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Whe re’re my soc ks?

To Take Without Owners Consent. Example...

Are those my socks? I don’t think so. Yes they are, got ‘em from primark just last week. Nah mate, these are mine i got them from topman, they were four quid. Bollocks they’re exactly the same as mine, look, this is a dirty pair. See, no diffrence. Alright, alright. I’ve none left can i borrow them? I’ll wash them?


s the recession drowns the poor and the affluent sail above on H.M.S Aristocracy, the middle ground is left to fend for itself. The kitchen cupboards turn yellow and white, Amber Leaf overthrows Marlborough Lights and trips to the pub are replaced by nights in with a two-litre bottle of Scrumpy Jacks. Scraping together bits of copper to make ends meat, struggling students across the country are preparing to pack it all in for a comfy life back home with mum and dad. However, all is not lost, there is still hope for our broke generation. A teabag here, a beer glass there, that jacket you nicked from Jackie’s party, it all adds up and before you know it you’ve filled your pad with anything and everything you could have ever wanted. And best of all, it didn’t cost you a penny… Okay, I’m not saying that pinching other peoples things is in anyway acceptable, but to a certain degree it is accomplishable on such a small scale

that people generally don’t notice or care, and we’ve all done it at some stage or another. This issue is all about things that have been pinched, borrowed and not returned, found or blatantly taken from someone else. Matthew Macro

Free House By Matthew Macro m b a f f m

u g s c h a i r s e e r m a t l l t a k o r u s e i o r d e c o r e u s e


g s e

l a s s e s p h o t n f o n t h e o r a t f u l p u

collection of photographs documenting the barrage of ‘borrowed’ items in the house of Leeds student Matthew Macro. Some items are used purely for decorative purposes such as the stolen drawings and beer mats, whereas others are used on a regular basis such as the mugs and ash tray.

d r a w i n g o s b a g r f r e h o u s i o n o r p o s e

s s e e r s

With the recession in full swing and the price of bread rising on a daily basis, already skint student have been forced to save the odd pound here and there by borrowing and pinching from their flatmates. By pinching a chair that was being thrown out by a local noodle bar, the household saved a good twenty or so pound. Money well spent in the pub latThe collection highlights the issue of the greatly er that day, where a beer mat or two joined the list recognised problem thousands of students liv- alongside the glass the the drink was presented in. ing away from home for the first time face.

Laura Loftus

A Collection of Stolen Objects

A Short Story: The Cunt Thief,

Words by Samuel Rushton, Illustrations by Pier Hardwick


arah woke up slowly, in mild distress which eventually burst her mental dams and lead to a full flood of panic. Unable to remember most of the night before, she had woken up in her own bed in agony. Between her legs rested a warm padlock smeared in blood and yellow antiseptic. Wanting to scream, she felt it would arouse to much attention. Someone had hi-jacked her twat. There was an envelope on the bed-side table, next to a glass of water and some painkillers. Gingerly, she swung her legs out of bed and opened the letter with shaky hands. It was just an hour later and her boyfriend, Harry, turned up looking a bit worse for wear. She had rang a few of her friends but nobody knew what had happened to her, she had disappeared into a puff of smoke the night before apparently. He kept asking what was wrong, so she lead him upstairs and showed him the padlock. At first at a loss for words, he started to get upset and paced around. “What happened?” he kept repeating. She shrugged. “The letter said I had to pay one thousand pounds else I wouldn’t be able to unlock it.” “One thousand pounds...I don’t have that kind of money.” he said, surprised. It was true, neither of them had enough money to pay off the cunt thief. “Have you asked your dad?” he suggested, looking down at the padlock. Sarah shrugged again. The situation was hopeless. Nobody she knew would just give her that kind of money when she wouldn’t explain what she needed it for. And times were harsh anyway, all Sarah seemed to eat these days was rice and ice. “I was wondering if you could try to...pick it?” she said.

After looking at Wikipedia and some Youtube videos, he thought he had it worked out. Though after pricking about with hair-pins and pieces of wire, he decided to back off. He didn’t want to jam the lock after all. “It’s no use. I could try and get my brother’s saw...” he trailed off. It was a technical nightmare. There had to be a way to open the lock without the key, but they both couldn’t think of anything. The easiest way would be to get the money. They were happy with their work. They had printed off a few pages of twenty pound notes, weaved a piece of tinfoil through the paper and done a delicate pencil drawing of the queen in the white patch. The forgeries wouldn’t really stand any intense scrutiny of anybody accepting money, but the couple were gambling that there would be zero scrutiny. To start the night’s fund raising off they roamed around town until sundown. Soon enough they noticed a drug dealer standing in some shadows, looking shifty. He nodded at them, Harry nodded at him and walked over. “Alright?”

“Of course. We’ll hang around a bit then you go.” After the couple had bumped into most of the drug dealers in town, they had a few hundred pounds worth of pills, coke, weed and goofballs. There had been some close calls, but the delicate pencil drawing of the queen had saved them every time. After riding on a bus for an hour or so they got to the big city. A whole night’s worth of party animals were roaming the street, each one wanting to suck on the fat joint of life. They chose their clubs wisely, ones big enough that they wouldn’t stick out for not being local, ones small enough that there wasn’t already a dealer hanging around. In toilets and amongst smokers they stood, whispering ‘Sniff?’ or ‘Green?’ to pretty much anyone who made eye contact.


They had managed to sell everything before midnight, making more than enough needed for the twat ransom. They even gave forgeries back as change for some people messy enough. It had been a hard nights work but they weren’t finished yet. The cunt thief’s letter had had a meeting arranged on the bottom, near the club Sarah went to last night.

“For real.” he said, he knew all the slang for drugs. He even knew they didn’t call it slang now-a-days, they called it street! The dealer passed over two grams of snow white coke in a cupped hand, Harry pushed two of the fake twenties back. The pair both pushed the contents of their hands into their pockets, the dealer mentioning it was the best stuff ever. He nodded, walking off calmly and joining her. “You get it?” Sarah said.

They both walked down the back street, dodging dog shit and broken glass. A taxi crawled past up ahead, stopping to let a man out. Harry had wondered before if he should just turn up without the money and clatter him around the head, but seeing the cunt thief walk towards them he was glad he didn’t. Weighing perhaps eighteen stone, the colossus shuffled towards them, his face hidden in the shadow. When the

“Yeah, two please.”

street light caught his face it captured each wrinkle and scar like the sun rising on the mountain side. “Hey there...sugar tits.” he wheezed. “I guess you got the money, else you punks wouldn’t be here.” he said, smiling. She nearly started crying in anger. “Do you have the key?” Harry said. The cunt thief pulled out a keyring out of his pocket with a dozen or so keys on it, unclicking one of them and holding it up with fingers orange with nicotine stains. Harry took the rolls of money out of his pocket and handed them over, taking the key at the same time. “You better test it out, I’m not sure if it’s the right key.” said the thief. She scowled at him, walking between two large bins and dropping her jeans. The lock clicked open, she sighed with relief and gently unhooked the shackle. Her minge was hers once again. “You can keep the lock love. Something to remember me by.” said the fat man and started to walk off. She was definitely outraged, perhaps going a little cuckoo and decided to throw a brick at him. It was heavier than it looked though and just bounced by his feet. “Careful now. You’re not the only cunt I’ve locked up. How are the others going to get their key if I’m dead?” said the cunt thief with a cheeky grin. And then he disappeared into a puff of smoke, leaving the couple standing around in the alley. “Well that was that.” Harry said. “Yes. We won’t be able to buy drugs here any more though.” she said. “Ah, that’s alright. I’m thinking of giving them up anyway.” he said. They both looked at each other and burst out laughing.

esign Work By Laura Loftus

ollage by Michael Seymour,

Matthew Macro A Collection of Drawings From the Office



Man Playing Chess Alone

Man in Dressing Gown With Pipe

Man at Work in 4th Floor Office

High Chair


22 Apostle Street

En Route to Jazz Club

Sophie Scarlett Deacy

Recycled Bag Dress

Grant Brydon Mixed Media Submission

Mark Whitford


John Whitehead Stolen Sign

ETTiCUT, Issue 1 Theft  

Contemporary arts magazine by contemporary artists for contemporary artists. thanks to al who submitted.