle of Strongbow on a roundabout. It seems almost impossible and wrong to imagine your teenage years without those memories. In the USA, however, Juvenile Curfew Laws are abundant. Last year saw the city of Baltimore under scrutiny as they brought in a youth curfew. All over the country, cities determine what time what age group need to be off the streets, many having a later curfew for weekends. They believe that having the laws in place will result in teenage crime rates decreasing. The curfew laws in place throughout the US result in any young
person breaking the laws being taken straight to the police station. They also believe that by implementing the laws, they are bringing teenagers closer to their families, reducing the likelihood of young people being left on the streets. It seems like a naive way to think. In 2014, Sonia Kumar, staff attorney with the American Civil Liberties Union of Maryland, told The Guardian, “You can’t tell exactly how old somebody is by looking at them so the law really invites police to stop all young-looking people just because they are outside.” It seems as though curfew laws are actually creating resentment between youths and law enforcement, not something that the city of Baltimore really wants on its hands. All over the world, curfews are in place. With connotations of danger, crime and mischief, it appears that local authorities try their best to keep people away from the night. It seems, however, that after years of practice, the authorities notice that something is lacking: a sense of life and excitement. As they realise that less money is being made from tourism and entertainment, the curfews tend to be lifted; a trend that we should all learn from. If one thing is for sure, it is that keeping people away from the night results in a loss of not only basic human rights but more importantly, inhibition, fun and freedom.
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Words Shannon Lawlor Illustration Zennen Thomas
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Proverbs 12:19 The lip of truth shall be established for ever: but a lying tongue is but for a moment.
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“M
y name? Ikea. Ikea Haagen-Dazs. I’m from Sweden,” I say as the bouncer crosses my name off the list. I giggle. For tonight, I am Ikea and I am Swedish. Next week, I might be Spanish or a lesbian or an ex-convict or a distant member of the royal family. In reality, my name is Shannon. I have brown hair, brown eyes and olive skin. I am very English, very straight, very working-class, moderately lawabiding and mono-lingual. I am also a very very bad liar. But for some unexplainable reason, when I leave the house at night, I am whoever I think is appropriate. I am unstoppable. It’s not every night but I can safely say that the more I drink, the more likely it is that create one of my alter-egos. Although I’m not sure that alter-ego is the word… What doesn’t sit well with me in that definition is the word ‘personality’. I very rarely plan these nights. For the majority of the time, I find myself in conversation with someone that I find (and please excuse my brutality) absolutely vacuous. It gets to the point where they ask me my name, that’s when I tell my first lie. It is from this moment onwards that my lies spiral out of control. For that reason, I don’t believe that I adopt a different personality. I am still very much the same. Just an improvised version of myself. I like to shock people. I like to prove them wrong. Of course, my lies are just so unbelievable that no one falls for them at first. But the more I persist the more they believe me. They are fools. Not long ago I found myself in a club waiting for a drink at the bar. The man next to me began to complain about the wait. I ignored him as I usually do (not because I believe the person isn’t worth my time or for any other pretentious reason, but just because I don’t believe in entertaining people. I am fully aware of how drunken minds work: if conversation sparks between two people, you have this unbreakable bond that can only be shaken by a pile of vomit on the other person’s shoe). He was very persistent. When he put his hand on my elbow to get my attention I realised I could no longer ignore him. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m engaged and my fiancé is stood just over there. I hope you can understand.” I gave him a very quick flash of the cheap ring on my left ring finger and strolled over to my undeniably camp and exclusively homosexual friend. The following events are a classic example of how one little white lie can spiral into a dangerous web of make-believe farce. I go outside for a cigarette. Peaceful. I see Mr. Persistent from the bar walk in my direction. Shit. “You are my fiancé,” I say to my friend. Ten minutes of conversation in and we are pregnant and our surrogate mother is at home resting for little unborn Bruno’s anticipated birth next Thursday. The truth is, it isn’t just me. A close friend of mine insists that we pretend to be lesbians whenever we go out. I distinctly remember having to lick a line of salt off of her neck before a shot of tequila. It takes quite a lot of effort to make people believe that you are a lesbian. This is a trend that is sweeping the nation. Since I have noticed this trend, I have taken a lot of time to think about why I do it. So far, I have, I don’t know and because it makes for great hangover stories in the morning. “Remember when I told that guy I’m 45 years old but I’m married to the UK’s best plastic surgeon?” I say/cry as I tuck into a box of twenty McNuggets. All I know is that it’s fun. In hindsight, it is fun. I always remember, however, that at the time, it can be a bit of a nuisance. Constantly trying to dodge the people you have lied to, making sure that two people that you have told conflicting lies to don’t cross paths, having to remember exactly what it is you have said to who. It’s a tiring enough task for anyone. Team it with alcohol, loud music and darkness, it’s an almost impossible task.
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But who really cares? You will never see any of these people again. And if you do, you lie. You are already quite good at that. “I’m terribly sorry,” you will say, “but you must have been very drunk and got me confused with someone else for I, Natalia Parushev, am a Russian nun.” The feeling of never getting caught will forever act as a justification for doing something in my head. Similarly, the biggest reasons for me not doing something in the past includes embarrassing myself and not having the confidence. Neither of these emotions can be present in front of people that you do not know and are already excessively lying to. Jasmin White, a sociologist, says, “It’s of no surprise that when young people are on a night out that they create different lives for themselves. When we get into a large group of people, our minds tell us that there is less to be scared of. It works as a sort of mob mentality. It gives us a feeling that our individuality doesn’t matter any more because we are simply a member of a group. Therefore, in our own heads, we could be anyone.” This makes me feel better. It makes me feel as though it is not my fault that I feel the need to do this. It is just the way that humans are wired. It is not a terrible personality trait that I possess. From a young age, we are taught that lying is bad. It is therefore only natural for me to have a pit of guilt in my stomach every time I think about the ridiculous lies I have told on such nights. Sometimes, I reflect on my lies and wonder how these conversations might have gone if I was honest. I am constantly complaining about my appalling ability to make friends. From my reflection I have realised that my irritating multiple-personality trait is probably the reason for this. I run this idea past a friend. “No Shannon,” she says, “you are absolutely wrong. The whole reason we do this is because no one that you meet in a bar at 2am is going to be good news.” She’s right! It’s a defence mechanism! It is my own personal way of batting off weird strangers that I have absolutely no interest in talking to. I would be painfully unhappy and have very mediocre nights out if I did not create fantasy personalities in my head. I think. I guess I’ll never know. And I don’t think I want to either. I am waiting for the day that I tell a lovely man that I am the heir to the Spanish thrown and end up quite fancying him by the end of the conversation and then watching his face contort as I explain my actually very boring life because my previous nugget of information was a lie. As they all are. And then he’ll know about my obsessive compulsion and never trust me again. We’ll get married anyway but he will always have the fear of my lies. The taboo subject of trust. Eventually our marriage will fall apart and I will be left with a horrible divorce settlement on my hands because what court would believe me, a fake Spanish princess? I am waiting for this day. The day my life takes a dramatic turn for the worst all because of one little white lie. The more I think about this tendency of mine, of every bored twenty-something woman, I think ‘why not’?! What is so wrong about having a bit of fun with a naive stranger that you will never meet again? OK, so we have agreed that it might be deemed morally wrong to lie, to mislead someone, but this trend of little-white-lying or alter-ego-inventing is absolutely harmless. It is simply a way to pass time on cookie-cutter nights out. Let’s face it, there is nothing remotely exciting about my life, or your life, or anyone’s life. I say, there is nothing wrong with dressing up the truth, even if it is to the extent that the truth is unrecognisable. Let’s embrace the lies. It is just too much fun to be someone I am not and I am not willing to give this fun up just yet.
alter ego ˌaltər ˈɛɡəʊ,ˌɒlt-,ˈiːɡ-/ noun a person’s secondary or alternative personality.
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Wear.
STILA AFTERGLOW LIP COLOUR
Whoever said a red lip is a statement has never been more wrong. This is the most exciting make-up product we’ve seen this century. Let’s just hope that this has the same kind of revolutionary movement that hair mascara did in the nineties because that was fun. 80 NYX.
Watch. Kurt Cobain: Montage of Heck There is no doubt that you’ve already seen everything that you think a Kurt Cobain documentary has to offer. This April, however, sees a new release. Kurt Cobain: Montage of Heck is the first documentary that Courtney Love herself has initiated and given her approval over. The build up around this documentary film suggests it is not one to be missed.
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eat. Dans Le Noir?
Ever heard that if you were blindfolded and had no sense of smell, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between biting into an apple or onion? Well, now is the time to test it. This ‘in the dark’ restaurant provides diners with the option to choose one of three surprise set menus and eat in complete darkness. If you fancy a unique dining experience, there really is nothing quite like this one.
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read.
Snakes! Guillotines! Electric Chairs!: My Adventures in The Alice Cooper Group by Dennis Dunaway and Chris Hodenfield If anyone knew how to spark excitement and shock people in their musical careers, it was Alice Cooper. This tell-all story, written by bassist and co-writer, Deniis Dunaway with the help of Rolling Stone journalist, Chris Hodenfield, documents the life of the band. It promises the reader close to unbelievable stories and is bound to be one of the mustreads of the year (available to pre-order now).
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LONDON TOWN POEM BY KELI ANNE B ILLUSTRATION BY ANDREA JOSEPH Friday night does not come with a parental guidance warning out on the streets, dancing till the morning and girls with barely there skirts flirt with barely there jerks just to feel loved for about one minute fifty seven outside the back door of Soho’s Heaven. London loving has never been so quick so frantic so inthere/yesthatbit/hurryup/Ifeelsick when pushed against walls and pushing knickers to fall his constant watch glancing saying I’m not in for the long haul Her chips getting cold on the pavement picking up smears of chipped cement the last few thrusts as he, spent, wipes his sweat upon wall on which she’s lent then kisses her cheek, the perfect gent, and ticked a box next to the stereotype he’s supposed to represent. And she, in her playsuit, pulled the side closes her eyes after the anticlimactic ride pretending to wait for her orgasm to subside, before pulling out her phone to ask for his digits and he begins to look shifty and starts to fidget because his girlfriend back in Leeds is due to start calling and this tart from the club seems intent on stalling so switching the last two numbers, he gives her the slip prising her fingers off his muscles and loosening her grip. It’s just another night in London, loving life out on the town, girls with made-up faces ready for a dressing down music pumping from the air vents, boys ready for a treat, carrying girls home in their heels because they cannot feel their feet. Let the chips cool on the pavement, let the sick be cleaned away Friday evening clears its path to make way for Saturday. The cameras record the footage, life spiralling slowly down “See you out next Saturday yeah? We’ll hit up London town.”
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Then God said, “Let there be lights in the expanse of the heavens to separate the day from the night, and let them be for signs and for seasons and for days and years; and let them be for lights in the expanse of the heavens to give light on the earth�; and it was so. God made the two great lights, the greater light to govern the day, and the lesser light to govern the night; He made the stars also. Genesis 1:14-18
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