Monday, 22 March 2010

Aspidistra Issue one

Buy it now online!

Words from the Brutalist Poets, Paul O'Kane, Tony Rickaby, Kirsty Roberts, Kevin Thomas Rogers, Katie Green, Rhys Williams and Igor Wizard

Art from Chloe Bonfield, Peter Caul, Victoria Jenkins, Simon Leary, Myles Painter, Joesph Popper, Milo Reid, Rebecca Sloan and James Trimmer.

All the good stuff for only £3.
Fly the Aspidistra!

Wednesday, 3 March 2010

The Big Men

Matt Damon has managed to smash his way to the top of the Big Man list, one fist to the face at a time. He jumps and rolls and explodes, body riddled with bullets for our viewing pleasure.
It was a touching moment, at the 2008 Oscars, when Bruce Willis placed his rough hands on Damon’s shoulders and handed him a white vest, torn, dirty and splattered with the blood of a hundred terrorists,
‘Go on my son, do us proud,’ he said before blasting a shotgun into Damon’s stomach. Laughing Willis jumped onto the hood of a passing juggernaut and exploded in the dazzling Hollywood sunset. Meanwhile Damon rocks backwards smashing the glass bookshelf behind him and tipping over a fish tank, writhing around in a pool of piranhas he looks at the camera, ‘This isn’t realistic enough!’ he screams, his voice cracking with emotion, and BANG! Wins another Oscar. No one takes any notice though because Vinnie Jones walks in.
‘I really liked him, after watching BB Celebrity.’ Julia Roberts said.

Monday, 1 March 2010

Happy Birthday

The mixture is soft. I whisked it for longer than was suggested in A Good Housekeeping Guide. I folded in the flour with neat twists of my wrists, so as not to knock out the air. I even added a pinch extra of baking soda, just to make sure. This cake will rise. It was some trouble finding a tin large enough, for this will be a large cake; a big cake, but also a big surprise. The house is quiet, now that the beating is done. There is a hum from the oven, though I also hum. A thin tune, just a hum-hum. After I have poured the mix into the large tin, I take off my shoes and socks. The kitchen tiles are cold and tickle the soles of my feet. I remove my dress, knickers and socks and lay them on the chair. I am not so stupid as to forget to make arrangements for breathing. I have a straw that is long enough. Carefully I lower myself into the cake batter. It is pleasant, as it moulds itself to my skin, oozing carefully between my toes and then around my knees like a good sock, it squelches as I move into its embrace. There is a smell of vanilla as it creeps up nostrils. I must do this right and so I firmly pinch them closed, and breath deeply through the straw. I kneel here, somewhat awkwardly, though the thick mixture holds some of my weight. It is warming, a reaction between egg, flour, sugar, fat, binding and rising. I have time to think about the surprise, and what a surprise it shall be; me, emerging naked and beautiful from the golden glow of sponge. What a feast. A sprinkling of icing sugar, and I expect we shall laugh. Hands will be clapped over mouths in surprise, eyes wide with delight. What a delicious cake! Look how high it was risen! How long it must have taken you! What a surprise!

And I will say ‘Happy Birthday my dear. I love you.’