_____ _ _ __ _ __ ____ | ___|(_) ___ | |_ / _| _ _ | | ___ / _| | __ ) ___ ___ ___ | |_ | |/ __|| __|| |_ | | | || | / _ \ | |_ | _ \ / _ \ / _ \/ __| | _| | |\__ \| |_ | _|| |_| || | | (_) || _| | |_) || __/| __/\__ \ |_| |_||___/ \__||_| \__,_||_| \___/ |_| |____/ \___| \___||___/ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ISSUE #6 SEPTEMBER 2004 ***THE TIPS FOR TEENS ISSUE*** 1. Editor's notes 2. "Stay Together for the Kids" By Graeme Watson 3. "The Consequences of Watching Too Much Sex and the City" By Groupie 4. "RE: Daria" By M. Cescher 5. "The School Stopper's Textbook: A Guide To Disruptive Revolutionary Tactics for High- Schoolers" By unknown members of the Youth International Party (The Yippies) 6. "Peter Shelley" By Patrick Marber 7. About Fistful of Bees ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Editor's Notes: Welcome to issue 6 of FoB. Here's some stuff you should know: 1. I don't recommend doing any of the things outlined in the Yippie article. Use your common sense, kids. But hey, it's funny to think about, isn't it? 2. There is nothing written by me in this issue. I am sloth. 3. Girls Room zine is awesome, you should order yourself a copy or three from their website. 4. RE: Peter Shelly – please don't sell me out to the copyright police, I just thought it was a good story and wanted to share it with people. And you really should buy a copy of *Speaking With the Angel*, especially if you're like me in that you like fiction but don't have the attention span or motivation to read entire novels. Short stories are good that way. 5. The theme for FoB7 will probably have something to do with working and careers. Submit accordingly. Love, FoB xoxo ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Say Together for the Kids" By Graeme Watson ------------- When I was fifteen years of age, given to dressing in army surplus combat trousers and oversized black t-shirts, two home-grown bands provided inspiration to the small but moody populace of Larne Rock City. The first was Therapy?, who at the time were basking in the glory that followed the release of Troublegum (arguably one of the best British albums to come out during the grunge era). The second was Throat, who at that time -- despite still being at school -- looked certain to follow in Therapy?'s footsteps. But a decade later -- despite frequent four K approvals from all the major British rock magazines, support from big name bands, American tours and a Kerrang TV-friendly cover of the Osmonds classic, Crazy Horses -- the big- time has not been forthcoming. This morning, at work, I asked Russ, bass-player and library user, how things were going. H is reply was pained and hesitant. "We've split up." For a few seconds I put myself in his shoes, and flinched at the thought of having to accept the unequivocal Death of youthful ambition, and come to terms with the realization that this shitty job you have working the night shift in a 24 Hour Garage to support your 'real' job, is in fact YOUR REAL JOB. YOU ARE NOT A ROCK STAR. You are a surly-faced dispenser of limp, microwaved Cornish Pasties at the mercy of hungry motorists and hardcore chav scum. I was reminded of a conversation I had yesterday with a friend, who spotted another old school associate with a taste for the celebrity lifestyle -- Popstars: The Rivals winner and One True Voice loser, Keith Semple. Imagine what it would be like to be selected from thousands of applicants, get to the finals and win; to work with Pete Waterman, meet TV's Fearne Cotton and Popworld's Simon Amstall; date that Brummie Pop Idol reject with the wonky face, and live, for a while, in an expensive London apartment. Imagine reaching that level of fame, to be on the cusp of establishing yourself as a household name, to be given access to the VIP suite at Stringfellows, to rub shoulders with supermodels, proper pop stars and TV's Lorraine Kelly, only to find yourself, one year later, un-mobbed, buying a brush from Poundstretcher on a Wednesday afternoon. Fans of Saturday morning kids' shows may remember the Spice Girls at the height of their fame, being asked by Philip Schofield how they became successful. Their general advice was, 'if you want something badly enough, you'll get it'. That's bollocks. As these case studies have shown, even if you really want it, even if you have the talent, the work ethic, and the facility for shameless self- promotion, the overwhelming odds are that NO, you won't get it. And even if you do seemingly get it, the chances are high that your star will quickly fade. Your access to Stringfellows denied, TV's Lorraine Kelly a memory, and the wonky-faced minor celebrity from Pop Idol refusing to return your calls. Is there a moral to this story, you ask? The point, I suppose, is that while we should follow our dreams, we should concentrate more on relishing the journey, with all its twists and turns and highs and lows. Life is absurd, and I guess the best we can do is enjoy the exhilaration of the ride, and try our best to keep alive a sense of playfulness and humour. Failing that, one can sometimes take solace in the fact that life is not unlike my new haircut. Crap. But short. ------------- Graeme Watson is a 23 year old librarian/sex toy for the elderly, living in Larne, Northern Ireland. He does not want to be famous. And anyone who says he does is lying. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "The Consequences of Watching Too Much Sex and the City" By Groupie ------------- I like sex. No surprise there, hey? But what I don't like is the stigma that is attached to girls who like sex. A guy can go out and chase tail all he wants and nobody gives a second thought about it. A girl who goes out and brings home guys from the bar is by default aggressive, desperate, easy, slutty, etc, etc, the list goes on. What I'm fascinated by is how this double standard still comes to exist in our society. Hasn't Sex and the City taught us anything? With equality between genders arguably settled in most aspects of our lives, why are we so far behind when it comes to sex? After a few hours of asking everyone that I cam across his or her opinion on this idea, nobody had a clear answer for me. Basically when it comes to putting out, a guy deserves a high five for getting some, while a girl receives shame for giving it, but nobody can explain how or why this is (other than blaming it on society). The majority of the guys I asked said that in most cases they wouldn't call a girl again after she slept with him on the first night. Of course they tried to justify themselves by insisting that it depends on the circumstances and the girl, but in most cases, the girl was tainted. When I asked a few girls why they wait to have sex with a guy, the most common answer was because she didn't want him thinking badly of her. Guys want sex all the time, girls aren't any different, but when it comes to the girl expressing the urge as much as the guy, she is considered depraved. It is her who is marked with disgrace for sexual activity, not him. Now, when I take a guy home, it's because I'm having fun with him, and I figure what better way to end a night of having fun than to get naked? The way I see it, sex makes us both feel good, so there shouldn't be a problem. I don't feel that because I like to have sex and I follow my libidinal urges I should be persecuted and he shouldn't. When it's two perfectly lucid and responsible adults making the decision together to have sex, there shouldn't be any stigma attached to it. I obviously don't think badly of a guy because he puts out, so what gives him or anyone else the right to think badly about me. All that I can come up with is that sexual roles are so ingrained in us through society that we don't even question them. In the perfectly stereotypical world, the girls who wait to have sex would make ideal wives and mothers, and the girls who put out would make great mistresses. A girl can be either one or the other, but not both. The male mind subconsciously categorizes women into these roles, and that's how they make their decision. In the most chauvinistic (and sadly for centuries the most prominent) society, the women's role is to serve the man. Unfortunately, no matter how hard our society strives to overcome this idea, it is entrenched into our underlying sense of the social order, if no longer in the workplace then certainly still in the bedroom. The only way to overcome the unfair oppression is for the idea of gender to be eradicated completely, which is just a ridiculous concept. Therefore, since our case is hopeless anyway, and because the only thing keeping us randy girls from what we want is the other people's opinions, I say we rebel against the norm and do whatever the hell we want, whenever we want, with whomever we want. This includes having sex or not having sex. Just make sure the choice is your own, regardless of the other people's expectations, or any stigmas that may result. If the Sex and the City girls can get away with it on television, then hopefully reality isn't too far behind. ------------- Groupie lives in Edmonton, Alberta. She is part of a collective of ladies who put out (ha!) an awesome sex zine called Girls Room. This article originally appeared in issue #6: "Nine Out of Ten Dentists Say We're Not Whores", which is very reasonably priced at a mere $2 ppd. You can get your very own copy via The Girls' website: http://members.shaw.ca/GirlsRoom/ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "RE: Daria" By M. Cescher ------------- For some of us who were raised on Sesame Street, we eventually started to believe that the world and life would actually be like that. An urban anarchist commune composed of all races and Muppets singing, and sharing, and cooperating. Such ideals were not meant to last in the world we currently inhabit. So we were a bit more wary when we entered that teenage pubic era when everything suddenly got very very complicated. And adults always had such helpful gleaming jewels of wisdom like "just be yourself"...And just who is that supposed to be?! I don't have one of those yet! Their credibility was shot. Clearly these people who had botched the paradise of Muppets and spelling songs didn't know what the hell they were doing. It would ultimately be up to us to make our way and create ourselves and our values. When I saw Daria on Mtv for the first time, I was amazed at how well they had captured that time in my life (and perhaps more amazed that Mtv would actually run something so savagely honest). The voices, the character design, the opening song. All are an abrasive assault on the senses. Each character (particularly the adults), are deeply flawed, suffering, and attempting to hide it. And Lawndale HS is EveryHS, where life revolves around the imaginary currencies of "cool" and "popular". The ones who can best keep up with the bony airbrushed girls in the magazines are the most desperately desired. Daria clings to her ideals despite the consequences in an environment where conformity is rewarded and ignorance is bliss. She knows that "cool" is just an idea that someone made up to make money, and she isn't about to be a party to that. Daria manages to stay detached, finding humour in her disgust for her peers. And she muddles through her high school career as her insight and bonds of friendship grow, and somehow she miraculously remains true to herself and her values. There should never be any shame in hating your world and being miserable, and you're NEVER the only one. And if the world pushes on you, then you protect yourself. High school does end and there comes a day when you need never go back. And yes things happen to you there that will leave powerful lasting marks. And if you play it right, those marks make you stronger and smarter without making you bitter. HS is 4 years and your total life expectancy is around 77. So there's still a lot left. ------------- M. Cescher is an international powerbroker, gentleman thief, and eccentric. Based on an island off the Netherlands coast, he directs his network of agents and tries on costumes in front of a giant mirror. He has occasionally served as creative consultant for James Bond films. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "The School Stopper's Textbook: A Guide To Disruptive Revolutionary Tactics for High-Schoolers" By unknown members of the Youth International Party (The Yippies) ------------- The following section is reprinted from the 'School Stoppers Textbook', a small section of the 'How to Revolt Handbook', the fourth book of.... 'The Blacklisted News', available for 13 bucks from the Youth International Party (Yippies). OK here we go... 81 ways to trash your school. Liberate your life -- smash your school! The public schools are slowly killing every kid in them, stifling their creativity and individuality making them into non- persons. If you are a victim of this one of the things you can do is fight back. This chapter is not written for people who are not yet sure whether school is good or bad. It is written for students that realize the way that compulsory education and grades destroy the natural curiosity so many children feel... who realize how the tracking system keeps the poor people and minorities in our society on the bottom while keeping the rich and powerful on the top... who realize the danger of teaching complete obedience to authority and who are fed up with the racism and sexism in schools. It is written for students who have 'gone through channels' trying to correct these problems and who are tired of helplessly waiting while the schools destroy more and more minds each day. It is written for young people who realize that because they are trapped in school they don't have a chance to learn what they need to know to create a free and good life. Before trying any of the ideas in here you should think about the effect they will have in view of the situation in your particular area. Not all of them will be effective at all times in all areas. What You Can Do: 1. Get a syringe (minus needle) or similar device. Mix both tubes of epoxy glue with a little rubbing alcohol. You now have about half an hour to fill locks, door jambs, etc. before glue hardens. If you can't get the epoxy glue and syringe a tube of airplane cement can also be used although it is not as permanent. 2. An alternative use for the syringe is to pretend to shoot up while a teacher is watching. If they speak to you tell them you have to do it because school is so horrible. 3. Call the school and leave the phone off the hook. The way some (but not all) phone systems work this will tie up their phone for as long as yours is off the hook. 4. Protest U.S. aid to reactionary regimes abroad by defoliating plants around the school or by digging a bomb crater on the front lawn. When the ecology freaks complain ask them where they were when the U.S. was doing the same thing to Indochina. 5. Draw or paste something 'obscene' on pull-down wall maps or movie screens. 6. Get some of the punch cards that your school uses for taking attendance. Punch new holes in them either with a keypunch machine or a screwdriver. Then switch the cards with others wherever they are stored. If you can figure out the code the cards are punched by this has even more possibilities. You can often be just as effective without actually repunching the cards by redistributing them a few days after you collect them (particularly when they're used for attendence). 7. Start an information service to get new students opinions and warnings about the teachers and administrators before enrolment day. 8. Bad food? Have a good old fashioned food riot. 9. In gym classes or in hallways between classes have massive searches for 'lost' contact lenses telling people not to walk through the hall or 'you might step on it'. 10. If your school still has a dress code protest it having everyone do something disruptive that does not violate the code. For example, dye your hair green with food colouring. 11. Free all the animals in the biology classroom. 12. Write a 'consumer report' on the 'education' you've been consuming. Distribute it to parents at school functions. 13. Periodically have students go to the office to have some rumour confirmed or denied. 14. Perform citizen's arrests of administrators for destroying the minds of youth then telephone the police to come and take the criminals into custody. (This would be an excellent guerrilla theatre action). 15. Rip off dishes and silverware from the cafeteria, towels from the gym, stencils and paper from the duplicating room, layout equipment from the art and drafting departments, tools from the wood shop, and light bulbs from the sockets. Give them to a needy movement group. 16. During lunch turn on and light all the gas jets in the science labs. 17. Demand to see your school records on file. (Everyone can see them.) 18. You can make a very effective fuse by inserting a non-filter cigarette in a book of matches so that it touches the head of some matches and will ignite them when it burns down that far. Then loosly crumple paper around the matches and cigarettes so that they are hidden. Toss it in a wastebasket or any other area with a lot of papers preferably in the office. It takes about 5 minutes to ignite -- by then you can be on the other side of the building. Practice this at home before trying it. 19. Have giant coughing or sneezing epidemics in class or study hall. 20. Rub lipstick, glue, Vaseline, or shit onto the doorknobs of the school's administrative offices. 21. Swallow some snake bite antidote then walk into the principal's office. The antidote (most types are harmless -- make sure you get that kind) will make you vomit. Do so all over his carpet, desk, clothing, etc. then apologize profusely. 22. Pick up some dog training liquid at any pet store -- it smells like concentrated piss. And if you can't figure out what to do with that then you shouldn't be reading this. 23. Remove contents of teacher's mailboxes. Print up everything that's confidential or interesting. 24. Leave notes and hints that 'Tuesday's the day'. 25. Impersonate parental voices and make irate phone calls to the office. 26. Make a super stink bomb out of Hydrogen Sulphide and put somewhere in the ventilating system. This has cleared school buildings for days. 27. If your school has a suspended ceiling (a ceiling composed of rectangles or squares resting on a frame so that the rectangles can be pushed up) you can put a dead fish -- or anything else -- above them. Or put it into empty lockers and glue them shut. 28. Put signs on your locker saying 'this locker will self-destruct if opened for inspection'. 29. Give your school library a subscription to a good underground newspaper from your area and insist that they make it available to students. 30. Print up false notices frequently using the same format as the school uses and distribute them to the teachers' mailboxes. Eventually they'll never know what to believe. 31. Make your own passes, forms, tickets, etc. or lift them out of teachers' desks. 32. Need a signature? Collect things that have teachers' signatures on them. Paste them all down on a sheet of white paper and either Xerox or print up a bunch of copies. Forge when useful. (When getting started you might put a piece of carbon paper under the signature with the carbon paper facing down on what you want signed. Then trace over the name with a steady relaxed hand. Practice makes perfect.) 33. Do some revolutionary wall painting. All you need is a can of spray paint (red?) plus a little imagination and courage. Then write your favourite slogans on walls, sidewalks, blackboards, etc. If you are a perfectionist you can make a stencil, but that limits the size of what you can do. WEAR GLOVES or you will certainly get telltale paint on your spraying finger. 34. Are certain teachers or administrators misbehaving? Print up a rat sheet with their names and telephone numbers and distribute it. Now students can call up at any time and reprimand them -- 3:00 AM for example. Also you could order them pizzas... plumbers... think big! 35. Break into your school at night and burn it down. To get inside you can either hide in the building during the day and wait until the janitor leaves (know in advance what time that is), or come in later at night and either force your way through the door, find an open window, or break a window (see Monroe Mindfuck). If you use the latter method do it a few hours or days in advance so you don't get caught if it attracts attention. Be careful not to leave fingerprints -- wear gloves all the time if possible. Once inside make sure the walls will light well by placing loose paper or wood around them, or squirting lighter fluid, kerosene, or gasoline onto them. If a lot of burnable boxes are stacked in one area spread them around. Start the fire from the inside of the building so it will take longer before it can be seen from the windows. Make sure the fire has a way to travel from one burnable area to another. Of course you should wear dark clothes and know exactly where you are going when you split. 36. Get hold of a film to be shown at a school assembly and splice in parts of another movie of your own choosing before the assembly. A little imagination on your part will make for an unforgettable day. 37. Clog up the drains of sinks with clay then turn on the water after everyone leaves school. 38. Teachers often leave gradebooks, conduct sheets, and attendance records unguarded. Take every chance to help yourself. 39. Put up posters all around the school. To make them stick permanently use Pet evaporated milk for glue. 40. You could ice-pick tires as a warning -- but make sure you have a total enemy before you put sugar in their gas tank. 41. Start wailing in the halls. 42. If you can't find any skunks, let chickens loose in the school... or pigeons. 43. Create the 'WEB OF THREAD' in your classroom. Have everybody in your class bring a spool of thread -- with extras for people who forget. Tie your thread onto something and pass the spools around till you run out, winding thread around everything. (It is best to pick on one of your more dull-witted teachers for this one). Explain that you did it in the name of art. 44. Carry and pretend to sell oregano rolled in papers and aspirin with the name filed off. 45. Put Calcium Carbide (available in some parts of the country as 'Gopher- Go', also available in some hobby and joke shops) in a gelatin capsule and flush down a toilet or sink. Calcium Carbide reacts violently with water, quickly producing large amounts of HIGHLY FLAMMABLE gas and bursting pipes, etc. as soon as the water dissolves the capsule. 46. Ride a bicycle down a busy hall. 47. Save your book reports and essays. Give them to other students to use next year or re-use them yourself with different teachers. 48. Play with lighting and microphone controls during 'important' assemblies. 49. Flush things down the toilets (preferably faculty johns) like balloons filled with air, baseballs, M80's, huge amounts of toilet paper, etc. Then build an ark. 50. Start a campaign to have the letter Z appear everywhere as the mark of angry students. 51. You can short-circuit the school's wiring by taking a regular plug with a short cord attached. Connect the 2 wires with a switch between them. Plug it in, turn the switch on, and you've blown a fuse. Turn it off, pull it out, and try another. You don't have to use the switch, but if you don't sometimes the current will arc and weld the plug to the socket. 52. Set up a fake school and hire away the lousy teachers -- or put up notices inviting the entire school to a going away party for a teacher who isn't really leaving. 53. Read the school budget. Reprint and distribute a list of the stupid expenditures. 54. Take booze to lunch in a thermos and pass it around. 55. During some important test (SAT/ACT/etc. ) on each subject have some student who is good at that subject stand up and read the correct answers for as long as possible. When they're finished or silenced have someone else stand up and do the same thing. The test results will be worthless and it will have to be given over at great cost to the school. 56. Take down the American flag in front of the school and put up one of your own. The best way to do this is to lower the flag that's already up replace it with your flag and cut the rope about a foot below where the flag is attached. Then tie a slipknot around the other end of the rope that is hanging down to raise the flag. At this point there is no way your flag can be lowered without someone climbing up the flagpole. 57. Put alarm clocks in various lockers set on 'loudest'. Set the alarm clocks so they will go off about every 10 minutes then close and lock the lockers. 58. Have a group of people march around the school with a flag singing the Star Spangled Banner. If the administration tries to punish you telephone your local radio stations and patriotic groups and complain that your school is being run by pinkos. 59. In a class where there is a rule against chewing gum have everyone blow a bubble at the same time one day. 60. Many schools have automatic sprinkler systems which go off automatically when sensors in the ceiling feel too much heat. Find the sensors and hold up a match to them. 61. Persuade the graduating class to use their senior gift money for something useful or subversive. 62. Reprint School Stoppers Textbook in your underground paper or on a leaflet or buy bulk copies and pass them around. 63. Demand that all equipment being stored rather than being used be made available to students. 64. If your school won't have a teacher evaluation make up some forms and do it yourself. Compile the result and publicize them to students, faculty, school board, and community. 65. Use your 'free choice' book reports, term papers, etc. to read revolutionary literature and further the political education of you and your class. 66. Have a student lie on the ground. When a teacher comes scream 'he jumped' and point to the roof or third floor window. Mumble 'Fred dared him' or 'Maybe it was LSD.' 67. Make an address list of disliked adults in your school. Answer sex ads for them -- or order them a few gross items (C.O.D. of course). 68. Toss handfuls of BB's on the floors of busy halls, assemblies, graduation ceremonies, weddings, funerals. 69. Steal cafeteria trays or plates, burn large holes in them, and turn them into the school washer saying 'I guess the food did it'. 70. Leave phoney letters of resignation from teachers or administrators on the principal's desk. 71. Get a small group to always carry screwdrivers and slowly dismantle the school. 72. Lots of bomb scares tend to break up the boredom especially during exams or on beautiful days. 73. Photograph teachers and administrators constantly -- even without film. 74. If you've got the nerve piss in your pants while giving an oral report. 75. Splice into your school's intercom system (from a remote hidden spot). Now you have your own guerrilla radio station. Play on! 76. Drop large bottles of ether in science class. 77. Hang your teacher! Hang a hangman's noose from a tree - make a dummy and hang the dummy from the noose. Pin notes on it like 'Weatherbee in '73.' To add realism put holes in the body then let dilute ketchup trickle down. 78. Newspaper stands in buildings are usually left unguarded. Take out papers and replace with rotten comics or papers. 79. Put a rotten apple or stale sandwich on teacher's desk. 80. If your school intercom has phones that connect into the intercom switchboard, put a small magnet either where the cord comes out of the handset or in the part where you hear. If the intercom just has a speaker, put the magnet near or on one of the electrical connections of the speaker. In either case it will short out the system. It may take weeks for them to find the trouble. 81. Take the door of the administration offices off its hinges but leave it standing there so that when the principal tries to open the door in the morning it will have a slightly crushing effect. ------------- This article has been circulated via the internet and various other means for decades. If you want more info about the Yippies (and you should), check out this site: http://free.freespeech.org/yippie/ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Peter Shelley" By Patrick Marber ------------- Where was I when Kennedy got shot? Between my mother's legs, getting born. Georgia thought this was the coolest thing. It's summer, 1978. We're both fourteen. We're at the same school in the same class. She hates me. Because she does. She's got three items of clothing: a cotton slash-neck dress down to her knees and a pair of black brogue lace- ups. She says underwear's for hippies. She has three dresses: one black, one pink, one white. Each month she dyes her hair one of these colours. She also has different coloured laces. I like her best when she has white hair, a black dress and pink laces. That's what she's wearing the day school breaks up. I've gone to the record shop to buy the new Buzzcocks single. Last winter they'd done a single called 'Orgasm Addict'. The sleeve was screaming yellow with a collage of a naked woman on it. She had mouths on her breasts and instead of her head she had an iron. If I could be anyone, I'd be Pete Shelley. Georgia's coming out as I go in. 'What've you bought?' She says, 'New Buzzcocks single.' '"Love You More"?' And she says, 'Yeah… you like Buzzcocks?' And I say, 'What's more, they like *me*.' She smiles a bit, showing her funny, gappy teeth and I wonder what it would be like to slither my tongue around in her mouth. She's not so good looking but she has this way of being her which is just her thing. I'm no oil painting either, I suppose. She thinks about something and then she says, 'Do you want to come back to my house and listen to it?' I say, 'Maybe,' and she says, 'Well, fuck off then.' I say 'Maybe I will fuck off,' and she says, 'If you want to with me I live above that pub.' She points. 'The Swan?' I say. 'Go to the black door at the side and push the buzzer saying "Murphy".’ So I say, 'OK, I'll just go and buy it myself.' And she says, 'OK', and I say, 'See you.' I go into the shop and buy the record and I also buy her a copy of 'Gary Gilmore's Eyes' by The Adverts in case she doesn't have it. The B side is better than the A side. It's called 'Bored Teenagers' and the chorus goes, 'We're just bored teenagers, see ourselves as strangers', or something like that and at the end the lead singer (T.V. Smith) goes, 'We're just bored teenagers, bored out of our heads bored out of our MINDS', and the way he screams 'minds' is really quite passionate. I buy her this record for two reasons: first, I think she'll be impressed that I've even heard of it and the second reason is that on the collage on the front cover it says, 'One rural oaf in Georgia even sent me a hunk of rope'. I don't know why. But I know from geography that Georgia is a state in America. I think Georgia will like seeing her name in print. ************* So I press that buzzer and she lets me in and I follow her up a long flight of dark stairs. They have read lino on them and steel edges so you won't slip. It stinks of old smells and some new smells, too. As she goes up I look at the creases in the backs of her knees. We go into the kitchen and she gets two cans of beer out of the fridge and throws me one. The fridge is full of beer. She opens her can and I open mine and we both drink. Georgia sits on the table dangling her legs and I lean in the doorway, just leaning and drinking my beer. We don't say much. She says, 'You got a fag?' and I say, 'No, I don't smoke.' Georgia looks disappointed and then she calls down the corridor, 'Mum, you got any fags?' and a voice (Irish sounding) comes back, 'Yeah, in here.' In our house, our flat, no one smokes and everything is clean, plus if I invite someone round for tea my mum will always be there fussing around and making sure we've got enough food and stuff. Georgia gets up from the table and says, 'Come and meet my mum.' We go down a corridor full of old newspapers, beer crates and musical instruments and speakers all in their black suitcases. The carpet is like orange fungus on cheese. In her mother's room the curtains are closed and she's in bed. The TV's on showing the horse racing. She makes a shushing noise to us. The race ends and as it does she goes, 'Ahh, shite.' Georgia sits on the bed and gives her mum a kiss. Her mum says, 'That's your father in a filthy mood all night. Someone gave him a tip, the "dead-on-certainty" and he's rushed off to the bookies like greased arse lightening. Get us the cigs would you love, they're on the table.' I thought she was talking to Georgia and then I realize, when nothing happens, that she's talking to me. I go over to the table. It's a round, Formica pub table with a rectangular mirror propped up against the wall. The wallpaper has strange yellow flowers on it. I give her the cigarettes. There's a book of matches, 'The Swan' matches, tucked into the cellophane. I say, 'Here you are', and she says, 'Have a seat then.' There are no chairs in the room so I sit on the bed, on the other side from Georgia with her mother in between us. The sun is coming in through a gap in the curtains and wherever the sun touches in the room it looks clean and everywhere else looks like it's been smeared with dishwater. 'So, Georgia, who's your friend? Are you going to introduce us?' Georgia lights a cigarette. 'This,' she says, 'is my friend, Peter Shelley. Peter Shelley, this is my mum.' We shake hands. I say, 'Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Murphy', and she says, 'Call me Claire.' Then she takes a drag and says, 'Now if you'll forgive me for a while I need a snooze before we open this evening. Will we be seeing you later, Mr. Shelley?' 'I don't know, maybe.' Her calling me 'Mr. Shelley' gives me a little snigger inside. 'Well, you're always welcome to stay if you want, have you far to go?' 'The Attlee. On the other side of the park.' 'I've heard it's quite nice, the Attlee.' 'It's OK.' 'Good. Georgia, give him some tea, he's wasting into thin air.' 'Bye, Peter.' 'Bye.' On the way back to the kitchen, Georgia has her hands behind her back. She quickly clenches and unclenches her hands; three pulsebeats. ************* In the kitchen she makes tea. She says 'How many sugars?' and I say three please. I tell her I like her mum and she says she does too. She says her mum lets her do whatever she wants. I say my mum lets me do whatever she wants me to do. Georgia smiles and gives me a funny look. I ask her why she said I was Pete Shelley and she says, 'Because I want you to be'; and I say, 'So do I', and she replies, 'So there you are.' We go into her bedroom. Ads from the NME are stuck on the walls, posters of The Clash, Buzzcocks, Sex Pistols, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Ian Dury, Dead Kennedys and some others. Records everywhere. Two dresses on a clothes rack. I give her The Adverts single and she's pleased. She touches my arm for a second and I go hard. It's the weirdest. It goes down after a while. So we sit on her bed with the mugs on the floor. We get our Buzzcocks singles out of their bags. We decide to swap. For a lark you could say. We agree that this cover is better than the last two ('What Do I Get?' and 'I Don’t Mind'). It's a pink and purple graphic of nine rooms seen from above. The Buzzcocks logo (with the second Z raised above the first) is in pink in the bottom left-hand corner. In capitals at the bottom of the sleeve it says UP36433: LOVE YOU MORE. The back of the sleeve is more complicated: a cartoon man and woman are in the same nine rooms but never together. They're moving speakers around… maybe to get the right sound. Who knows? In the bottom right-hand corner room there's a man holding a board or tray with the letter K on it. It's hard to say what he's up to. It's all quite mysterious. ************* Georgia takes the disc out of the sleeve and because it's brand new it kind of sticks to the paper producing a tiny static crackle. We look at it. The first thing we notice is how short it is: 1.45. The B side which they always call 'i side' is 2.49. It's called 'Noise Annoys'. Georgia holds the side of the record with her fingertips. Her fingers are pretty chewed up but they look nice all the same. I sip my tea to be polite. It's evil. The milk's all sour and floating about. She says, 'Do you think it'll be quite fast or very fast?' I say that as long as it isn't slow I don’t care, but given that it's very short it will probably be very fast. We examine the inner spiral for more information. Scratched in capitals is says, 'THE CROSSOVER MARKET'. We don't know what that means. Then Georgia says, 'Come on, let's put it on.' I nod. My mouth is full of tea. She puts her hand on my leg and holds the record with her thumb on the A side and her fingers on the i side. I'm looking at her, my face is three inches from hers and she says 'Spit it out all over me.' I shake my head. Meanwhile, my cheeks are bulging and my mouth is smiling. She says, 'Dare you.' Her hand is between my legs now and she's beginning to move it further up. I spit my tea in her face and then she buries her face into mine and it's hot and wet. Her mouth tastes of beer and cigarettes and she's waggling her tongue about and I'm doing the same. I can feel her teeth and the gaps between them and I go, 'I like these bits,' and then she says, 'They're horrible,' and I say, 'No, I love them.' We're like two dogs scrapping. I can't get my hands and mouth in enough places at once. I'm thinking I might come any second and I don't know if this is allowed. Does she know about spunk? She must do, she's got 'Orgasm Addict'. I vaguely wonder if she has spunk of some equivalent thing that would come out. I hope so. Suddenly she gets up and puts the record on top volume and we start squirming about again. The record plays over and over because her record player has something that makes it do that. After about the fourth time we can make out more of the words in the rushing, relentless noise and we sing along and we're at each other like mad. I'm on top of her, her dress is up to her waist and she's got her shoes on, I put my hand down between her legs and put some fingers (three) up her and take them out and taste it. It tastes of God knows what but something interesting. Georgia licks my fingers and then wrinkles her nose. 'Do you know what to do?' I say, 'Not certain, do you?' She says, 'No, but don't stop.' She puts her hand down my trousers. She begins to wank me just how I do it myself and I'm really totally shocked. How does she know how to do it? How could she *know*? I say, 'Don't, I'll come,' and she whispers in my ear, 'Go on then.' So I do. She wipes some of it on her sheets and licks her hand and then kisses me so I can taste some of it. 'Love You More' is tearing out of her crappy speakers. The song is so loud and fast it just comes and goes and the ending is desperately sudden and sad. My trousers are down and her dress is up to her neck, her chest is as flat as mine. I say too loud right in her ear shouting over the music, 'Now what?' She nods and suddenly her mouth is on my cock and her cunt is in my face and we're wiggling away like fish. I start to lick all round the area and to be honest I feel a bit stupid for a second because the music stops while the record player does its thing and we're just making these noises. And suddenly I imagine my tongue is painting in a wall where the plaster's broken off, which is quite a nice thing to do but only *quite* nice. And she's kind of gnawing away on some bone I can see out the corner of my eye and it all seems a bit ridiculous. I can't quite concentrate on enjoying what she's doing because I'm having to do the stuff to her and it's really quiet and just these slippy sloppy noises but the song starts again and it's OK again. So we do that for a bit and then when the song begins again, maybe the sixteenth time, she crawls up to my face and she says, 'Come on, let's fuck.' I get on top of her and she smiles and Peter Shelley's wailing away. I find the right hole quite quickly and I'm not, to tell the truth, sure it *is* the right one but Georgia says it is and then when it goes in, we're both holding our breath and staring wide eyed at each other and I go, 'Fucking hell,' and she says, 'Jesus fucking Christ', and we're both sort of laughing and it's the most totally weird feeling for me so for her it must be equally if not more weird and I'm also thinking this is what the world makes such a fuss about your whole life and I get it now. I lie on top of her and it goes all the way in and we're both by this time very sweaty and covered in spit (and tea and a bit of spunk) and we suddenly lie very still. Just contemplating our situation. I say, 'What does it feel like?' Georgia says, 'I don't know, full, funny, it feels nice. What does it feel like for you?' 'I don't know, like someone's taken all my skin off and put me in a warm bath.' She says, 'Move about, like this.' She begins to move and I move with her very, very fast and she says, 'Tell me when you're coming, I'm coming, tell me when you're coming,' and I say, 'Now, Now' and we come and then collapse in a heap as they say. After a while she leans over and unplugs the record player just before it starts again. I stretch with her, still inside her. It's quiet. We lie in each other's arms and then she says, 'We've lost our virginities.' I say, 'I thought you hated me,' and she says, 'I do.' I flick her on the arm and she punches my leg. And we lie a bit more, doing nothing, contemplating things again. Then I start going a bit soft so I say, 'Shall I take it out now?' She says, 'OK.' So I do, quite slowly. We both gasp a little. We really do. I sneak a quick glance and there's some blood. Which is OK I think. She says, 'You've been in the wars.' She's actually talking to my nob like it's some other person in the room. She's holding it very gently, she says, 'You've been in the trenches.' (We did 'First World War' this term). I say, 'Are you OK, with the blood?' And she says, 'I'm dandy,' which I just love. Then she lights a cigarette and says, 'My first post- coital fag.' 'Coital's *fucking* isn't it?' And she says, 'One hundred per cent.' After a while we get up. We lie on the bed kissing and stroking each other, listening to her favourite records, discussing the lyrics, talking about school. She walks me home through the still summer air. I say I won't be able to sleep and she says, 'Wank about me.' I say I will but in fact I won't because I ache like mad down there. We sit on the kerb near my flat. My mother comes out on the balcony, it's getting dark. She shouts down that she's been worried sick about where I was. I say I'm sorry and that I've been with Georgia and this is Georgia. My mother knows all about Georgia and she smiles. She says, 'You must come to tea soon, Georgia.' We kiss good-bye. I say, 'I love your hair, I love your dress, I love your shoes, I love your laces, I love your body'.’ She says, 'Don’t be poxy.' I go up in the pissy lift feeling like I could eat the world. I go on to the balcony to watch Georgia walking away but she's still standing in the street, smoking. She looks up at me and says, 'We forgot to listen to the B side.' I say. 'Tomorrow?' and she says, 'Tomorrow.' And then she walks away. ------------- Patrick Marber wrote the plays "Dealer's Choice" and "Closer". He lives in London. This story was stolen without permission of any sort from an anthology of short stories called *Speaking With the Angel* edited by Nick Hornby. Besides this one, it also includes original stories by Irvine Welsh (*Trainspotting*), Roddy Doyle (*The Commitments*), Nick Hornby (*High Fidelity*), Helen Fielding (*Bridget Jones's Diary*), plus seven more. Not only that, but £1 from each book sold goes to support kids with autism in the UK. You should go buy it. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ABOUT FISTFUL OF BEES SUBSCRIPTIONS: Fistful of Bees comes out at the beginning of every month, or whenever I get around to it. You can subscribe via email by sending a message to fistfulofbees@hotmail.com with "subscribe" as the subject. Similarly, if you want to be removed from the subscribers list, send an email to the same address with "remove" as the subject. You can also view individual issues of FoB at this address: http://www.geocities.com/fistfulofbees/zine.html SUBMISSIONS: I'll put just about anything in FoB -- except poetry. Save it for your English teacher. Send your submission to fistfulofbees@hotmail.com either embedded in the message or as a .txt file. Also include a little bit about yourself with your submission. You don't have to give me your name, but your a/s/l and a name or pseudonym you want me to use would be good. Just make everything up if you want, I don't care. Although each issue has a "theme", don't worry about whether or not your stuff will fit in with it. That's my job. And besides, for the most part, I take whatever content I have laying around construct a theme based on that, rather than coming up with the theme first. So if you send me something and I like it, I'll work it in one way or another. CONTACT: As you may have figured out, you can send any comments or suggestions to fistfulofbees@hotmail.com. However, be aware that any mail you send me may end up in a future issue of FoB. Especially if you're a dumbass and I want to ridicule you publicly. Dig it. Oh, and you can find me on MSN sometimes too, although the same rule applies. 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