Fledge: Thanks to Murray Somerville for the last picture.

e. cvi.

Thanks go to me Dad for these.

d. viii

'Little Churchill' by Jack Burston

Ken le drill: click for the story for a bigger, easier to read version.

'Fixed Pizznell - Ep. iii.' by Jack Burston

Page 1

Page 2

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'Sec In The Coffee' by Jack Burston

Again kids, click on the picture itself to see it in a friendlier, better quality. If my hand writing cannot be read, ask, and I shall type it up like a rock climbing secretary.

Haul i.

Bit of a haul from an Oxfam; their prices have increased recently, but let's not be sticklers, a haul is a haul.

'Fixed Pizznell - Ep. ii.' by Jack Burston and c. vi/c. vii

a. i.

'Fixed Pizznell - Ep. i.' by Jack Burston

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'Dialogue in the Car' by Jack Burston

“She should’ve spoken to me first. It can’t just be ‘turn up, involve me and speak’, moral support. Fucking rain, ten minutes, ten fucking minutes, would’ve got back in time to get the washing in.”

“It’s nothing to do with us. If they want to put him away they will. She won’t be happy with that.”

“God’s sake, ten more minutes.”

“That’s the chocolate cake, think about it, we should’ve just taken it home.”

“The thing is, she lets Lee get inside her head. I mean, she’s lost the point of putting him away, she should’ve spoken to me first.”

“Put the washing in the dryer though I reckon?”

Extract from 'Vexations' by Jack Burston

ii.

Sal stood at the kitchen table; the bars that guarded the window were seconded by the surrounding red brick wall of the courtyard. The black bars angled out at the top in order to create room for the opening of the two sections at the top. On the table, four bags of pre-made salad stood — Sal began to sort through the first bag. The purple and green leaves were crispy here and she emptied the packet in to the large wooden bowl to her left. The second bag was entirely green, the wetness of the leaves indicated that they had being rinsed, ready for use and then placed back in the bag, this batch was binned. The Third bag bore the plain whiteness of a budget piece of shopping, the phrase that qualified the dip in quality was forgettable but the predominant presence of sharp, iceberg lettuce allowed the entire contents in to the bowl. The fourth bag was verging on exotic; Sal regretted this and balanced this bag on top of the second.
Sal took some olive oil and some dressing and covered the salad. She tossed and turned the green lunch until she was satisfied. She made use of the newly bought tongs that sat on the side of the room and created two heaps of leaf on two white plates. The first plate was dressed with mayonnaise and pepper, the second with a pinch of salt and a dollop of tomato sauce.
Sal’s fluffy skirt dragged up her thigh, the numbing effect of her woollen tights prevented her from noticing the itch of the coarse material along her leg. Sec delved in to the salad, salt and ketchup. Sal lent forward and consequently covered up the thigh that the rising skirt had revealed.
“Sec, why do you still require this ketchup/salt combination with everything?”
“Well, it’s a reminder. Like a drum beat without a swinging tune.”
“You said before.”
“But, seriously, the ketchup/salt is the drum beat of a meal such as fish and chips. The kind of meal I used to eat often. More accurately the ketchup is the kick drum and the salt is the snare. And sometimes it’s pleasant to remember what I used to eat, the nice things, the fried and the filled, the puffed, etcetera. So, as a reminder I leave the ketchup and salt in my meals.” Sal turned back to her salad and dipped a leaf into the yellowing mayonnaise.

'Remnant Man Meant (just a jog down the street)' by Jack Burston

The man meant for me to be quiet. Technically the morning was at an end and the exam was near finished. He nodded as I rested the previously tapped pencil on the table. His moustache spread along his lip all the way to his irritant sideburns. I, the Man Remnant, found his manner appealing, but his orders and disregard for my rhythmic soul unstoppable-disgusting. The moustache encouraged the whiskers in his ears and nose to grow until they met, and I, the Man Remnant though that maybe they would soon. Fire up the noose and reach for the afternoon, the exam is done!
I sauntered out of the exam hall and reached the top of the road. The collapsing buildings of the street kept me alert and I progressed with attitude and enthusiastic arrogance in to the main road, crossing and continuing. The afternoon bell was sounding.
I, the Man Remnant came through town with the flannel of a flaneur and the modesty of the morning that had passed, this all in spite of the growing confidence that burst out of the previously tapped pencil.
I furiously licked at the remaining elements of my just bought ice lolly, confident in its coldness and ecstatic that I could walk and lick. The flannel was drawn across my brow and I skipped to the headphone provided tunes of the Razor Lichten Collective. Saluting the window cleaners, I progressed still further. I, the Man Remnant had begun to build the foundations of a movement upon the remnants of the last years. Stasis was my enemy and I was armed with the power of the neo post generation. All behind me and confident in the scenes of our music and the verses of our novels; clothes defined my movement, they didn’t restrict unless I wanted them to. Sweet brilliance in the independent labels of the highest man and the proper use of the second hand. I, the Man Remnant burned through the afternoon until I crossed the road again.
I couldn’t believe it as I saw the man, the tramp, the man reduced to syrup. He was being trampled on by a group of friends from my course and the surrounding crowd, they simply walked across him. I empowered myself to drag him to his feet. His clouded eye gave away an instant memory of my Uncle in Wiltshire. I, the Man Remnant became immersed in a bit of quiet. At his feet he was intimidating and to his sides came a morbid three. From this he built a quartet. He himself was bedraggled, but with newly cut hair and a grasp of a sharpened capo in his hand. The three were holding the same capo. A chase began as I tripped through the day. I was shocked that they chased so quickly after I had helped the first so adequately from the filth with my Paddington Bear coat. The reverse was so. So, I reversed quickly as I could. But I found myself parallel with the canal. I, the Man Remnant was threatened thoroughly. I bounded along said canal, shaking up my pointed boots and barely worn antique satchel. The quartet split somehow and appeared two behind, two in front. I, the Man Remnant felt the pencil snap as they threw me to the wall.
I awoke in the smallest of building sites close to the canal. I was faced with remnants of foundations built from solid platinum. I had overalls on and my poking boots were now steel toe capped boots. The overalls carried the symbol of the billed mammal, the gruesome platypus.
The quartet emerged, cleaner and wearing similar overalls. Each overall was individual in colour and shape but they were drawn together by their communal cut. Their shoulders carried triple capo emblems. They ordered me in to the platinum foundations with a pick axe, I took up and began to realise the coldness of the firm metal pillars that formed the base of the foundations. I, the Man, gradually made dents in the metal, beyond what I thought possible almost.
I worked persistently in this post, at these posts for six months, morning after morning, with little force or little slavery. The sparks that flew from the platinum gradually, strangely burnt away the lyrical tattoo on my forearm.
After six months of work and porta-cabin sleep the quartet emerged all together for the first time since I had arrived. They dragged me out of the barely changed foundations and in to the porta-cabin. On one table there was a sharpened capo and a pair of capo badges. On another table were pointed boots and lights and razors. I was asked to choose a table.
I chose the capo table.
I walked down the street and ignored the window cleaners. I carried my overalls in one bag and my capo in my pocket. My shoes were simple and I, the man, had destroyed all the platinum remnants that I could. In my right hand I carried a letter bearing the platypus and capo symbols, it read:

Dear Man,

Gather three and form a quartet. Then sharpen your capos and lie in wait for the man, remnant like you once were. He is named Post-Mod Ernie.

Yours

The Artist, The Illustrator, The Musician and The Actor.

Extract from 'Robet Sterdam' by Jack Burston

Hovering, Robert finished his snack and wiped the excess food from his hands and mouth. He sat in the fully metallic chair that was screwed in to the ground—the chair faced the front door of Robert’s apartment and the television that sat a metre in front of him displayed a figure. The number related to the number of people that were inside the building at the moment he looked. Currently, there were 389. The number would increase and decrease sporadically. Occasionally there would be a sharp increase for a dinner party or for the monthly orgy that Clarence threw. The exact number of inhabitants in the building lay between 360 and 380. He had rented this apartment for just over a month and since finding the television he had decided that the number of tenants must be between these figures. But Robert did not know the exact number of tenants.