The Beware! Encyclopaedia of International Celebrity - Can

In the lengthening history of popular beat music, there has been a plague of Beatles, a sackful of Stones, a whole arsenal of Sex Pistols, and an excess of INXS... but there has only, to our knowledge, been one can of CAN. (Check this - Ed.)

Formed during the student riots of 1968 but schooled in classical ballet and water polo, the main members of CAN fell into classic archetypes: Irmin Schmidt, the expansive synth-tinkler with a Silver Surfer on his jacket and golden melodies at his fingertips; Holger Czukay, the genial bassist and sound manipulator sporting a highly iconic moustache; Jaki Liebezeit, the "best jazz drummer in Germany", never ever ever out-of-time; Michael Karoli, the hot guitar wizard with funky moves, recruited whilst still a schoolboy. (Duty of care? - Ed.)

These volcanic talents learned to harness their personal lava flows under the stern tutelage of Karlheinz Stockhausen, the infamous avant-garde composer who once banned melody for an entire year; another year he composed only with paper-clips. For Stockhausen, anything could be music, apart from most sounds that humans actually enjoyed. His masterwork "Desperate Sting of a Dying Wasp" required 88 people on stage to play atonal comb-and-paper for 88 minutes. You'd riot too.

This cerebral high art was all very well for developing one's sense of importance, but CAN's first paying commissions were of an altogether lower cultural form - blue movies. Many early Rodox pornos ("Me! I'm A Nympho"; "Curiosity Killed The Cock" etc) are backed by their unmistakable propulsive grooves. They recorded enough to finance the purchase of their Dusseldorf studio, Kling Klang (hang onnnnn, are we not doing a Kraftwerk entry then? - Ed.) which was so named after the internal resonances that adult metal Ben-Wa balls create once inserted into the vagina. It stayed their home for the rest of their career and is a place of pilgrimage and fervent worship today.

To this klinging-klanging CAN though, one crucial aspect was missing - they needed a singer, a totem on stage through whom to channel their improvised grooves. Their first vocalist was Malcolm Mooney, found during a dangerous excursion to 1920s Chicago. Malcolm had some difficulty adjusting to the modern German lifestyle and language, prompting his trademark repetitive delivery as he asked the same questions again and again, hoping for a different answer: "Are you waiting for the streetcar? ...Are you waiting for the streetcar?"

Eventually Malcolm developed not only his own voice but many voices, all at once; and he sensibly left the band for the sake of clarity. Whither the great plant! Little did they expect though, the great plant was actually growing every minute on the streets, where he moved and hollered like an otherworldly visitor. This new cutting was Damo. All hail Damo. This particular great plant had been a Japanese seedling, and now he took root in the richly fertile soil of CAN music. And my, what roots! Damo gave the band raw sex appeal. Before long, their gigs were ascending into impromptu orgies, the band dutifully soundtracking every joyous squeal and squirt. Luckily, CAN were also sonic healers, with the power to cure scurvy.

CAN were infamous for a combination of slack-bottomed freaking out and intensely parsimonious tape-editing. One song beloved of CAN devotees, "Can Can", came out of a continuous eight-hour recording session, 467 minutes eventually edited down to 1:24. (Michael: "My fingers bled for a week afterwards - then they cut my entire solo.")

Eventually, mere grooves could no longer hold Damo, and he spread in all directions, becoming a mycelial network. The voice was now beyond human comprehension.

After Damo's transmogrification, the remaining core members decided to refocus on an important
element for all musicians: their bank balances. This was, perversely, CAN's most commercially successful period. Hit singles included "Mauve It", their take on the Cliff Richard rock-and-roll classic; "Silver Saturday Knight", a disco smash; and "Funky Gibbon", in which they took on alter-egos as a group of middle-aged English comedians named "The Goodies". These sold in bucketloads. Some accused CAN of selling out. This upset Holger in particular, who vowed to "disprove the groove" by not using the bass again on a CAN record. To get round this, the others brought in a new bass player who was, if anything, even more wedded to the groove. This was followed by an extra bongo player, and before long entire bands were attaching to CAN like limpets to a kraut-rock.

All good containers have their sell-by date, and okra must be eaten fast. CAN had the good grace to scrunch up with a final single, "Can Cannot", following which they only reconvened once a decade to sign spoons, dismiss their musical legacy and carp at one another. Tribute band Bang On A Can made a whole career out of confusing audiences with their almost unrecognisable cover versions. Meanwhile our great plant, Damo, had a second wind as the star of horror movie "Ring". Remember: don't pick up if it's "Out Of Reach".

The Empire's Clarion: Bravo! For The Settlers

Depressed by recent political developments in Australia? Here's how the "Australian Indigenous Voice to Parliament" referendum was reported in our famous enemy journal (spit) - faithful companion of the gentleman's club set, reeking of tobacco, port and stilton - The Empire's Clarion (NB attitudes may be 140 years out-of-date to you, dear reader, though seemingly bang up-to-date for many down under):

Bravo! Australian Settlers Quash Savages' Ludicrous Demands

Contemporary Commentary by Balthazar Wentworth-Sinclair

LONDON - We are most delighted to report that the upstanding British pioneers of Australia have decisively quashed absurd proposals to give the primitive natives a greater political voice.

In a referendum on Saturday last - an ill-advised folly of the misguided Mr Albanese - the sagacious colonists refused to entertain the outlandish idea of granting the Aboriginal tribes special representation in the Austral parliament. This splendid result displays the indefatigable spirit of our compatriots who so bravely founded and tamed the colony.

The benighted savages have grown too demanding in requesting formal recognition from the parliament, believing themselves deserving of an equal seat at the table. But the brave Australian voters rightfully dismissed these laughable conceits from the uncivilised races.

The blessings of English rule and tutelage are bounteous for the natives. Our enlightened governance lifts them from their wretched ignorance and squalor. We caution these hapless wards against further grasping for "rights" beyond their lowly station. They ought give fervent thanks for the gifts of British law, religion and technology - not to mention that most diverting and consoling export, alcohol.

Let all Englishmen across the Empire applaud the steadfast Australian settlers! Their refusal to indulge the native delusions proves them worthy stewards of the Crown. We hope their example shall rouse Englishmen everywhere to govern their uncivilized charges with justice, but an ever-firm hand.

God save the Queen!

(The Clarion is available everywhere, just behind the crepe-thin veneer of progress.) 

Divine Dines - The Vegan Vulture, Sheepy

Think about the last great meal you experienced. Conjure up the sensations, the smells, the sounds, the secretions. Got them nice and tight? Good. You're going to need them. Our restaurant review column continues apace in the never-culpable hands of girthy Gordonstoun old boy, Barclay Minster.

The little woman and I found ourselves in the sleepy surrounds of Sheepy last Tuesday eve, quite famished after a bracing constitutional through the grounds of the estate. (Didn't manage to shake her off...) As the sun set over the prole salon, our thoughts turned naturally to supper. Consulting the local gazetteer, we espied an establishment named "The Vegan Vulture," which both aroused and repelled. The vulture is a noble creature, with its manly grunts; it makes efficient use of the carrion it finds; its defence mechanisms include projectile vomit. In many ways the vulture is the ideal predator. Britain has a lot to learn from the vulture. 

Barclay Minster.
You know what he's thinking.

As for the vegans... Upon entering the dreary premises, we were met with a vision surely crafted in Hades itself. Gone were any trappings of civilization, replaced with rough-hewn benches, a floor strewn with hay, and tree stumps for tables. The patrons were a motley assortment of unwashed extremists and dreadlocked wastrels, predictably attired in hemp tunics and woven sandals. Sunday best, I presume! A confused squirt in a tunic offered us a handwritten menu scrawled on scrap paper. I should be glad they'd used standard ink... Perusing the limited options, I was aghast to find naught but plants and fungi on offer. Not even that dire slop favoured by Hoxton's hipster sect, the smashed-up avocado. Apparently it's cruel to the bees. Cruelty to customers, though, that's permitted.

We began with a starter described only as "foraged salad" - this proving to be an unholy melange of twigs, clover, dandelions, and other weeds haphazardly tossed together and lightly drizzled in pond water. For the main course, I chose the wild mushroom ragout which arrived as an unpalatable medley of fungi seemingly seasoned with mud and garnished with moss. The little woman opted for the nettle and seaweed pie, the contents of which were unidentifiable sludge enclosed in a crust redolent of compost heap.  

To wash down this culinary insult, came the inevitable injury: we were offered no Krug, no Shiraz, no Chateau Margeaux - too inflaming, I suppose - instead a choice of either dandelion coffee (the Lord's saints preserve us), an infusion of some unnamed herbs, or plain creek water. The squirt admitted the dandelion coffee was indeed from a dreaded "woke" firm with its priorities arse-about-face - funding fairer do's for farmworkers or some such drivel. When will they learn, charity is never the answer? I opted for the herbal drink which had a brackish taste not unlike ditchwater. I daresay it will make me regular, though not a regular.

Desperate to cleanse my palate after this parade of nature's leavings parading as cuisine, I enquired after pudding. Our host proudly presented us with bowls of foraged acai berries drizzled in maple syrup "tapped from a sustainable tree." Having no wish to sample this sweetened soil, we took our leave. 

I have eaten in shepherds' huts, army barracks, even - once - a bus shelter. But never have I endured a dining experience as purgatorial as The Vegan Vulture. No meat, no game, no proper drink - just weeds and twigs from the hedgerow. I shall stick to the fare prepared by Mrs. Chatterley in our well-appointed dining room, and leave this pastoral pretence to the addled hippies. The countryside is for looking at, tramping down, and shooting grouse over. Not for rummaging through like a scruffy badger.

An interview with Gary Slater, a Spinosaurus aegyptiacus, on media portrayals and the agony of an ever-changing appearance

Introduction

The following is a transcript of an interview conducted by Dex Diabolo for Beware! The Zine, with the actor and activist, Gary Slater, a Cretaceous theropod from North Africa. The original recording was seized by police in connection to a serious incident which occurred immediately after the interview. The full transcript was eventually released following a Freedom Of Information request.

Our interviewee, Gary Slater, pictured outside
his Surrey home in 1972.

The Interview

B!: It’s a grey autumn day, and the headache-inducing odour of industrial-strength nail-polish-remover lingers in the air. An accident on the nearby M6 just outside Corley in the West Midlands has spilled 5,500 gallons of acetone, and the stiff south-westerly breeze is bringing it right to us. There’s no ventilation in this vast warehouse—chosen especially to accommodate my enormous guest—and my only option is to attempt to overpower the smell with a full-frontal assault of the combined forces of Yankee candles and Febreze.

Today’s interview is the culmination of several years’ negotiations – a seemingly never-ending back-and-forth between my producer and me, and my guest’s agent, a commercial palaeontologist operating out of Morocco. My guest can be best described as a cocktail of contradictions; his yearning for a quiet life, away from the scrutiny of the palaeontology community and an army of Jurassic Park III fans, entirely undone by his pathological need for attention. He is both aggressively engaging and worryingly flighty, and my biggest concern is that the bouts of nausea that I’m experiencing will force me to cut this short – which will almost certainly dash any chances of redo.

B!: It’s November 7th, this is Beware! The Zine, and my name is Dex Diabolo—stress is on the third syllable. Today, my lucky listeners, Beware! is offering the most-unlikely of things: an interview with the late-Cretaceous dinosaur, Spinosaurus aegipticus… aegipt-ee-acus?

Gary: Don’t look at me, luvvy. You lot came up with that.

B!: What would you prefer?

Gary: Stick with Gary. It’ll hurt less.

B!: It’s not our intention to —

Gary: [cutting Dex off] It’ll hurt YOU less. [Over-pronouncing] Gaah-reee.

B!: Gary Slater.

Gary: At least until Equity or Spotlight reject it. *laughs*

B!: So you’re looking for acting work?

Gary: “Looking”? Oh, for god’s sake, what’s Adil NOT been telling you? I keep threatening to find another agent. It’s not as if they’re in short supply!

B!: Adil doesn’t represent actors, does he? I thought he was just pushing your book.

Interview is paused in order to get it back on track.

B!: It’s November 7th, this is Beware! The Zine, and my name is Dex Diabolo—stress is on the third syllable. Today, lucky listeners, Beware! is offering the most-unusual of things: an interview with the late-Cretaceous dinosaur, Gary Slater. Gary, good morning!

Gary: Good morning.

B!: Gary, so our listeners can picture this, you are a Spinosaurus from Morocco.

Gary: Morocco’s your word, love, not mine.

B!: What do you call it?

Gary: I don’t.

B!: But you’re from there, no?

Gary: It wasn’t called Morocco for a lot longer than it was.

B!: But I get the impression that you like to keep up-to-date with, er,  fashions.

Gary: Well, perhaps I’m looking beyond ‘More–rock–ooooh’, darling?

Interview is paused in order to get it back on track.

B!: So, you’re from what we’ve come to know as Morocco, but your story is far more fascinating than your geological and geographical origins. Unlike most of your kin, you’ve been able to observe, firsthand, the evolution of human attempts to reconstruct you from your fossilised remains, and it’s that which brings us together today.

Gary: Listen, I must take issue with “kin”. I’m desperate to know to whom or to what you may be referring.

B!: In this instance—and you’ll need to go easy on me, as I’m only as good as what our researchers have given me—I mean other meat-eating dinosaurs.

Gary: Theropods?

B!: Maybe.

Gary: Dinosaurs? Terrible ‘lizards’? Fucking tail-draggers? Good grief, love. I mean, if I referred to your ‘kin’ the way you refer to mine, I could just as easily be talking of a chimpanzee slurping up the brains of a colobus monkey, or, or some mongrel dog licking sick off the pavement.

B!: [Audible intake of breath] Erm, well, okay…? I have a couple of examples in Sheila’s notes… We’ll see how we get on with those. Not sure if this is slang… Something called ‘Irritator’...?

Gary: Ha! That boorish oaf! All the finesse of a bag of dogshit in a hedge. And no, it’s not slang. Your lot named him, and named him accurately.

B!: Irritator is the genus name? I feel as though you’re implying it’s an individual, rather than many individuals.

Gary: Well, of course. There’s one particular thorn in my side who shows up, sniffing around whenever Dorling Kindersley threatens another Who’s Who. He’s been trying to sidle up to the heavy hitters since the late ‘90s. Leslie Finch, he’s called.

B!: Leslie Finch?

Gary: But don’t bother to remember that.

B!: Do I detect a hint of territoriality?

Gary: Certainly not! Leslie’s just another Eric Roberts – but without the numbers. He would take absolutely any job, but nobody wants him.

B!: But a quick Google search would suggest —

Gary: And who could blame them? He hasn’t the impact… the grandeur. You wouldn’t employ a weak voice for a soliloquy. Well, you shouldn’t.

B!: Just to dial it back a bit, Spinosaurus portrayals have perhaps evolved more than any other dinosaur in such a short —

Gary: Evolution after too many Hanky Pankies.

B!: — short amount of time. After what?!

Gary: It’s a cocktail. 

B!: Oooh… -kay. Well, maybe a retrospective on Spinosaurus portrayals may look a little haphazard to some – especially when taken together, but the point is that palaeontological reconstructions are only as good as the evidence available, and the artist working with it.

Gary: Straight from your script, perchance? 

B!: Well…

Gary: And who better to examine those tiring and tedious examples than moi [over-pronounced]?

B!: Exactly. And, before we continue, we should mention that you would only agree to this interview on the understanding that we would not describe any of your specific physical attributes – particularly those which might clarify any outstanding questions about your appearance.

Gary: Absolutely. Imperative.

B!: Why is that?

Gary: In simple terms, I’m far more bankable if there’s some unknown element, and casting agencies just love mystery —

B!: But surely these are all clear to see in your headshot, or described in your resume?

Gary: Darling, it’s a ten-by-eight-inch tintype. And I’m fifty-one feet long!

B!: ‘Tintype'?

Gary: Daguerreotype.

B!: A what?

Gary: A photograph! Whatever you call them these days.

B!: Are you not concerned that without reasonable evidence of your being here today, some of our listeners may question whether we are even interviewing you —

Gary: Look —

B!: — an actual Spinosaurus.

Gary: Why? Why would they doubt that?

B!: Because you’re a dinosaur!

Gary: Happens all the time. Remember the time Attenborough interviewed Kuparr Harris? Hilarious. Kuparr sang like a canary. Pathetic.

B!: [Slightly exasperated] Who is Kuparr Harris?

Interview is paused in order to conduct a quick online search.

B!: Right, so Kuparr Harris is a lyre bird.

Gary: What else?

B!: For the benefit of our listeners, lyre birds are Australian birds which are… famous for their ability to mimic other birds and machinery sounds. Gary, he’s not a useful example because he’s not extinct.

Gary: He should be. That little performance lets the whole side down… Running around, crawling up Attenborough’s arse. Servile try-hard.

B!: But it’s not an interview. Attenborough didn’t ask him anything. Anyway, anyway, whatever… We’re getting off track again. [Papers rustle.] Spinosaurus’s remains were discovered in 1912 by Ernst Stromer, and were lost during Allied bombing in the Second World War. This, and a dearth of new material, led to a rather conservative approach to reconstructing your… your species’s…? …appearance.

Gary: Quite so. It was a horrid time. Bad for business.

B!: How so?

Gary: No one would hire me.

B!: Because you were relatively unknown?

Gary: Because I didn’t look like the artists’ reconstructions! Can you imagine having your career stalled by someone like Neave Parker.

B!: Were you not in a unique position to, I don’t know, inform those artists?

Gary: Not so easy. I don’t suppose you’re aware of the power wielded by palaeontologists [mispronounced as pally-ohn-tolly-jists] at the time? Strong-arming the artists of the early 20th century… Bending them to their will.

B!: [Under breath] This isn’t an audition.

Gary: What?

B!: [Clearing throat] So many of the reconstructions of the time would show you—ugh, I mean Spinosaurus—as a generic-looking, two-legged meat-eater with a sail stuck onto its back. Talk a little about how this affected the following years of your career.

Gary: These b-o-r-i-n-g reconstructions were very much influenced by a… desire to emulate the then-in-vogue Lance Schoedsack. Three-fingered freak!

B!: And Schoedsack is…?

Gary: Lance played the Tyrannosaurus in 1933’s King Kong. He’d already acquired some fame when he posed for Charles Knight, and then he thought he’d hit the big time when he got himself hired as Ernest Schoedsack’s gardener.

B!: Gardener? Actual gardener?

Gary: There are—how shall I put it?—rumours, relating to why Lance took Schoedsack’s name. You probably don’t have the time, nor the leee-gal team, for us to go into that. I know I don’t.

B!: But gardener?

Gary: Move on, ducky! There are far-more salacious tidbits on offer than Lance pruning Ernest’s bush… bushes.

B!: Anyway, you think Lance was responsible for media portrayals of Spinosaurus?

Gary: Ha! No! Lance is too much of a flake to be responsible for anything. Knight’s portrait… RKO’s masterpiece… They are the true artisans.

B!: But Lance must have had something about him to… become a posterboy. And one that influenced what audiences wanted to see in all dinosaurs.

Gary: I can see what you're trying to do, darling: trap me into uttering niceties about that moron. Well, it won’t work!

B!: Right, right, moving on. So audiences were enthralled by Tyrannosaurus, or perhaps simply spoiled by a glut of generic reconstructions, and there was some very-real reluctance to entertain serious reconstructions of you. Erm, of Spinosaurus.

Gary: [Intake of breath, signifying a pause for thought] 

B!: Let’s put it a different way: were audiences too ignorant of general dinosaur biology to be able to entertain the idea of a different look… a look demonstrated by…

Gary: Hmmm?

B!: Spinosauruses.

Gary: That’s not bad. Yes, I think ignorance is at play. I do, of course, prefer a high-brow gallery. The riff-raff… the hoi-polloi… They can be a real set of shackles for a performer.

B!: And what about Spinosaurus as the monster in creature features? How has that changed over time?

Gary: Well, it pains me to have to tell you this, but it’s only relatively recently that any fucking director’s bothered to cast me.

B!: There are plenty of documentary appearances.

Gary: “Listen to the kids, luv!” I used to yell at ‘em. But the execs thought they knew best. God, I love Joe Johnston.

B!: But now you’ve been pegged as a fish-eater, do you think that will harm your chances at future antagonist roles?

Gary: Wait, what? I eat what I damn-well please!

B!: Spinosaurus inhabited coasts and delta areas, yes? Taking fish from the shore, and wading into the shallows to snag animals from the mud. Quite a contrast when compared with the ‘generic meat-eater with a sail’ look from previous decades.

Gary: Listen, darling. Pick up a National Geographic. There’s a new me in every issue. One month I’m a ‘hell heron’. The next, I’m a ‘satan stork’.

B!: They sound similar to each other.

Gary: One so-called expert called me ‘Dante’s dunlin’. That’s not bad.

[Brief pause for change of subject]

B!: When we first conceived of this interview, there was some concern that the crew and I might be considered food, and that it would be prohibitively expensive to adequately address all the necessary safeguards. Later, we were assured of your piscivore nature. I’ve got to say, I don’t feel all that much safer. You are massive! I thought this warehouse was big before you arrived. You’ve made it look less impressive.

Gary: My presence makes a lot of things look less impressive.

B!: Indeed. Your regular diet… How much fish might we expect to see you consume?

Gary: Have you seen the paltry morsels that pass for fish in this period?  There isn’t enough, that’s for certain.

B!: How do you get around —

Gary: And you’re falling into that trap again… Insisting that I’m all about fish, or some such nonsense. However, it will no doubt calm you to learn that I’m not in the habit of snacking on apes.

B!: That’s, er, that’s good to hear. Is there some process by which you and your… dinosaurian colleagues arrange food that is more to your tastes? For example, Lance won’t be getting by on sacks of Winalot Prime.

Gary: Sorry, love. That’s privileged info.

B!: You mean it’s in your book.

Gary: Might be.

B!: Which brings us neatly—if somewhat conveniently—to your biography: ‘Setting Sail: A Life In One’s Own Shadow’. That’s a great title.

Gary: Thank you.

B!: You’re welcome. [Papers rustle] According to your agent, this book started off as an essay in which you react to the Tyrannosaurus-Spinosaurus battle in ‘Jurassic Park III’, though you devote very little time to it at all in the final version of the book. Why is that?

Gary: Honestly, when you’ve been asked “Who would win between…?” as many times as I have, it’s impossible to give a fuck.

B!: But who would win in a fight between you and Lance? Or between an average Spinosaurus and an average Tyrannosaurus?

Gary: It would never happen. It’s not even worth entertaining that hypothetical.

B!: Last year, a volunteer in the records office at the American Museum of Natural History tweeted a photo of a signed truce between the Tyrannosaurus and Spinosaurus communities. First of all, was that for real?

Gary: I haven’t seen it, and I’m not on the CCDO.

B!: CCDO?

Gary: Council for Chronistically-Displaced Organisms. Quite a mouthful, but the best of a bad buffet, if you know what I mean.

B!: What’s their interest in the truce?

Gary: IF there were a truce between two groups, as you, or this intern, are alleging, there’s only one body with the legal authority to —

B!: Are there a lot of those… displaced organisms? Our researchers thought that there was just you, and you’ve already mentioned at least two more in this interview.

Gary: That’s privileged info, and no, ducky, it’s not in the book.

B!: Can you confirm the truce?

Gary: Don’t know; haven’t seen it!

B!: So if you were invited to fight Lance…?

Gary: Firstly, I [emphasised] wouldn’t waste my time on that flaccid pintle. Just a sec’ – what was your ‘second of all’? Your ‘first of all’ was fishing for a nibble on that truce lead.

B!: Erm… [Papers rustle] I think it was a follow-up… Y’ know, if you confirmed the tweet.

Gary: Hmmm…

B!: What was your ‘secondly’?

Gary: About?

B!: You wouldn’t waste your time fighting Lance, and then…

Gary: Ah, yes! It’s very, very hard to persuade Lance and his ‘friends’ to fight. It’s not their deal – regardless of what you might see in the movies. If Lance can’t walk up to food and literally fall onto it with his mouth open, he’s not interested. Y’ know, that prick gets far too much credit. 

B!: So Tyrannosaurus was a scavenger?

Gary: No, no. Just a terminally-lazy bastard.

B!: Now, Jurassic Park III was famously —

Gary: How long are we going to spend on that movie?

B!: I was just going to say that you weren’t actually in that movie. And Spinosaurus in Jurassic Park III isn’t credited. Is that anyone you know?

Gary: Not a damn clue. And I’m fairly certain it’s not a Spinosaurus. Just one of those arse-kissing bootlickers, wearing a prosthetic.

B!: Leslie Finch?

Gary: I told you to forget that name. But yes, could be. Make a note of that.

B!: Despite your criticism of the film, you maintain an admiration of Joe Johnston.

Gary: Well, of course! He relegated Tyrannosaurus to its natural rank of B-movie monster fodder, and also designed the Iron Giant’s iconic look in Brad Bird’s 1999 classic. What’s not to like?

B!: Wasn't expecting that second point, but okay. Makes sense.

Gary: It also makes sense to blow smoke up the arse of anyone who might give you screen time.

B!: The majority of the rest of your book deals with portrayals of Spinosaurus in literature, theme parks and documentaries. What do you hope your book will achieve?

Gary: Name recognition. Royalties.

B!: Do you think that this will have a positive effect on how palaeoartists reconstruct you?

Gary: I doubt it. Nu metal is due a resurgence, and then dinosaurs will get the Todd Marshall treatment all over again. Doesn’t matter what I say in the book. Petty human fashions come into play more than you’re prepared to admit.

B!: But why don’t you just go public —

Gary: Look, you saw that book by the sex lake chap? Do you really think he did that for any other reason than Harper Collins threw some cash at him? Arseholes are richer than idiots, by and large. And none of that bullshit found its way into serious art.

B!: But there’s plenty of recent art showing you going for a swim.

Gary: But not because of that fopdoodle! And listen, he shouldn’t be taking credit for that. Not one of those artists was inspired by wading through 500 pages of that too-big-to-walk excrement. Too long to bother with, more like.

B!: Did you read it?

Gary: As much as I could, bearing in mind I can only get halfway into my local Waterstones. And then I get asked to leave because I make the other customers uncomfortable.

B!: Just how ‘in the community’ are you? I thought you were concerned about revealing yourself?

Gary: I wear a convincing disguise.

B!: I don’t imagine that there’s any point in asking to see that?

Gary: You’re catching on. Anyway, I’m not risking any money finding its way back to the author. I might wait until it hits the shelves in Oxfam. Or The Works.

B!: When might we see your own book in the stores?

Gary: We’re eyeing a late spring release, in all good bookshops, and on all that digital stuff.

B!: Gary Slater, on behalf of Beware! The Zine and Beware! The Radio, thank you very much!

Gary: Thank you.

————

B! would like to thank Sean Hennessy, James Pascoe and Dr Mark Witton , for their technical support and feedback.