Beware! The Radio

BTR logo, one of many by Gaffamondo.

So, the editors at Beware! The Zine have been working on a few other projects for a while now. Here's one...

We're in the strange position of preparing to launch an online radio station. Non-profit, non-commercial, freeform, Beware! The Radio is the kind of open-minded, open-hearted station we'd like to listen to - and we hope you will too.

Featuring a mix of independent music - from wax cylinders to chiptunes, samples to sonatas - wide-ranging DJ sets from netlabels and hungry sound-hounds, and spoken word delights - interviews, politics, poetry, comedy, essays - there will be a lot of airtime to fill, and we'll do our very best to fill it entertainingly. We encourage you to get involved!

Reckon you've got something constructive to share about recent archaeological discoveries, theatrical techniques, power dynamics, or anything else? Are you sitting on a wealth of dusty, fusty bedroom jangle-pop, or a translation of Beowulf? Got contacts on the Liberian hipco scene, or in Indonesian gamelan orchestras? Get in touch! We could be just the home for it!

We'll be going live from late April, at: bewaretheradio.airtime.pro. We're really looking forward to welcoming you there.

For further updates:

facebook.com/bewaretheradio

instagram.com/bewaretheradio

twitter.com/bewaretheradio

And for station merch: https://www.redbubble.com/people/bewaretheradio/shop

Beware! Micro-Tales: A Story For Christmas

At last, that swarthy intruder 2019 is buggering off and we can shift the foetid stench of verbal diarrhoea. Time to un-peg our noses and relax our muscles. Light the fire, bolt the doors, curl up under some spare buttocks and absorb this little story, originally cooked up for Keshco's Christmas Gameshow in December 2012.

A STORY FOR CHRISTMAS

The chill of a North Norfolk winter wind is enough to cut through coats and gloves; sufficient to freeze bared cheeks and chapped lips; it’s enough to burst water pipes and test the limits of insurance policies; and of course, it can mangle the firmest plans.

Bobby flicked the thermostat up and then hauled the canvas bag onto his kitchen worktop, the bag stuffed with all the ingredients for a proper Christmas feast. All the trimmings – and I mean all the trimmings, when Evelyn saw the extent of his labours, there’d be no more of this bitterness, no more teasing, she’d have to agree Bobby’s not a lazy cook, not a lazy bloke. Not a waster. Not a selfish sodding waster. He’s changed, changing, he’s the changing man… on shiftin’ sands, heh. He was going to excel at this one thing – Christmas cooking. Attention to detail, the long game to win her back - this’ll beat the mush that Mark’ll be serving up for her on the day. Bobby was taking things out of the bag. Brussels, broccoli, parsnips, carrots with their tops on, onions, garlic, onto the chopping board close to the nearly-thawed bird, spuds (two types), cranberry sauce, bread sauce packet onto the side for now, gravy granules… and the stuffing… already taken that out? Oh swear. Bobby realised the one item he hadn’t brought home. Attention to detail.

Cursing and half-jogging back up the road into town, Bobby felt for his wallet, mobile, keys. Must be close to closing time, especially tonight when people want to be getting home. He checked – 5.57 – and quickened his pace against the sharp wind.

Yeah, shut. All the staff inside, still letting people out but the guard said no entry. Bobby felt a familiar hot prickly sensation up his back. Doom. Impending doom. OK supermarket shut, where now? He scanned the unhelpful rows. Electric World, Tyres R Us, Fringe Benefits… the health food shop, Eco Explosion, they’ll have some kind of stuffing.

Shut. Completely shut. Gone. Nobody home. Shop inventories were tumbling away from his grasp.

Bobby started doing that walk, fast but strangely hesitant, jerky, eyes in all directions, in danger of changing direction at any moment as the walker has no idea in which direction he’s meant to be headed. He did a circuit of the old market, he went through the covered craft bays, he rounded the church twice, and then, at the top of Wordsworth Street, when the town faded away into railings, half-parks and terraced housing, his eyes were caught by an unfamiliar building. This was new, well old-styled, but in a new place, had they taken over… well what was it before? Now it was a shop, with the light on, a shop with the look of an old general stores from pre-war days. Very fetching.

Bobby stepped inside the shop, closed the heavy door behind, and took in his surroundings. An old lady with a bun sat behind the traditional wooden counter. All around, jars of sweets, jars of pills, packets, home-baked bread… loaves of sugar?

The lady ate her bun, wiped her lips and her hands and greeted Bobby warily. “Help you, young man?”

Bobby was still scanning the shelves for stuffing. My word he thought, they’re taking the retro theme quite far. Are they allowed to do that with branded products? The Cadbury bars looked most...

“Is this stuff for show?”

“For show, what you mean? I have to put the produce out so you can see what you’re buying.”

Bobby considered for a moment. Then his eyes alighted on a box of Paxo… yes, Paxo. Old-style Paxo. He took it down from the shelf, and as he did, felt a strange judder down his arm like static electricity.

“That’s a fresh consignment in from Manchester.”

 Bobby fished in his wallet and took out a fiver. The lady wrinkled up her nose, gingerly accepted the note and gave it a thorough once-over.

“Well what have you given me here?”

“Yes sorry I don’t have exact change…”

“Whatever the Devil is this meant to be? That don’t look like a white fiver. Feels funny. Looks funny. Who’s that face on there?”

“…yes it’s a valid – “

“What’s that meant to be?”

“Yes, alright –“

“Who’s Mervyn King? Never heard of him. Are you in cahoots?”

“Look it’s a normal fiver, I need to get back now, I’ve got to cook this –“

“You’re not going anywhere with that until you’ve paid me proper English money.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake. Right! Look just keep the change.”

Bobby picked up the Paxo and made for the door.

“Young man!” she ejaculated after him.

He opened the door, and was hit by a blast of particularly icy wind that knocked him back on his heels. He suddenly realised that he didn’t recognise the street outside. Or rather, not quite. It looked familiar but somehow half the street was missing, the streetlamps had gone, and the road was more akin to a trackway.

He spun round back into the shop. The lady glowered, now out in front of the counter. “Changed your mind have you?”

Bobby’s face wore the expression reserved for the most extreme of trying circumstances. Squinting, he braved his head out of the door again… then returned it with stinging eyes.

“You going to stop playing silly beggars?”

“You tell me… Wordsworth Avenue seems to have regressed in the last 5 minutes.”

And now Bobby saw the old lady had regressed too, she looked in her prime. In fact, the contents of the shop had changed too, and the Paxo in his hand had fluttered away and was gone.

And now the wind seemed to be whipping up, even more intense than before, and as it battered the shop almost as if it could lift it up from the earth, the old lady lunged at him with a hairpin and he saw her melt into childhood then dissipate to pinpricks, as he felt himself freezing in time, going back, smaller, smaller, the shop now a blur of dim light tracings, a mess of angles, a fractal whirlpool, with his thoughts spinning further away, out of time…

After a particularly trying Christmas Eve night being dicked around by her ex who evidently thought it was funny to ask her over and then not even be there, Evelyn’s “fresh start“ Christmas was further ruined by a visit from a pair of police officers, who had the solemn duty of reporting the bizarre circumstance of a seemingly-long-decayed-skeleton found early on Christmas morning at the top of Wordsworth Avenue, its now ragged coat containing her estranged husband’s mobile phone, keys and wallet. If this was someone’s idea of a practical joke they’d pulled it off with considerable attention to detail.

Merchandise Roundworm - Iceni double-crescent T-shirt

It's true, folks, we are spirits in the material world, and quite right too with modern living such a rum business and regularly rather whisky to life and limb. Tequila few idle moments, vodka look at this rather brandy rundown and maybe schnapps up a few items. Cheers!

Change can be a wonderful thing. Especially when you donate it to the makers of the following wonderful products. With Halloween, Guy Fawkes' Night and Christmas just around the corner, it's a perfect time to stock up on treats. There's room for a hundred of them, if you chuck out all your existing clothes and music (Check this. Ed).

Iceni double-crescent T-shirt

Iceni double-crescent T-shirt, by Gaffamondo
(Redbubble).

Become a fearsome and phwooar-some Iceni warrior with this striking historically-accurate design from the fevered fingers of noted palaeo-gusher, Gaffamondo. Wear this on your human flesh and feel the centuries fall away. Soon you'll be ready to sack the Romans! Buy this design on a sexy T-shirt, soothing duvet, or even a set of sturdy coasters, here: https://www.redbubble.com/people/gaffamondo/works/20408590-iceni-double-crescent?p=t-shirt

He doesn't stop there, either: the talented boy has a whole heap of designs pertaining to the Ancient Britons. Get stuck in - perfect gifts for your archaeology and LARPing friends.

Meanwhile, in the sickening shallow money trench of indie music...

Star Test

We entrusted noted 80s throwback and anorak, B. Pillock, with a sparkling copy of the latest EP by socialist poet Andrew Walton, The Art of Splitting, on compact disc. Mr Pillock had this to mumble:

"It's a good length: 4.7 inches. There are six tracks, which makes each track 1.27". No - hang on - 0.78". Great economy, like haiku, but these poems are longer, and most are songs, not poems. I tried eating my dinner off it but just got sticky sweet chilli sauce in the stereo. Is that enough?" (No. Ed)

Well, quite. Why not try Mr Walton's wry leftist lyrics and super-brief tunes for yourself?

Back of the Rack

Stuck for a stocking filler? Try these beautiful selections. That Gaffamondo pulls together two months of dinosaur drawings in A Disarray of Palaeoart ... Keshco's 2018 Cassette Store Day release was Never Eject ... See you shortly, folks!

Poetry Hallway - Talk

It's good to talk. That's what BT said. Talk on the phone. That's what they instructed. Talk to old friends. Talk to long-lost relatives. Talk to someone's therapist. Talk to the call centre. Talk to everyone. Just keep talking. And they should know. You could say they've made it something of a raison d'etre. I'll go further, I've noticed they're obsessed less with actual talking, than with the phones themselves. It's a little bit peculiar, like an equipment fetish. Always the telephones. Not just, "have a nice chat in person". No - pick up the phone, tap in the number and talk into the piece of plastic, ideally whilst ignoring the clock. They're not worried about the conversations. They're not worried about the germs. If I didn't know better I'd assume they'd found some crafty way to make money out of people using their phone lines. We all know that can't be true though, because they'd actually improve the service. Friends and Family discount? Pah! Besides, BT is basically a sports provider now. Technicolor sport, manly sport, widescreen sport, sweaty, dirty sport. Dripping, oozing, festering, spurting sport. Don't talk, just watch sport. Keep your damned fidgety eyes open and stop talking. You hear me? Don't talk! Stop talking at the back! You do that once more... right. Detention for the lot of you. Some time to reflect on the consequences of your actions. In silence.


Talk by Andy Brain

I want to talk with you, seriously - 
Uh huh, it's pretty cold here too - yeah, so
Not the usual rushed pleasantries;
Take it slowly. I want to talk with you,
Listen to the you that's hunkered down low - 
So much curled tight within, locked deep and dark
Admitting none - site under construction;
Enquiries shunned with worn misdirection.
I want to hear what you feel you cannot
Risk to put words to; the hidden ideas,
Dangerous smoke rings of hope; with kindling,
This fire grows hot; now see the uncaged bird,
Exulting in flight; the impish, gleeful sprite,
Binning wrongdoers; basking in sunlight.
A train ticket to the world. Our great world.
Share your fears. Share your hopes. I'm on your side.

Ofcom Upholds Prehistoric Animal Cruelty Complaints In Bizarre Case

Record Complaints

The BBC has confirmed that naturalist and wildlife presenter, Nigel Marven, was investigated after wrestling a Tanystropheus during the filming of the Walking With Dinosaurs spin-off, Sea Monsters.

The regulator, Ofcom, said that it had received a record number of complaints after the episode was first aired in 2003, which showed the presenter grabbing hold of the reptile's tail as part of an underwater sequence. When the animal failed to shake him off, it performed caudal autotomy, severing its tail at the base and swimming away in a cloud of blood.

Nigel Marven grabs Tanystropheus's tail. (©BBC)

In the original narration, the presenter who was 42 at the time, told viewers that the animal would recover and regenerate its tail, and that he was familiar with lizards losing their tails when he had handled them as a boy. However, in unaired footage, the unit comes across the mauled body of the same animal whilst filming filler footage during their final few hours on temporal location. Director Jasper James can be heard off-camera, speculating that bite wounds might match the Cymbospondylus with which Marven previously had a tense encounter.

Cymbospondylus considers the nutritional value of Nigel Marven. (©BBC)

A Question of Timing

Ofcom has itself come under criticism for taking fifteen years to come to a decision, but said in a statement that the lack of precedent had made things difficult:

"There are no rules governing 'Temporal Location Filming', with Sea Monsters being the first documentary series ever to use it. Mr Marven's actions would ordinarily have fallen under contemporary animal cruelty laws, namely the Animal Welfare Act 2006, but since the filming took place in the Triassic period, it predated that law by approximately 230 million years."

Devolved Responsibility

When viewers brought up Marven's previous experience of lizards dropping their tails and pressed him on why he had repeated his actions on camera, Marven responded:

"Well, technically, although those actions were in my past, my past was still in the future, therefore none of those lizards had even been born, nor had they evolved. I hadn't even evolved, so none of those lizards had dropped their tails yet. How was I to know that Tany–... Tannis–... thing would drop its tail in my hands? I'm not a flippin' expert!"

Happier times: Nigel Marven tripping on spider venom.

Marine conservation group, ConSEAvation, which is monitoring the case, said that whilst Ofcom's statement raised some important points about when a crime is committed versus when the law is written, these are minor technicalities, and that Marven, and indeed the production companies BBC Natural History Unit and Impossible Pictures, were in breach of the spirit of the law, if not the law itself.

In an email to Beware!, ConSEAvation's press officer Andy Kentish said, "I honestly thought those things were digital."

(For those who can't tell the difference between satire and the other thing, this isn't the other thing.)

Let Nature Take Its Course

Humans just can't let nature got on with it. If it's a hedgehog hoovering up beetles, RIGHT ON! If the predator has cooler blood than that its prey, OH MY FLIPPIN' GAWD, GET IT AWAY! There's a shed-load of reasons for it, and a certain book must share some of the responsibility for how various societies perceive, for example, snakes. But that's another blog post. For now, here's some doodling.

Copyright © 2018 Beware!/G Monger

Divine Dines - The Cock and Coxcomb, Consett

How many times have you heard some silly arse saying "this is the best restaurant" or even "this is the greatest meal"? Fools of the mouth, fools of the head. Beware! holds that before one can comment on whether this or that restaurant is the best, one has to have experienced all competitors. As William Hartnell opined, "in order to conquer the Earth, you must first consume all living matter!" Welcome to our new comprehensive consumables column, starting in the auspicious surroundings of ex-steel town and notorious shell company hub, Consett, with the ever agreeable tones of garrulous, gorse-chinned one-time politician Barclay Minster.

Barclay Minster. He can talk.

The little woman and I arrived at the Cock and Coxcomb, poorly signposted just past the prole purgatory of B&M, on the south side of town towards dreary Delves, in quite a fug due to the worst traffic. Fools of the road. One wonders what attracts them. That's a rhetorical device; don't write in! (Though if you must, at least address it to Annick and baffle the silly girl.)

Craving some culinary comfort, first our weary eyes were assaulted with the sluttishly attention-seeking faux-Jacobean decor, saturated dripping wallpaper and bulbous accentuated stuck-on synthetic "wood". Although we could perhaps have expected traditional 17th Century meals and a madrigal in the ear, here the menu (early broadsheet-style; bonus points) showcased instead a regrettably modern take on peasant food, a protein-heavy, planet-light entomophagy approach of which tree-huggers would no doubt heartily approve. The link between these disparate eras? Insects, which have evidently graduated from mere passengers, uncomfortable side-effects of sloppy storage and poor hygiene to becoming, unconscionably, the star attraction.

WEEKDAY MENU [abridged]:

Soupcon of soup served in a snail shell

~ * ~

Roast crickets nestling in woodlouse granola

~ * ~

Termite mound crumble

DRINKS:
Canal Kombucha

Now, you know me, especially if you've paid attention to my wireless communications on LBC. I'm a rigorous traditionalist and firm believer in the upholding of solid British values. Like my ancestors in the proud Minster lineage, I should be happy if you gave me a 12-bore and pointed me in the direction of the nearest lion. Out of the strong came forth sweetness, et cetera. Grazing antelopes, rampaging wildebeest? Cannon fodder, dinnertime for Barclay. Insects? You get the servants to shoo them away. Insects, I ask you?! Why don't you just serve up socialists and have done with it?

I am nothing if not a man of my word, though, so insects it would be. We chose identical meals at my behest to ensure that neither of us wimped out for the easy option of recognisable food; and so garcon duly brought us the starters, tiny pools of unspecified consommé ladled into snail shells of the most inconvenient dimensions. Imported from the French perhaps? With no cutlery provided, I found this impossible to sip without making a dreadful mess - some went up my nose, some found its way through the dense slalom of my beard and down onto my tie where it remains despite furtive licking. (The little woman suggested this is the most tongue action they've witnessed from my part in a decade. Rank impertinence.)

Before our mains arrived, we knocked back a little of the house special, Canal Kombucha. This had apparently been fermenting for a fortnight and tasted akin to apple cider vinegar, if you're being charitable, with sweaty undertones. This mixture of sharp and sour blew any snail remnant clean away, which perhaps is the kindest compliment to pay it. I imagine it would work wonders on the local drains.

Onto the main course then. The late lamented myopic colonist Buddy Holly famously named his rock and roll band The Crickets after hearing the persistent chirruping noises the insects made around his garage. I am given to understand that our friends in the East Asian fringes regularly chomp heartily on roast crickets that sizzle rather than chirrup, served up by street vendors. This is what we ate, and you can fold your smug expression away and tuck it back into your breast pocket. Needless to say, these vaguely bacon-tasting insects did not roll my rocks, but the legs and antennae did provide a persistent presence around my molars. Remember to pack a toothpick. These crispy creepy-crawlies came on a toasted granola base which would be familiar to any health-freak hippie, but with the minor addition of pre-boiled oniscus asellus, or your common British woodlouse. These, I found, added a shrimp-like frisson that almost rescued the course. I daresay the next time I have escaped for an idle hour in the shed, I will regard my woodlice companions in quite a new light; and they'd do well to return the compliment.

Finally, garcon having brought us the house water (which apparently was just that, and not cat drool or badger bile), we moved wearily to the "dessert"; a traditional summer fruit crumble. What could go wrong? Only its utter defilement not only by the addition of bulbous boiled termites, but also by an architectural monstrosity, the crumble topping having been stacked up supposedly to resemble a miniature of a typical mound as found in North Africa, except of course that crumble mix doesn't stack up as well; and on tucking in it went everywhere, liberally dusting the knees of my slacks.

Gentlemen, I need not regale you at this juncture with the tortured process this meal made through my shuddering system as I got back behind the wheel of my Jaguar. God knows what the little woman thought of it. I leave you with this warning. At last I can say I have experienced true decadence. A restaurant - an English restaurant! - with the ability to serve up the finest venison and foie gras, yet it chooses to offer insects, in the 21st Century. I have visions of the morally-crumbling Roman Empire, too addled to save itself from the gathering savages. Surely we are tumbling gut-first into the end times and Consett is on the front line. Luckily I have a stoutly-provisioned shed. Woodlice and all.

Barclay Minster is on 'Question Time' every week.

Station Of Critical Review By Kennedy Hiscox-Wormegay: Bryan Stamford's 'So Big, They Swim'

(A note to regular Beware! readers: Hiscox-Wormegay is currently suspended from duties, pending disciplinary action. Relief reviewer Dex Diabolo is keeping his seat warm. Enjoy!)

From deep within 2018's left field comes Bryan Stamford's So Big, They Swim, a 500-page opus which, when still only a rumour, threatened to turn establishment palaeontology on its head. It was claimed that the BBC was so concerned by its imminent release that it cancelled production on David Attenborough's twelve-part Giants Of The Past series and deleted everything in their back catalogue which referenced sauropod dinosaurs. The specialist blog, Sauropod Humeri - Photo Of The Month (or 'SH-POM!'), was inundated with interview requests from numerous journalists, all of them asking how they could have been so wrong.

So what's the deal?

For years, palaeontologists have been in agreement that dinosaurs went about their day-to-day lives doing the do on solid ground. This model is in stark contrast to a proposed nineteenth century idea, which suggested that some of the larger animals were simply too heavy to exist on dry ground, and must have used water to support their mass. However, decades of actual, real-life, no-nonsense scientific research, by real scientists—and not weirdo jack-of-all-trade university-of-life types—has demonstrated repeatedly that sauropods were well-adapted to an entirely terrestrial existence. In fact, if taken as aquatic animals, sauropods were utterly, utterly awful animals, destined to die out during the testing phase.

New (Old) Kid On The Block

Stamford in his days as a rock 'n' roll
violinist, before he became a rock 'n' roll
flautist for Dr. Eam. (Public Domain)

Enter onto the stage Bryan Stamford, a fringe theory science writer who lists amongst his skills "rock 'n' roll flautist for D Ream tribute band, Dr. Eam" and "Butlins Debating Society under 11s coach, 1976." He also founded seventeen popular(-)science radio programmes (all of which were only pitched; none were picked up) and lists numerous television appearances on his online CV. However, most of these seem to comprise Stamford's presence in the audience only, and are the source of much disagreement on his Wikipedia entry's 'Talk' section.

And then, something mindbogglingly crazy happened. We presume that someone from the publisher, HarpistCollier, about to retire and with nothing to lose, was getting sozzled at the bar on some cruises ship (where Stamford was either lecturing or playing his rock 'n' roll flute) and overheard one of Stamford's self-aggrandising conversations about how he—and he alone—knew the truth about dinosaurs, and that Big Palaeo was suppressing the truth.

The transcript would probably look something like this:

Collin Harper, a commissioning editor from the well-known publisher HarpistCollier, is due to retire and is thinking about how his dream of 'going out with a bang' remains unfulfilled. About to call it a night, he overhears the arse-send of a conversation between a dapper septuagenarian with an impressively full head of white hair, and a couple of bored middle-aged cruise-goers getting pissed the night before a medical conference.

Stamford: ...and that's when I realised that palaeontologists had got it wrong for nearly seventy years! And I thought, "I can't believe how ridiculous those ivory tower palaeontologists are! Stupid, simple, small-minded! I mean… I mean... *chortle* They're fucking ridiculous!"

The two guests seem taken aback by a well-spoken senior citizen dropping an F bomb so casually. Their journey is linked to a medical conference, so they are broadly familiar with science journals.

Cruiser 1: So, have you published your studies?

Stamford: *Snorts* Of course not! THEY don't want this stuff out there!

Cruiser 2: Who are they?

Stamford: And that's not to say I didn't try! I contacted all of the top journals: Country Life, The Watchtower, Take A Break... They wanted to see my supplementary data! Can you believe that? Take A Break wanted to see my data! The nerve of those stupid, small-minded bastards! The woman at Watchtower said she had debated enough palaeontologist types to know that "long-necked dinosaurs" didn't need to live in lakes. Can you believe that? Big Palaeo got to the johoes!

Cruiser 2: That's a big tick in my book.

Cruiser 1: Haven't you contacted Nature? Or New Scientist? Surely those are more relevant to your cause. I mean work.

Stamford: Pfft! Those fascists? Have you met the tiny-minded, moronic reviewers you have to get past to get published?! If you don't have friends reviewing your work, you're... you're basically fucked! *guffaw*

Cruiser 1: Well, listen... It's been great chatting, but things start early tomorrow so we better get some kip.

The three shake hands and the two conference goers depart, presumably to find a bar on another deck. Stamford watches the two exit, and looks pretty pleased with himself. Collin Harper makes his move.

Harper: Excuse me! Oh, hi, yes, um, I couldn't help but overhear a good deal of your conversation. Would I be right in thinking you're a dinosaur expert?

Stamford: Well, no, not as such. My area is ectoplasm viscosity and its effects on the emotional state of manifestations... So no, not dinosaurs... But yes, I have studied them. Quite intensively, actually! So yes, yes. I am an expert. In dinosaurs. Yes.

Harper: Ah, excellent. Becau——

Stamford: And I'm rock 'n' roll flautist!

Harper: Right... That's great. But it's the dinosaurs I'm more intere——

Stamford: Did you hear that bit about my appearance on Question Time?

Harper: "Hear about..."?

Stamford: When I was talking with those other two. Were you there for that bit?

Harper: I... don't think I——

Stamford: Ah, excellent! Yes, I was on Question Time in 1997. I argued with Philip Hammond, against the use of DNA to convict criminals. The cytoplasmic media of cells is susceptible to paranormal corruption.

Harper: What?

Stamford: Yes, it was a seminal moment in British politics.

Harper: Er... They got you on to talk about that?

Stamford: Yes. Well, no. I was in the audience. But it was still a key moment for the series. I believe it changed that way they took questions from the audience. 

Harper: I bet it did. But listen, I really need to——

Stamford: Did you see my appearance on Trisha?

Harper: *Sigh* I'm from a publishing house!

Stamford: *Splutter* Let me get you a drink!


And that's how we think Stamford got his book deal: a chance encounter with someone who didn't give a shit. We reached out to CollierHarpist for an interview, but they were initially reluctant to comment. In an email, they said, "...Mr Stamford has requested that until the book is officially launched next week, we do not breathe a word of any of this to anyone. As you might understand, our marketing team is frustrated."


Luckily, Stamford had accidentally leaked his own book by posting a DropBox link to a PDF version at his own Facebook page, straining his already fraught relationship with CollierHarpist. Although this was bad news (financially speaking) for the author and publisher, it was great for people hoping to witness the train wreck without having to pay for it. We bagged our download and then sat down to trawl through its general awfulness. Here is our take:

Throughout So Big, They Swim, Stamford describes thousands of minor personal achievements, none of which really relate to the book's premise. For example, in 2001 Stamford attended an event at the American Museum of Natural History, and "successfully" reduced a 7-year-old boy to tears when he told the child that "palaeontologists know fuck all about dinosaurs" and that he could learn more about them from his baby sister. In 2012, whilst driving home from a talk on how cells work together to create cosmic forcefields, he prevented a carjacking by absent-mindedly driving into the back the car being jacked. And it goes on like this for hundreds of pages. When it does manage to stay on topic, the arguments against a terrestrial lifestyle in large dinosaurs rarely make it beyond "I can't believe palaeontologists think this!"

We thought about writing a more-considered review of Stamford's book, but it really wasn't worth the effort to write more than a paragraph. We would say buy it yourself, but save your money and buy something else. Like this. Or this. Or this. Or this.

Mystery Sea Serpent Washes Up On Beach, Experts Hopelessly Baffled

'Beaked Serpent'

A mystery sea creature with a beak and long, serpentine body, has baffled marine biologists the world over after it washed up on a Norfolk beach earlier this week. 

The Hunstanton Times said that the unidentified sea creature was discovered by dog walkers near Holme-Next-The-Sea on the North Norfolk Coast. Eviscerated, emaciated, and with protruding bones, scientists say they have no idea what the strange prehistoric-like "monster" might be.

Stuart Suiter from King's Lynn, one of several people who claimed to have discovered the creature, said it was “the size of a whale” with “an enormous beak, lined with sharp teeth.”

Genia Brown of Hunstanton said that the creature snarled at her dog, and "would have killed him, but writhed around before dying."

A hole in the side of the sea serpent, possibly caused by a mine, showing probable insides. The long white objects are thought to be ribs, similar to ribs found in other, non-monster animals. (Photo: © Norfolk Press)

It's not the first time that unidentified creatures have been discovered on Norfolk beaches. In 2004 a rotting corpse was washed up during a storm, which was thought by experts from London Zoo to be a basking shark. However, former councillor, Jennie Ashbury, said it was like nothing she'd ever seen.

    

Terry Sanders from English Nature, one of several experts who came to study the most recent remains, said "It's almost certainly the remains of a small cetacean, such as a porpoise. The creature is badly decomposed and you're interviewing me before I've even got down to the beach – but the Twitter photos suggest porpoise."

Despite baffling experts, the unidentified sea serpent still managed to draw a crowd. Happily, marine biologists from along the coast at the Great Yarmouth Marine Institute were on hand to take questions from the crowd.

Tooth marks likely made by an even larger marine predator, possibly a Megalodon. (Photo: © Norfolk Press)

Danger To The Public

Some experts took to social media to attempt to dispel suggestions that the animal represented a danger to the public, saying that although they couldn't be sure whether it was a porpoise, or perhaps a dolphin, it was definitely not some hitherto unknown animal. They tried to reassure the crowd by pointing out that animals this dead don't generally exhibit aggressive behaviour.

Earlier that day, Wells-Nest-The-Sea mayor, Sally Ellison, had issued a warning via her Facebook page asking people to stay indoors. It was reported that she had asked Norfolk Police to close the beaches, but they had refused, stating that it was really hard to close something like a coastline.

Angry residents hit out at police. Resident Michael Lofting said: "I think it's disgusting! What if I just accidentally walked into the sea? I could be killed! The beaches should be shut. We saw what happened with that shark attack in America in the '70s. What if I just put my kids in the sea right now? The police must close the beaches!"

University of East Anglia biology researcher, Dr. Terry Watkins, said: "It's obviously a porpoise. The caudal flukes have been eaten away by scavengers resulting in a long, thin tail. We see this kind of thing all the time. It's the second one I've seen this week."

Experts, however, remain baffled.

Poetry Hallway - Croyland Otter's Jealous Reaction to Hiscox-Wormegay's Well-Received Ramblings

Poetry Hallway - An Hour Past Twelve

It seems that Beware! The Zine landed itself a trilogy, of sorts. It wasn't our intention, of course – we're contractually obliged to publish the crap we're sent. But after our reviewer, Kennedy Hiscox-Wormegay, wove his wordy wobbliness and opined incoherently about the 13 O'Clock Podcast, it seems one of our two regular poetry contributors flew into a jealous verse spiral, and brain-dumped the following 'poetry' onto crumpled notepaper, which eventually found its way onto Poetry Hallway's doormat.

And damn, it's bad. Who are we kidding? All of Otter's poetry is bad. Like we said, contractual obligations... Plus, we're hoping his consistently awful poetry will earn itself cult status, and we can cash in. Until then, we're sticking with the day jobs. (The way we see it is, if he's sending rubbish to us, he isn't hassling anybody else.)

The cerebrally-fine-tuned amongst you will be thinking, "Didn't you say "trilogy"?" That's right. Otter's poem is no. 3 in this unofficial series. The second is a sneaky reference, hiding in the transcript of part 1 of our The Beware! Dead (Local) Celebrity Séance. Go look for it yourselves; this ain't no hotel!

An Hour Past Twelve by Croyland Otter

When I listen to this cast of pod,

'Tis like listening to a ghastly god,

Who fills my sleep time with fearful bits,

Of demonic fright and sweary shod.

The two who do it, a romantic pair,

Weigh up the evidence and are fair.

She's a goth with mathematical fringe,

And so is he, but with a lot less hair.

They take on stories, new and old,

Of awful crim'nals, shy and bold,

Who messed up folk with guns and blades,

Just for money, sex and gold.

Every other week they tell,

Stories that frighten me like hell,

And stop my sleep from being had,

And leave me like an empty shell.

I should stop, it should be said,

From hearing tales of the murdered dead;

And ghosts and ghouls and devils that,

Keep my recesses well fed.

(Okay, enough with 13 O'Clock! Their lawyers have us on speed dial! – Ed.)