COBALT Nov 14 by Cobalt Magazine

Nov 14

Baby it's cold outside

POETRY FICTION PHOTOGRAPHY COMMENT CHRISTMAS TWITTER QUIRKY EATS GAMES

ISSUE 2 CONTENTS

Contributors 004 Editorial 005

Savvy Vintage 006-007 Date Night 008-011 Twitter, The World and Desire 012-013

The Plate - recipes 014-019 Quirky Eats 020-023 Monochrome poetry 024-25 “Dressed in Plastic” 026

“Tonight” 027 “The Falling Sickness” 028-029 “Gone, Part 1” 030 “Chinese Vase” / ”Snow White” 031 / “False Friends”

Cover image - “The City” by Olivia McNeilis

“I Asked You To Dance” 032

“Somewhere” 033

“Ghosts” 034 “Rescue” 035 “Stream” 036-037 A Word on Batman 038-040 Ninja Baseball Bat Man 040-041 Oncoming Traffic 042-043 Arts showcase - Olivia McNeilis 044-049

Mid-late Thursday Morning 050-051 Here I Am. You Called? 052-053 How to avoid procrastination 056-057 Christmas drinks 058-059

All images reused with permission of owner or licensed for reuse

Haania Amir • Lorayn Brown • Abi Browning • Abbie Day • Iris Du • Melissa Edmunds • Jamie Hardwick • Joanna Jakubowska • Katherina Kalinowski • Jade Kong • Alick McCallum • Olivia McNeilis • Harry Puttock • Radu C Vlad • Matt Woodrow

•

Jonny

Young

CONTRIBUTORS

Eleanor Hastings Ahlam Al-Abbasi • Tolu Alabi • Sofia Benincasa • Monica Bv • Sam Fry • Hebe Hewitt • Zoe Wilkinson

Your president and editor-in-chief at the Socs Fair in September

EDITORIAL Hello and welcome to issue 2 of Cobalt Magazine! So much has changed since our last issue in May - we’ve become an official Warwick SU society, gained more contributors than ever before and, when this issue goes out, we will have launched our brand new blog too (cobaltmagazineblog. wordpress.com). This will be a place where we can post contributions outside of the normal issue submission window, so Cobalt can continue to grow and expand. A huge thank you to everyone who contributed to this issue, for sharing your work with us. Also, thank you to our new editors - Ahlam, Tolu, Sofia, Monica, Sam, Hebe

and Zoe - who have made my job immeasurably easier this time around! Let’s not forget the Cobalt exec, either, who keep things running, and of course thank YOU, reader, for supporting Cobalt and for taking the time to read what we’ve all come up with! In this issue, we’ve got an impressive amount of creative writing - take note of our monochrome poetry feature, as well as the short stories that are dotted throughout the issue. We have wintry recipes on page 14 and newly-invented Christmassy drinks on page 58 (my favourite is the Popping Candy Surprise). We’ve also got game reviews and general

glorious cynicism from Jonny Young on pages 38-41, as well as some fantastic articles on avoiding procrastination (p.56), Twitter and desire (p.12), and the best places to scoop a vintage bargain in Leamington (p.6). I hope you enjoy reading this issue as much as we enjoyed making it - check us out on Facebook (‘Cobalt Magazine’) and Twitter (@cobaltwarwick), drop us en email (cobalt.warwick@ gmail.com) or take a look at our previous issues (issuu. com/cobaltmagazine). Enjoy the last few days of term and the vacation!

Savvy Vintage in Leam 6

Abi Browning

Looking for that perfect vintage haul? Need affordable ideas of where to find your next retro fix? You don’t always need to go to Camden or Birmingham; try just around the corner!

or Market Place and dive into the racks of Oxfam, Age UK, Blue Cross, Cats Protection... The list goes on. Leamington is not lacking in charitable second hand shops and there are even more in Cannon Park, Kenilworth and Coventry if you prefer shopping locations closer to campus. I’m not, by any means, saying that every item found in a charity shop is a bargain or a vintage bomb. However, if you are determined enough and use your imagination there are fabulous 60s scarves, 80s dresses and 90s grunge jumpers to be found in the pre-loved parcels left for these stores.

On Saturday 25th October The Assembly hosted a brilliant celebration of vintage, retro and shabby chic clothing and accessories. Judy’s Affordable Vintage Fair is a touring collection of independent vintage sellers and jewellery collectors. It was a fabulous excuse to peruse everything from tweed jackets and £4 woollen scarves to Alice in Wonderland custom pins. With the entry fee priced at only £2 and the hall jam packed with all sorts of stalls and displays, this fair was a great opportunity for the clued up vintage lover. No need to panic though, as this fair was not the only chance to grab stylish bargains: as a touring fair there is another Judy’s in Birmingham on November 29th. This event sounds slightly different to the market hall style shopper’s paradise that was found in Leamington. The November event is taking place in The Custard Factory and consists of a bulk buying process: grab an armful of retro knitwear and band tees, get your haul weighed and pay £15 per kilo! I don’t know about you, but this is a new concept for me and I can’t wait to find out how it works. Check out the Facebook page and Judy’s website for more information, but after attending the fabulous event in Leamington, I highly recommend keeping up to date with these fairs and kilo markets! Another great source of vintage is the lovely LOOT shop just behind Court Street near the railway bridge! It is a great place to source some unique clothes, shoes and accessories at fairly affordable prices. Whether you’re a fresh with a festival taste or a longing for customised Ralph Lauren dress shirts, get yourself down to campus and find the mini stall in Curiositea. LOOT periodically sets up a table and a few racks in the tea shop to showcase their fab stock. The store also holds special promotional events, such as their 20% off Halloween evening. This was a big hit with my friends and I, leading us to pile up the leather jackets, denim shorts and army jackets in time for winter parties and lectures.. If you are finding it difficult to stretch your loan to cover customised vintage ware then keep your eyes peeled for these promotional events and offers because they really are worth it! One of the best things about vintage chic is the opportunity it gives you to add your own personality and flair to your outfits; something that comes from a bit of leg work and shopping around. Despite the hard work, it can be a godsend, as it means you can find some great bargains by purchasing second hand. Students everywhere - do not shun the charity shops! If you have the hours to spend go for a walk down Regent Street

Another option, one of my personal favourites, is the kind of shopping you can do whilst watching American Horror Story with a cup of hot chocolate, curled up in your dragon onesie. That’s right, the Internet is not just a fountain of academia; it’s also perfect for finding second hand clothing and cheap jewellery! ASOS marketplace is brilliant for finding vintage shops from across the country but can often be full of high price items. Etsy, again, is often pricey but you can find beautiful and unique gems on these sites because they are full of handmade and customised items. Take a peek at Instagram as well, especially if hunting for unique or geeky jewellery. Quite a lot of the Instagram profiles are used to showcase Etsy shops or online sellers that promote their goods via sales or giveaways, which can be great for the thrifty shopper intending to steer clear of high street conventionality. Finally, if you sort of know what you’re looking for and fancy the world of online auctions, eBay is the word. I’ve often found great bargains on jewellery and clothes on eBay. It takes a savvy shopper to claim the winning bid or sift through the mountains of items on this selling community, but in my option it is so worth it. If you are looking for a vintage leather skirt, a new-but-old silk scarf or one-of-a-kind jewellery then give it a go. You can even choose the Buy It Now option to make the payment process the same as any other online shop. So there you have it: my own tips and recommended sources for injecting the most character into your outfits and scoring some new vintage gear for this Autumn/Winter season at the best prices.. Happy Hauling, Duckies!

Names to Google: Judy’s Affordable Vintage Fair; Loot Vintage; Blighty Bazar; Ebay; Etsy; Intagram; Twitter; Oxfam; Cancer Research; Age UK; Red Cross; Blue Cross; ASOS Marketplace.

DATE NIGHT by

Sam Fry

It’s dark in the circus tent, and the seats are almost empty; there are maybe twenty of us spread across a grandstand built for two hundred. The ringleader comes out staggering, feigning drunkenness. A few people clap but it’s hardly applause. He tells crude jokes that crackle through the damp PA, falling flat. In the front row a woman lights a cigarette and blows a smoke cloud. My date watches eagerly, pulling my arm and pointing back to the ring when I turn around. There’s a man asleep three rows back. What looks like a sleeping bag is pulled up to his knees and his head is hanging into his chest. He might be dribbling but it’s too dark to tell. My date pulls at my arm again. ‘Look, look,’ I nod. The ringleader has pulled a small and eager boy from the front row and he’s walking him to the very middle of the ring. Though I’m disinterested I keep looking, out of politeness. In the bright ring lights, the shadows of the clown and the boy stretch as they walk away from us. They talk; the microphone picks up inaudible mumbles and broadcasts static to the bored crowd. I think I can look away now. Then the clown takes the boy’s thin hand and I’m taken back fifteen years into a memory that’s so real I can feel the itch of my curly hair on the backs of my ears and hear the sound of our feet on the frosted pavement. I suppose it’s the wine I had at dinner.

It’s dark here too and I’m nine years old again and walking quickly away from my house with my imaginary friend. We often sneak out like this when Mum stays late at work and Dad has to see Uncle Pete at short notice. It is autumn today; the trees have dropped almost all their leaves. When their branches are completely bare it will be winter time, then I will wear my gloves but for now my hands are bare and cold. His hand is warm though, and his palm is rough where my hand fits into it. In the spotlights of streetlights we blow steamy dragon breaths, bigger and bigger until he blows one bigger than my head. We start laughing, but he has to stop and cough and rasp to catch up on all the breaths he’s breathed out. We walk on, moving to streets where the streetlights either don’t work or don’t exist. My imaginary friend knows the way to the park and so do I. At last we arrive and have to crawl through a hole in the chain link fence because the gate is locked. The grass is damp

and cold, almost frosted he says, like a chicken that hasn’t been in the freezer too long. He says strange things sometimes. First we go on the swings. The seat is damp but he wipes it dry with the sleeve of my jumper. Although I know how to make myself go high in the air he pushes me anyway, with his warm hands that grip tight to my hips. I like to blow dragon breath as I swing backwards then lean over on my way forwards so I can feel the hot dampness of the breath on my face before it disappears into the air around. At the highest point of the swing I can see over the hedge into houses where families are sitting down to dinner. Some of them are watching TV. I start to wave and call to them but he reminds me what my mum says about not interrupting people when they are doing things. I apologise and he laughs. Then it’s his turn on the swing and my turn to push. He pretends he doesn’t want to go but I tell him them’s the rules. Also I know that imaginary people weigh hardly anything so I can push him real high; higher even than he pushed me. Sure enough I push him really high. He says the people have finished their dinner and they’re eating pudding now. I ask him what they’ve got for pudding; he doesn’t know, but they are having custard on whatever it is, he says. I’m out of breath when we stop swinging and he teases me. ‘Tired already?’ ‘No,’ ‘You so are,’ I reply that at least my hair is blond and curly and not balding and grey like his. He stops laughing. ‘Blond hair is for girls,’ ‘Is not,’ ‘Is too,’ He threatens to leave if I carry on like this. It’s really dark and I don’t want to walk back on my own so I quit arguing. Next we go on the slide which is a little bit wet but the backs of my jeans soon dry it. On his first turn his hips get stuck at the top and I have to run back to the top and push him. Eventually they give way and he slides slowly down the metal ramp. All the way down his trousers squeak and squawk. He says he doesn’t want any more goes. I keep going up and down, up and down while he watches. I try going down led on my back then led on my front then I slide down head first. He lights a cigarette but I tell him about cancer and tar on the lungs and he

drops it and stomps it straight out. I’m at the top of the slide catching my breath when my imaginary friend spots a fox at the other edge of the playground. He whispers be quiet, and reaches a finger up to my lips. I brush his hand away and we watch the little animal sniffing around the climbing frame. There is a lamp directly above the climbing frame and in the spotlight we can see how scrawny the fox is; its ribs ripple down his sides; its shoulder blades puncture upwards as he walks; and its legs are skinny like pencils. Somehow it looks fragile and rough and scared all at once. My imaginary friend says it is a lady fox. ‘How do you know?’ ‘She’s got really pointy ears, male foxes have rounder ears,’ Now he says this I remember my real life school friend Dylan telling me the same thing. We watch her drag a nappy out of the bush and rip it up. He says that’s not very ladylike, but I know this is not true; my school friend Harriet and I drag things out of bushes all the time. Once we found someone’s watch but the glass was cracked. It gets colder; a breeze starts rustling the hedges around us and even the chain link fence starts to itch and moan in the wind. The skin on my cheeks stands up like gooseflesh, with my hand I feel the lumps and pimples. My imaginary friend tries to stroke my face but I tell him to leave me alone. He jumps backwards and looks really sad. I tell him I want to go home. He nods. The wind blows harder and a plastic bin blows across the road into the park. It rattles and rolls and drops litter everywhere; white plastic wrapping, tin cans and bottles. On the way home I don’t hold his hand, instead my fingers are warming up in my pockets, I can feel them through my trousers; cold and wiggling like worms. We are walking towards my home. I’m kicking a half crushed coke can along the pavement and I can feel the wind touching me through all the holes in my jumper. Then my jaw starts to click clack open and shut. With my hands I try to hold it shut but it keeps chattering. My imaginary friend takes off his coat for me to wear. He puts it over my shoulders. It is long and black and smells of cigarette smoke. I tell him no. It is a nice thought but imaginary coats are no good to keep the wind out. He starts sulking, I keeping kicking the can and chattering along. By

mistake I kick the can into the road. Even though I haven’t seen a moving car all night I look both ways before I step into the road. I look up and he is already by the can. He kicks it back onto the pavement. He smiles at me. When he is in the road and I am on the curb he is not so tall. I kick the can back into the road, harder this time. He laughs, runs over to the can and kicks it back. This time I run up to the can and kick it all the way onto the opposite pavement. He runs over and kicks it back. I don’t want to but I can feel my sides starting to shake and now I’m laughing and we’re kicking the can between us all the way home. When we get home my parents are still out so my imaginary friend comes inside. I say I’m hungry and he says he is too. At school we learnt to make omelets. My imaginary friend cannot cook so I tell him I will cook for him but he has to watch me so he can learn how to make omelettes too. He thinks that the noise of a breaking egg sounds like the cracking of a foxes shinbone. I tell him that is a silly thing to think. Smoke starts to come off the pan because my imaginary friend has forgotten to tell me when that the egg is burning while I am grating some cheese. We have toast instead; raspberry jam for me, marmite for him. Black marmite gets caught in his moustache and he asks for kitchen roll to wipe it away when we have finished eating. We are led on our stomachs reading my atlas when my Mum arrives home. It is my imaginary friend’s turn to find a country (Ghana, I think). Whilst I wait I close my eyes and listen to the sounds my mum makes around the house. There is: a rustling - she is hanging her coat up; a door opening - she’s going into the kitchen; a shriek - she has seen the mess we’ve made; floorboards creaking - she’s coming up the stairs, fast; a whoosh - she’s opened my bedroom door. ‘JONATHAN,’ At the sound of my name I open my eyes. ‘What have you done?’ My mouth dries all out of words. I point to my friend but of course my mum cannot see or hear imaginary people. ‘What have you done, to the kitchen?’ ‘We - I got um, hungry? ‘Didn’t your dad feed you?’ ‘Yeah, he did. Sorry mum,’ Slowly she shakes her head and walks out of my room. The door shuts and I turn to my imaginary friend but he has gone.

Matt Woodrow Twitter is, in my opinion, the best social media platform in the way it requires users to construct their posts succinctly and creatively. Some of the wittiest and most amusing things I have ever seen were discovered exploring the world of Twitter. Every once in a while though, I come across something controversial; okay, it’s more often than that. Nevertheless, I once stumbled upon a series of tweets discussing the latest musings of famous

Twitter, the World, and Desire biologist and atheist, Richard Dawkins. Unsurprisingly, a fiery debate had begun regarding questions about life, the universe and everything, many comments barely being contained within the 140-character constraint, creating a sort of whirlpool of intellect, insults and

incomplete sentences. This is nothing new, I’m sure we’ve all come across this sort of thing before whether we’ve been looking for it or not. And, don’t get me wrong, I think questions about life, the universe and everything are some of the most important questions in the world (if not the most important). One

could suppose that if these questions had indisputable, universally agreed answers, they would beat Will and Kate’s latest outing to Waitrose to the front page of the Daily Mail. However, I’m not sure that Twitter is the best place for these debates to take place. Twitters’ commitment to brevity (arguably, its best feature) becomes its greatest downfall as I find such arguments cannot be accurately or reasonably explained within such a small number of characters. Often, I feel the urge to weigh in myself when I feel I have a particularly pressing addition to the debate. However, I make a point of restraining myself in such instances because I know it will do little good. My voice would just be another insignificant shout into the Twitter void. Besides, I have never seen any such conversation come to any sort of definite conclusion. An optimist might believe that eventually truth would win out and one side would have to admit that the other has made a better argument and, as a result, has won the debate. However, what I find happens in reality is either it descends into infantile name calling, at which point the actual subject of the conversation has been lost, or there is some sort of mutual agreement to drop the

argument entirely due to the evident fact that neither side will convince the other, and therefore to continue would be futile. This got me thinking about why it is that neither side of such a dispute seems to be able to win or change the minds of the other. I don’t think it’s due to a lack of arguments that have the power to do so. I have heard some points that, to me at least, seemed very convincing. I think the real reason that lies at the heart of it is human desire. In truth, whether we would like to admit it or not, the things we believe are, as often as not, more heavily influenced by our desires than reason or logical deduction. In short, it takes more evidence to substantiate something that we don’t want to believe is true than something we do. Writer and theologian, Andrew Wilson, uses this illustration to help explain the idea: You’re watching a football match. At the end of the game, you ask the two managers, “Was it a penalty or not?” The Manager whose team was awarded the penalty (even though he has nothing to gain from it after the event) genuinely believes it was a penalty. The manager whose side was penalised genuinely believes that it wasn’t a penalty. They’ve watched the same event, seen the

same replay, but they will still argue about it. That’s because the manager who was awarded the penalty doesn’t take very much evidence to believe it’s a penalty because he wants to believe it. Whereas the other Manager will take a huge amount of evidence because he doesn’t want to believe it. The burden of proof needed is very different for the two men. Perhaps when it comes to questions about the origin and purpose of life, the universe and everything, parallels could be drawn between the analogy of the two managers and all of us. Maybe this is why such disputes on Twitter (and elsewhere) never seem to be brought to a definite conclusion. Either that or there’s an unwritten rule against agreeing on social media. Either way, I think we should consider the power of our desires in relation to our beliefs or at least acknowledge the idea that when it comes to certain things in our lives, we can and will often choose to believe them because we want them to be true, not necessarily because they are true.

Th Pla

Make a de course winterAll recipes by

he ate

elicious, three -themed meal. Abi Browning.

TO DRINK - Chai Latte Milkshake One of my favorite drinks is the chai latte - if you love warm milk and cinnamon this is perfect for you and why have you not tried the Curiositea mugful?! Reassess yourself, please. Anyhoo, this is a very scrummy milkshake recipe using toasted rice and whole spices, which can be modified easily to make a warming and moreish winter drink at home with just a little effort and some kitchen cupboard staples. Perfect with biscuits, cinnamon, marshmallows and cinnamon. Did I mention cinnamon? I like cinnamon… mmmm… cinnamonness (that’s a real word…). You Will Need: • 175g Basmati Rice • 4 Cardamom Pods

• • •

2 Star Anise 50g Sugar 720ml Milk

Method: Toast the rice grains in a medium pan on a medium heat until the grains begin to colour and turn golden. Then add the crushed cardamom pods and the star anise to the pan, and heat very gently until the spices flavour the rice. BTW It will smell amazing! So good if you are having people over! Add the sugar and pour the milk over the heating ingredients, bringing the mixture to a gentle simmer. Remove from the heat, cover and allow the rice to soak up all the milky goodness for around 10 minutes as it cools down. Now for the messy part! (oh yes) Grab a sieve and strain the milky concoction into a jug, leaving out as much froth, spices, and rice pieces as possible. Cover the jug and pop in the fridge. You can now either pop the flavoured milk into a blender with a handful of ice, and blend until creamy and Frappe-like, OR for a more warming touch, pop into a small saucepan with a chai tea bag for added chainess (yes it’s a word, don’t question!) and heat through gently. Finally, pour into mugs and sprinkle with ground cinnamon. SO YUMMY WITH MARSHMALLOWS (I can hardly express how much I want some now! Where’s the milk?!)

Starter - Butternut Squash and Sage soup Serves: 4. Prep Time: 30mins. Cooking Time: 50mins. A warming vegetarian soup for cold nights in. I love sipping on a mug of spicy squash soup with a good novel or film to relax after walking home through the icy rain. This is a great dish to make at the weekend and keep in the fridge for quick lunches and soup flasks, and why not keep the squash seeds to use as a garnish or just a healthy snack? Wash and dry them, then sift with olive oil, pepper, and chilli flakes, and pop them on a baking tray in a hot oven for about 10 minutes, or until dry and crisp. I make mine while I’m waiting for the soup to cool, and then as I blend it my friend finishes them off (evil nibblers!). You Will Need:

• Olive Oil • A Bunch of Fresh Sage Leaves • 1 Red Onion (or white if you prefer) • 1 Celery Stick • 1 Carrot • 2 Garlic Gloves • Rosemary • 1-2 Chillies (fresh or dried) – this amount is very much coming from someone who loves a lot of heat in her food • Medium 1kg Butternut Squash, deseeded, peeled and chopped into chunks • 1 Litre Stock (Vegetable or Chicken)

Method:

I n a large saucepan, fry the sage leaves in a good glug (great word) of olive oil on a high

heat until crispy but not too dark brown. Remove from heat and separate the leaves from the oil, putting them on a piece of kitchen roll to soak up the excess drips - don’t throw away the olive oil! Use this yummy sage flavoured oil to fry the diced onion, chopped celery, diced carrot, crushed garlic, chopped rosemary, and minced chilli. Cook gently for 10 minutes or until sweet and soft; you can pop a lid on the pan and leave it for a couple of minutes to sweat the vegetables if you like. Try not to let the onions go brown, as you want them to have a yummy sweet and translucent look to them. Add the squash, the stock, a bit of black pepper and stir everything together! More salt can be put in at this stage if you wish, though I’m not a fan and there is already salt in stock cubes. Bring to the boil and simmer the soup for 30 minutes until the squash and all the vegetables are tender. Test them with a knife as you would for boiled potatoes, or spoon some out and taste (let them cool first!). Then take off the heat and allow to cool enough to blend with a food processor or a hand blender stick. When its time to serve, either heat up in the microwave or in the saucepan and top with a spoonful of crème fraiche or natural yoghurt, and a sprinkling of crispy sage leaves. Then enjoy the b-e-a-u-tiful soup! It’s oh-so-good in a mug as you huddle round a campfire, or just to warm you through after a lengthy Christmas market shopping trip!

Main - Sweet potato and spinach dhal Serves: 2. Prep Time: 20mins. Cook Time: 20-30mins. This is a really quick and crazily simplistic dish to go with an Indian meal, or just as a lunch or snack. The heat added by the chilli is for you to judge - mild or spicy (and spicy means very, very spicy), this dhal is a filling and healthy dish. You Will Need: • 100g Red Lentils, washed and drained • 500ml Vegetable/Chicken Stock • 1 Onion, diced • 2 Tomatoes, chopped • ½ tsp Tumeric • 1tsp Masala Spice • Red Chilli • 1-2 Sweet Potatoes, diced • Half a bag of Baby Spinach Method: Bring the lentils, stock, onion, tomatoes, and spices to the boil and simmer for 10 minutes. Then add the sweet potato and simmer for a further 10 – 15 minutes until tender. Remove from the heat, stir in the spinach and pop the lid on the pan to gently wilt the spinach leaves. Serve with naan bread, chapattis, or rice and curry. Alternatively, I like to eat this veggie dhal on its own as a warming lunch.

DESSERT - Abi's Autumnal Ginger Cake This is one of my very favourite recipes – it’s simple, easy and tastes divine! Coming from a self-professed Ginger-Nut, a slice of this cake is perfect for the wintery months with a cup of tea or hot chocolate, especially round the bonfire. This tried and tested treat tastes even better after being wrapped up in a tin and left for a day or two, making it a great stand-by dish. You can also mix things up by adding fruit, nuts, chocolate, or even oats in replacement of 50g of the flour. All of this secures its place as a family favourite during November and December, or if you’re like me, all year round! You Will Need: • Butter (Softened) 75g • Soft Brown Sugar 75g • Golden Syrup 75g

• • • •

Black Treacle 75g Plain Flour 150g 2 tsp Ground Ginger 2 tsp Mixed Spice

• • •

½ tsp Bicarbonate of Soda 1 Egg 4 tbsp Milk

Optional extras (to add a Christmassy feel): Chopped preserved ginger; crystalized ginger; chopped nuts; dried fruit; dark chocolate chunks. Add these dry ingredients at the same time as the flour or egg, and top the cake off with Christmas decorations. If you’d prefer a slightly more traditional dish, a simple lemon icing makes for a yummy drizzle topping too! Method: Preheat an oven to 190C (180C Fan). Grease and line a 20cmX20cm Square tin. Weigh the butter, sugar, golden syrup and black treacle into a medium sized pan. Weigh plain flour, spices and bicarb into a sieve and pass through into a large, heatproof mixing bowl. Break the egg into a small bowl and beat it together with the milk. Melt the saucepan ingredients over a medium heat but be sure not to boil them! Remember to stir constantly so that the mixture does not stick to the bottom of the pan. Once melted and glossy, pour the hot syrupy mix onto the dry ingredients and fold in so that they combine well. Gradually whisk in the beaten egg and milk, and then pour the spicy, warm, gooey (… sorry I’m getting distracted with the yumminess of autumn spices) batter into the prepared tin. Bake for 25-35 minutes until springy to touch. You can check that the cake is cooked all the way through by spiking it with a skewer after it comes out of the oven - leave the skewer in the middle of the cake for 5 seconds and then then remove. If the stick comes out clean rather than gooey, the cake in cooked! If there is still goo and mush on the stick then just pop the cake back in the oven for another couple of minutes.

QUIRKY EATS and DELICIOUS TREATS Jade Kong

Eat on the wild side… With the long awaited opening of the UK’s first cereal cafe looming, I’m sure many of you cereal lovers are itching with anticipation. While waiting for the Brick Lane’s cafe doors to officially open, I have compiled a list of my Top 10 quirky, innovative and just plain bizarre food spots in London that will surely blow your mind (and your stomach!). 1) Cereal Killer Cafe cerealkillercafe.co.uk It’s happening, FINALLY. Earlier this year, identical twins from Belfast, Alan and Gary Keery announced their plans to open UK’s first speciality Cereal Cafe. Sadly, fans were left bitterly disappointed when the crowdfunding campaign ended in July after raising only 2% of its £60,000 target. However it appears that the twins have managed to secure the funding through other means and so Cereal Killer Café WILL be opening its doors at the end of this year. The twins who are ‘obsessed with everything cereal’ will fill their cafe with over 100 different types of cereal from America, South Africa, France, Australia, South Korea and of course the UK. In order to individually tailor your bowl of cereal to perfection

you can also choose from 12 different varieties of milk and 20 different toppings! In addition there will be other types of breakfast treats such as 18 flavours of pop tarts, toast and coffee. While eating you will be surrounded by a huge collection of memorabilia made up of 80 vintage boxes including Pokémon, The Addams family, and Cabbage Patch Kids. So when does this dream become reality you say? Cereal Killer Cafe will be opening its doors to customers on December 10th in Shoreditch. 2) Pop Art Sushi popartsushi.com Share the owners’ love for pop art, Italian wines and sushi? Introducing Pop Art Sushi: a laid back sushi restaurant in Vauxhall located in Amstel Gallery. Slightly tricky to find, but well worth the wait (so I’ve heard). Hidden away by Vauxhall Tube Station, this gem is the masterpiece of Head Chef Beatriz, a former chef at London’s world renowned Japanese restaurant Nobu (formerly Michelin star status). The most popular dish is said to be Pop Art Ikura (Salmon caviar gunkan) which is one of the chef ’s signature dishes and consists of oval-shaped sushi consisting of salmon and topped with salmon

caviar. There is also a dish dedicated to Andy Warhol called Warhol’s Basket: salmon tartare in a crispy basket with avocado puree. Art lovers, sushi lovers and contemporary lovers alike will find themselves right at home in this hidden delight. 3) Inamo inamo-restaurant.com This Oriental fusion restaurant boasts an interactive ordering process which is the first of its kind to be seen in central London. This unique selling point even allows customers to keep an eye on the chef from their seat by selecting the ‘Chef Cam’ option - which reveals a live stream of the kitchen. The highlight of this restaurant is not the food but rather the technological experience; anything is possible with just the tap of a fingertip – magic! 4) Gingerline gingerline.co.uk/jubilee A top secret dining experience shrouded by mystery which operates along the London rail network (Jubilee Line). Created by a group of friends in August 2010, the success of Gingerline HQ has skyrocketed over recent years. Founders Suz Mountfort and Kerry

Adamson wanted to create an ‘unusual, unpredictable and delicious dining experiences’. Previous guests have ventured into Siberian circuses, dived into submarine mess halls and descended into underground tunnels for Victorian banquets – Gingerline can be described as anything but traditional. 5) Circus circus-london.co.uk “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, GUYS AND GIRLS, CRAZY CATS AND ACROBATS – WELCOME TO CIRCUS. IS IT A RESTAURANT...? A BAR...? A CABARET? YES! A TRIUMPHANT TRIO OF ALL THREE” - this greeting aptly summarises the other worldly nature that is Circus. Coated with futuristic décor courtesy

of British designer Tom Dixon, this restaurant transports guests into ‘a fun and decadent world of glamour’. Circus is an innovative combination of cocktail bar and cabaret restaurant set in the West End and boasts an elegant Pan Asian dinner menu. Similarly to Gingerline, Circus chooses never to reveal details of each night’s performances, preferring to surprise guests and maintain the air of mystery. Ever felt the need run away and join the circus? Then this cabaret venue with its acrobats, dancers and burlesque performers is the place for you. 6) Doodle Bar thedoodlebar.com Looking for a place to escape the hustle and bustle of central London? Only

a few know of the hidden gem in Battersea that is Doodle Bar. The saying ‘it’s what is on the inside that counts’ really does apply to Doodle Bar. It’s appearance from the outside is far from glamorous; hidden down a side street with only a neon sign saying ‘BAR’ above what looks like a factory entrance. However the inside provides a place of freedom to scribble to your heart’s desire, play a game of ping pong and enjoy some street food on the ‘beach’. The Doodle Bar also serves organic food and hosts a weekly pop up bakery, life drawing classes, and comedy and even music events. 7) Basement Galley basementgalley.com This unique dining offers customers a chance to

eat in the quintessential London setting of a tube train. Don’t worry your food will remain firmly on your plates as you will be riding in a 1967 Victoria Line tube carriage which is no longer in use, so you won’t be stopping at Euston station in between courses. This business originated as a supper club in a flat in Brixton when Alex (current head chef) and Tom (finance director) ran out of money and wanted to host a dinner party. The duo have partnered up with the award-winning Walthamstow Pumphouse Transport Museum, so the only travelling will be getting yourselves to the venue! 8) Bubbledogs bubbledogs.co.uk A champagne bar that serves not oysters or caviar, but… hotdogs? The traditional pair will not be found anywhere near this venue, instead Bubbledogs offer gourmet hot dogs along with your choice of champers! This odd combination works surprisingly well and the daily never ending queue of customers is living proof. Bubbledogs teams hot dogs with bubbly, setting the current trend for poshedup junk food. Choose your style of ‘dog’: pork, beef or veggie, then pick one of a dozen styles, from ‘naked’

(just a dog in a bun) to the more adventurous Charlie Brown (Malaysian Satay sauce & cucumber ribbons) - wowza! Sandia Chang , Bubbledogs co-founder , aims to change the way we think about champagne. Keep an eye out for any of her new combinations. 9) Dans le Noir london.danslenoir.com An already well established cult phenomenon in the food industry, the London branch follows the likes of Barcelona, New York, St. Petersburg, Kiev and of course the original chain in Paris, in creating a unique culinary experience. This slightly daunting concept of eating in pitch darkness is aimed at sharpening your other senses and encourage participants to re-evaluate their approach to eating. Diners are served by blind or visually impaired staff as a percentage of the profits of the restaurants fund research on visual disabilities. I have read rave reviews for Dans le Noir but a cautious warning as it is certainly not for everyone. 10) Abracadabra abracadabra-restaurant. co.uk Last but by no means least, Abracadabra claims to serve an ‘authentic and

eclectic menu of delicious and wholesome dishes’ from Russian and European cuisine. Located in the heart of the glamorous West End surrounded by Mayfair, Soho and St James, one would expect something a tad more classier than what this restaurant actually offers. Described by The Observer food critic Jay Rayner, ‘Abracadabra isn’t so much a restaurant as a random sequence of events’ which having what I’ve read seems to add up: a gigantic inverted chandelier, booths themed around pin-up girls (or Lenin), golden spray-painted thrones, a whole lot of red decor and urinals in the shape of big, red-lipsticked women’s mouths...sorry what? The whole restaurant is stuffed with anything remotely Russian and frankly anything bizarre. This dining experience will certainly transport you into a whole different world, but a nightmare by the sounds of it! So if any of these dining experiences sound appealing to you, go ahead and treat yourself or make it an unforgettable experience for you and your friends. On the other hand, if at the start of this article, you were wondering why on earth you would go to a cafe when you can have cereal in the comfort of your home. The question should really be, well why not?

MO NO CH RO ME Cobalt brings you a collection of verse written by our highly talented contributors

Dressed in PLASTIC

a poem by

Iris Du

She would wonder whether sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d ever get tired at Looking at herself Looking at her reflection Looking at the gaudy, old photographs. Looking at the videos and scrapbooks and shakily recorded Tributes to her face. It made her too connected, yet, so detachedHer folly the same scarlet as a lipstick trackHer arrogance as stiff as the hairspray. She sees her eyes, but does not see herself. She feels the tangle of silken fabric around her legs Her ankles Like seaweedAnd ruffles of lace betwixt her Cuffs and her fingertips. Why does the texture of her dress mingle seamlessly with her Locks? She often wonders what others would think of all these Pretty treasures that she did not Find herself.

a poem by

Jamie Hardwick

TONIGHT It's late and after drinking the house and home of strangers to mar my mind and prevent the perusal of the past I drop the half empty bottle climb the rugged carpet stairs on a half full stomach filled with a plentiful mix: a cocktail fit for an endless need. And stagger into the darkness with an ankle all inflamed from a forgotten fall, a throbbing head - well understood there and an eager-beaver-bladder that pips me to the post. And after all my troubles in a glass of red, of white, or both, or perhaps a much stronger tipple, I clamber into bed, alongside only memories.

THE FALLING SICKNESS a poem by

Melissa Edmunds

Push the bone dry, heavy head with the triumphant thumbprint, And circle the eclipsed section of the brain, That 05:00am abnormality That’s the reason you’re here today. Grating on your head and your heart, Ground down gums and tongue, The erratic butterfly mind flits in and out Of the Tonic Clonic lack of consciousness – Aftershock Vomit. The ebbing remnants Of the Epileptic trip Slip away as the injected drip Sits in your skin; Grand mal Stage Two equates to One disrupted sleep, Hand to cheek, And the forehead wave From the sick-bay seat; EEG readings become Revealing with Crude flash testing As brain waves strain and – “What’s happened now?” You ask, and she answers, eyes smiling Painfully, “You’ve had another one.” Draw back the dignity drapes and dis-curtain to reveal The racked body lying depleted – But the needlepoint hand Held firmly by Her, Simply tightens its grip right back.

Gone, Part 1 a poem by

Haania Amir

She sits at the beach drawing out her secrets word by broken word.

She sits in the sand, her feet rough and torn, A survivorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s heart still beating strong.

She sits there at dawn carving the words, Again and again till they bleed. She sits there till dusk, a smile on her face, The tears and the waves becoming one. And her secrets are gone.

poetry by

Katharina Maria Kalinowski

False friends one two three

Chinese vase Blue lilies on icy china

giggling four five, are you a noun?

little hands search for biscuits fa-fa-

running on the wrong side of the street

falling

six, seven, eight; I will catch you nine hiding behind your friends ten Ten. Your friend is a verb, a tear is not wet, a ten is a -

Snow White

ten, Ten A cat is a spiteful woman, the sensible part of an exhaust, the lazy term for a boat with twin hulls

stumbling men the sun reflects off the glass above me

Ten, ten, Ten. zehn.

spli ntering

your breath seeps through my brain like the plattd체체tsche sand dripped through my hands leaving shell's dust und eine Tr채ne as salty as the Ostsee

inb

zehn, Zehn, Zehn. Too bright.

I long to chase you along the streets of Heikendorf where the cat is only a Katze catching mice and miauing auf Deutsch

I Asked You To Dance

a poem by

I asked you to dance to a silly song whose meaning I could never convey in my own language no matter how hard I would have tried to stay true to all the promises enclosed within its lyrics I am but a silly girl however too fascinated with English words with English promises screamed from everywhere at me the adverts the radio the press I am but a silly brown-haired goose that hopes against hope to be the true object of such words you tell me that this is how this country really is there are postcards written for every occasion there are wishes already written to every possible person waiting eagerly for a word from you there is me waiting stranded on the dance floor waiting for the song to pass to vaporize my tears to cleanse the bitter aftertaste from the touch of your hand on mine the skittishness of your embrace which I have forced upon you hoping wishing for a star to come and tear the fucking sky apart while the words are still vibrating all around words words words all but words meaningless chatter rhythmic thrusts of tongue onto palate breaths broken by teeth in their way I am but a silly foreigner that reads too much into all I have heard before I have hummed before I have not realized the true meaning of before I was forced to speak this language all the time

Joanna Jakubowska

SOMEWHERE a poem by

Driving a teal car across the landscape we argued. about trifles about the weather tomorrow about whether we could afford a new landmower the one we have is just fine about your parents about our debts We passed by mountains then argued some more. about rose now that she moved on her own about the graying hairs in my brow i hate it when we argue you know yeah well we can afford it where were we going anyway i thought you knew then about our time and how we needed to hurry then we stopped talking and listened to a sullen radio speeding past the dusk come on Eileen we pulled over your face was light mine much more so we got out and danced among the clover and the dust Under some sky.

Radu C Vlad

poetry by

Lorayn Brown

Ghosts Standing alone as the world stops turning, She grasps for a handhold, watching the blaze. Embracing flame, crisp autumn leaves burning, Panic ensues as the atheist prays. Swallowed by sorrow, he falls to the ground, Weakness consuming the powerless man. His resolve has been crushed, his soul has drowned, So she tells him lies, and gives him her hand The shadows of man turn to ash and dust, They shelter, together, as night grows near. Shrug off their terror, replace it with trust, Belief in each other growing with fear. Surrendering to hope, he is held close, As she whispers 'One day we'll all be ghostsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;.

Rescue? “Her willowy hair” “waved in the wind” “as the whispers” “wondered” “her name” “She shook” “as she struck” “a stone” “on the street” “and swore” “at the souls” “all the same” “ducking and diving” “and driving” “past death” “as she enters the lair” “of the dead” “she flies through their cries” “not meeting their eyes” “engrossed in” “the task ahead” “Her focus unwavered” “unmeasured” “unknown” “to fate” “she was thrown” “unfairly” “her hands” “cling tight” “to the reins” “of her life” “panic she felt” “so rarely” “It holds her high” “pride in her eyes” “though she cannot” “disguise” “the fear” “Slowly now” “Softly” “she signals” “her stead” “sliding down from her cheek” “is a tear” “Soliciting the souls” “her secret to share” “she breathes the dead air” “and descends” “Slimy and dank” “the walls and their touch” “like the trail of a slug” “it offends” “eyes straight ahead” “avoiding the dead” “she will beg” “for the soul” “of another” “You’ll never return” “Your spirit will burn” “you cannot fight” “take cover” “I won’t fight” “I will plead” “down on my knees” “I can but hope” “he concedes” “he’s not known for his honour” “but more for his greed” “have you ever heard” “of a soul he has freed?” “Shaking thoughts from her head” “as she steps on the dead” “the ladder of souls” “takes her down” “Light blinds her eyes” “as she sees in surprise” “the shine” “from the gold” “of his crown” “Her foot falls” “from the frame” “her hands” “do the same” “and she’s falling fast and free” “frantically fumbling” “for a footing” “or hold” “her blood goes cold” “as he…” “…gives her his hand” “helps her to stand” “then completely unplanned” “She falls” “in love” “with Hades”.

From the regimental granite, pointed edges Jutting out, right angles meeting right angles, We emerged from the doused light Into the glistening reflection where the stream Trickled over smoothed rocks and mirrored The sun as it danced along the broken water. Boys, all of us, hopped from rocks to pebbles That broke the delicate water surface As we strove not to. Either side the ground rose Up, trees jutted out and held against gravity Tapping our moving heads, looming above Watching us enjoy their company, as we groped At the branches and pulled at the roots To keep our balance on the pebbled floor. As we stumbled outstretched wooded hands Offered us help, yet warned us not to stride So clumsily as to require them again with a prick Or a graze to the young flesh on our clutching fingers. Pushed down into this tiny vale, the wind Met more wind and fanned us as we toiled And clambered over the rocks further into Natures haven, whistling as it passed our Oncoming ears, rousing the translucent leaves, Which dispersed the suns light through a green lens, Into a rustling choir to sing us on our journey upstream Through the thickening foliage. Further along And on some more, uprooted and fallen A tree rested across the now shaded auburn, Brown and greying rocks whilst the ripples of water Flitted beneath and through the cracks, so daintily, So purposefully and so inevitably, in its bark. At this point many of my companions turned back To retrace the turquoise and rusty line Of water and pebbles, through the vast green That belonged to the surrounding fields, That were dotted with the pure whites Of growing lambs and their mothers basking And resting in the afternoon sun, to return Back to the rigid world of black granite and concrete Beyond and out of reach of the greens of the grass And leaves. And with those who left, left too The noise of chattering that had followed But not disturbed the tranquillity of the flowing Eden, The human voices that reminded that the calm Of this tiniest of rivers was not to last forever. And as they left, us few who remained to delve Deeper into the rural paradise respected the sacred Silence of all but nature unless our voices were used Only to express delight and awe with the sights And sounds that greeted us when birds Would jump from their nest in the now thicket of trees And flit in front of our faces, bright colours blurring As a rainbow of fluttering wings illuminated by the radiant Light of the sun above and below, repeated By the darting flashes of the uneven reflective lens of Pattering water, and made sweet chirrups That joined with hum of the bees to discover The undiscovered electric pulse of the Stream.

STREAM a poem by

Alick McCallum

Jonny Young

A WORD ON...

y God, it never ends. A new poster has slated a Bananaman movie for a 2015 release; yes, the Man of Peel (their pun, not mine) is making a return. And this is just the tip of the iceberg. Marvel’s current box office domination has extended into the amazing sink unblocking powers of Ant-Man, a scientist who can shrink himself down to any size provided that it’s plot relevant. And, of course, Rocket Raccoon, a small furry Jack Bauer. But behind the faux-science shenanigans and random costumes of the modern superhero movie industry stands Batman, the big broody grandfather of it all. He’s practically part of the furniture at this point. Batman films have been going for some time now; starting with the incredibly camp 1960s Adam West flick, which was adapted from the TV show of the same time. It

Batman featured a snout nosed Batman who always seemed to be busting for a piss. After being put through the ridiculously successful NolanFilterTM of confused non-messages and Hans Zimmer’s brass explosions (that seem to follow the director like a Doberman with a foghorn for a face), the character is due to be portrayed by Ben Affleck; a man who simultaneously looks like a confused baby and the sharp side of a cliff. Hopefully, he’ll be as terrible as he was in Daredevil, just so we can get rid of Batman for a while. The guy’s spent too much of his time working out his anger on drunk tramps in his pyjamas for the average billionaire, and not enough of it dedicated to buying out the world’s media. Now, don’t get me wrong, I like Batman. I mean, you can hang hats on his ears, after all. It’s just that the character himself is simply not as

interesting as his villains; probably due to having the personality of a frowny filing cabinet stuffed with money and no concept of personal space. How many people remember the original Burton film primarily for Batman, and not Jack Nicholson as the Joker? The Dark Knight was similarly dominated by TwoFace and the Joker; probably since the plot was primarily about a sad businessman in armour playing a long angsty game of Blue’s Clues with a GCSE Biology diagram and Margaret Thatcher in drag. Even the incredibly atrocious (or atrociously incredible, your choice) Batman and Robin is mostly remembered for The Governator’s total lack of shits to give about the script, hamming it up so much it could be cut and sold at a butcher’s. Oh, and the Bat Credit Card. Fucking what? No, despite being

as interesting as a tub of lard with marital issues, Batman is so popular he now dominates huge sections of pop culture. He’s so integral, in fact, that he’s basically the modern day action character archetype, i.e. an angry bloke who says very little, punches people repeatedly and talks in shrouded half-metaphors. This is, of course, a far cry from the 80s action character archetype of an angry bloke who says very little, punches people repeatedly and talks in amazingly bad one-liners. But the point remains. Garrett, from the recent Thief game, is really just a skinny Batman; a man who says he steals things because ‘it’s what I do’. Thanks for that, Garrett, but I doubt the jury will empathize with your suffering. In my opinion, Batman just needs to go away for a while. Films, comics,

TV shows, musicals, charity calendars, everything. There’s been a new cartoon with the chinned wonder almost every year since the excellent Batman: The Animated Series kicked things off back in the 90s. Man of Steel was essentially marketed as being Batman the alien, and he’s now being farmed out for the Justice-League-in-disguise film Batman vs Superman, which is a fight that should realistically last as long as a hamster in a jet turbine. Take a well-deserved break from the self-discovery and face breaking, put your Bat Boots in the Bat Wardrobe and go to the Maldives for a bit. You deserve it, you big mopey bastard. When the public can actually get excited for a new Batman film, there should be some changes for old whiney Wayne. Stop trying to be Watchmen and, instead, try

a few ridiculously camp 60s throwbacks. It’s happened recently on TV where Batman: The Brave and the Bold freshened things up by pitting Bats against idiot villains like Clock King, Crazy Quilt and the amazingly named Animal Vegetable Mineral Man. My favourite Batman scene is in the 60s film where he’s running frantically along a holiday pier desperately trying to get rid of a giant bomb. Exasperated at insurmountable obstacles, like a no smoking sign, some nuns and five ducks, he runs towards the screen, whereupon water and metal pipes go everywhere and the bomb is defused; somehow. It’s weirdly like the ending to Dark Knight Rises, on reflection. Anyway, Batman needs more of that brilliant nonsense and less bullshit hero statements based on the difference between the meaning of ‘deserves’ and

‘needs’. In fact, just remake Batman and Robin. It was so ridiculously over-the-top that you can somehow manage to enjoy it, like Birdemic, The Room or Troll 2. Remake that stupid film with the clear

intention that it’s going to be nothing like Dark Knight Rises (more Bane in flasher trench coats, less Bane struggling to be heard through a cyberpunk face hugger), develop a dumb side story that ties the goddamn Bat Credit Card into

Jonny Young

Ninja Baseball Bat Man game review

the plot, and I’ll watch the hell out of that. I’ll probably be the only one that does, but who cares about brand strength when you’re Batman? You can just Batman the problem away by jumping on its face in your underwear.

o, I’m serious. There is a game that exists with that combination of words in that order. Just let that sink in for a while. This really is the kind of reboot Batman needs, but unfortunately this is just ninjas and baseball, which is clearly an inferior product to a latex personification of capitalism. Ninja Baseball Bat Man (or Baseball Handto-Hand Fighting League Man if you’re Japanese and love ridiculous rambling titles) is an arcade sidescrolling beat-em-up released in the 90s, similar to classics like Final Fight and Streets of Rage. If you’ve ever played a game like this before, you’ll be right at home, punching endless amounts of dudes in endless amounts of alleys, except here you punch with a bat and the dudes are all anthropomorphic baseball paraphernalia. There are still alleys though, so at least something remains. Honestly, the game begins and ends with the title. It sounds like they went through some deep scientific study to find the single coolest sounding title possible and reverse engineered a game out of it; the whole thing is essentially ninjas with baseball

uniforms wielding bats and fighting the contents of the New York Yankees merchandise booth. I say “essentially”, as, despite being conceived in America, the game was made in Japan, and so has been filtered through all the craziest parts of Japanese culture with elemental super moves, giant planes with eyes, and flying stadiums all showing up at various points. This is like if the creator of Samurai Pizza Cats started flicking through American TV channels with his head lodged in a mountain of cocaine and looked up for long enough to catch a glimpse of the World Series out of the corner of one bloodstained eye before slumping back into his powder and shouting the design document to a group of confused interns who’d never heard of sport. If baseball were more like this, I would probably watch it. There are four main characters to whack people with, each a different colour and silhouette to make them stand out from the psychedelic orgy on screen: a tiny, fast hitter, a long-reaching poker, a big, fat bloke with a baseball jammed halfway down his bat, and a boring all-rounder who looks like the red Power Ranger and plays like a digestive biscuit. They’re different enough to want to actually use all of them, especially since the core gameplay can get quite repetitive. There are only two buttons, one to jump and one to hit, so naturally the movelist is a bit limited, despite some supers looking powerful enough to shake the Earth from its orbit. While the act of hitting stuff can get old, the stuff you hit is so packed with character that the game never gets actively boring. Mischievouslooking baseball bats carrying other smaller baseball bats, spider droids conceived from an affair between a baseball and a Droideka, squids in scuba gear that hit you with squeaky hammers and what appears to be the Beagle Mafia are all enemies here, and special mention must go to the boss battles. I won’t ruin the surprise too much, but when one of them gets made into a sad-looking handbag at the end of the fight, you want to keep playing just to see what they can come up with next. Pity that most of them are cheaper than your mum on a Friday night, randomly taking half your health whenever they feel like it, as if you’ve forgotten to pay your taxes this month. This brings me to the main sticking point with the game: there are more spikes in its difficulty than on the bottom of its shoes, and it really isn’t very long to boot, clocking in at just over an hour. This was almost certainly due to it being an arcade-only game, designed to steal quarters from kids who want to know what being on drugs feels like. The only way to play the game nowadays is on an emulator, and since you can put infinite coins into an emulator without costing yourself anything, the artificial difficulty is gone and you can just run headlong into

things over and over again, like a man trying to break down a wall with the bridge of his nose. Happily, however, this makes the game much less frustrating than it would otherwise be. I can’t imagine how much money you’d need to spend to see the spectacularly anticlimactic ending, but the constant threat of random death would take its toll after a while. So instead of potential brain haemorrhaging, you get to just enjoy the wackiness, which, due to the length, doesn’t outstay it’s welcome. So overall, it’s an enjoyable if short experience that’s much less annoying than it would’ve otherwise been, even if the emulation can get spotty and potentially cause an epileptic fit or two. It’s also called Ninja Baseball Bat Man. I can’t stress that enough. Now for something completely different. While researching this article, I noticed there was a Kickstarter campaign for some kind of Ninja Baseball Bat Man comic. Having checked it out, it looks really damn suspect. A total of 24 backers pledged $1278 over its 45 day period, despite meeting its goal of $1000 within 4 of those days. The spread of pledges is bizarre, with everyone contributing $40 or below apart from two people who gave $300 each. And then there’s the art. It’s godawful. I mean, just look at it. It looks like one of those early internet flash games where nobody had any talent, or something from a particularly crap pre-teen deviantART profile where they only have access to their own eyes once every fortnight to work out what shapes and colours are supposed to be. This has even worse proportions than some of Rob Liefeld’s atrocious contributions, although at least there aren’t a zillion pouches cutting off the blood supply to every part of the body. Confused and aghast, I looked further into the history of NBBM. Apparently it was originally the vision of one American bloke called Drew Maniscalco and designed to be a competitor to Super Mario Bros. of all things, but was given to the Japanese arm of the company, who actually knew what they were doing and promptly redesigned basically everything. It seems that this guy always wanted a shitty Batman knockoff where everything is baseball themed, and genuinely thinks it’s the best thing ever (seriously, a veteran baseball player living a dual life as a baseball-related superhero is something DC would’ve laughed at back when they were doing fucking Kite Man storylines). If this is seriously what he always wanted, then I’m glad the Japanese took it off him. I don’t want Dragon Ball Z redone by someone whose only artistic tools are crepe paper and a photocopier. Like what you see? Take a look at Jonny’s blog, rubbishopinion.wordpress.com

gainst your better judgement, I walk along the road. You look at me like I'm some sort of child; I'm not sure I like it. You keep looking and it almost makes me want to cry. I walk slowly to keep up. We used to skip and run and laugh together but we've grown up since then. We used to hold hands and were friends to the end of whatever our childish minds imagined that week, but our worlds have changed, and they cannot go back. Neither can we. You tell me about the birds fluttering past my head, spraying cries and excrement where they please. We listen for cars, vans, lorries... but the air is quiet. I can see you from the far side of the room, staring blankly onwards as if there is something unbelievably fascinating that needs to be observed but I can't see it. I want to reach out and pull you into my arms again but you're too far away, so far that I don't imagine I'll ever get to you. Still I can picture that smile and hear the adventure in your voice when we spent our younger decades talking about living on the moon, using that magical phrase 'one day'. You remain where you are, impassive, unmoving and I watch the tears try not to roll down my face and tell me everything will be better soon. With my laughter I agree. I blink and look away, tilt my head and stop breathing. You join me in the road, sneering away any doubts. We link arms, as we always have, and pull together for strength and warmth. We play hide and seek with our sun, knowing that it has ducked behind a cloud but letting it think we can't see it. Pretending, for fear of the real. Your ear is always in the wind and you tug on me whenever anything dangerous comes our way. I like to leave it to the last second, I like the rush more than you do, more than you ever did. Your eyes meet mine; we cry for what could have been and smile at what is. Friends throughout time, a constant through past, present and future. I'm allowed to touch you. My hand rests on your face and our eyes meet for what I'm afraid will be the last time. My heart slows and your life flashes before my eyes. I see behind your silent lips all the brewing arguments, all the mellifluous songs, all the heartfelt insults. There is something stirring at the back of my mind, a feeling that covers and saddens me. Your eyes are blue with a hint of green. Your fingernails are overgrown. Your feet are protruding: you never did like them, did you? We used to walk for hours, covered in blisters but it didn't matter, we were made of sterner stuff. You didn't like me spitting on the roadside; I didn't like you knowing where we were. I ask you where we're going but you don't understand. At the junction you turn left and I turn right; separate ways take us to separate homes. They tell me what I don't want to hear, nodding solemnly. No, not yet. I wish I had been there at the end, I wish I could have helped. I ignore my uselessness and kiss you softly. Your skin is cold. I don't want to breathe again but my love makes me. "You stay with me," I tell you, and you do. I feel overwhelmed by light and noise. This is not our road anymore; this city belongs to someone else. But I linger, a phantom of the never-known past. I remain on street corners and force the memories to come back; I will time to turn around and do something different. My eyes clench shut in pain and a bloody, rapturous scream escapes me. And the road is mine again. We walk together, against our better judgements, down our familiar path. But you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t save me anymore.

Jami

ie Hardwick

ONCOMING TRAFFIC 43

SHO CA

Visual arts F e a t u work by Ol

OW ASE at

Warwick. u r i n g livia McNeilis

“Ophelia”

My art stems from a

childish fascination with all things macabre. Growing up in the countryside you experience cycles of life at close hand; I’ve raised a newly born lamb by hand, and watched it be put down. I was fascinated with taxidermy as a child, and loved collecting dead moths and butterflies. You think you're immortal when you're young, when that sense starts to fade I found myself obsessed with the tensions between life and death. Creating art is a type of fantasy that allows you to navigate and explore these new boundaries.

“Talia”

I think Victorian postmortem photography really captures this idea, it’s an intense effort to immortalise beauty even in death. My work is largely influenced by classical literary references, and usually involves playing, interpreting and subverting their conventions. I’m inspired by Victorian and Pre-Raphaelite narrative paintings that focus on the literary figures that are very much a part of a collective cultural psyche. Hamlet’s Ophelia is a character I often return to, the tensions between her beauty and madness is something that really interests me. Her mental health is very differently positioned because of her femininity in the play, so I experimented with a male model in my interpretation.

“Convergence”

“Pre-Ra”

48 48

“Irrenkunstler”

I enjoy representations of original fairy tales as well, I think it's interesting that the stories we find appropriate to tell young children, that concern morality teachings, are often originally perverse and macabre. Though we might find Disney’s interpretation of Sleeping Beauty as misogynistic, and perpetuating the idea of the ‘damsel in distress’, in the original Italian story, Sun, Moon and Talia, the princess is raped by the king in her sleep when he fails to wake her. Her beauty is her price. I think it’s important to re-evaluate the stories we share as a culture, and discuss what they mean, where they come from; art is a great way to evaluate and rerepresent literature. Most of my models are family and friends; they really go the extra mile to help. When you want to get a shot in the middle of a creepy abandoned estate, or you need your model to curl up naked surrounded by nettles and brambles – it helps if you’re completely comfortable with each other!

Mid-Late Thursday Morning “Waving about?” “Yes, that sort of thing.” Alfred considered the image. “Aren’t moles blind?” “Moles? No, I shouldn’t think so.” “I’m fairly sure they’re blind, Bill.” “No, don’t be mad. Molly!” Bill was going to ask Molly. “One second Alf, I’ll ask Mol.” Bill drew the phone away, resting it on his lap. “Mol, moles: are they blind?...Oh don’t be ridicu-…Of course they’re not… Well Jesus if you’re… Fine! Fine!...Oh why don’t you just…” The mole moved slightly. “Yea, Alf?” “Yes Bill?” “Yea, Molly isn’t sure.” “Ok.” “Why don’t you try a wave?” “Ok.” Alfred convulsed his hands as if waving to a grandmother he wasn’t sure he had. “Any luck?” “I don’t think so.” “Ah.” “Yes.” The wave had not yielded the desired results. “I think it’s blind Bill.” “I’m sure I remember seeing a cartoon of a mole wearing little spectacles.” Alfred didn’t know how to react to this. “What good are spectacles when you’re blind?” “…” Bill tried to remember the cartoon. “Are there not people to call for this sort of

lfred left his porridge, disappointed in himself for not realising he needed a wee before sitting down. That’s not efficient ‘breakfast-ing’. Half awake and riddled with discontent, his subpar ‘aim’ was jettisoned from his mind as he stopped in the doorway. Instinctively, he reached for his phone. “Alf, what ca-“ “Bill, there’s a mole on my futon.” “… A mole on your futon?” “Yes.” “I see.” “Yes.” At this juncture there was a pause. “Is there a protocol to undertake?” said Alfred, after some time. “Protocol in case of mole… attack?” “I wouldn’t say attack.” “Well what would you say?” Alfred, like a hesitant shoe buyer, took up and set down several words before settling with: “Siege?” “I see.” “Yes.” Bill scrutinized his mind, checking most pertinently the section headed: moles. “None that I can think of.” “No.” “You might want to scare it away, shoo it somehow: aggressive gesturing and gesticulating, that sort of thing.”

thing?” “Mole removal people?” “That sort of thing, yes.” “I wouldn’t know who to call.” “No.” Bill couldn’t remember the cartoon. “Is he… it, strictly holding up your morning in any particular fashion?” “Well there’s my porridge you see.” “Your porridge.” “Yes.” “I see.” “Yes.” “Well, can’t you take your porridge?” “Well… I suppose, I could…” “How close is the mole to the porridge?” “How close?” “Yes. In feet, say?” “Eight maybe.” “Eight?” “Yes.” Molly put on a round of toast: two white, two brown. “What would you say the striking distance of a mole is?” “I don’t know if they strike as such.” “Well no, not strike. But, how close can I be would you say?” “Well how close would you happily get to a mole normally, outside perhaps, if you had to?” It was The Wind in the Willows. “Why would I have to?” “Say you dropped porridge that was in Tupperware.” “Well… I don’t know if I’d be all that concerned.” “Well, what’s unnerving you then? It was The Wind in the Willows by the way.” “What?” “The cartoon, The Wind in the Willows.” “Ah.” “Well, what about this scenario is the key difference from the outside-Tupperware

scenario?” “I don’t know; a mole shouldn’t be on a futon.” “I see. Quite. Well, perhaps if you try and forget the mole-futon paring and treat it as a regular, Tupperware style mole siting?” “Right. So… get the porridge?” Molly buttered a piece of brown. “Get the porridge.” Alfred sighed. Gauging the mole, he made his way slowly to the porridge and sat down on the futon adjacent sofa. “What’s happening?” “I’ve got the porridge.” “Excellent.” “Um, thanks then. See you later. Cheers Bill. Bye.” Alfred chewed and stared to his left, raising his spoon now and then from bowl to mouth, no less disconcerted by the combination of futon and mole.

Harry Puttock

HERE I AM. YOU CALLED? by

Ahlam Al-A

Abbasi

wish I could say that I have never been to a funeral before. But that would be a lie. Not only would it be a lie, it would be an injustice to the very many people who have died in my presence. Okay, perhaps that was a little bit of an obnoxious thing to say, but it is true. I have been in the vicinity- is that better?- of more than one person who has croaked, choked, blurghed, blarghed, spurted, gushed, wheezed, whizzed, plopped, copped, chopped, arghed, sighed and, in general, whizzed away to the afterlife on the earliest National Express. As I am sure you have guessed, none of these deaths have been particularly appetising. We humans have a weird habit of finding the least decorous ways of ending our spin on the mortal coil. Why breathe slowly and dramatically out in old age when you can, quite literally, cough up a lung screaming as you sever your femoral artery while fighting off sixty drug lords in the fantastical city of Shang De La Roup? Last month, Jack abseiled off the side of the moon and had the distinct pleasure of experiencing freefall before spearing himself on a tooth brush. Said tooth brush had been disposed of when the Shuttle ‘To Infinity and Beyond’ ran out of gas, turned around and re-entered earth’s atmosphere; casting away its excess baggage as it went. I’m sure you’re seeing the theme I’m trying so hard to communicate. It can become tiresome when you are privy to this information. Yes, yes, some people like to claim that I am the person that determines these things for Jack and his fellows. Allow me to discard such assertions: they are falsified and formed on the suspicious assumption that I like to consider myself a god of sorts. How could I ever claim such a title? How could I dare? I have no more control over the fates of the people of whom I write than the chap sat just down the carriage from me. (I love it when he stands up, it allows me to give him an eyeful). The main point though is that all those years ago, when God created the universe, he didn’t have a laptop. He didn’t need the emotions evoked by the sentimentality of music to be creative. He didn’t need a constant internet connection and a ginger cake slowly melting in the heat of the train to keep him going scene after scene after scene. He simply did and it became. Can you imagine the potential of being able to create popularity like that? A product he dreamed of in one moment that increased and increased in mass until it became the primary consumer item that the world today consumes; topping at a hefty seven billion worldwide availability. It is a product of the living human kind. Infinitely popular. And so my point. Should I be able to create as God creates, decide as God decides, I would not have Student Finance hunting me down in the back rooms of beauty therapists and haunting me with the ever present No Caller I.D. calling card on my phone. I would be rolling along a rainbow of my own colourful creative

genius and frolic in candyfloss fields; riding on the back of a centaur now and then because I could, and because my allergies obviously don’t exist in the superior power of an alternative reality that I had created. I would embrace the unreality of reality, I would cry supernatural at the washing line, I would jig with the spiders, I would convert my dishwasher into a ten story flat where I resided alone during the week and Gatsby’d at the weekend until the pink cow mooed the oncoming Monday Dawn. The power to spread light with my scarred fingers and a few laptop keys. What insanity is this? But it is insanity, at the end of the day. Had I that power, I wouldn’t share it with you. Simple as that. But I have to make a living somehow and this is the way in which I aim to employ my time until I lose my fingers to some sort of gangrene and the putrid smell of my decaying flesh becomes synonymous with living; with breathing and with paying the bills. Therefore, when I talk about Jack and ‘The Toothbrush Incident’ I mean that I didn’t contrive to make his death as graphic as possible (I promise you there was a lot of blood, a lot of silent screaming, and then a satisfying thud as he crashed into the side of a star). But I was privy to Jack’s story because he asked me to be there. I must admit that it is a strange thing, being there right at the end. Do you know these people have other people who love them? Who would have traded heaven, melted hell and crystallised their own hearts to have the front row seat, the privileged position of blood spatter; in order to be there at the end. Of course, there are those who hate too, who would equally like to be there until the gruesome end. That’s the strange thing about love, isn’t it? Love, hate are much of a muchness in my mind; they both have that fervent passion about them, and their heat keeps me warm when I can’t pay the gas. I find it strange that I get to witness the end of a human life. I am human after all, despite my business in the more gruesome fields our world tends of cultivate. I like to have a chocolate cake on a Sunday - by which I mean everyday; cereal is the only Godsend my morning will bring and I rely on public transport like the proverbial Jimmy, Timmy, Cammy and Toto. Average is the name of the game, but when I’m rubbing shoulders with a student in flip flops, watching as his long greasy hair settles on my good blue coat, I wonder; should there not be some sort of a wall or something? Death is not their everyday, but it is mine. And it is so weird. So weird. Sometimes I feel guilty because I don’t think dying and death are good way to go around living. Then again, it’s me and not them; I just provide the write up. Although, as much as I hate to admit it, I have seen some beautiful things too. I have looked down on the land and wondered why there is something special in a scene of fields stretching to the horizon; that, rather than conforming to the pastoral idyllic, looks instead like a mouldy green table cloth has been spread over great mountains of teeth. I have seen eighty seven sunrises, in this world and the next. Purple cannot be imbued with such rampant blues and golds in the imagination; I have seen technical velavanders; crisscrossed domesticity with the wilds; I have

crossed stone walls into the mountains; and I have watched the twilight fade from the matriarch’s eyes and twinkle for eternity with a ruby glow in the heart of the earth. I have followed the Krikatun River into a sea of tears. I have glimpsed the cybernetic light of what they think is beyond in the rusted Scottish railway lines. I have climbed to the cloud that resides just under Olympus (only I can’t tell you where that is), and I have rested quietly on the pavement and mourned. Just once. In the self-evaluation form that I fill out on an annual basis, under job satisfaction it’s; ‘adequate’. Suggestions for improvement; ‘Better travel allowance’. My name, address and date of birth. That’s all it is. Again, the weirdness hits when words ‘life’ and ‘administration’ show two different strata under the single umbrella title of ‘work’. I think I’m beginning to run out of steam. It happens. I can’t describe everything to you in a matter of moments, or words and at times I find I don’t want to. Work is work. My play is no such play. I exist only to see the demise of others. It is a grim prospect. I don’t have a life, punching in the nine to five, and working the weekend to boot. I have asked myself, (I know you’re thinking it too); do I in fact live vicariously through my charges? No, not really. Sometimes you can have a great time watching their antics and, at other times, not so much. It’s a bit like novel reading. The good is always mixed in with the bad. At times it’s just hard to write an impartial review. For instance, I was at a funeral the other day. Lorena lay in the coffin. Dead. I don’t think you have ever been to a wake quite like this one. Think Irish, and then think crack pot. Celebrate the dead and mourn with the power to resurrect. She was loved, I could tell. Champagne glasses filled with the crystal tears of her friends and the onyx tear of her enemies. For the first time there was a joint enterprise and it had found its stage in weeping for this fallen woman. The harshness of the electric lights was curtained by the graveyard of dead flies that lay just beneath the plastic of the bulb. The room was shrouded in a rambunctious darkness that roiled and danced on the air currents that slipped silently through the open double doors at each end. Trestle tables sighed delicately at the array of pink and green and blue tinged sandwiches, (there was no brown bread at this wake). Tablecloths billowed out of their own accord, like robes, or dresses, or cloaks at a great festival. Tippety tap, tap, tap dripped the chocolate sauce from the five tiered Dame of the Necromancer cake, onto the cheap wooden floor below. Tappety, tap, tap tap. Hubbedy, hub, hub, hub from the political corners. Screech of a chair. Cackle of a laugh. The soft schmoowhiss of beer foaming into a glass. Step, creak, step of a new arrival. A light dusting across the ground. The light tinkle of glass hearts. The slight whomp and a turn of the head here. There. In the darkness, under the lights. Solemn expression and joyful delight. Patting down of a soul in turmoil and over all of this the beat; solitary, a communion, the feast of this night. It was the beat of a life that should still be living but had died a physical death. It was the beat of a life that would live on in memory for eternity. And then there was the open coffin.

3 TIPS TO STOP PROCRASTINATING Why your creative projects and/or coursework isn’t getting done, and what you can do about it.

Abbie Day

The best (and, possibly, only) way to combat this compulsion to do anything other than the task at hand is to put yourself in new surroundings. It’s not enough to turn off the TV and attempt to tune out of your friends’ conversation on whether you would rather fight one shark or a hundred micro-pigs. You have to actively be away from it… because let’s face it, nobody can resist a conversation about micro-pigs.

I have an assignment due in but always seem to find excuses to put it off. I don’t know about you, but whenever a deadline looms I feel a great urge to do laundry. Or clean the kitchen. Or re-write a term’s worth of seminar notes because, quite frankly, they just aren’t colourful enough. It’s only when you’ve spent the week convincing yourself of your new-found productivity that you realise you only have three days left to complete whatever it is you originally set out to do. (And who can remember what that actually was, anyway?)

Preferably, you move to a completely new environment; this gives you the opportunity to label it as the one and only place in which you write your novel, or research your dissertation. It could be a coffee shop you rarely visit, a local library or even a friend’s

room, just for the novelty factor. If you feel you need a break (and don’t try to go more than three hours without one or this will be an environment you’ll really grow to hate) find a different area to relax in and then return to the work area when you’ve fuelled up.

I’m lacking inspiration – everything I’ve done recently is rubbish I’ll use the specific example of writing for this one but for anyone feeling down about a creative project, I hope this will cheer you up considerably. All those times recently when you started to churn out poor quality creative content, you’ve been doing it right. The only thing you did wrong was stopping.

As a student in particular, it’s often difficult to separate work and home. Hopefully, this will give you an opportunity to love your student accommodation just a little bit more, whatever state it’s in after a Friday night...

I’m not telling you to submit everything, even the things you’re unhappy with, for publishing. Projects of even the most renowned writers will require skilled editing. There is, however, a certain value in writing away the ‘bad stuff ’. I find it useful to imagine the brain like a pan of pasta in boiling water. The pasta is the inspiration, the really good ideas you want to get at, but you can’t reach right in and grab them. You need to drain the water out with a colander first, and that colander is writing without editing (and, thank goodness, the metaphor stops here).

I never stick to my plan and spend all my time re-drafting it. There are different kinds of procrastinators, but by far the gravest kind are those (like me) who trick themselves into thinking their procrastination is actually helpful. I’m talking about the incessant planner. They have a permanent Excel spreadsheet tab open on their desktop with times and dates that correspond to projects. In the time it takes to decide what they’ll do when, they should have already ticked off the first task. So they alter their schedule and the cycle continues.

The point is you should write everything, even if it’s trite, even if it jars and every word makes you want to give up writing and instead turn to paper manufacturing, because then the blank page could simply be a final destination. Trust me, when you get there, the page filled with words you’re proud of (or whatever your creative destination may be) is worth all the self-doubt.

Now this isn’t to say plans are bad. When you get home on the first day of the Christmas break, it’s hugely beneficial to find out how much free time you can afford to give over to leisure activities without getting too stressed or too far behind. BUT THEN LEAVE IT BE. I’m serious. Maybe re-address it once, halfway through the holidays, to see how much you have left to do. You do not need to know to the exact hour when essay plans should be finished. Take a step back with the plans, get on with an actual task, and you’ll get way more done.

At the risk of pouring a little too much brutal honesty into your day, you’ll always have the urge to procrastinate. But before you resign yourself to depressed sloth mode and write off all your projects – most of which will likely be awesome once you get going – try to find a method of motivation you haven’t tried before. Innovate in your work ethic and you’ll bring innovation to your projects, too. Now that’s a reason to get inspired.

maybe just ONE DRINK more...

We asked you to get creative and invent a Christmassy drink - here are our favourites!

Honeycomb hot chocolate - Jade Kong My ideal Christmas drink would be a rich and creamy warm concoction of honeycomb, chocolate and Irish cream. Topped with whipped cream, honeycomb dusting, mini marshmellows and chocolate sprinkles to add a touch of Christmas spirit.)

Popping Candy Surprise - Iris Du A milk hot chocolate with a hint of orange flavouring and flurry of cream. Finish off with a scattering of popping candy. Not only do you get the surprising sensation when you drink it, but as the cream dissolves into the drink, the sound will echo those crackling, cosy woodfires.

Earl Grey Mar-TEA-ni - Abi Browning This idea comes from a love of tea and a taste for gin. Make a basic syrup of sugar and water heated in a pan with some lemon zest. Pop an earl grey tea bag in a leave to cool and stick in a jug. Then, put crushed ice in a cocktail shaker with gin and top up with lemon tonic water. Squeeze out the earl grey tea bag from the syrup and gradually pour the liquid over the cocktail shaker ingredients.Pour over more crushed ice in a pretty martini glass and enjoy the bergamot and lemon flavours that compliment the gin rather spiffingly.

COBALT

ISSUE 2 28TH NOVEMBER 2014 WARWICK UNIVERSITY