If you were looking for the long-awaited ‘Hot Plumpers’, I’m sorry to disappoint; I had to abandon the project. The thought of making a light-hearted and humorous collage zine from old pornographic magazines quickly became a miserable experience in reality. It's the kind of misery that an ice cream man must feel in winter, the desperation of Greensleeves carrying through the cold air. It's January as I write this, and every Friday for the last few months an ice cream van stops at the same house on my street and then starts its music; within a minute it's gone again. Perhaps it's a man suffering from low self-esteem battling a key aspect of his job: the flamboyant declaration that he, in fact, sells frozen cream from a vehicle. Understandable. My suspicion, however, is that if I were quick enough to run the eleven-house distance before he drives off, that the price of a 99 would probably be 99p and he is, with a 99% probability, a drug dealer. So, Tin Pot Mash isn’t what was ordered but is as intoxicating as a “double whip, lime sauce, extra sprinkles without the cone”.

Author

Jack Heathcote