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CONTENTS

ADVERT

EDITOR’S NOTE

Welcome to the first issue of FANGZINE, a collection of short stories, silly articles and general tripe, with some serious social commentary thrown in from time to time as well.

2016, by all accounts, was not a good year. Countless celebrity icons kicked the bucket, an unelected uber-bitch seized power in Westminster, the high watermark point of the post-war neoliberal consensus was realised with Brexit, and the bloke from The Chase was the highest selling recording artist in Britain. Oh yeah… Donald Trump happened, too.

So, with all these horrors behind us, can we take comfort in the fact that this is a new year, a fresh start for the world and for ourselves? Well, no. There’s nothing remarkable about it being 2017, it’s just an arbitrary rotation of the world around the sun. Bad shit’s still going to happen, isn’t it? Come on now, really- don’t kid yourself.

With that in mind, see this zine in a way as a distraction from the terrible events that this year will no doubt spew forth. This is a celebration of the creative, comedic and trivial side of life, so please, read on at your leisure and enjoy!

2016 OBITUARY PAGE

TOM INVESTIGATES

CAPS-LOCK ON: A NEW HAT

The first of a dark trilogy, heartbreakingly based on true events and personal experience, by Stephen Spiers

Weeks and weeks ago, in a galaxy far, far up north, a troubled young soul was drinking his way through Leeds on a warm summer’s evening. Little did he know that he was about to be consumed by a vicious addiction from which few, if any, have been known to emerge from. Read on and take heed, for the events in the following tale could happen to anyone…

“Whose cap is this?”

“Dunno mate, someone must’ve left it.”

‘Jackpot’ I thought to myself as I stumbled from inside one of the many nameless pubs on the Otley Run’s agenda into the balmy late summer Leeds air.

“Ere, they’re all over here, you can ask.”- Jack was gesturing towards a low wall where the rest of our troupe were sitting, having a smoke.

A hat is a wonderful thing on a night out. I’d never really liked wearing hats, even at a young age, but after 5 pints and a couple of ‘fat trebbies’, such an accessory can provide one with endless fun. Drunken girls’ attentions can be caught, hilarious Jay-Z impressions can be made, and if nothing else, a little warmth can be provided at 4 in the morning when you’re sobered up and shivering, waiting for that taxi that should have arrived 20 fucking minutes ago. These were the kind of thoughts that were running through my mind as I shouted back over my shoulder:

“Fuck ‘em, I wanna wear it”

With that, I placed the plain black hat on my head and strode purposefully towards the next pub. It’d just be a laugh for one night, I thought. If only I knew of the descent into a world of addiction and self-loathing upon which I had just embarked.

The very next morning I was frantically scrambling around my room, packing my bags for a trip to Budapest with some friends, and generally regretting my decision to go out the night before. With my head pounding, and all of about 3 hours of alcohol-induced sleep under my belt, my newly acquired piece of headgear was the furthest thing from my mind. However, after several minutes of rooting through various items of my wardrobe looking for this and that, I found myself face to face (brim) with their newest addition: the little black baseball cap. There it sat, peering up at me from underneath a pile of unwashed clothing. ‘Go on, pack it’- I heard an unfamiliar voice in my head- ‘You’re going on Holiday, everyone wears hats on holiday’. Why was I persuading myself to take this hat? I didn’t even like wearing caps, and never had, plus I looked like a twat in it anyway. My head was round enough already without removing my poorly-styled quiff from the equation. ‘You’ll probably not even wear it’. I don’t know where it came from, but an unfathomable urge to pack it suddenly came over me. I grabbed it, shoved it in my bag and set off to the railway station.

12 hours, 3 trips to Ryanair’s customer service desk and a flat tyre later, we were dropping our bags off in our tiny Budapest apartment and getting ready to hit the bevs to kick off the holiday. Just as I was slipping on my trusty denim jacket, I heard the voice again- ‘Wear the hat. Go on, just once, just to see what it’s like’. I span round and sure enough there it was, barely visible, lurking in the murky depths of my holdall. And then it was gone. I stood for a moment, confused. Had I actually packed it? Or had I just imagined the whole thing? Then I re-focused. There were more important matters at hand. I could solve this mystery later, during time that couldn’t be better spent drinking copious amounts of beer. Invigorated by the promise of alcohol, I marched from the kitchen into the hallway where the others were waiting, wallet in hand.

No sooner had I stepped into the hall however, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the wall and my heart sank. I turned and stared in dismay at myself staring right back at me with an equally horrified expression. There was no wild imagination at work here, and no magical disappearing hat either. I was wearing it. And not only was I wearing it, I was wearing it backwards. I looked like a cross between one of those chavs I’d seen walking around Bradford in their matching tracksuit tops and bottoms, gobbing on the pavement as they went; and one of those hipster roadmen you can find populating the streets of Leeds, trying their best to look cool by wearing decidedly uncool clothing. I had become everything that I hate in this world. But that was just the thing. I didn’t hate it. I fucking loved it.

Make sure you grab the next issue of FANGZINE to find out what happens next to our unfortunate, newly becapp’d friend!

HOLLY PIECE

After having volunteered at the Ipswich Night Shelter during the winter of 2015, and spending a night sleeping rough on the streets of Norwich in 2016 to raise money for the St. Martin’s Housing Trust, Holly Free offers an insight into the plight of the homeless in Britain today, and voices her concern over the apparent lack of empathy the general public shows towards them.

As I walk through the streets of Norwich at 1am, I glance to those not at immediate eye level. There seems to be some form of confrontation between a homeless individual and a Tesco security guard. I walk over, and the man appears to be on Spice, known as the most popular legal high that became illegal in May 2016. The security guard is visibly angry, and I am immediately shocked by his threatening stance towards the man who is barely able to stand, talk or function like a human being. The individual is not being aggressive, however the guard is using unnecessarily strong language towards him. The guard, in a dire need to justify his actions, turns to me – “He’s like this every fucking week. I’m sick of it.” Unable to bite my tongue, I respond hastily with “well, that quite clearly shows he needs help, don’t you think?” I want to educate this man and make him question what he knows about this individual’s life, and how he has ended up in this situation… But I receive a response in the form of a patronising laugh and a filthy look, and my own rage silences me.

Everyone around me is mute, and all I can hear is my thoughts rage. An anxious episode? Silently raging at the stigma and ignorance surrounded by poverty and drug addiction? The sudden realisation of throwing away money on alcohol that I will most likely vomit later? All I do know is that the shame I feel is becoming unbearable, and I tuck my money into the pocket of the man who is now physically inept on the floor with three other homeless individuals. For the rest of the night, I feel consumed by worry for the man and his friends, unable to refocus my thoughts on having a night out. “Poor privileged me” I say to myself.

After volunteering at the Ipswich Night Shelter in winter 2015, I witnessed the harsh reality of homelessness, and I cannot sugar-coat it for the sake of those it may upset whom have a roof over their head, food in the cupboard and a general sense of stability. With the high probability of an individual without a home having mentally ill health, distressing family circumstances, or are trying to cope with a bereavement and addiction, it is so much more than just being a nameless face on the ground. It is not knowing when your next meal will be, or if you will ever have a home again. It is the fear of being judged, of ‘faking it’ or being labelled as that ‘helpless heroin addict’ and nothing more. It is being a statistic, not a human being. It is selling The Big Issue and being told to ‘get a real job’ by passers-by. Sometimes, it is going to sleep praying you will not wake up and being disappointed when you do. It is watching some of your friends die. It is crippling stomach cramps after weeks without a substantial meal, it is fatigue, and in worst cases, it is death.

I watch people crowding around sale areas of shops like vultures to roadkill, and most likely due to my own illnesses, my tunnel vision only enables me to see the negative. Money being spent on luxuries that we don’t really need, or actually want. I’m no angel myself – when pay day comes I act like the richest person alive, and then I realise the shit I have bought wasn’t needed at all. I’m not trying to deny people of their fun or own personal enjoyment, but there are times when all I want is for society as a whole to take a step back and look at the somewhat useless things we invest in.

When observing people making snide remarks whilst walking past someone who is quite clearly wasting away, mentally and physically, I wonder if deep down, it bothers them as much as it bothers me. Entering a dissociative state, I question whether anyone out there wants to genuinely help, or if it really is every man for themselves. “You have to cut yourself off from it” “You’ve done all you can” “Focus on yourself” “You’re too kind” Am I? Or is it not basic humanity to care for those in need and help where help is necessary? Maybe my immaturity and mental illnesses warp my idea of compassion… But I don’t want to walk on by, and I certainly don’t want to “draw the line somewhere”. The word compassion, to me, seems to have lost its true meaning, since now it is used to describe random once in a while acts of kindness. Don’t get me wrong, a little kindness is better than none at all, but surely in this increasingly poverty stricken society what we need is a continuity of care if this epidemic is ever to get better.

This doesn’t mean giving your money away to every homeless person you see. It doesn’t mean buying food for every homeless person you see. It can be as simple as a five minute chat, human contact being one of the biggest luxuries for someone without a home or a family to talk to. You never really consider what that contact can do for someone who has been alienated from the rest of society. You might just be saving a life.

TOM PIECE

MUSIC SECTION

THE WHO’S WHO OF NORWICH

CHET INTERVIEW

REVIEW OF BAND

JEM’S JOKES

BACK PAGE

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