Categories
Art

Zoe Woolland

Emily Hough

In the last few years of painting, I’ve definitely leant towards painting portraits. The more you paint faces the more you learn about proportions and how the features of the face are structured. I looked towards painting on rougher surfaces with oil paints because the process can be a lot more fun and playful. Some of my previous pieces have been done on cardboard and even metal, adding creative textures to the work. Oil paint is typically what I’ve loved to use, especially when doing portraits because it allows real accuracy of tone and shadow. A lot of my inspiration is taken from phases of Covid, including a lot of imagery of mask wearing. In the future I’m hoping to create more colourful, brighter pieces and maybe giving landscapes a go!

Categories
Poetry

Crusader Crusader

Crusader Crusader

Anonymous

 

I found you racing in the desert driving a work of art

And pulsing through your veins with the blood of the Lion Heart

My friend it’s later than you think and the light’s about to fade 

And if we don’t start to hurry 

We will miss out on the crusade

They will take psychedelic drugs and drink to the faithful departed 

And sleep with a woman who has no name and leave her broken hearted 

Crusader, crusader, it is you who they despise 

Child of the invader cursed with foreign blue eyes 

My friend they will never understand 

For they have never seen 

How the desert turned to water and 

The ocean turned to sand 

Matador matador hear the crowd as it roars

And they do not know what death is 

For they have never been alive 

Father why should I care

If a thousand dead men die?



Categories
Art

Sophie Holcroft

Sophie Holcroft

 

 

I am a first-year student studying Liberal Arts. I am interested in finding beauty in decay – the period of time after something has gone past its ‘use-by-date,’ both with people and nature. A common theme throughout my work is dried-out artichokes; when they decayed, the leaves turned silver, and I found beauty in this and the possibility of them being perceived as desirable again. I am also fascinated by traditional and contemporary ‘memento mori’ symbols and adopted the message they hold but also flipped it on its head by focusing on rebirth and rejuvenation. I enjoy photography, oil painting, etching, and having a 3D element to my work.

Categories
Culture

Visions of Heaven

By Henry Worsley.

They passed us in groups of ten or a dozen. Convoys of armoured trucks – blocky, khaki-green, fitted with glass so thick that they seemed driven by shadows. They were heading in the opposite direction, down South towards the Tajik border. Some kind of fight had started there a few days before, ‘you know, just farmers with shotguns and slingshots, neighbour against neighbour. That’s how they all start, and it just gets bigger from there.’ And it had got bigger – it had crept its way up on the BBC newspage. It was turning into an international scene. The ‘WAR’ word was being thrown about on Kyrgyz TV, and people were scared that one of the major powers, most likely Russia, would intervene. 

‘In all honesty, I think we’d do better if we still had the Russians,’ Dima said, ‘you see that’ – he pointed at a factory, sunk in on itself on the arid plain – ‘that is the state of our country now, since the communists left.’

He showed me a few photos from the South as we went further into the mountains: I saw a house split in two by shelling; shattered porcelain littered across the Fergana valley; Apache helicopters thudding over the horizon; explosions shot with a telephoto lens. It all looked somehow staged, like a huge post-Soviet stunt show. I wondered how old the boys were in those trucks, if they really hated those goddam, good-for-nuthin’ Tajiks just because they spoke Farsi and had different hats.

But we weren’t heading that way, we were going to a different corner of the country, to a lake in the Northwest named Issyk Kul. The road which wound towards this lake used to be full of military checkpoints – Issyk Kul is the largest and one of the deepest alpine bodies of water on the planet, and therefore an ideal place to fire off some torpedoes. The USSR had tested submarines there for decades.

I had an idea of how vast the lake would be. I mean, it was big, it was really big – you could see it from space. I read somewhere that it was the size of Wales (why are so many things compared to the size of Wales?). But when you see Issyk Kul for the first time it doesn’t resemble a lake at all – it is so damn huge it may as well be a sea, a mirror stretched horizontally ad infinitum, duplicating and inverting the cloud-shrouded peaks on every visible piece of shoreline. Here, surrounded by the monumental Tian Shan – The Heavenly Mountains – was the utopia of the nomad; the perfect microclimate, the richest grass to graze on, the most crisp and delicious water to bathe in and drink from. The air smelled good, clean, snowy. It was the opposite to the cloying stuff that rotted and sizzled back in the capital, Bishkek, where the utilitarian blocks built by the Soviets had been left to crumble, where people sold horse milk out of shipping containers.

Not that it was very different on the shores of Issyk Kul – here you could also buy horse milk in plastic bottles – but it was more fresh, of course. 

There were still plenty of remnants of Soviet rule: in the centre of Cholpon-Ata, a battered tank doubled as a memorial to the war in Afghanistan; next door was a ‘museum of spiritual practice’, full of big empty halls displaying yurts or framed photos of Kyrgyz poets. As you went further back along the line of portraits, they stopped being listed as poets and started being listed as manaschi – those who sing the Epic of Manas, Kyrgyzstan’s legendary founder. The manaschi wear the kind of felt-brimmed hats you see in portraits of Genghis Khan.

Dima and I slept that night just outside town. My companion was converting an old workers’ resort into a hotel. It was half-finished, there was no electricity. We ate grechka and fried eggs by lamplight, then played backgammon in silence, taking turns on google translate to bridge the gap between our mutually patchy English and Russian. 

After dinner we took a walk.

Stol – o – vaya … stolovaya, you see.’ Dima pointed at the bones of a clapperboard cabin, some words written in scabby red on its back wall. Below the script there was a mural of a beaming communist tucking into his borscht. There used to be a dining room here, but now even the table was gone, just broken glass and smashed-in doors. How very cold it felt to see that place in the grey half-light, surrounded by thin, peeling birch trees – the sort of trees that look romantic in Doctor Zhivago. Dima just stood between them, silent, looking at a place his parents might have remembered from summer holidays.

I had never done that before or since – spent two days with another human being with whom I could barely communicate. But Dima didn’t need to say much, not with that sad, stubbly look of a man who knows the mountains. I could certainly tell he was kind – his grechka was perfectly al dente, although he did cheat at backgammon. And he really was a man of the mountains – he woke me up at dawn to swim naked before we left. We barely knew each other, and here he was, stripping down. He did it with the nonchalance of a soldier at a medical test. 

‘Azora, davaiti!’ – ‘Lake! Swim!’

As we returned to the capital we heard news of the war down South. It had been resolved swiftly, diplomatically – the Kyrgyz had taken a good beating, a few hundred dead, and the Tajiks had captured a small chunk of the disputed frontier. The line had shifted a little on the map. Nothing had really changed, the ghost of the USSR still mattered – it still killed people. Now there were more of those spirits between the birch trees. 

And I thought again of the white forest and the ruin of the cafeteria at twilight, and how some places really give you the creeps.

Categories
The Goose Presents

Rock on the Hill

Rock on the Hill

By Asa Williams.              

Photography by Izzy Gibson (@youfreezeishoot)

A great elevation and celebration of Durham’s alternative music scene took place on October 7th-9th as Rock on the Hill returned. In collaboration with The Goose Presents, Rock Soc, and Canary Records, the best live music and poetry from Durham and beyond found a home in The Angel Inn, Fabio’s, and The Library Bar. Asa Williams – Durham graduate, PhD student, professional punk poet, and backbone of Rock on the Hill – reflects on this ethereal weekend:

The stars shook in a midnight-blue sky, the last bastions of a universe still warm with the blood of creativity and all the words not yet said. If there is ever a monument that our ilk does not tear down with our hands, then it will soon turn into the dust made from our bodies. Meta-space meat to be. Made of stardust and covered in glitter. But, back to the stars, the ones leaking upon an inky canvas of sky-vellum and slowly, one by one, fading into oblivion. But how they shone bright.  

Rock on the Hill, much like the stars, will one day fade. For now however, and for a long time to come, it will be able to stake a claim as Durham’s biggest and best independently run festival so far. 

On Friday night, you could hear the joy of the Angel’s crowd in the shortness of their breath, in the chanting symposiums harking back to the death of the rockstar, anthems for anemoia. The patron saint of the anti-establishment, Arthur Rimbaud himself, darted between the long hair and sang along to the chandelier-sparkling hymns for the disenfranchised. As the bodies writhed in united repulsion of whence they came, souls ventured in their true form to see the stars as they are for the first time. Durham was washed away in a river of music, the ebbs and flows of which bought unadulterated, alternative music for perhaps the first time. The driftwood was claimed and brought to a stage; There, an altar was built and the maelstrom of humanity moshed names into it. Void State, The Blacklist, Mirror Image and Elvet. Four-letter words and constellations were draped across their bodies and the ceilings, plastered by the ongoing crush of humanity. Glued into place, the music had nowhere to look but the Heavens, the great starry vortex where chaos rules over us all. 

As the voices of Angels quieted, a Call to the Faithful had begun across town. The floor of Fabio’s shook to its first ever mosh pit. Whirring in a furious excess of energy, bass unplugged and accepting that the only good system is a sound system, the nightclub melted and shook the graves of the longdistance dead. In her place instead was a sacrosanct tribute to the sacred memories of the DIY ethos and passion of Punk and art. And all the while the Canary Records flag flew, held by duct tape, the voices of the prophets and the prayers of men across long distant oceans. Call to the Faithful rocked the hilly city, stoning the unbelievers with rock and punk distilled from the essence of riot and discontent. Lord Emu, a collage of glam and grit, reeled the crowd on four pink strings and soaring guitar-skateboards. Elvet became the anti-sandpaper as the prince of precision divided his time between the riverside and mirror world. Caravaggio melded the crowd with time travellers and agony’s ecstasy was forged onto the visage of the gutterpoets. 

The final night belonged at three in the morning, in a raindrop thudding against the face of a window in late 1960s Montreal, played in the minor key. Inky pens scratched the heartbreak of existence, the sad eyes of Oscar Wilde’s dog, onto the full moon hovering on the top shelf of a disused garage, next to the empty tube of glue and the partnerless glove. The poets assembled and spoke of the pavements on which they laid their heads to look up to the stars better. Bethany, Eden, Izzy and the cathedral’s grizzled poet laureate, Asa, drew their words in every shade of magenta along a drizzle-filled skyline. Mushroom dreams grew from a garden just around the corner, sending Moonstags trampling across the crops of Organic Lemon Sugar. At the same moment, Orchard Thieves were interrupted by the saddest prophets that ever leaked from Surrey’s and Yorkshire’s puddles. And there they dripped from the ceiling, their condensed forms a tribute to every poem never written and the library of unfinished existence that the cemetery gates enclose. 

Rock on the Hill ended as the universe had begun, somewhere between rock’n’roll and Jesus Christ doing the dishes (humming a soft tune from an old folk-punk band that he had once known under his breath, sometimes stopping and trying to remember if the words playing on his mind were from an old Van Morrison song or perhaps a Walt Whitman that had been read to him as a small boy). Hallowed charities were lifted upon the shoulders of music and poetry paraded for the great festival of art. 

Rock on the Hill has built itself an enduring legacy, totally separate from the university, who it sees as being an anti-art establishment, one where tradition and convention trump creativity and artistic freedom. 

Rock on the Hill had three simple objectives at its creation: firstly, to have fun, secondly to support a charity, thirdly, that the music being played would be at least alright. It seems to have succeeded. All for the price of a ferret and a time traveller or two. 

Still the stars shone.


With many thanks to:

Rock on the Hill https://www.instagram.com/rockonthehill22/

Asa Williams https://www.instagram.com/litttleasa/

Durham Rock Soc https://www.instagram.com/durhamrocksoc/

Canary Records https://www.instagram.com/canary_records/

The Angel Inn https://www.instagram.com/theangeldurham/

Fabio’s https://www.instagram.com/fabiosbardurham/

The Library Bar https://www.instagram.com/thelibrarydurham/

Call to the Faithful https://www.instagram.com/calltothefaithful/

Void State https://www.instagram.com/void.state/

The Blacklist https://www.instagram.com/theblacklistband/

Mirror Image https://www.instagram.com/mirrorimagedu/

Elvet https://www.instagram.com/elvet_music/

Lord Emu https://www.instagram.com/lordemuband/

Zani XR https://www.instagram.com/zani.xr/

Moonstag https://www.instagram.com/moonstagofficial/

Orchard Thieves https://www.instagram.com/orchardthievesdurham/

Organic Lemon Sugar https://www.instagram.com/organiclemonsugar/

Eden Cain https://www.instagram.com/ede.cain/

Bethany Blackwell https://www.instagram.com/beth.blackwell1/

Izzy Gibson (aka. ‘You Freeze I Shoot’) https://www.instagram.com/youfreezeishoot/ https://www.instagram.com/izzycgibson/

Categories
Culture

From Witches To ‘Bitches’: Female Success Re-Written

By Maggie Baring.

In May 1693, one of the most famous witch trials in history came to an end, having caused the executions of 14 women and girls, as well as five men. The Salem Witch trials offer another example in a long history of the oppression of women, in which outspoken, powerful or ‘difficult’ women were, and arguably are, still deemed as a threat to society. It is interesting to ask why, within the period known as ‘the witch craze’, spanning the 16th and 17th Centuries, around 78% of all those accused of witchcraft were women. Let us take 49-year-old Sarah Osborne, one of the first women accused at Salem, as a key example of how powerful women, in upsetting gender norms, fired up suspicion and hatred in those around her. Sarah Osborne was left a 150-acre farm in Massachusetts by her first husband after his death in 1674, which upset the status-quo when she moved herself and her new husband into her new home, overtaking her male sons who, legally, should have been given control of the land. Her attempt for economic independence, along with accusations from the young ‘afflicted’ girls who claimed she was ‘tormenting’ them, led to her subsequent arrest. She died in jail in 1692 from neglect. 

A recent trending song on TikTok by Devon Cole, ‘W.I.T.C.H’, says it best; that what is deemed a witch in modern society is a ‘woman in total control of herself’. How often are modern women, especially women in the media’s spotlight, torn down in this way because of a similar quest to gain economic independence and success? Why is it that businessmen such as Jordan Belfort, whose hideous ambition and illegal enterprises areglamourised by the media, whilst powerful businesswomen such as Taylor Swift are torn down for every move they make being deemed ‘calculated’ or ‘bitchy’. Indeed, Taylor Swift’s timeline as an artist in recent years is a prime example of how these modern witch hunts targeting high-achieving women very much still exist, even if they don’t involve mass executions anymore. 

Cancel Culture, a movement very much debated in the current climate, can be turned very quickly into a veiled way of tearing down powerful women, as the negative connotations of power in women is so deeply embedded in society that we find it uncomfortable, even now, when a woman transgresses the social norms she is expected to uphold. #Taylorswiftisoverparty became the number one trending hashtag on twitter for days in July 2016 in what seemed like an unprovoked attack upon the multi Grammy-award winning artist. One tweet read: ‘Taylor Swift is the worst thing in a while to happen to the music industry. Everything about her is calculated and fake’. 

The internet witch hunt tearing down her hard-earned career was allegedly provoked by her falling out with Calvin Harris, over a gender pay gap over the song-writing of ‘This is What You Came For’, and their subsequent breakup. Even if one believes that Swift was in the wrong for this event, it is interesting to compare her behaviour to that of a male artist whose behaviour is far worse than hers. Liam Gallagher, for example, who called himself ‘one of the f**king true great rock’n’roll singers on the planet’, is labelled as a ‘comic genius’ for such comments, whilst one could not imagine the uproar if Taylor Swift, or any other female artist, had ditched the drilled-in notion of humility and modesty in making a comment such as this. Although the music industry’s treatment of women is notoriously unfair, this is beginning to change, with awards such as ‘Woman of the Decade’ being introduced to celebrate women’s achievements and protecting them from the abuse which they can face from the media. 

As Swift said in her acceptance speech for the award in 2019, ‘as a female in this industry, some people will always have slight reservations about you. Whether you deserve to be there. Whether your male producer or co-writer is the reason for your success. Or whether it was a savvy record label; it wasn’t’. Like the targeted Sarah Osbourne of the witch hunts, who died at the hands of a hostile society objecting to her financial ambitions, one can clearly see how this systemic gender-based bias still affects modern society with regards to contemporary successful businesswomen. It is encouraging, however, to see these powerful women push through media scrutiny, showing that these witch hunts are slowly becoming a thing of the past. 

Since coming through the other side of her mass online witch hunt in 2016 onto greater things, with her tenth studio album being released on the 21st October, Swift has fast become an icon and an inspiration to young girls who fear that reaching for heights of success is something that only a man can access. 

Categories
Culture

LET’S TALK: UPCOMING POP-UP EXHIBITION IN DURHAM

Let's Talk: Upcoming Exhibition in Durham

 

On the 18th June from 12-4pm, a free pop up exhibition and live performance is coming to Alington House (North Bailey) aiming to tackle harmful sexual attitudes and behaviours through various creative mediums.

 

The event is the culmination of Changing Relations’ ‘Let’s Talk About Sex’ project which began in September 2021. The project formed a Student Social Action Group, bringing together students aged 17-24 from Durham University, The Northern School of Art, and Bishop Auckland College. Working with the organisation, the group has commissioned artists to put together a zine – ‘You Should Be Flattered’ – and a free public exhibition as part of Durham’s annual Summer in the City festival. The outcome of the ‘Let’s Talk About Sex’ project was informed, in part, by drop in sessions that occurred at the three partner institutions. Data collected from surveys and conversations revealed reoccurring problems across these institutions, including issues with boundaries and consent. The exhibition hopes to facilitate open conversations about ways to change harmful sexual attitudes and behaviours, with the hope that young people will be able to develop and maintain healthier relationships of all kinds.

 

The art on show includes work from queer feminist artist Lou Brown, aka Goodstrangevibes, who deals with sex education, mental health, and body positivity. The experience  coming to terms with their queer identity and struggles with mental health have informed their creation of vibrant, innovative, and positive illustrations. Brown worked as the artist-in-residence for the initial phase of the project and was recommissioned by the Student Social Action Group to illustrate seven anonymous stories about positive experience of relationships of all kinds.

 

Alongside Lou Brown’s illustrations, work has been commissioned by other professional artists; Sofia Barton, a Newcastle-based Punjabi artist, whose multidisciplinary works take inspiration from nature and folklore; the bold and experimental work of Bettie Hope (aka Slutmouth) which questions social taboos; James Mernagh (aka Merny Wernz), an artist dealing with concepts of truth in an age of technology; and illustrator Beka Haigh, who brings art to life through performing live illustrations. These artists provide rich and varied techniques and mediums to approach the often tabooed subject matter.

 

At 2:30pm there will be a performance from the feminist theatre company ‘Menstrual Rage’ who in their work both challenge stereotypes and celebrate womanhood. Their work has included ‘Emma, a play by Emma Woodhouse’, a rethinking of Jane Austen’s novel. Following this, there will be an informal Q&A with a panel of the Student Social Action Group, Pollyanna Turner (Changing Relations’ Artistic Director), and other project partners. There will also be limited free copies of the zine available at the event, on sale afterwards through CR’s website.

 

The themes of this project are especially relevant in the context of Durham University’s issues with sexual misconduct. Following the shocking leaked Facebook messenger chat in 2020, in which ‘posh lads’ competed to ‘sleep with poorest girl on campus’, and the rise of spiking incidences in Autumn 2021, it is evident that the university needs to rethink attitudes towards sex and how these inform behaviours. All are welcome to come along to the ‘Let’s Talk’ exhibition and live performance on June 18th, any time between 12-4pm. Don’t miss out on the opportunity to see some great artwork and challenge your mindset.

By Isabel Davies-Jones

Categories
Perspective

Should Women Behave More like Men to have Application Success

By Ella Bishop.

Are graduate applications geared against women? The never-ending process of situational judgement tests, numerical reasoning, online tests, interviews, is draining enough without gender bias coming into it. Women hear well-meaning advice, such as ‘Men are assertive…be more confident…’, but is this just a thinly veiled version of telling women to ‘Be more like men’? Instead, should we be advocating shifting the system to value more stereotypically ‘female’ qualities? Of course, many companies assess applications ‘blind’, but this may not be enough, given that ultimately the goal is to reach an in-person assessment like an interview. Moreover, the debate ostensibly relies upon the massive generalisations and gender binaries of ‘male’ and ‘female’ characteristics, but so too does the gender bias of the system. Importantly, there are far more biases – racial, sexuality, gender expression – that happen within applications that are incredibly problematic and deserve great attention and endeavour to correct, however I am purely discussing the gender bias that occurs within graduate applications/tests/interviews. Here’s what companies from a range of industries had to say on the question of the difference between male and female performances within applications.

Numerical reasoning tests, such as the ones necessary for consultancy applications, are potentially the most unbalanced, with men often outperforming women. The very layout of the test appears to disadvantage women: multiple choice questions under timed conditions. Generally, men are more comfortable guessing the ones they have not had time to answer, whereas women are more likely to leave them blank. However, making an educated guess, especially if you can eliminate one or two options, yields higher results and thus men are more successful at it: women are less like to take this risk and it is to their detriment. Whilst on the whole, there was not a significant difference in performance based upon gender, the general feedback was that women could and should be promoting themselves more, being more explicitly proud of their achievements and being more assertive. In case study interviews, men will answer more confidently and will attempt to answer even if they are unsure, where woman can be more hesitant even if they have the right answer. Of course, alternatively, more nuanced and flexible opinions are also valuable, and the advice is definitely not to unthinkingly assert yourself if you know you are wrong, but to confidently present your ideas even if you are not sure.

Interestingly and perhaps predictably, the most generic, unhelpful response was from the investment sector, who gave an, ironically, unconfident, vague account of gender diversity improving. It was decided that generally, they think that last year the gender split at that stage of first interview was proportional to candidates they received, but there is a higher percentage of male applicants, so even by the first stage there tends to be an imbalance. Despite the lack of actionable advice, the evasive answer does suggest that there is an undercurrent of gender bias at graduate application level, even if unconscious, that is not being addressed or solved. But is it the responsibility of companies to level the playing field or does the weight fall upon women to be aware and make these changes?

The most balanced response, a middle way between both recognising bias and creating realistic ways to generate a fairer application system, came from within the consumer goods sector. They identified bias in the system they had set up and altered it, so that it produced a more balanced group of applicants. For example, when listing qualifications needed for a particular role, they will not ask for more than three or four, knowing that women are more likely to only apply to a job if they meet all of the criteria, whereas men are happier applying even if they only meet a few of the required qualifications. Additionally, they acknowledge that women are more likely to talk about their achievements in terms of what ‘we’ or ‘the team’ did or use verbiage such as ‘assisted’ or ‘helped’, rather than focusing on what ‘I’ accomplished. Therefore, they bring this awareness into an interview and practise asking what interviewees themselves did specifically.

Realistically, I think the responsibility remains upon women to make the changes that enable them to perform better in interviews. There is a clear variation of approaches towards gender bias across various industries and of course for the majority of jobs, hiring should not be based upon gender, but regardless of gender. But it is undeniable that this bias, as well as many others, does exist and therefore there is a need to equalise applications. There does not seem to be an overall, external pressure on companies to be levelling the playing field. Fundamentally, it rests on the individuals who are in positions of power within companies to be pushing for this internal change and it should be on all of our agendas for when we are able to make these changes ourselves, in order to help the generations that come after us.

Categories
Perspective

SIMPLY THE BEST

Simply the Best

Ben Hutchison


Simps are a much-maligned species. Long thought to operate only in the dark underbelly of society, Simps involuntarily came to the forefront of the public psyche in 2020: thank you, TikTok (- Of course we Simps proved to be the masters of our own downfall). One year on from this cultural boom, Simps continue to be the focus of worldwide persecution.

These days, in the naive Gen Z eye, anyone is a Simp. Yet the term that has now become a thoughtless, pejorative insult is at its very core much more nuanced, and much more noble.

I surveyed 100 generic people asking for words to describe a Simp. These were the most popular responses:
Incessant
Tenacious
Obsessive
Creepy
Simp
I then surveyed hordes of Simps, and they responded somewhat differently:
Loyal
Undervalued
Kind
Selfless
Handsome

A marked and frightening difference in perception. The second survey seems a little more accurate, don’t you think? I sure do. A sign that eyes need to be opened globally to combat negative stereotypes.

Offering a girl your jacket: selfless or ‘tenacious’? Exactly. Holding a door open for her: thoughtful or ‘obsessive’? Precisely. Peeling off your skin so she can use it as shelter for the night: ‘Creepy’ or kind? You get my point.

When you need us most, we are there. Always. The Nanny McPhee for disinterested women. The doormat to wipe your muddy espadrilles on. The kleenex to mop your glistening brow. The roll-on deodorant for all seasons. Need I continue?

So what if we listen to Cheerleader when we need motivation; so what if we prefer cool original Doritos to their oppressively hot and spicy siblings; so what if we use Simple hand moisturiser to combat our crippling eczema. Such is the path that we must tread.

If you boil it down, using Simp as a slur is sexist (and Simpist), and suggests an innate anxiety over female authority. So stop calling me a Simp, Mum.

To name but a few famous Simps: A list
The Proclaimers. 500 miles and counting.
Blunt (whose life is brilliant and love is pure.)
The Lumineers (Hey ho – talk about a life mantra)
O. Murs (Proving that fedoras hold a vital place in 21st Century normcore)
Kygo, for laying down the foundations.
Simple Minds. No explanation needed.

I heard about a Simp once, who, out walking with his mistress, saw a puddle up ahead. Instead of letting the lady get her feet splashed, he took off his coat and submerged his body in the water, forming a bridge for her to walk across. Sir Walter Raleigh eat your heart out. People laughed, but that sodden Simp had earned a glimmer of gratitude from the girl. Who’s laughing now.

So, fear not, fellow Simps. The waves of revolution are starting to roll in. The drums of defiance are a beating. Heed my call. Marches biweekly outside Spags.

“What do we want?!” I cry to my legions of typically loyal simps.
“Respect!” They mumble back sheepishly.
“When do we want it?!”
“At some point in the not too distant future!” Comes the unified reply.

Brothers in arms. Comrades fighting the good fight, fighting for the right to serve ceaselessly. Most importantly, we’re loud and proud, and no longer ashamed of who we are.

By
Anon.

The author preferred not to disclose his name for security reasons.

Appendix I: A Simp story…
By Tom Walton

It was a cold Tuesday; a Tuesday when I would revere my very nature. Being a subservient simp I agreed on a 3 mile walk with my superior, who for the purpose of this article must remain nameless. It was snowing. We’d been rambling for not nearly 10 minutes, when Hermione (whoops!) decided Stilettos were not the correct attire for such an outing. Obviously I agreed to swap my favourite Karimmors for the healed monstrosities: I was happy. Hermonie then decided that she was cold. I lent her my jacket. She was still cold. So I lent her my trousers to wear over her mini-skirt. But, still, she was cold. “I’m freezing, she whimpered.” So, I took off my cashmere socks (from the simp’s winter collection, Boden) and handed them over, gleefully. Alas, Hermonie was none the warmer. Suddenly I think I’m getting frostbite – standing prostrate in my singlet, mincing around the snow like an impalpable ostrich. Forgive my high register, I had several Iron Brus simply to pluck up enough courage to write this article, so, understandably, I’m feeling rather vibrant, if you’ll excuse my French. Eventually, however, I had no other option than to give up my singlet to the incessant Hermoanie – the singlet being the last bastion of a simp’s dignity. So now do I sit here, recovering from Hypothermia, questioning my existence, my worth, my meaning. I then uneasily cast aside my doubts, joyously recalling the worldwide success Simps have had.



Categories
Perspective

Why The Little Prince still matters as a grown-up

Why 'The Little Prince' still matters as a grown-up

Isabel Davies Jones

 

the origin story of quite a bad tattoo

About a week before I turned 20, I had a crisis. I was – and am – absolutely terrified of growing up.

On February 10, 2020, I would leave my teenage years behind me forever, without, I felt, having finished my course of adolescent rebellion. My 20th birthday loomed with my quarter-life crisis festering in the background, and I got a tattoo.

This tattoo has become the subject of much ridicule amongst my friends. The question tends to be: ‘what is that?’

Sometimes, if I can’t be bothered to explain, knowing that this question is a direct result of my lack of impulse control, I say I don’t know. Or I make something up. A bouncer once grabbed my wrist as I was queuing to get into a club. I thought I was about to be refused entry, but, to my surprise, he burst out laughing and said ‘what the fuck is that?’ When people ask if it’s a hat, I accept defeat and say ‘yes’. There have been many theories; a saucepan, a hill, and my favourite: a F1 racetrack. But it is none of those things.

What it is, is the outline of a boa constrictor digesting an elephant from The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Expuery.

This makes it worse than before, because now I am pretentious as well as having a stupid tattoo. But, I think, there was good reasoning behind it.

The Little Prince – for those who weren’t lucky enough to read it as a kid, or for those who did read it as a kid and need a reminder – is a children’s book about a pilot who crashes in the desert and meets a boy who has come to earth from a tiny planet. It’s a bit surreal. There’s very little plot. They just chat and the little prince tells the narrator about his travels. Over time, I have come back to this book again and again.

The tattoo on my wrist is taken from the opening which I will summarise badly now: The narrator speaks about when, at six years old, he read a book about the jungle. Inspired by the fact boa constrictors swallow prey whole and digest for six months, he attempts to draw a picture of a boa constrictor digesting an elephant. He proceeds to show it to the grown-ups… who think it is a picture of a hat. To show them what it actually is, he draws a diagram with the elephant inside the boa constrictor so that they might understand.

They advise him to stick to learning about the important things – ‘geography, history, arithmetic and grammar’ – and give up drawing.
Throughout this little book, there are constant references to the ‘grown-ups’. A ‘grown-up’ is simply someone who has lost their imagination. I got the picture on my wrist to try and remind myself not to become like the ‘grown-ups’ but I am still terrified of it.

I’m scared I’ll wake up and be 30 years old and my friends will be having children, going to pilates classes, moving out to Surrey. We’ll drink a glass of wine with dinner, not a bottle, and they’ll talk about how badly we once behaved. Will they still want to stay up chatting until 4am about ideas for a podcast that will never be made? Will they want to climb into fountains in Rome in the middle of the night? Will they want to wear outrageous costumes to dinner for no apparent reason? Will I?

I don’t know if I’m paranoid, or if I can already see this element
dissolving around me.

But maybe I am getting it wrong. Being a ‘grown-up’ might not all lie in what you do. How much of it is really embedded in childish misbehaviour? Do we have to lose the silliness to grow up?

There are many sections in The Little Prince that are important to me. The writing is simple but beautiful, the kind of book you can enjoy at any age. There’s no shame in picking up a book for children. It won’t take you long. I think this extract from chapter 4 is good at summing up one of the big points Antoine de Saint-Expury makes:

‘If you were to say to the grown-ups: “I saw a beautiful house made of rosy brick, with geraniums in the windows and doves on the roof,” they would not be able to get any idea of that house at all. You would have to say to them: “I saw a house that cost $20,000.” Then they would exclaim: “Oh, what a pretty house that is!”

Just so, you might say to them: “The proof that the little prince existed is that he was charming, that he laughed, and that he was looking for a sheep. If anybody wants a sheep, that is a proof that he exists.” And what good would it do to tell them that? They would shrug their shoulders, and treat you like a child. But if you said to them: “The planet he came from is Asteroid B-612,” then they would be convinced, and leave you in peace from their questions.

They are like that. One must not hold it against them. Children should always show great forbearance toward grown-up people.’

One of the things that I am most scared of now, a year and a bit on, is the future me looking back at the way I am now and thinking that I was naive. That because I was only on the cusp of adulthood, I couldn’t understand what the realities and responsibilities of being a ‘grown-up’ were. I don’t want that to happen. I can take feeling embarrassed about hair disasters, fashion choices, and a bad work ethic, but not this.

I remember thinking as the tattoo needle was in my skin, that it was meant to be a pre-emptive ‘fuck you’ to future me if she ever becomes too caught up with ‘grown-up’ things. If she thinks it’s childish one day, there’s not much she can do, apart from getting it removed, (but I know enough about myself now to assume that I’ll always be too lazy to do that.)

Now, when I face my fear of getting older, I look at my wrist and try to remember that the thing I am really scared of has nothing to do with age – that being ‘grown-up’ is a state of mind that you can choose.

All in all, 20 quid well spent.