Photography David Sims
FICTION PICTURES POETRY POP
www.theillustratedape.com Issue designed lovingly by James & Joe
David Sims, Holger Pooten, David Hughes, James Cooper, Elias Tahan, Andrea Giacobbe Robin Schwartz, Matteo Trisolini, Daniel Sannwald, Paul Wetherell, Kim Rickcord, Rachel Freire Jon Burgerman, Scott Garrett, Modern Toss, The Peepshow Collective, Jeremyville, Marcus Oakley, Andrew Rae, Honey Manko, Alessandra Tisato, Caligula On Ice + More, More, More
ISSUE#26 ÂŁ5.50/$9.00
NEWS IN BRIEFS
Page 3 Serial Killer Model Honey Manko Photographer Alessandra Tisato Executed children’s entertainer and serial-killing lovely, John Wayne Gacy, aka Pogo the Clown, thinks that clean needles should always be used for lethal injections. “There’s no telling what you might catch otherwise,” said safety-conscious stunna, John, 36DD-28-34.
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Design Andy Callahan / www.andycallahan.co.uk
Contents
[3] Page Three Serial Killer
[6] Calling Cards
[8] Cornelius
[12] Manifesto
Honey Manko does John Wayne Gacy
Lonely? We have the comfort if you have the means
Intimate family portraits and the editor’s letter
Sick of photography?
[14] Hector G
[16] A Story About Cracks
[32] A Photo Story About Cracks
[36] The Columbia
Readers’ letters and buttered bottoms
Journey into the apocalypse with Kim Rickcord
David Hughes and Paul Wetherell crack up
Hotel etiquette from Vanessa Pelz-Sharpe
[38] Boop
[42] Tokyo Decadence
[44] Sister Dear
[46] The Siren
Orbs, spheres and obesity with Jack Gabriel
Forced masturbation with Haruko Haga
Wholesome family times with Molly Dolittle Slade
Shooting up with a mermaid
[48] Offspring
[49] Celebrity Death-Flash
[50] Regular Death-Flash
[52] Verbals
What if he and she made three?
How will they die this time?
Holger Pooten on the art of death
Poetry, photography and more
[56] Caligula On Ice
[58] Illustratography
[62] Horoscopes
[64] Astronomy, Not Astrology
Frosty little boots with Tim Turnbull
The photography of illustrators
The Aquarian ambassador returns
Into the future with Daniel Sannwald
- Cornelius
Cornelius -
HECTOR’S GUIDE TO BUTTERING YOUR BOTTOM
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Hector G Democracy? Pah! Who said Reader’s Letters shouldn’t be from just one reader? Photography James & Joe Rear Deader
Thank You.
For the petty lewd Lord’s sake will you be hushed! I can’t hear myself pass loud wind.
“We am do does!”
My affianced is the middle child of two dog masseurs and a flighty wind enhancer (Colbert St Mistral-Bringe), all three from the outskirts of Inskip, the other from Tongbarn, you know, near the Industrious Wasp where Covvo accidentally snorted a vial of amyl nitrate and tried to bum June the Loon? My darling Aj was privately educated by a small family of apostates who had read Stig of the Dump and saw it as an allegory for the width of the River Uck and the faint metallic taste of wet lint. She herself read Ketchup Labels at the Leicester Conservatoire for Errant Potential Spouses of Substantial Bald Epistolary Legends. She failed with flightless monochrome tones, though developed a severe and foot threatening addiction to HP sauce, corn plasters and food beginning with Y. Your starter for ten? Yucca curry.
“Then I now pronounce you sundry fools.”
Thank you.
“Thank you.”
We met earlier.
Yes, my friends, I am to wed and to the most radiant and fecund wee lass that ever did wee. What, I hear you mind-gibbering, on earth, I see you mind-fidgetting, has this, I detect you mind-mithering, got to do with ‘Urban Apocalypse’? Absolutely bugger all on hot buttered bottoms I retort, but at least I have disbursed labial obeisance to the risible thematic conceit of this rancid quarterly’s zeitgeist-lite attempts at contemporaneousness.
Thank you.
Thank you. “Do you Hector Bripper-tugrugvastness St Syrup Marrow Buddhi Teddy Happy Lily Tiny Buddha G Edgerton take thee Ajilu Hunter-Gatherer of the Toast family nee Chirrup to be your awful webbed L Ron Hubbard for as long as you both shall wilfully and pointlessly extend the construction of a sentence which was entirely dead before its first letter was inked?”
Thank you. We met at the funeral of a mutual friend. The poet and nest-wearing plagiarist Poir William. It wasn’t the first time he’d died, his original obsequies were at a studio flat in West Omsk, a Humanist ceremony conducted by Barry Cryer in ‘those’ glasses during which he imparted numerous hilarious anecdotes about his time writing for the long forgotten comedy greats: Terry Winters, the younger brother and card carrying otter worrier of Michael and Bernard Schnorbitz, Canker Blair, Lionel’s mum and rectal manager, and of course Tupperware ‘deluxe’ Consanguinity, the memory man that time and the ability to remember forgot. The Right Reverend Cryer was also more than expansive on the notion that comedy was not unlike dissecting a frog: the frog dies, nobody laughs, and Barrington gets paid £2k a gig for ‘after dinners’.
We are to wed where else, my dear, dear chums, but Chorley, Central Lancashire. The known but largely unknown epicentre of the Universe. I shall be wearing bobby sox, bangs, a Hue & Cry t-shirt, ‘leggings’ (green), ‘leggings’ (none) and a tailcoat made of the penii of pigs. Only joking. Fleas. My heart’s true angel Ajilu will be wearing a bridal dress made out of her grandmother, the late Ephedrine Crippen. It is a sassy little number held together by that bat glue that Smiths won’t sell any more, scabby fox felt and naturally the moist utterings of elderly wood pigeons. Thank you. Any road, I must away. I have my best man’s speech to compose. Yes, you heard it here first. I am to be my own best man. Let’s face it, I am the fucking canine’s cojones! Who else could cut the mind mustard wot wot? Yours with the most purulent, vast and uncontainable contempt. Hector G Edgerton (Mrs)
A Photo Story About Cracks # 2 Photography Paul Wetherell
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Tokyo Decadence Text Haruko Haga Photography Andrea Giacobbe Tokyo is quite hardcore to live 4 some people, specially 4 their adolescence, which doesn’t really seem to change from city to city. Havin lots of fun and it doesn’t really matter what’s happenin on u. I know a guy who’s christian, a surfer, dad and artist. He’s 31 yrs old but looks 25, with many pierced holes and cut eyebrow, which was hit by an iron pipe. That’s his Tokyo decadence... ‘I was born into upper class family but started ruinin myself after the death of my mom at the age of 13. My dad said bout it, its not a tragedy that happened only on u but worldwide, so look for a more positive side of life and live. I neva cried in front of him, neither did he. From the age of 14, I moved in with my girlfriend, daughter of boss of a yakuza family, who took me to eat hormone bbq sometimes and I was getting attracted to their world that has got definite authority. Their work is bout makin porn films, sellin drugs and runnin stalls at festivals ‘n’ stuff. Around that time, shabu (speed) was popular so I started shootin up with mates in a closed old hospital in Nakano where’s got spooky Buddhist altar, and my mate was kickin it to pieces cos he was high on drugs. What a disaster! (I personally would never do that cos I mite b cursed! ) I dropped outta high school and went to the 2nd high school, which finished by 12 in da noon. Easy! Round that time I paparazzied with a quite famous actress/singer in the same high school but couldn’t dare to go out with her. I still regret bout that. In the city, violence was everyday practice, killin dull time. If we didn’t like a guy we took his clothes off and made him wankin’ with a porn mag in front of everyone or buried him alive in the ground, and other time we rolled rope round someone and dragged them by car. Yeah, one time in Shibuya we randomly chose long haired guys and shaved them all. Or I kidnapped someone or got kidnapped all of a sudden, confined and beaten up. I was somewhere between motorcycle gang and chinpira (street urchin). Another time I made a raid on a yakuza office and a yakuza guy was runnin after me in rage with a Japanese sword. That was scary man! I went into cells 3 times with charge of injuring people, theft and possession of drugs. I saw my dad come to c me at the cell cryin over the fence, I felt really sorry. By the age of 19yrs old I mostly had done most notorious things and thought it’s time to grow up properly now.’ From his hardcore experience he grew mature quicker than anyone I guess. He seems much more proper than any society humans with higher motivations. He’s 31yrs old now but sounds like 40. He seems to have proper answers ready 4 any question. Like we got asked from another guy that he’s really depressed. He answered, ‘Take a sinner (glue), walk the streets and get arrested. U feel more sober! 12
- The Siren
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The Siren Text James Daly Photography nathangallagher.com Art direction Rachel Freire Make up Natalie O’Connor Model Chrys Columbine Assistants Monkey, Myro The whale who swam up the Thames met a sad end to its long, third day. The Zoological Society’s post mortem revealed that it died of dehydration – curious, given the circumstances – and also that it was female. Its skeleton hangs in the Natural History Museum, where it resides beside the bones of a Siren – brilliant white, a spine for a waist, hips tapering into a fan of little bones, arms extended, ambivalent grin, not a trace of fat anywhere, regarded enviously each London Fashion Week by thin, aching models leaning in, among fields of purple flowers, still straining to hear her song.
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Offspring Misconceived kids of celebrity freaks Art direction James & Joe
Kate Moss + Pete Doherty, during a smack-addict dieting class = (Nothing at all)
(Nothing at all)
Lily Allen + Rowan Williams, Grand-Mufti Of Canterbury, retro-actively, during the World Moustache-Growing Championship = (Adolf Hitler)
(Adolf Hitler)
Queen Elizabeth II + Russell Grant, during the Commonwealth Astrology Awards = (A dumpling)
(A dumpling)
Pete Burns + Rod Stewart, during the filming of Live Aid XI = (Russell Brand)
(Russell Brand)
Catherine Tate + Johnny Vegas, during a cider drinking competition = (Jo Brand)
(Jo Brand)
Oprah Winfrey + Bill Clinton, in the Oval Office = (Barack Obama)
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Celebrity Death-Flash Fabulous deaths of the beautiful people Photography Kate Friend Art direction Rachel Freire The Rev. Amy Winehouse, 83, born-again Christian, and cruiseship chaplain, died of old age and absolutely no drugs whatsoever. Immediate reactions to the news varied from: “She was happy just doing Christmas singalongs for the old folk” – to – “Her favourite song was Mistletoe And Wine.” Ekow Eshun, 79, ex-director of the ICA, and installation artist, was tragically killed when his latest epic work – “The Rump Of The Multicultural British Empire Which I Hate For The Benefit Of All Those Masochistic Bourgeois Would-Be Hipsters Whose Imperialistic Grandparents’ Blood-Money Keeps Me In A Job” – fell on him. Immediate reactions to the news varied from: “Germaine Greer fancied him” – to – “Ken Livingstone was bereft.” Dame Kate Moss, 92, romantic novelist, eco-sherbet manufacturer, author of Dib-Dab Love and Just Another Rubbish Boyfriend, was mown down by speeding paparazzi after a suspected late-night drugs binge with King William V. Immediate reactions to the news varied from: “She was fashion’s twenty-first century goddess” – to – “I just wanted her to hold still for a fucking snap! Then she fucking did – for-fucking-ever. Result.” Madonna, 160, plastinated android, two-legged karaoke machine, fatally melted during the desert sequence of her latest movie, Climate Change Spin Aerobics. Immediate reactions to the news varied from: “I knew that she shouldn’t have had so much plastic surgery” – to – “She always looked like a Bratz-inspired cyborg.” Noel Fielding, 60, ironic painter, winner of Celebrity Stars In Their Eyes, lead singer of ironic The Small Faces tribute band, The Scrawled Faces, was ironically stampeded to death by ironic art-lovers at the private view of his exhibition, The Mighty Toosh, featuring over one hundred ironic portraits of his ironic anus. Immediate reactions to the news varied from: “Noel, ironically, was always Noel. And that’s what he painted” – to – “He was just too ironically retro to live.”
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Regular Death-Flash Photography Holger Pooten www.holgerpooten.com Models (Clockwise from above) Justyna, Teta, Juliana, Miggy & Bernadette
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Regular Death-Flash -
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- Verbals
Smile Don’t smile Someone will hear you. Too much water in your teeth, Close your mouth Good girls smile only half a smile Never a whole, rarely a laugh Now that is sacrilege! What will your in-laws say? What will the men across the road – Separated by five or six walls say? ‘That house is disrespectful… Their women can be heard.’ Even the way you walk An invisible stance No clothes that draw attention No shoes that click – click Just in case You scare the angels away After all you are a woman Divinity’s modesty, a human veil. You notice the men have heels They click, laugh, and shout Their breathing is free Their whispers loud Your brother speaks to be heard Your father does not object But you are a woman How dare you! Don’t open your mouth so wide now! Just in case you shout inadvertently Just in case you become opinionated. Cast your eyes down Never meet the male gaze Remember dear daughter of mine My precious, to be kept hidden For safekeeping, for protection From the bad world, from bad men Remember dearest Don’t smile.
Red Morning
Dina Begum Photography James & Joe
A Red Morning It dawns on me by dawn That my life is undone, in your arms A crimson scar races With traces of you, your love Under my skin You think me a radical Your hungry mouth utters absolutions In kisses and make-up Beneath a reddened sheet My toes are painted a shade You say you don’t like In reality, my mornings are slow I ache for you in longing Because of you I am seeking blue Not the Japanese red you promised me Like my tea cup Painted in elation – Like my toes peeping A dare From you to me Some red morning I find you there Some red mornings The sun smiles in rising in expectation By then I am red And dressed in mourning Dina Begum
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Verbals -
Loss Empty hands. Hers I sense I see Like two lonely rivers Close brothers, separated at sea Sisters ceasing to share a single soul Like lovers, when they spill into And fall out of each other’s places Their bodies a stone Cast here, cast there. She is broken without the breath The final summation of his That she begins to take on and breathe She breathes and continues Wrapping his larger-than-life living In strands of her ancient hair Smiling along another avenue Another vista, up on a blue hill That her heart cracked Often misunderstood The angryfeeling spreading inside her Within infinite vessels From rush to rush Stringing jade bead to amber That, she let pass by. And deepest eyes, oceanic Hers are quiet From silence to silence An earthchocolate vastness Like earth, water washes away. Still movements, those moments She flows in her star-dance muse Hand on chin, elbow on knee Singingsearching, some long-stemmed Red music someone has forgotten to pack And put away And she has remembered to stay For those memories of sweet pain… Dina Begum
A Portrait of a Bride On her wedding day the bride is primed, prepared and perfected They say she is a blessing soon to fall at her husband’s door Swathes of red encase her frame and gold clings to her skin. She is like the Shapla flower, lapping up the nourishment That monsoons provide – on the proviso that she will bloom. She has many handmaidens on this auspicious occasion With much laughter they feed her an abundance of good tidings Eager hands fix her veil and fan out the folds of her sari, A vermilion peacock it seems flutters and dances at her feet. The promise of a new beginning becomes the premise of dreams Dreamt in the hope she will bear their sorrows, bring them joy Henna graces her palms in swirls of saffron, the intricacy of life. Her beauty is rare as a pearl, onlookers agree sighing Bathed in the perfume of ever after, her beauty is inimitable. Dina Begum
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Caligula on Ice Text Tim Turnbull Photography Andrea Giacobbe www.andreagiacobbe.net The hype machine goes into overdrive; I tell you it will run for evermore. A world cup won at home could not contrive felicity so great, nor a foreign war raise up the nation’s spirits half as much as this. There’ll be, at first, a few nay-sayers but they’ll be roundly scorned as out of touch, perhaps be forced to join the cast as players
There – bloody and savage beyond belief – they claw like hellcats round the arena, each laying in with fists, feet, nails and teeth, so that it’s hard to judge which one’s the meaner. This round’s brought to a halt for a respite when they both slump together, brow to brow, the combat to resume again next night, though it’s always going on somewhere, somehow,
And so the gladiators take their places; dragooned in from the lively arts and sport. They wait, (some tremble, fear writ on their faces, while others, bloodlust rising, stamp and snort), in line. They have been seeded first, of course, matched by weapon-type or branch of showbiz – retarii against the secutors, the chorus-line of Cats against Lez Miz –
and there before the baying crowd, weeping and naked, cold and cowed be offered up as sacrifice to give the mob their money’s worth, at the greatest, ever, show on earth – Caligula on Ice.
say, handing out emoluments to buy up supine governments for whom the spectacle’s a spice, a voter-stunning opiate, the best that’s been invented yet – Caligula on Ice.
for it’s the only game in town, all other shows have been shut down. What substitute could now suffice? The theatres fold, no longer needed their entertainments superseded by Caligula on Ice.
The greatest, ever, show on earth, bar none and you could be stakeholders from the start. Private boxes, programs with your logo on and kudos as a patron of the arts are yours for a small fee. And once secured it’s safe, for if it all goes up the spout this project’s so prestigious, be assured, the government will have to bail it out.
An intermission follows, during which titbits are served to savour or endure – endangered species for the very rich, reconstituted vermin for the poor – whilst a batch of felons is done to death in ways both cruel and unusual – muggers mangled, pimps impaled; TV chefs roast murderers alive. The daily cull
Now Caesar stands to signal start of play but Arsenal and Man U both jump the gun, as tunnel spitting leads to a mêlée. The punters howl and, not to be outdone, Kelly Holmes puts Paula Radcliffe’s eyes out with a spear; the Royal Ballet corps accost Leeds Rhinos with a trilling battle-shout; Ant and Dec fall, wolf-like, on Kate Moss
So fill your boots with cut-price shares, we’ll soon be multi-millionaires. It’s gilt-edged, guaranteed advice. Underwriters will protect us. Have a peep at the prospectus for Caligula on Ice.
delights the Telegraph and Mail, slashes the numbers held in jail, deters delinquency and vice, and, even more importantly, provides this public service free. Ah, Caligula on Ice.
and Armageddon then ensues. With death the wage for those who lose the frenzied fighters hack and slice as fans drown out the screams with cheers. The claret-sodden climax nears to Caligula on Ice.
First, watched by some D-list non-entities, a grand parade of beasts, all cloned in zoos, (elephants, tigers, hippos, chimpanzees) is hacked to bits to keep the herd amused; and clowns do the dispatching; for the kids, to see them slip in gore’s such merriment! McDonald’s remove the meats and fluids to make way for a martial re-enactment:
The Emperor ascends and takes his seat, a marble throne with silks and velvet drapes. He waves and simpers, toadies at his feet. Half-feral magnates mill about the place, pour flattery and poison in his ear while his castrated rivals wait attendance. He signals silence so’s to better hear The Cain Dingle Pub Rock Experience.
It’s unsurpassable, has upped the ante for all celeb-humiliation shows. It’s Ragnarok, like watching scenes from Dante (well, who ever gets past The Inferno?), the Chapman brother’s Hell, a Bosch incarnate whose deafening, discordant soundtrack sings and nauseating stench evokes the Pit. It will out-gross, ten-fold, Lord of the Rings
Vimy Ridge or the Basra Road – real soldiers die, real tanks explode. But this is no contrived device, no titillatory tactic. It’s entertaining and didactic – Caligula on Ice.
As in-house pop group for the games they can, so their publicist claims, whip up a dirge in half a trice. It’s guaranteed to raise a snore, a droning, soporific score to Caligula on Ice
and that’s not counting DVDs or endless cable repeat fees and think of all the merchandise the giant pointy-finger gloves and scarves and hats the read, I Caligula on Ice.
Next there’s a fanfare and the crowd all rise as into the rink the insane God-King comes on golden skates. His earnest, puppy eyes and gladius gleam as a roll of drums announces his opponents have been brought, the fuddled cancer patients he will face, and single mums and pensioners who ought to lose but have been hobbled just in case.
and inauspicious start descends to farce: the Dingle brothers, it’s their fatal defect, brawl to prove which one’s the bigger arse. This cheers rival band the Mockney Rejects but even as the hackneyed feedback fades a swish is heard, a hiss, a rush, a roar and lasers flash on breastplates, helmets, blades as through the gates a thousand athletes pour
You see by now we have a sure-fire smash, a certified blockbuster, knockout hit that’s next door to a licence to print cash. Cautiously, I’d say put your shirt on it, your house, your mum, whatever you can hock; melt down the family silver, liquidate your assets and convert them into stock. In six months, Croesus-rich, you’ll celebrate,
It’s over soon, a dismal rout, then on to the first ranking bout. With greatest purse and highest price, the Murdoch-Berlusconi fight for international broadcast rights to Caligula on Ice.
the entertainers who will strive until just one is left alive. Their motto’s pithy and precise: ‘Abandon hope all ye who enter the National Exhibition Centre for Caligula on Ice.’
among the frocks that look a fright and blinded by the blinking lights (it’s paparazzi paradise), with champers and a catamite, a star guest at the opening night of Caligula on Ice.
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More work available at: www.donutpress.co.uk
Marcus Oakley www.marcusoakley.com
Ceri Amphlett www.ceriamphlett.co.uk
Eduard Erlikh www.erlikh.com
Mr Bingo www.mr-bingo.co.uk
Illustratography In commemoration of our foray into the realm of photography, we solicited the help of some of the world’s finest illustrators. Inviting each of them to craft photographic self-portraits, it is now an honour to serve up the visual banquet. Here is the collection of photographic self-portraits created for us by the hands of our chefs du jour.
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Peepshow Collective Photography: Stephen Lenthall www.peepshow.org.uk
Illustratography -
“My work often features wooden buildings. I like the honesty of wooden buildings. Especially the honesty of a shed. They do what they need to do, to store or rest things and objects. Sometimes they can be a special place to relax and seek solitude. I often think that I am a wooden shed.� Marcus Oakley
Modern Toss Jon & Mick www.moderntoss.com
Seb Jarnot www.sebjarnot.com
Jeremyville www.jeremyville.com
Paul Willoughby www.paulwilloughby.com
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- Illustratography
Matt Sewell www.mattsewell.co.uk
Scott Garrett www.garrettworld.co.uk
Will Ainley www.willainley.co.uk
Andrew Rae Mr Bones Werewolf Dracula www.andrewrae.org.uk
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Mcbess www.mcbess.com
“I made Mr. Bones, Werewolf, and Dracula with my dad when I was wee. Me and my sister used to do puppet shows for kids in the neighbourhood at birthday parties and these were the main characters. So I feel they represent me.� Andrew Rae
Ben Tegel www.baloneyboy.net
Jon Burgerman www.jonburgerman.com
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Astronomy, not Astrology Photography Daniel Sannwald www.danielsannwald.com
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