The Vacuum. Fantasy Issue.

)

A Special thanks to David Haughey for the Illustration's in this issue.

Dr: T.A Willard

Dr: Wuuf

Roger Eggert and team

Introducing the Factotum psychological and Legal Team and legal team.

9

Beheadings, Genocide, Building penetration, Lard, Pram Lanes, Time travel, Murdered Tyrone people, Cannibalism, Paisley Minor and Jesus Lord, Nudity, Schoolgirl Sculpture,

Featuring...

Fantasy....

Write a Fantasy you have had about Belfast, do not censor yourself, we won’t tell anyone it was you. We will ask a legal expert and two psychologists to interpret your desires and their suitability for the world. We will illustrate your confession with a picture.

$

the vacuum

the vacuum

Lets eat our tourists Imagined by Rodgetta Temple Today I wrote a decree and circulated it to the central committee, who approved its content. It has now been posted on every lamp-post and telegraph pole, and it has been printed onto billboards and written in the sky by skilled pilots. It has been traced on the hillside in weedkiller or fertiliser sacks. It has been tattooed on the midriffs of teenage girls. It is being read out on the hour from the roof of City Hall, next to the Wheel of Shame, which we recently pressed into service as a rotating prison for political criminals.

My decree reads as follows: 'You know who you are. You know what you have done. You know what the punishment must be.

Public artists, your sin has been the greatest and yet you continue to perpetrate your idiot fumblings on a people who have already suffered such indignities. Your crime is terrible, humiliating. You must be made to account for your actions. We have commissioned, through an open competition, an oversized, brightly-coloured set of stocks, which have been fabricated out of powdercoated steel, ceramic, bronze and concrete, and erected in Writers Square. (Where’'s the apostrophe? Is this one writer’'s square, or is it all writers'’ square? In which case, where are the desks? The ‘public servant’ responsible for this ridiculous solecism will be found and shot, by order of the central committee.) Each day, a different ‘artist’ will be impounded in the stocks, and pelted, poked and generally bruised with stones, rubble, pieces of sharpened wood and anything else handy, by ‘the public’, particularly cross-community

groups of children and oral history groups.

Artists will be driven to the stocks in a gailyadorned tumbril, so that the festival of public humiliation can begin from the moment they are dragged, begging pointlessly for clemency, away from their maquettes. Whilst in the stocks, artists will be forced to recite all the proposals that they have submitted for public sculptures, and wear a sign detailing which particular atrocities they were responsible for.

We hereby announce a new piece of public art to be placed in Belfast, an icon for a new era, a daring, challenging work questioning the way in which our history is now sold back to us as sanitised heritage. A large, illuminated glass cube will be placed in Cornmarket, on the site of the former bandstand. The cube will be a memorial to Henry Joy McCracken. Viewers of the piece will look through the frosted glass panels into the internal space, which will be a recreation of an old-time Belfast pub, finished in fine detail with period fixtures and fittings, including poker machines, ashtrays, dog racing on 3 screens and men of indeterminate age and varying threat. Only tourists and other non-residents of Northern Ireland will be allowed to enter the sculpture. Upon passing through the double doors, visitors will realise that the view offered from outside is merely a digital projection.

The internal space will in fact be entirely black, and a large revolving blade will set into the floor will chop the viewer into thin slices within a space of fifteen seconds. The resulting mixture of bone, flesh and torn anoraks will be rendered into a fine paste and used to fill pies distributed free to the citizenry, and will be fed to our new race of super-animals. A vibrant economy of tourist meat will subsidise great expenditure on public works of every description.

We have noticed while driving around the city between 3.30 and 4 pm, with nowhere particular to go, that large packs of teenage schoolgirls have been terrorising entirely innocent drivers, by hitching their skirts up immediately they leave their schools and walking across zebra crossings in an extremely provocative manner. This is clearly intolerable. In response we will be increasing the number of pedestrian crossings in the city and issuing a further decree concerning skirt length. In the meantime we have commissioned a 30-metre high, hyperrealistic public sculpture, to be placed on top of Cave Hill. The sculpture shows a group of four schoolgirls, three of whom are embarrassing the fourth by lifting her skirt as they cross the road. Also included in the group is a motorist who has stopped at the pelican crossing and whose face is transfixed, in horror, at the spectacle before him. The

sculpture will be brightly illuminated at night. It is hoped that in this fashion we will discourage this shocking and unacceptable behaviour.

Finally, we have finalised our plans for meting out justice to the legislators, politicians, councillors and property developers of the former era. Self-publicists all, you are beneath corruption, you are populists, you are all liars. When violence failed to serve your ends you turned to artful deception.

You promised us prosperity while you lined your pockets and those of your friends. As our impending penury became more obvious and more impossible to avoid, as our jobs disappeared and we watched our homes be repossessed you concentrated your power and propped each other up, pretending to us that this was ‘democracy’. Your age was one in which robbery was called peace. In which lies were called truth. Your age was one in which poverty was clothed in gaudy rags for your amusement. In your age we were prostituted to the lowest bidder. You will be put to useful labour. With your bare hands, you will be set to tearing down the shopping centres and public sculptures with which you littered our broken, abused city. Chained together, and forced to wear a uniform of green, orange, purple, gold, black, red and blue, you will be quartered in abandoned sheds in the Titanic Quarter where you will survive by catching rats. As infection spreads amongst your number you will slowly die, but not before the last sordid landmark of your profligacy has been destroyed. Members of the public, those you treated with such outright contempt, when you considered them at all, will spit at you as they pass. You and your legacy will be annihilated. You will never have existed.

“This decree is to be pursued with ruthlessness. Only when the great sacrifices have been made may we continue together to our new day.

“This is the will of the people.'”

I took a copy of the decree and pasted it to the information board erected outside the former BBC buildings. As I lifted it to the panel, I noticed an older public information notice, declaring the success of our bid to be European Capital of Culture. These are the New Times.

OPINION Dr. Willard: Chopping up tourists, the schoolgirl fetish, these are your basic components of popular sociopathology. Perhaps the fantasist is the author of popular crime novels? Yet, what is this here, a phobia of public sculpture, the issuing of decrees and imprisoning politicians. Perhaps the result of some unpleasant previous experience in running a country in the 1930s. Loath as I am to look to the past for an explanation, could our writer be the reincarnation of a European dictator of the 20th century, one with modest artistic potential and thwarted ambitions?

Dr Wuuf: You neglect to notice Dr. Willard that the anger is real. When the artists beg for clemency it is described as ‘pointless’, so implacable is the rage of the people, and the author, in this fantasy. But what is driving this latter-day Lilith, this Shiva of the celebratory square? Could this be an extreme expression of demented civic mindedness or are we dealing with a thwarted conception of the public sphere? Only a true artist would dress politicians in a ‘uniform of green, orange, purple, gold, black, red and blue’.

Dear Mrs Temple, The section of your fantasy relating to the reintroduction of stocks may in a normal civil society be considered torture and thus subject to scrutiny under international law. May I suggest that rather than situating the apparatus in the cultural ghetto of Cathedral Quarter that you find an actual ghetto where people without much money live. Here, not only will you be positively encouraged by the local populace but you will be left to your own devices by the police.

As for the use of human flesh in savoury snacks, may I refer you to the 1973 film Soylent Green in which Charlton Heston acting as a policeman uncovers a similar conspiracy. Lest you too be relentlessly pursued by a PSNI version of Charlton Heston and brought to justice I urge you to reconsider.

Yours in confidence, Lord Justice Eggert

the vacuum

No more wee Imagined by Honor Railing I have several fantasies relating to Northern Ireland, all of which bear a degree of ill-will towards certain individuals or groups – and quite rightly so.

In the first, I would round up anyone involved with recent Harp Lager advertising campaigns. Not necessarily the latest ‘retrospective’ and not necessarily ruling out the ad from 1995 in which a road worker gives us his views on his heavy metal band, tattoos, and how ‘sometimes ex-girlfriends are more than just ex-girlfriends, even though they're still ex-girlfriends’ (which incidentally is one of the only Harp ads available on Youtube).

No, most specifically I would round up anyone involved with the ‘cosmopolitan Belfast’ series of advertisements featuring, hilariously, the handsome Frenchman and the funny Australian bloke. This would be done, Romanov style, on the pretext of their having a group photograph taken for something - a Children in Need Special, perhaps, or a publicity shot to accompany them getting their own collective star on the Walk of Fame outside the Opera House. And then they would be shot.

And the actor with black hair, who looks like a cross between a gargoyle and a young Fred West, who is the object of everyone’s amusement because he ‘asked his friend’s sister out once - aye right, once a week!’ - he would be left till last. Because nobody that annoying should ever have been allowed to be on TV, let alone as part of something so pleased with its own parochial, ball-scratching, date-rapist stupidity.

In the second fantasy, I would arrange for the word 'wee' to disappear from the vocabulary of everyone who worked in sales or the service industry, just for a day.

The hairdresser’s assistant would go to say

‘'put your wee head in the wee basin', and the woman at the checkout would try to say 'There’s your wee card’ or ‘your wee receipt’s in the wee bag' ’and would issue only a blank where 'wee' should be, like when holes used to appear in audiotape. Granted, this targets an almost completely innocuous section of the population - but you have to admit it would be funny.

In the third fantasy I would sit as judge and jury on a kind of war crimes tribunal against Ulsterbus drivers (not Citybus drivers so much, although certain of their cases would be heard, but the kind of hick sourfaced types who used to slow down in order to watch you sprint towards that arbitrarily designated bus stop on that isolated country road, and then drive past anyway) and taxi drivers. Specifically on trial would

be the driver whose slick monologue, delivered during the 30 minute journey to the International Airport, concluded 'And that is why the BNP is a misunderstood party’.' Him and the bosses of the firm near my house who choose to recruit only misty-eyed Enoch Powell fans, gentlemen with odour problems and the floridly mentally ill. Come to think of it, my jurisdiction might also extend to anyone who has ever hired a pink stretch limousine on Saturday evening, in order to shout 'Yo' out the window - and the word/noise 'Yo' itself, in its peculiarly Northern Irish twosyllable, two-note incarnation, it would also be punishable - severely.

In my final fantasy, Stephen Nolan would be imbued with the volatile radioactive powers of Ted/Peter Petrelli from Heroes and also, simultaneously, with the time and space

travelling abilities of Hiro Nakamura. This would mean that on the point of exploding into a billion painful smithereens, Nolan would travel back in time a few moments, thus not only saving bystanders from the blast of his human bomb but also endlessly repeating his own meltdown. And, in another twist, he would also have the split personality of superhero Nikki Sanders. Therefore, while on one hand exploding for all eternity with great force, at the same time he would be forced to host a talk show on the very subject of his own nuclear demise. Endlessly fielding the explosion-approving comments of the ‘blunt’ ‘plainspoken’ ‘common man’, who typifies his demographic, Nolan, at last, would be unable to light his usual incendiaries and then move on. Please can someone fix this for me.

OPINION

Dr. Wuuf: When the hairdressers speak there is a blank, a space, a void.

This is the more tellingly brutal excision than the eradication of a few fascists and minor actors. In salons everywhere this punctuation of dumbness will startle the common citizenry into an awareness of their suddenly lost demotic, an amputation of their comfort speech. And that would be no bad thing.

Dr. Willard: There is a pervading sense of impotance and disguist for the service industry. I think however some group theropy might sort out a few of these conditions. Perhaps a face to face meeting with Mr.Nolan is in order, his sensible and sensitive handling of people with problems would soon see this writer back on firmer mental ground.

Dear Ms. Railing, Unfortunately I must inform you that we cannot act on your behalf.

You should be aware that your intention to eradicate the word 'wee' is almost certainly in contravention of Article 14 of the European Convention on Human Rights and tantamount to cultural genocide.

You may rob us of our lives but you will never destroy our language.

Yours Faithfully Billy Stickleback Llb

the vacuum

Chaining Myself Naked at Martyrs Memorial Church

Imaging by Bitsy Sonomabiche 'Let the priests tremble, we’re going to show them our sexts.'” Helene Cixous.

The Free Presbyterian Church is obsessed with S-E-X. And they treat the human body with scorn and suspicion. (You just never know what sinful perversions it might get up to, if left to its own devices.) They are constantly on the watch for signs of rabid tumescence of one kind or another, so they can extinguish them with a few rousing choruses, or perhaps an edict from their General Presbytery. Take those filthy bastards who indulge in the obscene practice of linedancing. The practitioners of this orgiastic, polymorphously pervy activity were slapped down when the Presbytery handed down a thundering condemnation. According to the Free Ps, line-dancing “is as sinful as any other type of dancing, with its sexual gestures and touchings. It is sensual, and not a crucifying of lust but an excitement to lust.” (Question: why do Free Presbyterians not have sex standing up? Answer: because it could lead to line dancing.)

Every time the Free Ps protest about a play that fleetingly shows a nipple, or comes out with absurd statements like this, I fantasise about going round to the great temple of Free Presbyterianism, Martyrs Memorial Church - Paisley's fiefdom on the Ravenhill Road - and handcuffing myself to the front gates. Naked. The idea is that it would be a protest against their pinched, grey, selfloathing attitude to the human body. After all, we are all embodied beings, flesh and blood. We are all corporeally anchored; our

tender, fragile bodies are the sole medium through which we experience the world. If we despise the body, we despise ourselves.

It would have to be on a Sunday morning, of course, when all the ladies in their prim hats are arriving, their disgustingly sinful hair tucked away underneath, in case anyone goes mad with lust at the sight of it. Since the service starts at 11am, I would need to get down there at about 10.45, ready to lock myself to the gates just as everyone is arriving. Timing would be crucial. Getting into position too soon would mean a lot of very chilly hanging about, but leaving it too late, after they'd all gone in, would mean even more goose-bumps: I'd have to wait until they finished their service - and that would be about an hour spent freezing my tits off, so to speak.

Now: supplies. I'd need handcuffs of course, proper ones, not those fake plastic children’s ones that you get in pound shops.

Still, if they were made from black leather

and had silver studs on them, like a fierce dog’s collar, all the better. I'd need some kind of protest banner, so everyone would know why I was fastened to the gates. As for a slogan, something very straightforward: perhaps 'being human is not a sin' might be good. It would be written in foot-high letters, using menstrual blood, just as a nod to those Free Presbyterians who combine general body-hatred with misogyny.

What else? Well, a warm tracksuit for before and afterwards would certainly be useful: easy to remove and pop back on again.

And maybe a flask of hot chocolate too, if I had time to drink it.

Big question: one hand chained up or two?

If I wanted the hot chocolate it would definitely have to be one, to leave a hand free for the cup. But two would be more dramatic. I'd need an accomplice for that, though.

In fact, the protest would be even more effective if several of my friends could be persuaded to join in too. All women, I think

- it would have more impact. After all, in the fundamentalist worldview, women are still required to take the flack for the fall of humanity from the plenitude of the Garden of Eden. Yup, it's the ladies who must shoulder responsibility for the actions of poor, crazy Eve: we are essentially weak, in need of male supervision and control, easy prey to temptation and deficient in moral capacity. Supposedly.

(Some of my friends might get a bit too excited by it all, though, and maybe want to throw a tampon. It could get messy.)

Anyway, the best bit, apart from shocking the congregation, would be when Ian Paisley himself turned up. I hope that he would thunder, 'Remove this vile jezebel!', and the ladies would all flurry round, trying to hide my modesty with their lavender-coloured hats, while tutting strenuously. I would be wild, euphoric, beyond embarrassment.

I would shout 'Bare witness to the truth!'” as the police officer led me away.

OPINION Dr. Wuuf: The philosophers speak of the self in different ways. For some of the modern, fashionable philosophers, the self is the body.

Show the body and you expose the self, in a radical way, that will terrorize the timid, anti-corporeal God-fearing people. It is rude in Belfast; it would be a Noh play in a nudist colony.

Dr Willard: Tie yourself naked to a church scandalising the neurotic congregation and exposing yourself. Why would you do this? What does this public nakedness entail? Is being seen naked by Free Presbytarians like being nibbled all over by hundreds of toothless goldfish? Very likely. Or perhaps it is the act of display, the rearing bellowing walrus putting the fear of God into a rookery of penguins?

So why don't more people do it?

Dear Ms. Sonomabiche, With regards to public nudity, in order for any criminal offense to have taken place it must be proven that there is a sexual motive behind the incident. This would involve the penis (or ‘person’ to give it its actual legal term) being in a state of pronounced excitement. Even were you not female, I feel that it is unlikely that such a state could be achieved whilst in the presence of a Free Presbyterian congregation. Therefore, you need only be concerned with the Common Law offense of indecent exposure or breach of the peace. However, I feel that you would have a strong defense in either case and indeed you could claim to be a Naturist. I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours in Confidence Lord Justice Eggert

the vacuum

Jesus and Ian Imagined by Gilbert Forrester Ian Paisley Jnr. and Jesus Hubby Swap .

Transcript: J: Here, Ian, d’'you know recently when you did the Hot Press interview ?

I: Aye. J: Aye, well... what's all that guff about people in same sex relationships “''damaging themselves and damaging society'' It disgusts me.”

I: You should know, I am a committed Christian, and The Bible states that it is a sin for two people of the same sex to have sexual relationships.

J: Well, to be honest with you Ian, we revised that part of The Bible, it’s got nothing to do with me.

I: How could you say that ? Sure you're in The Bible.

J: Yeah, I know. But people don’t really get me do they ?

They use this ‘'I'm a committed Christian'’ talk, but carry on like hate-mongering bigots.

I'm the opposite of that. No one should ever feel ashamed. D'’ye understand ?

I: What? Are you part of a Pan-Nationalist front ?

J: Ach, come on Ian, will ye. Don't say this stuff in my name. It was the same when you spouted off about the gay marriage of Trimble’'s Press Officer. You described homosexual relationships as ''immoral, offensive and obnoxious''. Even the NI policing board, which you're on, didn't like your homophobic comments.

I: Eh..

J: Why do you feel so disgusted ? Do you really care who people sleep with ? Is it the bum sex ? Do you think that's weird ?

I: Here, so even Jesus is a queer friendly now?

J: Nice Ian, really nice. Well, I am The Word Made Flesh; so...I still love you man, and, you know, forgive you.

I: Aye poofter-lover, where's your wife anyway ?

J: He’'s gone shoe shopping with Mrs. Paisley Jnr. I: You dirty shirt-lifting bastard, you disgust me.

OPINION Dr. Willard: There seems to be some kind of gay thing going on here.

And why not? The fantasist doesn't like the fact that the younger Paisley doesn’'t go for the gay way of life. Jesus meanwhile is not that bothered one way or another. I confess I find it hard to see how anyone could get worked up about it.

Dr. Wuuf: Dear colleague, you cannot touch lightly on the question of the gay Jesus. The Godhead is a battleground in a war that has run as long as human history and the younger Paisley is but the latest champion in a psychological war over where one may legitimately poke one’s Percy. The Percy is not just a joystick, it is a wand of religion too and to stick it in the wrong socket is to invoke the wrong God electricity. Don’t connect your Jonathan Thomas with that alternating current or you will truly feel the wrath of God, and no mistake.

Dear Mr. Forrester, You requested a legal opinion on your reported dialogue between a certain Mr. Paisley Junior and a certain Mr. Jesus. Our power to give this advice will be significantly altered depending on whether either or both of these characters is fictional. We await your further instruction on this matter.

Yours Sincerely Bullet, Bullock and Crab

the vacuum

Bring Back Stocks and Pram Lanes? kind of stupid name is that anyway? Are you named after some poncy obscure poet? Get out, you and your arty paint stained trousers and ...and delicately ruffled hair!

ARNOLD This is my disguise! And I was named after my mother!

THE LEADER OF THE CULTURAL REVOLUTION You were named after your-? Whatever. Get out. No, don't get out, sit down. Actually pour me a drink.

Imagined By Fanny Rickets

ARNOLD (Under his breath) Make up your fucking mind, you son of a...

A Garret, South Belfast . Early Winter

CUT TO: There is a montage of a woman’s face on 3 TV’s In one she cries. In one she laughs. The other, she looks vacant. Leaves float behind her.

WILFRED (Reads from a parchment) The evening, cold and blustery, cracking its cheeks like a fart from the almighty, makes/ Leaves scurry around one’s feet like rats. / A tale of woe is due to unfold, / I'm cold. /

CUT TO:

The garret door creaks open. The fluorescent light from the hall reveals a young man sitting at a desk, his papers lit by candlelight.

He is unshaven, and wearing a costume fit for a duel.

INT: THE JOHN HEWITT BAR, BELFAST. Wilfred is on his own at one of the tables, morose. The few people that are present are making hurried exits, as the wailing of the C&W band gets louder. ROBERT, a weatherbeaten (but poetically so) regular is the only one who seems to be in no hurry to leave.

ARNOLD comes through the door, batting off a pair of green arms.

ARNOLD Master Wilfred? What ho?

WILFRED Arnold! Shut the door, I prithee!

That confounded artificial light drains the creative ions from my very soul!

(Arnold sighs and shuts the door) ARNOLD How goes it?

WILFRED Well, very well, methinks, Arnold.

My poetry has been astounding of late. What news from the knights?

WILFRED Don’t call me that! Wilfred, WILFRED. How many times do I have to tell you??

ARNOLD All is well; I left them enjoying the fine pickings of a night spent trawling through “teen diapers’.

ARNOLD Sorry, Willy- Wilfred- whatever.

It's still not a haiku, even if you changed your name to Gawain.

WILFRED Aroint thee, Arnold! The good Knights do not engage in such distractions!

WILFRED There is silence. A muffled sob comes from the frilly cuff of the (none too white) white shirt.

(Strangled) I’m trying, goddamit! Oh muses!

Must you desert me in my hour of need??

ARNOLD (pause) Okay, sir. Whatever thee says, sir. Anyhow, they said to inform you that they would be attending the Quarter Boned Indians tonight. If you wished to join them for a jar, or two?

WILFRED Bah! We were supposed to discuss the issue of rondels in francophone literature.

ARNOLD I didn’t realise there was an issue?

WILFRED What would you know, Arnold?

You're a builder, for chrissake.

ARNOLD (miffed) Building is merely a matter of layers. As is literature. Poetry can be directly related to bricklaying, I’think you find.

WILFRED Never mind that. Read my latest haiku.

ARNOLD (Reads it) it's. ...

WILFRED What? (Sticks his thumbs into his shirt) Excellent. Isn't it? Simple. But Beautifully simple.

ARNOLD It’s not really a haiku, Willy.

ARNOLD (Under his breath) Jesus.

Oh Wilfred, it's rather good. Honestly. In fact.

May I permitted to keep a copy? I'll get you more quills from the geese down the road....

(Wheedling) You could autograph it...

CUT TO: City Hall Council offices A chair'’s back faces the figure of ARNOLD who in his artist’s gear looks totally out of place.

ARNOLD (In a Noo Yawk Drawl) Sir, it’s much worse than we expected. I mean... the output is getting worse. Listen to this...

'I am a rose in my garden. With my thorn'” The chair turns round. This is THE LEADER OF THE CULTURAL REVOLUTION. (Insert mental image here)

Wilfred’s just getting worse. Everyone is getting worse. Things are getting out of hand.

THE LEADER OF THE CULTURAL REVOLUTION What can I do? We introduced stocks, now we can't cope with the mess that is produced by the general public every day. Tesco’s is out of eggs again. I haven't had an omelette in a month. Even the pram lanes aren't working...

ARNOLD Actually sir, now that you're talking about that- why do we have them?

THE LEADER OF THE CULTURAL REVOLUTION The stocks or the Pram lanes?

ARNOLD The pram lanes?

ARNOLD (Angrily) Get off of me! (To Wilfred)) Jesus! Did you see the performance artists outside? There’s a line of them, all pretending to be trees. (There is no reply) Wilfred?? Wilfred!

WILFRED (Drunkenly, into his pint) My muse has deserted me... My wuse, Beatrice, Beatrice.

ARNOLD (So annoyed his accent slips- it comes out in a Sopranos-esque fashion) So we're ripping off Dante, now?

WILFRED (He looks at Arnold suspiciously) What y’say?

ARNOLD I said, so we're ripping off Dante, now?

THE LEADER OF THE CULTURAL REVOLUTION Well, Cyril Connolly said, the greatest enemy of art is the pram in the hall, did he not?

(There is no answer) I thought that by removing the prams, we would therefore create a little - well–creativity.

WILFRED You, you impostor! You’re no artiste! Avant you!

ARNOLD Hmm. But why the obstacles- the manholes, the crocodiles? The swinging scythes?

ROBERT Oh god. Not again.

THE LEADER OF THE CULTURAL REVOLUTION (Muttering) I hate them, those bloody mothers and their goddamn pram rage ruining everyone’s day...

THE LEADER OF THE CULTURAL REVOLUTION What is that? A haiku?

ARNOLD Everyone’s sir?

ARNOLD Yeah. One of the better ones.

THE LEADER OF THE CULTURAL REVOLUTION (Beat) Shut up Arnold! What

ARNOLD You vant me??? Listen, Wilfred, I’m not that way inclinedWILFRED Avant you! I challenge you to a duel!

WILFRED You- stole my muse! You’ve scared her away!

ARNOLD What the fuck are you talking about??

WILDRED (Stands Byronically) You know I only associate with men of the highest literary pedigree! You’ve scared her away with your uncouth, foreign ways!

the vacuum

ARNOLD Jesus. If you spent less time fucking posing and talking about “your muse” and more time actually working-

Oh for god’s sake.

He stands up and punches him. Wilfred falls straight backwards, out cold.

WILDRED (Swats him with his newspaper)

CUT TO: INT: CITY COUNCIL OFFICES

ARNOLD

THE LEADER OF THE CULTURAL REVOLUTION So you blew your cover. Idiot.

Do you know how much we spent on getting you kitted out for this?

ARNOLD (Lifts his hands) What you gonna do? (Beat) maybe you shoulda spent the moolah on the arts.

THE LEADER OF THE CULTURAL REVOLUTION (Outraged) Let them get comfortable? My plan for this to

be a so-called city of culture does not include ‘hand outs’. I gave them pram lanes didn’'t I? And stocks so that they’'d have fucking constructive criticism... Moolah? What is this thing you call moolah? Fuck that. ... The END...

OPINION Dear Mrs. Rickets,

Dr Wuff: Where there are fops and philistines there must be disgust and rage. When the pixie, or the policeman, shits on your carpet, more is required than just a description of what took place.

I understand from your letter of the 1 November that you wish to consider the reintroduction of stocks in Belfast. We at Sprocket and Thrib would like to wholeheartedly welcome this proposal and would be happy to propose some candidates, especially our neighbouring firm of so-called solicitors, Piloch and Thompson.

Dr Willard: ermm.. i dont agree...there does seem to be rage in this. The artist is disgusted by the bureaucracy and the ineffectual attitudes of a certain type of artist. It seems to be a critic of mediocrity in art.

I recommend some opium for the fantasist...

Yours, Roger Eggert

CHECK OUT MY CRIB But I've just had a terrible thought, after a final scan of the below text for spelling mistakes, it hit me that it might not be a million miles away from the rubbish that Terry Pratchett writes. And it took me ages to write.

I better go and have a shower now, but I have a feeling that no matter how much I scrub I wont be able to make the dirtiness go away....

Imagined by Majello Davis My excuses for finding it almost impossible to get anything in for this issue would have a bigger word count than the below text.

Where my imagination is concerned The sickest most fucked up sexual fantasies are easily matched by stuff on the internet and elaborate violent fantasies incorporating torture are probably a bit wet compared to things people not too far away have done in real life.

So I’m a bit lost. I suppose I could smash Terry Pratchett's head in with one of his annoying ornaments that some wanker has spent two months painting during fantasy conventions.

But this would probably only create more militant branches of fantasists and before we know it we’d be knee deep in figurines, spells and fuckin crushed velvet.

My house: Down a bland street, on a bland bungalow, we pass through a bland door. Entering my hip hop palace. We are absorbed by it's light.

Weave amongst stalactite and stalagmite chandeliers. Climbing over the glittering white marble foot hills the goats eat the housework. Skipping over the whin bushes we enter the dining field, where the fire is well stocked with pallets and blue rope. Feathers ruffle as we float down Jacuzzi streams through giggling tunnels. Bears tip their hats. Welcoming us to an extravaganza too intricate to comprehend. All species unite in delight. A monumental song jelly. Pulsating as one. Kaleidoscopic fountains of dancing girls, cascade overhead inviting us to swim up stream, through the greatest show on earth.

OPINION Dr:Wuff: In today's world the ecstatic is a debased coinage but here we read the authentic of the autheticly visionary. Could St.John himself have found such a transformed universe behind the doors of a humble bungalow, nay, even with a regiment of apocalyptic horsemen.

Dr.Willard: Dear Doctor, I'm afraid your magic has a common place explanation. The man in the street does not need magic or religion to explain why someone might see a bear in a jacuzzi. The giveaway phrase here is song jelly. All I can say is, I'd like some of what he's taking.

Dear Mr. Davis, I think you have already identified for yourself the main cause for concern here. So convincing was your fantasy that I feel you must have somehow acquired an unpublished manuscript written by Mr. Pratchett himself. Therefore I must alert you to the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988. This protects the work of the author up until a period of 70 years after their death. As Mr. Pratchett is now almost 60 years old but still in reasonably good health we could estimate that he has another 30 years ahead of him. By this marker I would advise you not to publish the enclosed piece anywhere until the year 2107.

Yours in Confidence, Lord Justice Eggert

the vacuum

I am Lord Mayor I

Imagined by Janice Donaldson My fantasy is to be the Lord Mayor of Belfast.

Elected mistakenly by my fellow councillors... ...But I decide to be no ordinary mayor. I create a giant mechanical robot to amplify my body. It is 150 foot high and 30 foot wide.

This device is controlled by me in the cockpit, which is located in one of the robot’s eyes. The robot looks and dresses exactly like a mayor, an ill-fitting suit with a giant mayor'’s chain.

Physically it is an amalgamation of all the mayors of Belfast from the last twenty years.

It has the forehead of Alex Maskey, The facehole and chin of Sammy Wilson, the eyes and moustache of Alban Magennis and the nose and brain of Jim Rodgers, so as to leave plenty of room in the head for me to move around. I have asked Bombardier to make this robot for me and a number of cross community groups have coloured in the head. The head will also have a giant public address system built in, allowing me to speak to my subjects. Another feature is a giant mechanical penis, courtesy of Bombardier missile division. The purpose of this device I will explain shortly.

And so begins my term of office...

It is early misty morning on Cave Hill, inside my robot I survey my domain. Escaped prairie dogs are running gaily through the gorse, I pick one up and eat it. But a mayor’'s working day is a demanding one, so I will make a start. I move down into the city...

Clank! Boom! Clank! I go, leaving cars scattered in my wake. I am not happy, we need improvements. ‘More public space’ I say. People need room for outdoor sandwich consumption in their lunch breaks. Who needs this leisure centre on the Shankill Road? It will make a nice public square, with water features. I smash it to pieces. SMASH!

walk on... what's this? Belfast Technical College? A prime location for an inner city multi-story car park. SMASH! I snack on a few students as they escape from the building; I must keep my energy up. Still hungry though, so I pick up a Citybus and empty its contents into my eighteen foot wide SammyWilson-styled cakehole.

Onwards to the city centre and the chief pleasure of my working day, making mechanical love to the shopping centres. I stick my missile pump into Castlecourt and release the juices. The juices are the by-products of the people I have eaten. Their energy will renew the shopping centres... SHOP SHOP SHOP

go the people... I eat some more shoppers. ..I PUMP SOME MORE;..into the Victoria Centre... PUMPING THE VICTORIA CENTRE WITH MY SHOPPER MEAT....

I stop briefly outside my temple (the glorious City Hall) for a photoshoot with a series of models supplied by the Belfast Telegraph.

After the photo call I disembowel the models and skin them. I stitch the skins together and make a giant coat out of them. I parade my new outfit for a while and then stop at the Linenhall Library, a tasty looking structure. I chew and swallow the brick, wood and paper and move onwards into Cornmarket. I think I've eaten too much. What'’s this? A blank

canvas for some public art! I squat down and action my bowels. LOOK! A beautiful creation.

The people marvel!

My Birthday is coming up and my people wish to celebrate my greatness. They have organised a show for me. It will take place throughout the city, Lord Mayor’s Day. People will stop work and come forward to honour my deeds! It is raining and the people have made decorative floats, but the floats are made of cardboard and other cheap materials and their creations go saggy in the downpour.

It is a pathetic sight.

I AM ANGRY. This is not good enough! I smash the floats!

I eat the jugglers! I mulch the samba band!

I pummel the Ulster Scots dancers with my fist's and the Ceili dancers too for good measure.

Otherwise it was a good show...

Wearily I return to Cave Hill, my work is done and I am semi satisfied with my Mayorship. The long day closes....

OPINION Dr.Willard: There's no thrill like domination and to see the Christmas throng through the dome of a shopping centre invigorated by your robotic seed would indeed be a pleasure (for the fantastist obviously).

What I cannot understand is the desire to cohabit this giant mayoral homunculus with the form of mayor's past; to be part Sammy Wilson, part Jim Rodgers, part Alban Maguiness at the same time is a rare and troubling perversion indeed. I think he needs to see a doctor.

Dr. Wuuf: Dr Doktor, this is not about sex, it is about shopping. Our Fantasist is dreaming an allegory of contemporary capitalism; the citizen consumed, their spirit dissolved and reinjected as mere fuel into consumer engine is but a flicker of personality in the constant evolution of our economy. I particularly liked the missile penis tho-- I felt that way in my younger days.

Dear Mr. Donaldson, In respect of your request for a legal opinion in regard of your proposal to become a robot mayor, I must advise you that your plan is likely to contravene both civil and criminal law. The most serious offenses would include eating people (Eating Persons Act, 1672), destruction of property (Offences Against Technical Colleges, 1925), breach of the peace, obscenity and various traffic offenses. However, if you could demonstrate that, for instance, skinning the Belfast Telegraph's models was in line with your duties as a Mayor and that you had in fact ‘vested’ said models of their skins for the public good, this may constitute a defence. You have in your favour the high standing and respect due to the mayoral office that is certain to count in your favour.

Your etc.

Bodger, Steel & Ferret.

the vacuum

Forgetting...

the vacuum december 07 Published by Factotum In search of the golden bone.

112-114 Donegall Street Belfast BT1 2GX [e] info@factotum.org.uk www.factotum.org.uk Editors & Design Stephen Hackett Richard West

Imagined by Marcus Sinclair Do you live in Belfast? Do you know no shame? Have you perhaps betrayed a friend?

Or a neighbour? Are you perhaps the man who daubed graffiti on our front wall; or who vomited in the garden; or who broke into the shed; or are you perhaps the man who stole our post for six months, when we were living in east Belfast, and who returned it to us, opened, without a word of explanation?

Do you believe that urban regeneration and the creation of a civil society occurs mainly through increased retail opportunities, and the building of stunning townhouse apartments, and trading on cultural kitsch, and nostalgia, and a city'’s miserable past? Or are you the landlord who refused to return us our deposit? Have you ever stolen money?

Received stolen goods? Killed someone?

Injured them, attacked them? Are you lazy, or ignorant? Are you the man who pulled the wing mirrors off my car? Or are you the man who serviced my car and didn't fix the wheel nuts back on so that the wheel fell off as we were coming over Craigantlet, nearly killing me and my three children? Are you the man I sold the trampoline to, through the pages of the Belfast Telegraph, and who paid me fifty pounds less than the asking price and who threatened to come after me with your mates? Are you one of the people - neighbours, presumably - who used to ring us in the middle of the night when we were first living here telling us to go back to where we came from? Are you one of the gang who shouted abuse at me and the children when were walking to the swimming pool? Are you the man with road rage on University Street?

Or the man with road rage on the Ravenhill Road? Are you one of the men who slowed

Reviews Editor Fionola Merideth Illustration's David Haughey Web editor Stephen Hull Distribution Manager Jason Mills Advertising Stephen Hackett Technical advice and guidance Eugene McNamee To advertise in the Vacuum or receive information about our advertising rates call 028 90330893 or email info@factotum.org.uk down in the car as I was cycling home one night and pulled a replica gun on me and pulled the trigger? Or are you the man who, two weeks ago, on Botanic Avenue, ran up to me and a friend as we were walking home and punched my friend on the side of the head?

Do you live in Belfast and you are so angry about everything that you can't be civil to anyone, and believe that you have a right to behave in whatever way you see fit and express your ill-informed opinion at every

opportunity?

Are you one of Belfast’s most successful property developers?

Is this you?

Good.

This is my fantasy: I forget all about you.

But you will remember me forever.

Dr. Woof: To feel wronged is, in a certain way, a privilege that not all of us can enjoy.

To enjoy one’s indignities and then extinguish their cause would indeed be a refined pleasure.

The Vacuum welcomes and encourages correspondence.

Write to the above address or email letters@factotum.org.uk All copyright remains with the authors.

OPINION Dr.Willard: The writer clearly has some unresolved issues pertaining to their desire to be remembered by those they feel have wronged them. There could be a deep-rooted insecurity stemming from something in their distant past - perhaps they were left alone in a supermarket aisle as a child, temporarily forgotten about as their mother became drunk on the stimuli of colourful bargain signage, softly filtered pan-pipe music and dashing young men in overalls stacking tins of tomato soup.

Print run: 15,000 Distribution: Northern Ireland Glasgow, Dublin and beyond.

Dear Mr. Sinclair From your comments I can deduce that you are a man who feels that he has on occasion been rather hard done by - got the rough end of the stick, so to speak. It is in your final few lines, so carefully spaced for added resonance, that I detected the veiled threat of vengeance. I can only hope that you are not insinuating that these people will ‘remember me forever’ due to some act(s) of violence, sabotage or mass murder carried out by yourself, for this would potentially be in direct contravention of several UK laws. ] I urge you to step back from the brink!

Yours in Confidence, Lord Justice Eggert

Printer: Bangor Spectator

the vacuum

The Security Nightmare Before Christmas cascades of colour batter their confused senses. These feelings will be exacerbated by the strange, unsettling cacophony of sounds now coming from the speakers in each pod (garbled voices, white noise, backwards Beefheart, Norwegian death metal, 240 bpm speedcore) and the epilepsy-inducing lights which are now flashing erratically.

At the point where the speed reaches one revolution every 10 seconds the night air will be punctuated by incessant screaming from the people now being flung around in their compartments, covered in their own vomit and that of their work colleagues. And then, in one final terrifying crescendo as the speed climbs to one revolution every 5 seconds, the wheel, no longer properly weighed down and now just a spinning blur, will fly off its frame. Lurching suddenly across the lawn of City Hall, it will flatten several market stalls, decapitating the statue of Queen Victoria before altering its trajectory and toppling into the front of our civic centerpiece itself.

Imagined by Agee Chinspackular For some time now I have had an almost irrational loathing of a particular private security company with whom many of you may be familiar. For the years of restrictive supervision which I have had to endure at the hands of these mercenaries, I wish to exact an elaborate and terrible revenge...

Part 3 - The Aftermath

In order to succeed in this plot I will require the assistance of several accomplices; 1. The security company insider 2. The well-connected hippy 3. The chef 4. The computer technician 5. The fake ‘security’ volunteers Part 1 - The Company Christmas Dinner Firstly, I will require my stealthy inside man to acquire some documents - a printout of staff names, addresses and employment details, the company bank account details and a ream of company-headed paper (I would imagine that this company would have such a thing, upon which they send out invoices for large sums of money, letters instructing their lawyers to sue such and such, and so on).

On this paper I will print fake invitations to a staff Christmas outing, consisting of a complimentary dinner followed by a private group booking on Belfast's new observation wheel, both paid for via the company account.

These would then be posted to the most longstanding employees, their details having been obtained from the stolen database.

On the evening of the soiree the dining group will descend en masse upon a city centre restaurant in which my chef friend will be working. Prior to this he will have

been passed some bottles of liquid LSD obtained from my well-connected hippy source. He will be under instruction to secretly administer a dose of around 5,000 micrograms per person - enough to dement an elephant. This should be done via a complimentary shot of liqueur or expresso at the end of the meal so as not to induce premature hallucinations or inhibit the party’s progression towards the main event...

Part 2 - The Wheel Of Misfortune As my unsuspecting victims gradually fill up the pods of the Belfast Eye they may notice the Christmas lights beginning to pulsate and leave flickering trails in the air as the lysergic acid is slowly dispersed throughout their nervous systems. They may also become prone to random outbursts of laughter, which they will suppose are merely a consequence of the alcohol consumed earlier in the evening.

Unbeknownst to them, in the small hours of the previous night my computer technician friend and I will have visited the site in order to make a few adjustments. The wheel is powered by four motors which turn smallish

tyres on the bottom of each of the four beams that comprise its frame. Speed normally runs at around 35% and is regulated via a Siemens automation system in the control room at the base of the structure. Functions such as balance, the alarm system, lighting and music are also determined here. While the technician busies himself hacking into the electronic brain of the wheel, activating timers and disabling the emergency features, I will be outside removing the weights and puncturing the water tanks that stabilise the wheel.

With the largest possible number of employees now present in the 42 capsules, the wheel will complete the first couple of revolutions at normal speed. However, anytime now a timer will trigger an algorithm installed on the operating system by my technician friend and the speed will begin to increase accordingly. The number of revolutions per minute at normal speed is approximately one every 5 minutes, or 0.2 revolutions per minute. As the speed climbs towards one revolution per minute they will already be experiencing symptoms of mental disorientation from the LSD; waves of euphoria start to give way to panic as

As the panic-stricken survivors of this macabre act drag themselves from the rubble and twisted wreckage they will no doubt be completely delirious due to the fate that has just befallen them and the intense psychoactive effects of the drug. Desperate for assistance, whether medical or psychological, they will stumble around wild-eyed and covered in blood and vomit. However, their pleas will go unheeded by the various passersby, proprietors, doormen and taxi drivers and they will be refused help on every occasion.

Now frantic, they will wander off into the night with echoes of 'Sorry mate, you can't come in, you’ve obviously had a few too many drinks'’, ‘'You can't do that here’' and ‘I'm going to have to ask you to leave the vicinity'’ reverberating around their muddled heads.

Each time they try to find a quiet place to sit down and attempt to gather their thoughts, pre-selected volunteers masquerading as security guards will approach them and say ‘'Excuse me but you're going to have to move on' whilst hurriedly ushering them off into the night once more. At this point there should still be a good 10-12 hours of intense hallucinations and mental anguish before the LSD begins to wear off; plenty of time to contemplate their vocation in life and pontificate upon the pros and cons of corporate policing...

OPINION Dr Willard: Insecurity as a child can mark a man in many ways. As a child he could not ride the plastic tractor, as a man he cannot enter the realm of flashing lights. Both experiences result in the same ferocious tantrum, the rattle goes out of the pram or the security guard falls out of the wheel. These are the small and terrible consequences of the damage id.

Dr. Wuff: Revenge is an atavistic drive and reading this fantasy we glimpse perhaps some early part of human psychological development. It recalls Herr Fox's thesis that the beginning of human ingenuity was in the elaboration of complex cruelties to be visited on family members. Curiously, if we entertain this theory, we would have to posit the security company as a kind of extended family to the author and this imagined act of destruction as a kind of mass fratricide.

Dear Mr. Chinspackular, Thank you for your enquiry regarding your proposed act of mass homicide this Christmas. Judging by your letter you may be under the misapprehension that the popular dislike of those who secure the public’'s safety gives you some license to act against these agents of security. You could not be more wrong.

Yours etc.

Scrap, Punch and Beatwell.

the vacuum

Cut down a peace wall

Imagined by Betsy Martin Operation Blow Torch: I have a dream, one that has been formulating in my mind for some time now, and I'm sure many others share something similar with me, those who'd go so far to conjure up such an outlandish but nonetheless exciting notion. It’'s nothing sordid (though I have one or two of those too) and I actually believe it's not so outrageous that it couldn't one day become a fantasy realised..

Join me in my whimsy and imagine this: it's getting dark, the street lamps have come on, turning everything a shade or other of that sickly, orange-type non-colour. But, beyond the eerie, homogenising murkiness that these lamps emanate, are the darker, best-forgotten hinterlands of the city, the urban recesses that don't merit a street lamp’'s eerie-cheery glow because no one wants to go there anyhow, certainly not at night. Except my cohorts and I, that is. (About four able-bodied bravehearts are required to help me with this project.) I love this bit; it's where I'm skulking around in the darkness, I'm wearing cat burglar style black from head to toe to blend into the background. All mysterious and sexy, just like in the movies..

The others with me are also in black and we're wearing gloves (sexy black leather) to protect our hands. We're a special gang, and we've come equipped with special weapons.

This undertaking, which, due to its clandestine nature, has been coined Operation Blow Torch, could get us into big, big trouble from a whole set of different people, if it goes wrong and we get caught. But we are vigilantes, and we must soldier on..

The steps to be taken have been carefully considered, tried, tested and rehearsed. We've

become fitter, building up our strength and stealth for weeks. And we're looking all the better for it in our slinky, black outfits. On a practical, less glamorous level, we've experimented on raw materials in the workshop, asking ourselves specific question like: can corrugated iron be cut through reasonably quietly and steadily with a blow torch?

Timing is crucial. Can it be done without raising suspicion? Well, we find sort of yes, if the sparks are masked by a large black sheet, held up by two of the gang, and better still if traffic nearby drowns out the sound. And can a hacksaw cut through wood without making the entire neighbourhood’s dogs bark in cacophonic unison? Well, not entirely, some dogs just like to bark at anything, but it’s the risk we have to take. This is for the good of Belfast, it’s for the good of the future!

Okay, so we’ve set off to our predetermined location, and are now in our stations.

A van with driver waits nearby. Ready? Here goes. Saw, saw, saw, cut, cut, cut, saw, cut, saw, cut, cut... Loosen, shift slowly, eeeeasy does it,

lift and carry to van. Conceal quickly. First bit done! Next section, saw, saw, cut, cut.. And again, done. Shift, lift, carry off. Wow, we can't believe this is actually working. No dogs seem to be taking notice of our activities, no lights have suddenly switched on in any of the surrounding houses, and no armoured vehicles are silently coasting past.

Okay, next section…and the next, and next… Pshhhht. Keep calm, keep disciplined, be on the ready to run like the clappers at any moment. Nearly done, just this final section..cut, cut, saw, saw, shift, lift, carry off.. The adrenalin is pumping; we're so close now! Our driver is on the alert for our exit signal, a cuckoo call (don't ask me why, I just like the idea of a cuckoo, I guess because it's a mischievous bird). Cut, cut.. We're done!

Cuckooooo….cuckooooo… The driver turns the ignition, engine revs, we carry the last section over to the van, jump in the back and with an immense sense of relief, speed away, fading gloriously triumphant into the murk…

It’s morning. The birds are just beginning

to sing, the mist is clearing and the early dog walker enters the gates of Alexandra Park. He takes no notice of his surroundings, this being a routine leg-lift for the dog, and being so used to the familiar scene: the path, the benches, the grass, the trees, all of an old, rundown Victorian park, one that has a peace line right through its middle. One side for them, one side for us. The dog walker is looking at the charred, glass-splintered path, deep in early-morning thought, “..need milk and bread, tea bags, the paper, oh yes and eggs..” His dog, a scampy little wire-haired terrier, sniffs the air excitedly and makes a dash into a newly discovered, as-of-yet uncharted territory. The man resurfaces from his reverie when he notices his dog’s speedy disappearance from his peripheral vision. He looks up and experiences a sudden surge of vertigo. The peace line is gone.

(Any takers?)

OPINION

Dr. Williard: What metaphor could be more potent than the unbreachable peace wall, the hymen of unconsummated interdenominational relations? Into this frigidity our rampant terrorist sneaks, with all their tools of piercing, their dildo of cross community stimulation.

Love is not possible across the barricades without lubricant, without the daring first probe into alien and frightening territory. It’s dirty, but I like it.

Dr. Woof: Always with the sex Dr. Williard. Perhaps the author has demarcation issues? Some people prefer all things to be permeable, like sponges. Is it better to see two parts of the city as pieces of frozen cod that rub up against one another without intermingling, or as puddles that mix freely until they are indistinguishable. For me this is an open question.

Dear Ms. Martin I regret to inform you that your well-meaning actions could be construed as vandalism and, if caught, you could be prosecuted under the Criminal Damage Act. Of course, should the removal of a strategic obstacle such as a peace wall lead to people savagely beating each other with a variety of implements in public, you may also fall foul of the Public Order Act. Yours in Confidence, Lord Justice Eggert

the vacuum

LARD PUBLIC ART Imagined by Cornelius Appin Before sleep and on buses, with my eyes closed, I imagine Carlisle Circus...

They want to improve this junction by adding some public art. An enterprising civil servant discovers fifty thousand pounds for the task, only someone must take responsibility for what is to be placed there. To avoid this responsibility half the budget is allocated to employ consultants. They will decide the question. The brief says that local people should be consulted and that previously favoured schemes have included an iceberg.

The budget is small and Belfast schemes do not generate prestige for consultants so only one company applies. Cityvisions, a London firm, say they will research and report the best public art options. Yes, it is important to allow space for bureaucratic procedure in one’'s fantasy life.

Seymour, Cityvision’s researcher, stands at the bottom of the Antrim Road giving out leaflets to passers-by, inviting them to attend a consultation about the development of the Circus. He records that he has given out invitations to representatives of every age group and an equal distribution of men and women. After half an hour he goes back to his hotel room.

Four people arrive at Seymour’s consultation: two old men, a young Austrian woman called Vanessa and a young boy who calls himself Davey. The old men are happy with the tea and biscuits Seymour has laid on. He cannot understand what the young boy says. Vanessa wants to know every aspect of the exercise down to the last detail. She writes everything down in a notebook. She underlines ‘local people’ and ‘iceberg-themed’ in her notes. Vanessa insists that they must be able to work up a fully developed proposal for a subsequent meeting, ‘if you really want to know what we think.’ Davey listens carefully throughout.

Vanessa conducts a door to door survey in the environs of Carlisle Circus. See her sheltering her clipboard from the rain. She assembles a list of resident's’ most favoured motifs for sculptures. Rather than attempt a synthesis of this information she decides there is enough room on the roundabout for everyone'’s preferred subjects. She dedicates her weekend to making a three dimensional model of her proposed volksculptur in paper and card. Davey occupies himself with abstract thoughts of whiteness.

Vanessa arrives for the next meeting promptly in a taxi, carrying her model.

Seymour’'s face clearly exhibits horror as she unveils her work. It depicts dolphins, robins, yorkshire terriers and a quantity of other indistinguishable wildlife erupting

from an iceburg in a way not seen in nature.

She explains the genesis of her idea ‘'Ah so, dolphins: twenty five percent of people like dolphins...’.' Seymour peers down into the mound of paper and it becomes a gaping maw which closes over his head. His body thrashes a bit and then goes limp. The paper animals tear at his clothes and flesh and slowly his whole body is ingested into the sculpture.

While his feet are still sticking up into the air, a bone, picked clean, clatters on to the floor beneath the table, followed by another, followed by his skull, until all of Seymour's skeleton lies in a small heap on the floor.

Half an hour later Davey arrives carrying a plastic bag. From this bag he pulls out a plate which he places on the table smartly, like a magician. Then, pausing to enjoy the attention, Davey upturns his bag and deposits a large lump of white lard on the plate.

Seymour is impressed.

'Your Iceberg’' says Davey.

'Brilliant!’' says Seymour.

But this is all a prelude, let’s get to the people in charge. Vanessa is the daughter of an Austrian newspaper editor called Otto.

She is in Belfast to experience some not too dangerous danger. So far, however, it has very closely resembled the small anonymous Austrian town she has tried to escape from.

Not only is the town tedious, when she finally has a chance to make a difference, a small boy's lard sculpture is preferred to her own thoroughly researched proposal. She telephones her father and complains bitterly.

She says that they are not being serious about their own development. Who could disagree with her? She wants her father to do something about it. He promises he will.

Otto arrives early at the office and goes through his large book of contacts.

Under ‘Belfast’ he finds pages and pages of correspondent’s names crossed out. In their place only one name remains, The Mayor, a man listed as having strong and ready

opinions on every subject. How will the mayor defend his crazy scheme?

The Mayor is in bed. He starts his day by fondling himself and imagining he is at the head of a great army. ‘'Men, I know you respect me, but believe me this campaign will be our greatest triumph'’. The telephone rings.

He is initially confused. A foreign sounding man is talking about public sculpture. He asks Otto to repeat himself twice and eventually understands that a giant iceberg sculpture made of lard has been proposed for one of his roundabouts. Does this Austrian think this is a good thing or a bad thing? He can't tell. Is that disbelief or admiration in the Austrian’s voice? It might be either. Is this foreigner on his side or not? The Mayor listens hard until Otto - incredulous that someone so slow-witted could become mayor of anything - finally says: 'You will have the first lard sculpture in Europe, you must be very proud?’'

And the Mayor can reply, 'Yes, Otto, I am absolutely delighted. It’s a great achievement for Belfast and for me personally.'’

The Mayor arrives for work and calls the Council press office. He tells them that his part in the evolution of the lard sculpture project must be acknowledged in all press releases. He calls the Arts Department and tells them that he has always believed in the lard iceberg. He telephones the newspapers and tells them that it is not just the interest of the foreign press but the enthusiasm of his own constituents that has made him such a supporter of the lard iceberg scheme.

‘Mayor Backs Lardberg’ says the headline on the Newsletter the next day. On Talkback the Mayor explains that the Lardberg is environmentally friendly and cost-effective.

It will be made from fat donated by the city’s many fat-vending businesses. On Arts Extra he says people should not be afraid of modern art, his Lardburg scheme will be good for

tourism. It will create a new positive image of the city.

Nobody wants to have anything to do with making the iceburg so Seymour is retained to supervise its manufacture. Lorries deliver great hunks of congealing fat to a disused dry dock where they slowly fuse into an impressive white lardy mountain. When there is no more room for it they release the lard iceberg into the lough. It floats but only a small part of it is visible above the surface, just like a real iceberg.

The lard iceberg is dragged up the Lagan so everyone can see it. The mayor stands at the prow of the tugboat. It is moored next to the Waterfront Hall. Below the surface of the river a strange luminous bloom billows up during the night. This happens every night and after a week Seymour notices that the Lardberg has grown a hair. It might be a stick embedded in the fat but when he tries to pull it out he finds it is flexible like a cable and rooted deep in the lard flesh.

The Mayor invites Davey to help him open the new sculpture. They stand on a stage made of scaffolding. The Lardberg is slowly lowered into place. Thousands of people have come to watch. As it touches the roundabout its stump slowly splurges out to form a wide base. The people fall silent. At rest the Lardberg is a gigantic gleaming opalescent tower of fat. It is magnificent.

The tinny tannoy breaks the awed silence. ‘'People of Belfast'’, says the Mayor, 'it is my privilege to welcome you today. I have waited a long time for this but it has not just been my work, other people should take credit as well, we should all take credit...'’

The mayor sees that some of the faces in the crowd are not looking at him, they are looking at the sculpture. Then he notices that the scaffolding is reverberating. Behind the reverberation is a noise, so deep people feel it before they hear it. The crowd look at the sculpture. Why is it groaning?

the vacuum

Davey goes to see his sculpture. It is raining.

The people streaming past in their cars see nothing.

'This is horrible, what a shithole',’ says the Lardberg. '‘I'm sorry'’ says Davey.

‘I wish I’d never been created, no offence.’

Davey hangs his head in shame and sadness for his unhappy creature.

'Listen',’ says the lardberg, 'under different circumstances it might have worked. A hundred ton hill of talking fat could be a good thing in a city. I have a deep voice, you find it reassuring, don't you?'

Davey nods. It is reassuring, his deep voice.

This bit is like the end of Götterdämmerung.

The Lardberg seems intelligent, but you can see that being part of Belfast’s urban fabric

would be torture, a lingering and humiliating death. Annihilation really is preferable.

Davey has brought the petrol. He pours it round the sculpture’s base. The lardberg cries quietly. Davey lights the petrol and the flames quickly encircle it. They lick up the Lardberg’'s sides until its entire surface is burning. As the lardflesh melts, it glistens.

The whole Lardberg gleams and shimmers

with fire. Davey backs away from the heat.

Amid the groans of pain he hears a small voice. '‘Thank you’' it says, ‘it's better this way’.

The roar of the fire and the rain falling still.

OPINION

Dr.Willard: The writer’s empathy and the emotional resonance he or she feels to the mound of lard in this fantasy is quite disturbing.

The writer feels disgust for his/her social enviroment.

The desire not to be born expressed through the lard is often related to a childhood trauma’s experienced in the womb. The writer seems to feel that his/her role in society is not useful or appreciated.

A complex series of psychoses are at play in this fantasy...

Dear Mr Appin Following your request for legal advice pursuant to the matter of the destruction of a yet to be formed Lardberg we would strongly advise that such destruction and consequent large scale leakage, seepage and dissemination of polysaturates into Belfast Lough would almost certainly constitute illegality, or at the very least, unlawfulness. If you are, nonetheless, bent irretrievably to this purpose, we would counsel the wisdom of avoiding detection rather than attempting any legal defence in the aftermath. In short, where arson is the issue, gloves and balaclava are in order.

Dr. Wuff: I agree with your analysis but would also note the role played by the authority figure, the mayor. I detect a yearning for strong leadership and discipline frustrated by this false Napoleon, this popinjay alderman. As ever, it is likely the author’s own selfdiscipline that is in play here, but I am sure we can forgive a desire for greater dignity in the way the city is run.

Faithfully, George Smudge Ellgood, Smudge, Tiverney and Fitzcock. Solicitors.

Write of way Imagined by Chadley Unger I dream of Belfast transformed- but don't we all? My version of the city is a sort of cross between an Enlightenment fantasia and a graffiti writer'’s wet dream. It is a city populated by words and the people who use them. Language unfurls itself in alleys and entries, avenues and quiet closes, riots across walls and lintels, railway carriages and abandoned black taxis. Epic poems adorn the concrete columns of flyovers and the riverfront embankments of Oxford Quay.

Haiku are inscribed on the cobbled lanes of the Cathedral Quarter, their delicate syllabic balancing acts obliging pedestrians to pass on tip-toe only and in hushed silence. A three volume Victorian novel is currently being completed on the expansive rear of City Hall, which has itself been converted to a theatre performance venue with an opening glass roof. The gable-ends of the Lower Falls and Upper Shankill have been fitted with state-of-the-art etch-a-sketch facilities, allowing for instant erasures and minuteby-minute revisions to the mural du jour. In Botanic Avenue bored waitresses keep their diaries publicly on the red-brick facades of the chic cafes and boutique bars, whilst some distance away, on the edge of the city

between Cregagh and Knock, three teenagers are emptying cans of paraquat carefully onto a school football pitch, spelling out in giant letters the word cock.

Obscenities and entreaties, threats and confessions, limericks and love letters, names and dates and ages and place-names. All are recorded and inscribed on the fabric of the city faster than they can be read, a sprawling, multi-authored tattoo of its citizen's’ fears and fantasies, desires and disputes and directions: no right turn for council; Sophie blows; welcome to Loyalist Erinvale; will call later; The wages of sin is death; missing, please come home; Beal Feirste go bragh!; up the boys!; in memoriam Peter Quinn. My Belfast bristles with aides memoir, textual reminders of the thousands of lives being lived at once in the city -intersecting, clashing, diverging, or simply running parallel- and also of those

that are not, for one reason or another. In any case, the full unexpurgated text of Lost Lives has been engraved on the pavements of the city centre, circling Donegall Square, then turning off down Donegall Place and branching into High Street, winding through Cornmarket and emerging finally at the lower end of Chichester Street. This meandering promenade of names, circumstances, and recollections is a central chapter in the rambling testament of the city itself, a yammering conclave of anecdotal narratives that is revised and recycled continuously. In the beginning was the word but there can be no end to words in this city. Belfast is an echo chamber, and its streets roar with the broken voices of its people.

OPINION Dr.Willard: The compulsion to leave ones mark can be traced back to our earliest days. As child the artist Salvador Dali once deposited his stool in his parents fork and spoon drawer. The fantasist however speaks of a civic pride, a desire to communicate through literature, perhaps this is an expression longing for clarity and meaning in the chaos of modern life?

Dr. Wuuf: Can there be any more extravagantly nihilistic notion than externalising an entire city’s most banal thoughts? What could be more self consciously ugly than the desire to inscribe mediocrity over the walls we must pass every day. Does it even extend within our very houses? Where will we escape from this monstrous democracy?

Dear Mr Unger, The principal legal issues at point would seem to fall within the provinces of intellectual property law and the law regarding ‘the right to free speech’. In turn: 1) Large scale reproduction of texts as you describe would almost certainly involve egregious breaches of copyright normally vested in publishing houses of many hues and dimensions. In particular the reproduction of insignias, shapes, individual words or word combinations, which have been legally registered or which have come to be associated with particular commercial brands or services is very usually a matter of exquisite legal provocation.

2)Free speech or expression, despite unfortunate public misperception to the contrary, is no matter of right but of the balance between the expectations of the individual to be allowed to vent, and those of the majority to freedom from assault on their senses.

Should your example of Paraquat wielding cock-lovers prove typical, we would foresee legal action a-plenty from aggravated persons of alternative disposition.

Sincerely, Elapont Dubner

the vacuum

SHOOTING TYRONE PEOPLE ... FOR FUN

Imagined by Teflon O'Reilly It's a shame you're not allowed to hate anyone these days, now that it's been more or less legislated out of existence. Prejudice and bigotry are wrong, of course, but no-one can live their life without little daggers of hate peppering their interior monologue. The only place I can hate without censure is in the realm of fantasy, and as long as that’s where it remains, it's a harmless emotion... isn’t it?

Top of my League of Hate are furries - those sick fucks who claim their urge to dress in anthropomorphic animal costumes has nothing to do with their desire to have sex with animals. It's not at all wrong to judge this group, since being a furry is not a religion or a race - it’s an extremely stupid lifestyle choice. There are nerdier and more perverse subcultures, but the self-pitying, self-aggrandising attitude of these idiots mean they're more than worthy of my contempt. The mere sight of these fucktards makes me shake my fist in anger at my computer monitor, much like I do when I encounter pornography.

I like to up the ante by enrobing another bunch of undesirables in furry garb: Northern Irish micro-celebs are a popular (but easy) target, and there’s always vile pleasure in the imaginary persecution of the poor, emos, hippies or the morbidly obese. No... the folk I love to hate (subjectively) are those from Tyrone. Everyone hates people from Tyrone, and what makes it such a sweet detestation is

that Tyronians are so imbecilically unaware of this truth.

So what becomes of these uber-untermensch?

There are various scenarios that I imagine, but there is one to which I tend to return. I don't know where it comes from; it may be

influenced by the law that allows the murder of Scotsmen in York, or by the (coolest) serial killer Robert Hansen... anyway, it goes something like this: life is as normal in the city, except all Tyrone people are practicing furries, forever donned in their fursuits.

I'm given free reign to hunt the Tyrone-furs around Belfast city centre, with a bow and arrow. When I get one the fuckers in the neck a Belfast City Council squad comes and clears up the mess. That’s it.

OPINION Dr. Wuuf: The concept of ‘Tyrone’ here stands in for all that is reptilian and honest in human nature. Should we suppress this primal part of ourselves as the author of this fantasy does so gaily, or should we try to understand it? Frankly, I admire the callousness of the author’s solution to this traditional problem. What is uncivilised, base and ugly, let us kill it for entertainment. But will it be so conveniently tidied away, I doubt it.

Dr Willard: The fantasist displays callousness and a lack of empathy with his fellow man. However, underlying this is a clear distain for the animal kingdom, represented here in the form of ‘furries’ and Tyrone people ie. those whose physical appearance seems less highly evolved than what is considered normal. Therefore, I would recommend a supervised period in a rural setting during which the patient could engage in a therapeutic art project such as sculpting GAA chess sets from animal bones using primitive stone tools.

Dear, Mr. O’Reilly, Regarding your enquiry in respect of furry-wearing Tyrone people and their status as vermin and/or quarry we believe we may have found an Act of 1535 that has not been repealed and may suit your purposes. The relevant passage reads, ‘'Et in Urbus Belfast le Tyronus verminus sic mortus frequentum sportivo weekendus et commedium et sempre legalisticus est.'’ and appears to us to permit the hunting of Tyrone people at the weekends but not during weekdays. We hope this is of use. Please contact us if you require further information.

Yours Sincerely, Albertus & Rufus Law.

the vacuum

A Dream of Method Imagined by Shadwell Creosote Is it just me or do other people also get annoyed by the failures of the city planners (past and present) to capitalise on what should have stared them in the face: the potential boulevards of Belfast? Stand at the front or, even better, at the back of the City Hall and look left and right and there is potentially a clear perspectival vista running from the hills to the riverside and beyond.

Of course, a few adjustments would need to be made to open this out fully, but there’'s nothing that couldn’t be remedied with a few (hefty) nudges from some very big machines.

(So I get to fulfil two fantasies for the price of one: I get to drive said big machines and I end up with a city centre that is rational and orderly.)

Donegall Square South at the back of the City Hall offers a vista sweeping from the top of the Grosvenor Rd all the way down to the riverside which needs only a little work to open it up. A clatter of street furniture obscures the line from the City Hall up the Grosvenor, while some of Belfast’s ugliest buildings (a hard-earned title, given the competition) block the view to the river at the bottom of May St: who decided that we would prefer to look at the results of inept rummaging around in a giant Lego kit rather than at the river which would provide a natural break in the sightline at that point? No need to be in any way subtle here: just get rid of the damned things and if you must have something

there, how about an elegantly curving bridge from what would be a vacant site beside the Waterfront over to the Odyssey (which it would help to hide). Suddenly, we have a long, straight thoroughfare running west to east; bridge the Lagan properly and those quadrants of the city would be united for the first time ever.

Donegall Square North offers a shorter stretch but it requires a certain amount of building moving. We can start by just nudging the Tech out of the way since its Victorian bulk has always obscured the clearer lines of Inst: a matter of a few yards to the north is all that is needed here. At the other end, the bottom of Chichester St, the Waterfront Hall has always seemed to me misplaced (and once again a landmark building has had a blockhouse placed in front of it). Given that it’s probably built on sleech we could float the Waterfront some yards north so that its signature rounded glass frontage sits squarely across the bottom of Chichester St and looks directly-modern to classical- at Inst at the

other end of the street. Here, as on the other side of the City Hall, a lot of that overly fussy street furniture - signposts, traffic lights and so on- would have to be cleared away and since we’re banning cars from the area (didn’t I mention that?) it will be neither needed nor missed. A complete clearout of all advertising and signage would also be necessary- we don't want to put all that effort into moving buildings only to have commercial vulgarisms cluttering up the sightlines. A programme of tree planting along the edges of the pavements would obscure the uglier aspects of the remaining buildings.

The result of all this would be two boulevards, worthy to rival anything in Hauptmann’s Paris, providing a sense of rational elegance at the heart of the city, symbolically linking east and west, classical and modern.

In this new, orderly Belfast we would need to make a few further adjustments. The current occupants of City Hall not noted for either rationality or elegance would have to go: I'm sure there'll be office space going begging in

Victoria Square or any of the other similar monstrosities that they have approved over the years which would suit their low-level utilitarianism better than their current lodgings. So how would we fill the City Hall?

Moving the Linen Hall Library back to its original site would do for a start having cleared the wastrels out of City Hall there would be room and to spare for the Linen Hall and its collections. Just imagine a Belfast in which instead of the Lord Mayor’s Parlour we had the Civic Librarian’s Parlour as the symbolic soul of the city: this would be a Belfast which valued its culture.

Of course, even in fantasy, that’s probably going too far, so, alternatively, now that the council has acknowledged its own clownishness by installing the big wheel, and turning the City Hall into a funfair, we could follow their lead and just replace Belfast City Hall with a life-size bouncy castle replica of itself.

OPINION Dr Wuuf: architecture is manna to the power-crazed, but for the true megalomaniac only city planning will satisfy their desire for order. Do I detect, however, a slightly whimsical note, the tone of one already reconciled to the fact that the wrong people will always decide how everything will be arranged. Reconciled, and perhaps exhausted.

Dr: Willard: Cher Doktor, beneath the structure of thought there is surely an underlying structure to the mind. As Jung has taught us there are some whose minds are symetrical and others who branch and sprout like hedges.

Yes, A hedge may be trimed and made rectilinear. But for those who look closely there is only chaos. Do we see the hedge within the garden, or within the bushes?

Dear Sir/Madam, With regard to your proposals we are of the opinion that certain legal matters should be given your full and immediate attention.

Should you, with consent of those in ownership of, or legal responsibility for, the buildings in question but without necessary planning or building permissions, move to demolish, displace (by whatever scant distance) replace or otherwise disturb said buildings, you would place yourself in a tenuous legal position. Even should you create such a situation of ‘fait accompli’ in relation to the impossibility of returning all buildings to a condition of pre- rule-infringement, you would lay yourself open to criminal charges under legislation designed to protect the national built heritage, and to fines which could run into the hundreds of pounds.

The potential consequences of proceeding with your plans without due consent of those responsible for, or in ownership of, said buildings, together with attendant or adjacent items of street appurtenance and/or building appendage, are more extensive.

In such case you would lay yourself open to manifold criminal charges including, but not limited to, multiple counts of criminal damage. You would also open yourself to multiple civil proceedings for recovery of damages attendant to and arising from your actions. Following consultation with specialists in the area of commercial property management we estimate that such damages could amount to a figure somewhere between seventeen and seven hundred billion pounds.

We remain, Roger Eggert

the vacuum

I'm a fascist Imagined by Jimmy Cleft To all appearances, I'm sensitive and liberal.

When I buy the Daily Mirror, for instance - the 3am girls being the only really essential reading in my day - I always tuck it inside a copy of the Guardian as I stroll along Botanic Avenue just to illustrate my impeccable left of centre credentials. And, of course, I never ask for a plastic bag in which to carry my daily papers, not because I care especially for the environment, although that’s implicit in my bagless state, but because the Guardian always looks so much more impressively right-on tucked under one’s arm, the ideological equivalent of a cigarette behind the ear for those tortured artists who really want to pretend they're from Poleglass. I eat hummus, drink fair trade Cappuccino and listened to Tracy Chapman once. I even sleep on pillows made only from organically raised cotton, picked by white rednecks doing penance for the sins of history.

But within this lentil-absorbing, squirrelloving, Guatemalan peasant-adoring heart runs not blood, but a dark bitter bile. I have long secretly believed that benign dictatorship is the ideal model of government. Democracy, to my mind, is highly over-rated. Look at all the idiots around you. Do you really feel that they deserve as much say in the future of society as you do?

Would you trust anyone who spent half an hour comparing foundation creams with a tangerine skinned woman in Debenhams or listened to George Jones’ radio show on U105 to really know how to put one foot in front of the other, never mind shape the future of the country? Of course not. So why let them?

Understandably, while you secretly agree with me, your right-on-ometer stops you from publicly acknowledging it. Fascism is not especially de rigueur these days, being much too associated with murderous crimes against humanity to be openly advocated. Well, stop worrying - I’ll be a fascist so you don't have to. I'm updating fascism for the twenty-first century. Nobody dies - at least, not immediately - nobody has to read Mein Kampf, or burn any books. No, what I’m proposing is that Belfast becomes a Platonic city state.

The world only needs twelve people to rule it. I'll have Belfast, the other eleven can have everywhere else.

Of course, Belfast as is won't do. Some modifications will be essential. These won't necessarily be material, although I don't fancy the Queen’'s Student’s Union much and Castlereagh would, unfortunately, have to go.

No, it’s more important that future generations of Belfastians don’t develop physically or emotionally in ways which would preju-

dice the possibility of a healthy future. The only prejudice relevant here is my own, and an evolutionary process of gradual rationalisation will be required to ensure the satisfactory modification of Belfast into the ideal city within a generation. Sterilization is obviously an option, but if we can do without that messy process all the better. Trust me on this, you know you want to. We’re not really all equal.

Our city of the future - let’'s name it Belle-fast - will be walled. Only genuine Belfastians will be allowed in. All outsiders are excluded by virtue of being culchies.

They’'ll just have to survive as best they can, although, through kindness alone, I’ll ensure areas like Bangor, Newtownards, Glengormley and Lisburn fall into the sea.

Those living there have seen the glory of the city, but only in half-light. If you come from somewhere like Fintona you probably don't know any better, but to witness the city-state and still go back each day to some horrible little satellite town is an act of perversion.

You won’t be missed.

Having established our borders, I now turn my attention to purging the motherland of undesirables. The Odyssey Complex will function as a local Guantanamo Bay, used to hold those at risk of corrupting the city’s

bloodline. I know that lists are the laziest trope in literature and, as I'm an essentially lazy person, I'm happy to use one, but to elevate my selection of non-persons to the authority of philosophy, my prohibitions are set out in the form of a dialogue between two who truly represent the dialectical economies of the libidinal possibilities of the Lacanian mirror stage and who question the media inherent in post-modern representations of the urban image: Samuel: Artists who write sentences like that to describe their exhibitions would be first to be locked behind the doors of the Bambu Beach Club, wouldn’t they?

Beckett: Aye, and they’'d be joined by anyone who’d ever actually been for a night out at the Bambu Beach Club.

Samuel: Fair enough. And throw in anyone who’'d ever gone to Cafe Vaudeville as well, even just to look at the chandeliers.

Beckett: But that includes your wife?

Samuel: Yes, and it’s true that she only had lunch there once, but, you know, you have to be cruel to be kind. Besides, I told her she should have gone to Ginger instead.

Beckett: OK. What about that dreadlocked wee oik Duke Special? He'’d hate it in there.

Samuel: Good idea. Middle of the road tosh for the deaf. Anyone who’'d ever bought one

of his records could go as well, and half the staff of Radio Ulster, who’'ve decided they have to play something by him every half hour.

Beckett: In fact, all singer-songwriters can go, especially those who wear flat caps in a vain attempt to identify with the working classes. We can lock those who’ve ever played in Common Grounds in a toilet cubicle on their own too.

Samuel: We’re rattling through the artistic types rightly. Let’s not stop - anyone who'’s ever been a member of the Creative Writer’s Network?

Beckett: Bingo. Or written a novel set in Belfast.

Samuel: Anyone who’s been to an ‘event’ in Bookfinders?

Beckett: Of course.

Samuel: Any performance poets, if that'’s not an oxymoron, or anyone who went to an open mic night at the Crescent or that rotten wee cafe in North Street Arcade?

Beckett: Yup. Thank God that burnt down.

Samuel: I heard it was...

Beckett: Careful, he'’s reading this, and besides, he did us a favour.

Samuel: I’ve got one. I’ve got one...The Hole in the Wall Gang!

Beckett: I’ll trump you. Anyone who ever

the vacuum

laughed at a Grimes and McKee play.

Samuel: I bow to your superior insight.

Christ, we'’re giving the luvvies a good kicking.

Beckett: Just right, who needs them? But let’'s widen the net a wee bit. Anyone who’s ever donated to Children in Need.

Samuel: And anyone who'’s ever watched it.

Beckett: Touche.

Samuel: Anyone who moves their lips when reading?

Beckett: Same thing as a Children in Need viewer.

Samuel: Oh aye, forgot about that. Anyone who’'s ever worn white tracksuit bottoms.

Beckett: Or had a bum-fluff moustache.

Samuel: That’s North and West Belfast away.

Beckett: Anyone who’s ever had a crust of coke and burger at the side of their lips.

Samuel: That’s the population of the east gone, and half of Queen’s.

Beckett: Anyone who’s ever put up a poster for the Hatfield in their front window.

Samuel: Good one. That’s the other half of

Queen'’s, and we should just write off anyone who’s ever gone to Jordanstown as well.

Beckett: Grand - we won't need sports scientists where we’re going.

Samuel: Ivan Little.

Beckett: Why did you say that?

Samuel: Why do you ask?

Beckett: Just a strange leap of logic from sports scientists.

Samuel: Oh, I don’t know. Both equally disposable.

Beckett: You're right there. Amateur dramatists?

Samuel: Gone, along with members of Amnesty International.

Beckett: Anyone who’s in a band over the age of 21?

Samuel: Harsh, yet necessary, but I would expand it to anyone who’s ever been in a band myself.

Beckett: Tell you what. We’ll stick with my suggestion first and see how we go.

Samuel: OK. Have we done academics yet?

Beckett: Not until now, but let’s make sure

that any of those who’ve ever put their head in their hands at a conference and uttered the words ‘Well, speaking as someone from a working class background myself...’ have to stay in the fryer at the Hard Rock Cafe.

Samuel: I like it.

Beckett: Who’s left?

Samuel: Humanities lecturers were all covered by your last idea, as were arts administrators. So? Beckett: Anyone who wore short trousers at school.

Samuel: Or high heels.

Beckett: Anyone who undid their top button?

Samuel: Yippee. Or wears contact lenses.

Beckett: This is great. Throw in anyone who’s ever worn glasses with rectangular frames as well.

Samuel: Or got their hair cut on the Lisburn Road.

Beckett: Or has ever set foot on the Lisburn Road.

Samuel: Anyone who’s never had any irrational prejudices.

Beckett: Women who wear those big t-shirts with an over-sized face on them.

Samuel: I love it when you know what I’m thinking.

Beckett: Let’s eat some cornflakes. Our work is done.

And there you have it. The doors of the Odyssey are groaning. For entertainment, the Cool FM ‘Cool Tube’ will play Mika’s ‘Grace Kelly’ until people start to eat each other, at which point the soundtrack to the carnage will become, sentimentally, ‘'Days'’ by the Kinks. Meanwhile, outside, three of us will bathe in the silence and watch the sun always shine over Nuala with the Hula as her creators run for their lives up the musical stairs in W5. The future is now.

OPINION Dr. Wuuf: If I may state the obvious, this is a fantasy about control.

Here the fantasist controls the world, meet them on the street and you will see the same effort being spent on controlling themselves. We should not condemn them for this glimpse of their uncivilised frustrations, but bear in mind that, as with the clenching of buttocks, the shit will come just the same, in the end.

Dr. Willard: Some say fascism shouldn't be sexy. They wish to deny what makes this ideology attractive in the first place but in doing so they deny that urge to make the world in our own image. It's not about the leather boots it's about a pleasing consensus of our own ideas. And why not erase the unsightly remainder?

Dear Mr. Cleft, Regarding your proposal to become a fascist leader of Northern Ireland may we assure you that we would be more than happy to assist you in creating a new legal framework for your new state. We cannot foresee any constitutional or criminal problems arising from your proposed exercise of executive power.

Yours etc.

Lord Justice Saggart

the vacuum

THE MOTHER

Imagined by Jerry Terontos 'Aw that fairly takes me back!'exclaimed a voice further down the bus. The comment lodged in Mother's head and a plan began to crystallize around it. Perhaps, she mused, it would be possible to yoke the power of nostalgia to travel back in time.

The pink public mode of conveyance took a speed bump at a velocity suggesting Sandra Bullock was at the wheel. Her feet tightened their grip round the Dunnes bag for life as she distractedly reached down to quash the escape attempts of its contents. Her mind was on a different matter of spilt milk and she fretted about how to remove the stain.

She’'d wasted much of her later life vainly wishing she could turn back the clock and undo the terrible damage she'’d visited upon the community. She knew that no one really held her responsible. If anything she was more pitied than despised by her neighbours.

The bus jerked and shuddered, announcing her stop. She pushed past the standing passengers, aware that she was causing a Mexican wave of nudging elbows. Ignoring the quickly averted curious eyes and stage whispers of 'that’s her!' she gingerly stepped onto the curb and wondered if she’'d have time to pop into the library before her peas defrosted.

Risking mushy legumes, she negotiated the 4x4 baby buggies obstructing the foyer and made her way to the grey area between fiction and non-fiction. Having checked out a few volumes on astral projection and lucid dreaming she scurried home with a spring in her step.

Remembering to chuck her perishables in the freezer, she set about researching her mission of mercy. What a cloud would be removed from Belfast if she could succeed.

She frowned as she thought of what her son would say if he suspected she’'d unlocked the secret of time travel. Pound signs would light up his greedy eyes. He'd be slavering about investing in real estate pre-boom and cleaning up at the bookies. 'Back to the futures market Ma!' he'’d say, rubbing his grasping hands like a fat Fagin.

The books on psychic phenomena were full of useful tips on how to harness the power of the imagination. She reasoned that to be transported back in time she’d

need to create a multi sensory experience of nostalgia. Sight, sound, touch, taste and the most powerful sense for time travel, smell, would have to be stimulated.

1973 was her desired destination. She fished through her music collection. Smiling to herself she plucked out Steely Dan's 'Reelin’ in the Years'. Taking the stairs two at a time she tried to remember if she'’d kept any clothes from that era. Somewhere at the back of the wardrobe in the spare room she recalled a glimpse of brown and orange, geometric patterned viscose fabric sticking out of a box. Gathering up these artefacts to build her installation it occurred to her that for the sake of authenticity she'd have to smoke. Her husband had never managed to quit so she could easily surreptitiously scrounge a Regal King Size.

Just as her puffing partner had popped into her mind, she heard him call from the living room. 'Our boy is on the wireless again',”whined the long-suffering father

of the terrier like, shock jock. Not for long darling, she thought as she vied to kill the radio star.

Soon she'd be back in 1973. Back where it all went wrong. Back to the very night the abomination had been conceived. She knew that her trip would only last the length of a brief reverie but it would be just long enough to utter the words 'not tonight, I've got a splittin’ headache'.

OPINION Dr. Wuff: Time travel is one of those parts of human existence rich in literary and psychological metaphor. Is the future the realm of the Eloi or the Morlocks? And depending on which runs the show will we end up with scuttling crab-like creatures on the radio? Only time will tell.

Dr. Willard: What we have here is not simply a common case of a desired return to the watery womb; it is more complex than that. The writer does not place himself at the centre of this regressive fantasy, but the figure of a bloated talk-show host. He does not merely wish this person to crawl turtle-like away from object relationships and back into the safety of the womb, but two steps further - sucked back out of the maternal vagina altogether and down the paternal phallus via the medium of time travel. Something is definately not right here.

Dear Mr.Terontos With regard to your query on the potential legal consequences of your proposed time-travelling contraceptive mission we would advise as follows: Certain issues as to breach of contract relating to your son’s continuing employment status may arise, leading to potential actions for damages against you as an alleged responsible party for said breach or breaches, Should your conduct involve ruptures in or to the space-time continuum resulting in grand global catastrophe up to and/or including the destruction of the world, you could leave yourself open to criminal charges and civil proceedings of various kinds and degrees. In either of these circumstances we would be prepared to represent you in eventual legal proceedings on a pro bono basis.

Sincerely Ernst Schlomo for Schlomo and Schlemiel

the vacuum

I HATE CARS Imagined by Heidi Rocket The reason I hate cars is simple: they’'ve fucked up everything. First there'’s the massive carbon footprint of just building the things, then there’s the massive carbon footprint of running them, and then there’'s the fact that everyone, everyone seems to feel the need to own one nowadays, and that all the time everyone’s got their own car, there’s never going to be a properly-funded public transport system. And (this is what really gets me) we’re waging a war to fuel these things. We're causing a country to go to hell so that we can fill our cars with petrol; we're sending our kids there to die so we can drive to Marksies at Forestside and stock up on pillowpacks of salad leaves, saffroned chicken, underwear. Seems to me it’'d be simpler to cut out the middle man, use biofuel: burn blood instead of oil.

If the big picture ever seems a bit distant and abstract, there’s the tiny, day-to-day, personal stuff too that reminds me how much I hate cars. Aside from the more obvious health issues like the increases in obesity, heart disease, stroke, high blood pressure, depression and what’s become known as ‘nature deprivation’ (a particular problem for urban children) because no one walks anywhere anymore, because no one wants to walk anywhere anymore because it isn't pleasant - let alone safe - to walk anywhere anymore with every road teeming with cars, it’s now been found that exhaust fumes themselves actually straightforwardly cause premature death. Particulate matter enters the blood stream through the lungs and causes cholesterol to congeal on the artery walls, thus establishing firm foundations

for angina, heart attacks, strokes, and early death. No matter your organic, vegetarian, low-fat diet, if you live on or near a busy urban road you’re breathing this stuff in the street, in your home, your kid’s breathing this stuff in as you push her in her pram to the park. Nice.

Cars have fucked up our city and countryside alike. If it wasn't for cars, there’'d be no suburban sprawl, no out-of-town superstores, no vile roadside hotel carveries, no mocktutor Spanish ranch-style bungalows clut-

tering up the landscape; there’d be no massive selfish commutes from city jobs to overdeveloped former rural idylls where none of the local population can now afford to buy a house because of the blow-ins with their city salaries and BMWs and AGAs. If people lived where they worked, instead of living where they fancied and driving to where they worked, this suburbanisation of the countryside would end, as would its corollary, the economic ghettoisation of the inner city. No longer would the poorest people in the most

deprived communities cough and clutch their chests in the clouds of artery-furring fumes over the busy roads that roar through their neighbourhoods, as the better-off fuck off in their BMWs back to their AGAs and ranchstyle bungalows.

So this is my fantasy for Belfast. Take the road blocks (they don't seem to need them so much nowadays). Stop all the cars on the motorway, on the main thoroughfares in and out. Block off the Donegall Pass, York Street, the Ormeau Road. Disable all cars within the urban centre. I'm thinking half a dozen squads of teenagers supplied with bags of sugar could get it done in a night.

Sure it would be chaos for a while. Utter bloody chaos. There would be anger, there would be frustration, there would probably be a little violence (my money’s on the owners of BMWs and other luxury cars, since such vehicles do say something about their owners; they say they are assholes). Exceptions would need to be made, obviously, for the elderly, the infirm, the disabled, the heavily pregnant, for healthcare workers and emergency services, and of course some supplies would still need to come by road. But the chaos would be temporary. People are wonderfully adaptable.

They'’d adjust. They'd find different ways to get around. They’d take the train, the tram, the bus. They'd ride the bike that’s currently rusting in the back yard. They'd walk. Their lungs would expand, their hearts beat faster.

Their muscles would harden. They'd burn off last night’s six pints and a curry.

Cars would gently soften into rust. They’d become extra sheds, guest rooms, henhouses.

And before you knew it, there’d be everything you’d need in walking distance, just like there used to be, because supply would follow demand. There'd be a greengrocer, baker, butcher just round the corner; milk in glass bottles would be delivered to your door. You wouldn't need or want to drive to Forestside, even if you could.

And then - imagine it - the peace. The peace that settles over the city. The soft sound of shoe leather, the whirr of bicycle wheels, the clatter of trams marks the morning rush hour. People stop to stand and talk in the middle of Queen’s Bridge.

Children kick a ball in Shaftesbury Square.

The fumes clear. Birds sing. Grass cracks the tarmac. Saplings spring in Forestside. The city becomes a human space again.

OPINION

Dr. Wuff: I think it is revealing that this ‘fantasy’ is mostly not a fantasy at all, but an argument. They do not desire, they argue that they desire. And how do they want the world to become? They want children in Shaftesbury square and trees to grow in shopping centres.

But do the children climb the trees?

Dr.Willard: We must remember that the automobile has long been considered a penis substitute - indeed, the man with the inferior phallus will try to compensate for it in other ways. By this analogy what the fantasist really desires is not the death of the motorcar but the mass sterilisation and gradual dying out of the human race. Therein lies the ultimate ‘peace’ which she likes to imagine and although he states that she wants a more ‘human space’, I feel that she does not know the true nature of her superficially philanthropic desires.

Dear Mrs. Rocket, Further to your desire to disable all of the motorcars of Belfast, I have the following advise to offer. Your intention to organise gangs of teenagers to carry out vandalism on vehicles is in contravention of the Criminal Damage Act 1971. However, as you are planning on taking precautions by carrying out your fantasy by proxy so there would be no direct material evidence of your involvement in this spate of attacks. As long as you ensure that the perpetrators are under 18 and not given to ‘touting’ there should be no legal repercussions for yourself.

Yours in Confidence, Lord Justice Wermy

the vacuum

Evidently Chickentown acute disappointment I discovered some time ago that this is not the case and that popular culture had betrayed me once again. To quote Wikipedia: “While significantly less in explosive power, they are still much more potent than any conventional bomb, so it should be understood damage to material is reduced and not eliminated”. That said immense satisfaction could still be derived from a leisurely stroll through a post-nuclear strike Belfast, perhaps acting out favourite scenes from Threads.

Imagined by Felch McSweatrick 'Too many humans'”sang French Industrial Metal outfit Treponem Pal (named after the bacteria that causes syphilis, Treponema Pallidum) on their eponymous debut album.

It's a sentiment that dwellers in any modern conurbation may have sympathised with on occasion. To me they're words to live by.

While Belfast is globally not the most overpopulated of cities (London underground at rush hour of a Friday evening presents a more hideous scene of fear and loathing as rendered by Bosch; I once witnessed two seeming middle-class professionals violently set upon each other as they waited for the tube. In the circumstances this seemed a completely logical course of action), living in the modern city can still induce the malaise caused by the experience of eking out a simulacrum of existence in horribly close proximity to the other 276,458 denizens within the Belfast Urban Area. A walk through Belfast city centre or any of the quaint, surrounding residential areas can almost certainly be guaranteed to provoke feelings of stress, paranoia, social and physical inadequacy, fear, mortal terror and homicidal rage. All brought on by being too close to thousands of other people undergoing the same wracking experience.

Of course living in a city has many benefits and I am not suggesting a return to some never extant golden age of bucolic bliss in a countryside populated by rosy-cheeked buxom maidens and jolly, benevolent landowners rather than incestuous, murderous farmers, pesticide-huffing teenagers and rabid bats and badgers. However after one more episode of verbal abuse (favourites of recent years, both a couple of hundred yards from my house, both from children of about 12: “'Benders, benders!' shouted at me and two friends, I particularly enjoyed the repetition for effect; and 'Groomer!'” again shouted at me by some local feral children, an epithet

that caused my knees some concern should the local paramilitaries have heard and taken there to be some truth to it), physical threat (the classic 'what are you looking at' or just 'wha', sorry mate I wasn't but thanks for taking my looking straight ahead away from you minding my own business as an excuse to threaten to beat the living shit out of me), actual violence or just too many humans too many times my fantasy of the city must surely be a city with no living soul in it.

Imagine the bliss of it. Just concrete, plastic and glass. Silence. The best bits of any post-apocalyptic film are the sections dwelling on the aftermath of the event before some do-gooder protagonist arrives on the scene in the misguided hope of rebuilding society. I could have watched a full two hours of an empty London in 28 Days Later; while the rest of the film is no Dawn of the Dead it isn't bad but just can't compare to the eerily, blissfully unheimlich early scenes of a city vacated by its populace. I actually felt a sense of regret when other people turned up.

So how to achieve this fantasy? Problematic without a huge loss of human life so I won't even attempt to bypass that minor drawback.

Some options are considered below: 1. Ecological Catastrophe A shower of meteorites, massive earthquake, volcanic eruption on Cave Hill etc.would be

effective in removing most or all of the city populace but would also have the undesirable effect of massive infrastructural damage.

Although it could be pleasurable to witness the fiery death throes of some members of the populace as they are flattened by burning space rock/their silhouettes burned into the walls by molten lava/they fall into an infinitely deep crevice: 'sorry mate I wasn’t looking at you I was looking at the meteorite reducing you to bloody burning pulp as I got out of the way'. On balance however the most preferable method of catastrophe might be massive flooding in the manner of J G Ballard's The Drowned World. Imagine the pleasure of taking a gondola ride down Royal Avenue, popping into Tesco to avail of some free tobacco before punting downstream to pull yourself a pint in the hostelry of your choice unencumbered by the puking, mewling, farting masses. Marvellous.

3. Virus/plague/pandemic Perhaps the most desirable method in that the human element is conveniently removed while leaving all those lovely buildings untouched save for the looting and vandalism inevitably perpetrated by some undesirables prior to their own extinction. Importing some grey market turkeys this Christmas from the less rigourously policed sections of Eastern Europe or Asia could initiate the decimation of the populace; having a close friend working in a military biowarfare research capacity could also come in handy at this juncture. It should be noted however that this method is only for the patient; most of the Belfast populace are so riddled with disease already that a strong dose of H5N1 would probably only produce mild irritation of the sort associated with the common cold.

So there are briefly considered some methods of achieving the fantasy of a depopulated city. Assuming I survived any of them I would then be free to walk the city streets unmolested, eyes, ears and nose free of assault by the various emissions of the hordes previously thronged round me. For those of you who say that all this sounds slightly misanthropic and oh why can’t we all just get along I can only say: correct, and get the fuck out of my way.

2. Neutron bomb Developed by Samuel Cohen in 1958 the neutron bomb has long been held as the ultimate weapon of capitalism in that it is commonly believed to be a thermonuclear weapon capable of destroying human life while leaving buildings and infrastructure mostly intact. Or as J. Frank Parnell says of it in Repo Man: -Eyes melt, skin explodes, everybody dead”. However to my dismay and

OPINION Dr.Willard: The writer obviously has a fear of human contact and has been deeply traumatised by past abuses. There is also a suggestion of acute claustrophobia. As the writer acknowledges there is a misanthropic bent to his fantasy but this self realisation makes his love of objects (in this case buildings) rather than humanity all the more disturbing. Borderline sociopath.

Dr. Wuuf: I cannot agree with your diagnosis. I find this tale rather uplifting. He is a man (certainly a man) who has come to cherish above all things, his impotence. In former days, when our science was young and the id drove the universe, he would have been seen understood as a hobbled half-man. But today I think we better understand that without a plentiful supply of such unfulfilled people, nothing would ever get done.

Dear Sirs, In answer to your request for legal advice on the extermination of the population of Belfast bar those individuals whose names are appended in list form to your proposal, I feel obliged to point out that the United Kingdom is a signatory to various international legal instruments which would render any such programme of extermination illegal. I would mention in particular the Genocide Convention of 1949, and the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child. Following the recent transfer of competence in the adjudication of most Crimes Against Humanity to the International Criminal Court in the Hague, if it is still your intention to proceed with your plans and to subsequently remain at liberty, then you might well find it expedient to also turn your attentions to that city.

Humbly and in confidence, Elimir Slyth Slyth, Noggit and Boon, Solicitors.

the vacuum

Make the shit art stop

Imagined by Franklin Emerson This is a tough one, not the fantasy thing but laying myself bare and setting before you my Belfast fantasy. I kind of hoped that when I asked myself what my Belfast fantasy would be that it would be glamorous or at least epic or shocking. I thought I would chose to have a masked ball in the Floral Hall with a leopard on a lead in a diamante collar. Or I would get to command the mass sterilization of all the stupid people in the city (nee naw nee naw fascist dictator alert)….

As it turns out, the fantasy I chose to make real in the form of ‘imagined real’ is the eradication of ‘artist’ and ‘former model’ Terry Bradley.

I am plagued by the hideous images he produces in bars, restaurants, fashion shows (the painted jeans, God the painted jeans) and most fury-welling in galleries.

Should I gouge out both my eyes and use a palette of only yellow ochre and puce, I could not produce a palette as vile as Terry manages. His sixth form (sorry sixth-formers) teenage girl pencil case doodle style ‘portraits’ of women evoke something as far from the essence and mysteries of Woman as a public school boy's spunk filled wank sock. I

recently had the misfortune to sit next to monsieur Bradley at a fashion show, basking in his former model-ness, I dry boaked at his Bradley’ emblazoned t-shirts with BELFAST NO MEAN CITY written on them.

I'm sure Glasgow (the city actually associated with the title), Alexander McArthur and Kingsley H Long (who wrote the book) or Nazareth (who named their album it in

the 1970’s) would not thank you for using this title.

Oh, I beg of you- go onto the Terry Bradley website www.terrybradley.com. Whoever wrote the web page blurb should have their typing hands removed and if they learn to type with a plastic stick in their mouth then I'm afraid beheading must follow. And the videos...Endorsements by celebrity monkey

boy Ronan Keating, renowned art critic...

So please to fulfil my fantasy, make it stop, make the bad man go away or at least go back to modelling.

OPINION

Dr.Willard: The fantasist seems conflicted about realising either a pleasant or destructive fantasy and in the end opts for the later.

The negative energy directed towards a talented and successful artist (I have a few of his painting's myself) is perhaps a classic case of jealousy on the part of the fantasist. Although as my colleague, Serge Kreutz, has pointed out, jealousy in manageable dimensions can have a definite positive effect on sexual function and sexual satisfaction.

Dr. Wuuf: I think our fantasist demonstrates good judgement, judiciousness and moderation. They realise, as we all must, that the world can be an unpleasant place and are willing to dream that some of its more ugly parts could be smoothed away. How could we complain of this modest desire?

Dear Sir/Madam, With regard to your request for analysis of potential legal consequences we would advise that there are two obvious sources of trouble: 1) The ‘eradication’ of Mr Terry Bradley. From the limited information you have provided it seems likely that such eradication would involve unlawful killing amounting to the crime of murder. Although some defences do exist which might exculpate or mitigate in cases of intentional killing, it is not immediately apparent that you would be able to bring yourself within the requisite categories to avail of such defences. A limited opportunity perhaps exists on the ground that you experienced ‘dry boaking’ as a potentially life threatening experience intentionally or recklessly provoked by Mr. Bradley to which you reacted in legitimate self-defence.

2) The be-handing and potential eventual beheading of the typist you mention. Here your best bet, should you personally perform either or both of these operations, would seem to be a plea of ‘necessity’, a broader category than ‘self-defence’ and so opening the avenue of arguing that you acted for the common good rather than for purely selfish motives.

In strict confidentiality and without prejudice, Roger Eggert

the vacuum

The Belfast Eye

REVIEWS

Billed as Belfast’s own version of the London Eye, The Wheel of Belfast is a temporary structure promising views across the city skyline from a height of 200 feet. Having shunned the London Eye while living in that particular big smoke, getting into a pod with seven of my fellow Ulstermen was a less than enticing prospect. The major fear: being trapped in a small space with a random selection of the city's finest, alongside a minor suspicion that my trip would provide nothing more than exciting than an in-depth study of the east side of the City Hall's masonry.

Still, 13 minutes of claustrophobia seemed a small price to pay in order to satisfy curiosity.

So, after waiting in vain for a suitably clear day I queue up on a drizzly afternoon to take a trip skywards. First point of note as I thread my way through the newly ensconced Continental Market is that there are very few humans grouped around me. After reaching the Wheel itself I find myself waiting alone for a spin, bar six disgruntled and brooding bouncer types manning the gates, an elderly couple muttering darkly about the injustices of a 6 pound entrance fee, and the obligatory tourist trio, who I agree to take a few terrible snaps of. Mind you, who wouldn’t grimace on a cold wet evening like this.

We wait in the cold together, watching the underpopulated pods rotate past us, every third one housing punters who stare outwards, looking vaguely nonplussed.

Undeterred, I gamely step aboard a car as the previous occupants are herded out. It seems I will be travelling solo, which was not part of the plan. I am invited to press a panic button should anything “go wrong”. This information prompts me to ask what could possibly go awry when I am stuck 200 feet up, which is met by a double thumbs up, and the wellknown spide-speak assurance that everything will “be reet.” I am also addressed as “luv” by this jackbooted protector, who slams the doors shut behind me, at which point the wheel cranks into gear and my small enclosure lurches upwards.

Until now I had neglected to realise that I have a minor but disabling fear of heights.

The fact that there is no danger of me falling out does nothing to help, and the transparent nature of the pod means that I am all too aware of the precarious nature of my situation. Cue much gripping of the seat and yelping, which is not helped by the constant feed of Shania Twain's greatest hits being fed into the space around me by speakers located above my head.

However, it must be said that the views up there are quite breathtaking. As dusk falls on Belfast I can see out towards the lough, and take in the Odyssey complex, the newlyerected Victoria Centre, and the cathedral spire poking into the clouds like a sharpened needle. As I struggle with my upchuck reflex the city streets twinkle back at me, rainslicked and shiny, glittering silently while worker bees in offices toil away, unaware that they are being studied minutely by the passengers of the Wheel.

One ambiguous slogan emblazoned on a city centre hoarding urges us to “keep our heads in the clouds”. If nothing else, a trip on the wheel enables us to observe the dramatic structural changes afoot around us.

Reviewed by Leah Eleanor Millar

Image courtesy of www.quire.org.uk

Love Breaks Out in the Black Box Quire at the Black Box, November 30th Part of ‘Outburst’ first annual queer arts festival Never mind the odd bum note, feel the love.

Quire (a lesbian gay bi and trans community choir based in Belfast) came out a bit cold and nervous, and for the first half of their show showed quite a few signs that they were finding it difficult to find the confidence and lung capacity to fill the space, and the energy to match that of the capacity audience. But as each song was rapturously received Quire got exactly what they needed in terms of confidence boosting and the evening went from shaky start to eventual triumph. The second half of their concert was much more assured musically and also more marked by crowd pleasing camp theatrics. By the time they finished with a wonderful version of ‘Seasons of Love’ the joint was jumping and support had been replaced by genuine appreciation – Quire had enough class to refuse encores and leave ‘em wanting more.

A huge amount of credit for the success of the evening has to go to Quire's musical director, who acted on the night as conductor and sometime guest vocalist-and boy can that guy sing. The programme was really well designed to bring the audience along and also stretch their expectations a little (Hebrew love songs with your Abba, anyone?). It also seems like he has a really good idea of how he wants to develop a repetoire that can highlight the vocal strengths and variations of the group as he brings them along in harmonic and individual singing capability. With regard to the harmonics, there is an obvious lack of tonal colour in the higher registers, down to the shortage of sisters on stage, and a special call went out for new recruits. As to the individual voices, a couple of Quire members got their solo spots and you can sense that this is an aspect that has room to expand as individual confidence grows. All in all, you get the idea that they're good, but they're going to be great… my money’s on them to lead out the 2010 New York Saint Patrick’s day parade.

Fiona Kerr, local singer-songwriter, and The Greeters- described as “the love children of Julie Andrews and James Brown” - provided great support on the night: Fiona with her sublime melodies and The Greeters with their danceadelic grooves. But the evening belonged to Quire and to the audience who

stood out as the happiest, liveliest, most loved up group you're likely to find in Belfast. It certainly looks like ‘Outburst’ is here to stay and that there might even be one community in Northern Ireland which actually is a community rather than a defence strategy.

Congratulations to all involved.

Reviewed by Eugene Mc Namee

Christmas Annuals: A Selection No Christmas used to be complete without getting an annual from one of my aunts.

Every year I thought, ‘the writers are bound to pull out all the stops to create a hilarious, side-splitting, super-soaraway, bumper Christmas annual.’ Five pages in, you realised that no, the writers were half pissed already and the annual was made up of filler that got cut from the weekly edition, padded out with puzzles and posters.

Twenty odd years on and I'd forgotten about this particular Christmas Day disappointment. As a Thirty-Something Childless Selfish Woman, Single-Handledly Destroying Society (Daily Mail), I didn't even realise that children’'s annuals were still being produced. I thought that probably kids downloaded 3D comics from the internet straight into their brains or something. But no, turns out that Easons is full of them. I've gathered up a few of the best sellers to review.

The Bratz Annual 2008 is based on a range of dolls, you know the ones, they look like jaded street prostitutes. After getting a profile of all the Bratz dolls (Yasmin gives awesome advice, Cloe is super-inspired by art, Sasha is loved for her upfront style) you get the usual mix of stories, puzzles and quizzes. Some of the features though seemed to be written for jaded eight year old street walkers.

There’'s ‘Meygan’'s Lips Tips’ on how to plump up your lips, presumably so you too can have the silicon smackers of a pole-dancer. ‘Accessorise Your Life’ is a “super-stormin” guide to make any outfit fashion-forward by adding the right accessories. Children are also advised to always carry concealer with them to avoid having unattractive under-eye shadows (what, from staying up past eight o’clock?).

I know many little girls are always going to be fascinated with make-up and things that they associate with adult womanhood.

the vacuum

But there's something a bit sad about reading page after page of advice on how to improve your appearance for children who haven't reached double figures yet, especially when it comes from dolls that look like Donatella Versace’'s older sister. Saying that, I used to love Sindy, a doll that, with her gymkhanas and ballet practice, left me with a life-long desire to emulate the English middle-classes, hard to pull off when you’re a culchie from Draperstown.

So, sigh of relief then, when I opened The Beano Annual 2008. No cynical marketing of adult lifestyles to children here. No, Dennis the Menace and the rest of the gang are still sticking their fingers up at the adult world (well, giving the fingers is a bit hardcore for Menace, maybe it’s more letting off a stink bomb in the vicinity of the grownups). Billy Whiz and The Bash Street Kids are still there (Plug falls in love in one story - there’s hope for me yet). And there’s lots of strips I didn’t remember like the Neds (a bunch of chavs who go to a funfair to see an Employment Simulator) and Crazy for Daisy about a boy who’s in love with a psychopathic, sadistic, ten year old girl.

The Boys’ Annual has the sort of retro cover that made me think this was more a book for adults than children. You know the thing, a sort of ‘I love 1963’ annual with lots of smug nostalgia. Inside though, it does seem to be written more for children than grumpy old men. It’s like the old TV show ‘Why Don't You’, with features on how to build a wormery and start your own ant farm. It’s perfect for nine year old boys, unless the papers are right and most young lads are out on their bikes running drugs cartels and shooting grannies.

So, what to buy for the slightly bookish child in your life? Maybe you’re an anxious parent, who needs to put even more pressure on their child to achieve academically. The Horrible Histories Annual is the one for you.

Based on Terry Deary’s best-selling series of books, this annual mixes historical fact, jokes and cartoons. I loved it, being the slightly bookish child that I am. The annual covers a broad range of history, from ancient Egypt up to World War 2. Kids will learn a lot of rather useless, but interesting, historical facts. And there'’s some historical recreations you’ll be hoping they don’t bother with (‘How to Petrify your Teacher- the Pompeii Way!’). The illustrations are great, they’re full of details and remind me of some of the books I used to spend hours on as a child.

I'm looking forward this Christmas to getting the Woman’s Weekly annual - household tips and knitting patterns. And the Strictly Come Dancing annual is out now, so Aunty Bernie - you know what to do.

Reviewed by Emma McAllister

Your views on belfast (.com) The famous funny dead guy Bill Hicks instructed anyone who works in marketing to kill themselves. A bit drastic, but then again, Mr Hicks was never shy about being forthright. Fortunately for us, marketeers didn't heed his advice, and now internetenfranchised folk the world over can shape Belfast’s future. Our sagacious civic leaders at Belfast City Council have contracted Lloyd Northover, “'the international branding and design consultancy', to conduct an online survey to assist in marketing Belfast globally, and all it takes is 6 - 8 minutes of your time at yourviewsonbelfast.com Who are Lloyd Northover, anyway? Well, once upon a time in September 1965, John Lloyd met Jim Northover at the London College of Printing. They formed a company, time passed and now they “generate value from creative industries”, which could be ‘reimagined’ as “wanking coins out of art”.

Regardless, they've styled themselves “brand consultants”, ready to “better reflect the new reality of a rapidly changing Belfast”. I don't know about you, but after ‘The Office’ took the piss out of the paradigm of aspirational and motivational business-speak it’s almost embarrassing to see it used here without irony. And why use one word when lots of unnecessary ones are at your disposal?

Instead of inviting “all residents, business men and women, students, visitors and even those who have not yet visited Belfast” to take the survey, couldn’t they have just said “everyone”? I suppose that the marketing and media studies graduate has to earn a living somehow, even if it's by churning out pointless copy, while bemoaning the fact they’re not talented enough to get a job as a proper journalist and dreaming of someday writing that magnum opus.

So have Lloyd Northover ever had any big name clients? A few. Perhaps most interestingly the Royal Mail asked them to “engage employees to ensure they understand and feel part of the changing landscape”. Does the recent strike action mean this campaign wasn’t quite a success? According to their website, “feedback has been very positive from managers, employees and the Union”. I see... if you can’t face up to your ‘new reality’, you can just ‘reimagine’ your own. Bravo!

Patronising postal workers aside, Lloyd Northover have had some experience in developing brand identities for localities. I'm sure we can all agree that Slough and the Black Country are, indeed, two phoenixes rising from the ashes of poor public perception. Oh dear... well, if this project goes tits up I do hope a scapegoat won't be made of local company IAS Smarts, a PR consultancy based in Holywood who are providing support for the big boys from London. Better doublecheck that contract, chaps!

The survey itself requests the selection of emotive buzzwords reflecting the participant’s current and ideal perception of the city, followed by three bombastic advertitexts that require rating. These are sorted again by a selection of try-hard phrases, some

of which are cringe-inducing shibboleths of Belfast’s argot:'banter', 'dead on' and 'gritty wit' all raise their tired old heads. And some of the claims made are just plain wrong: how can you say a city has great nightlife when the only places to get a drink after 1am on a weekday are two gay clubs and a disco with a sticky floor and delusions of grandeur?

'Belfast] is easy to get around' my arse - it’s a car dependent city that suffers from chronic congestion.

Once the survey has attained its sample size, no doubt the words and phrases will be collated into bar charts, interpreted into Venn diagrams and PowerPoint-presented to Belfast City Council, where I'm guessing the conclusion will be to stick a shiny new logo on to shiny new shopping centres. Anyone with a little bit of computer coding knowledge could write a script to auto-complete this unrepresentative survey thousands of times, supplying nonsense data and creating a truly random brand identity. It wouldn't be such a big deal - in a few years another bunch of brand consultants will be appointed to contrive another character far removed from our own perceptions of the city.

Belfast can't be reduced to a series of tick boxes - there will always be ignored shitty and ugly bits, but also special parts with personal significance that can't be assigned a box to tick. Even though they didn’t follow Mr Hicks'’ instruction, the marketeers can still manage to get things dead wrong.

Reviewed by Stuart Fallis

Belfast Loves Shopping: A Guide Three words are repeated ad nauseam in this opulent little City Council publication: 'ladies', 'exclusive' and 'exquisite'. It appears that Belfast is veritably jam-packed with exclusive shops patronised by exquisite ladies: “this exquisite boutique stocks exclusive ladies evening wear…a clothes shop for ladies with designer tastes …quality fashions for the discerning lady”. No matter how you package it-in this case, a cunningly designed booklet encased in thick milk-chocolatecoloured card - the discourse of snooty provincialism will out.

East Belfast's Bloomfield Avenue, in particular, is singled out as 'a great place for stylish ladies to check out its designer fashions'. And here was me thinking that it was a grim thoroughfare featuring the arseend of the (far-from-fragrant) Connswater Shopping Centre, long-closed chippies and a sprinkling of twee coffee shops. Of course, the Lisburn Road; the real stamping-ground of the city’s affluent, braying, leather-faced lady-matrons - gets another outing in its habitual guise as 'Belfast’s own Bond Street'.

And ladies! Don't forget to visit Stranmillis Village with its wonderful hairdressers, bakeries and, er, “convenience stores”.

Yup, I'm gonna get me an over-sweetened smoothie in the Stranmillis Centra and know that I truly am sipping the elixir of cosmopolitanism. Or why not 'extend the retail exploration'(eeuchhh) and venture out to the edgy Gaeltacht Quarter, the new name for West Belfast.

Yet it is an indisputable truth that Belfast does indeed love shopping. Retail is practically a third major religious denomination here, and this is nothing new. “A city built on mud; A culture built upon profit,” as MacNeice had it; the virtues of trade and hard dealing have long defined the city's tawdry commercial soul. There’'s nothing Belfast citizens love better than to cram themselves cheek-by-jowl into strip-lit stores and buy, buy, buy! Bargain-hunters of the world, come and join us in the one collective cultural pastime we can all agree on.

But there is more to this crazy, infuriating cock-eyed city than retail, neatly divided up into manageable chunks. And there is much, much more than can be reduced to the sanitised chirp of marketing-speak. This superficial, relentlessly upbeat, brittle-bright language is creeping in everywhere, wiping away all the things that make Belfast dirty and complicated and interesting. Recently, a friend visiting from Dublin remarked on how natural and unpackaged Belfast is as a city, in comparison to the glossy branding that has overtaken Dublin. But, brandishing our faux-suede shopping guides, we're catching up fast.

Incidentally, there is a terrible omission from Belfast Loves Shopping. Where o where is the city’s venerable old shopping institution, Wyse Byse, purveyors of rubber gloves, chunky furniture and cheap American Tan tights? It seems that the decidedly un-exquisite Wyse Byse has been deemed unworthy of inclusion in our new commercial Weltanschauung. The past is always a rebuke to the present.

Reviewed by Bitsy Sonomabiche

Black Friday at The Black Box

The North Strand Klezmer Band The North Strand Klezmar Band are a north inner city Dublin dwelling six-piece who kick up an Hasidic ‘Gypsy swing’ with a side salad of ska racket at the drop of a yarmulke. To experience the full effect, you have to catch their raucous, infectious and debauched live show. The Irish Times described them as ‘one of the most enjoyable new party bands of the past few years’. They’re kind of kind of like a Roma Gypsy version of The Pogues - but with front teeth.

There will also be DJ sets from the Filthy Madonnas and Santa will hopefully make an appearance if you are all good little girls and boys ;)

Friday 21 December Doors 8pm-til 1am Admission £12

Black Box presents

The Christmas Pageant An array of local musical talent, a visit from Santa, deranged puppets and all sorts of yuletide randomness! Also in Black box cafe Rudimentary presents a Grub n’ dub Christmas with Beckett, Chuck and someone Else and a whole host of others.Kev Largey on visuals. Admisson free.

Saturday 22tst December Doors 8pm-til Late. Admission £5

Call into the Black Box cafe to buy tickets; 10am-5pm Monday-Friday. Or book online at www.blackboxbelfast.com

Bap Kennedy & Band “The music world is full of hard luck stories and pear-shaped careers, but turning the half-empty glass into a cup of aural nectar for the soul is a rare gift. Bap Kennedy …[is]… blessed with it. Four albums and half a lifetime in and this man from Belfast -his birth name long supplanted by the local vernacular for a bread roll -has distilled his love of Hank Williams and Van Morrison, his selfpreserving humour and his endearingly stoic barroom philosophies into a set of stunningly beautiful songs full of simple truisms and staggering depth.

Mojo Magazine

www.bapkennedy.com

Friday 28th December Doors 8pm Admission £15

The New Year’s Eve Masked Ball The three filthies return with last years sell out spectatular event.

Dress up as though you’re heading for the carnivale in Venice.

There’s a bottle of Champagne for the best outfit…Free mask at the door, but why not design your own?

BUY YOUR TICKET EARLY TO AVOID DISAPPOINTMENT . TICKETS £12/£15 AT THE DOOR. Details to follow on www.blackboxbelfast.com

Monday 31st December 8pm til Late The Black Box, 18-22 Hill Street. Belfast. BT1 2GX Tel. 02890244400 or email: office@blackboxbelfast.com