Loader  ; "32767":"":"32768" ia.bin dd!:\s2!9sI>!R6!V6!Z6yW!X'1N#F#Small C+ ZXSmall C+ ZXKudos to you, you have complete creative freedom, but what the merry fuck now? Where the hell do you source the content from? 1. Find organised writing groups and ask for subbmissions. 2. Cast the net and trust the creative talents of strangers 3. Contact universities looking for fresh eager talent. Congratulations, you have a magazine that looks great and is sustainable money-wise. Unfortunately the amount of content you can get in diminishes each time you print, if you haven't got artistic freedom to hand to people-and you certainly have no dosh to offer-what can you give them? By issue three you are compromised beyond repair. You let standards slip and little by little you become what you set out to oppose. Your soul dies Cobbling together the nearest thing you have to a suit you arrive at the meeting with a very nice lady, over a cup of coffee (lose 1 PP) she's very interested in your proposal but wants to know some more information about how your project will increase visability in the region of community participation and how it might appeal to C2DEs and BMEs in your ACE sector. Confused, you stopped listening ten minutes ago, what now? 1. Go away and prepare your final proposal. 2. Pluck buzzwords out of the air, seemingly at random, and say them back to her. 3. If PP is lower than 3.You wait for the bartender to finish pouring your drinks then shout "give us two ticks, Cock Goblin" as you run to the nearest cashpoint, luckily it's only seconds away. Booze in hand you plough back to your table to find your very smart near-aspergers internet guru mate, talking your friend out of the magazine idea. Yer man knows his stuff, he's done publishing, sold books, opened an shop. He's insightful and clever, if a bit damn sensible. He makes good point after good point, it becomes clear only a pair of thick headed, contrary fools would bother. Are you a thick headed contrary fool? 1. Yes, yes I am. 2. Not at all.You ring around and go for a few drinks with various people (gain 1 PP) there seems to be enough interest. Brum is going though quite a live music boom, and each promoter needs to snag enough of the tiny few that ever get off their arses and go out. With enough coverage in your magazine they could get the long-haired loner from Bearwood AND the fey-indie lot to come out. But a manager of a local band wants to pay big money for a feature article and interview, unfortunately the band 'Forget Us and Care Kindly, They Are Remembered Daily' are terrible derivative hipster shite. Do you? 1. Give in just this once and run the F.U.C.K.T.A.R.Ds double page spread. 2. Give up on the music scene and try the hemp-hummous munchers instead.That's a good choice. This is art, brother-the World owes you a fucking living. One problem:neither of you have the first Scooby Doo about this sort of thing and as functioning dyslexics neither of you are any good at forms. Maybe you should go talk to some people that have got funding? There are loads of events where the sort of people who do this sort of thing hang out, although God only knows why. Maybe they don't have to work for a living or something. 1. Attend the networking event. 2. Screw it, have a bang anyway.Do you want another a pint? 1. No ta. 2. Ah, go on then.Dirty Bristow: the game with no ads and no rules. Except the rule about keeping track of your PP (Pints Points) score-PP starts at zero and the game will tell you how many to add or take away, in effect how sloshed you are. You'll need to be just the right amount of inebriated to produce a fantastic magazine. That's the object of the game. So, er, go to it. Game by Danny Smith and Jon Bounds (c) 2011 with tech help from Midge. Bleary eyed you make it to a rough-wood coffee shop in the centre of town. The room is full of awkward conversations and people checking their iPhones every three seconds. There's nothing on the phones, although the event does have a hashtag of course. You drink cup after cup of free coffee out of shyness and boredom (minus 2 PP). Everyone you speak to is hopeful for your funding bid, but it does sound complicated. Do you still want to try for funding? 1. Free money? Of course we do. 2. I hate forms, what were the other options? 3. If your PP is less than 3.You put the word out around Kings Heath and Moseley, they're bo-ho, there's hand-whittled cheese and organic shoe-shops-there must be adverts here. After a few coffee shop meetings (lose 1 PP) you get together enough advertisers for your first issue. There's a snag:one of your favourite articles is an in-depth seven page treatise exploring the possible links between vegetarianism, the Illuminati and the secret Zionist conspiracy that rules the World's banks. This will obviously offend over half of your advertisers. Should you? 1. Run it anyway, fuck the sponsors, fuck them in their uptight asses. 2. Pull the offending article and make up the space with flashy design 3. If you have less than 3 PP.It's all easy enough getting brilliant writing, truly artistic illustrations and all the other gubbins that make a magazine-you're a pair of geniuses after all. Or when you're at this stage of inebriation anyway. But printing costs wonga, serious dead presidents. Okay, how the bloody hell are we going to fund this? 1. Apply for Arts Council funding, it can't be that much hassle, right? 2. Get loads of advertisements. 3.Errm we'll manage somehow, maybe with some events or a raffle or something?After several meetings in a variety of hostelries (including a dive up by the canals in the centre of town, gain 2 PP and that dirty feeling you get if you've been near water), some editing, conjoling and compromise you have enough great quality writing for a magazine. Now how to illustrate? Remember you need to do the writing justice, but can't afford to pay anyone. 1. After roughly matching illustrators with the articles you send them the copy and let them get on with it. 2. Approach illustrators with a fixed idea of what you want and how it will fit into the magazine.Oh Noes! You've misjudged a corner and ploughed straight into Lady Thatcher who was in Moseley getting her annual transfusion of orphan blood. As her famous handbag skids along the tarmac, closely following her head, you realise the game is up. You become a folk hero and the magazine is a roaring success but spend the next ten to fifteen shitting into a bucket in HMP Prison Birmingham (sponsored by AEG). The word is out. You're sucking The Man's love spuds. No decent writers will write for you any more, you're seriously hurting for content. You could... 1. Man the fuck up, put the hours in and write it all yourselves. 2. Copy and paste the press releases to fill space and please the sponsors.Advertising, of course, it's a little extra work but why should it come out of our pocket? It'll be just like Mad Men, on a smaller scale, with piss-weak lager instead of whiskey. Oh and no sex. After a little research there seems to be a couple of ways to go with this. 1. Exploit your music contacts fill your gaps with gig dates, band merch and club waffle. 2. Appeal to the local independent shops and assorted right on middle class gubbins.Congratulations, it was a lot of hard work but you finally have a magazine published. Pity no-one wants ever to advertise with you ever again and you're both single because writing all the copy to the standards you set gave you both nervous breakdowns. It's your first and last magazine. It's an ordinary night in the Hare & Hounds, a pub in the suburbof King's Heath in Birmingham. Even if you don't know the place you'll know the type-the area is being slowly gentrified and in the boozer the air is thick with World Music and the glances of people trying to be seen. You and your friend, Don, have just got in (PP=0) and start having a discussion about the poorly printed, badly written magazines available in the pile of flyers next to the bar. You both agree that for the magazine to exist as a format they would have to completely change how they operate. This discussion starts to turn into a plan... Well done, you've produced a student rag, something that will never make it out of the canteen and will be perused only by shy first years. That's an audience, of a kind. Eventually the words disappear and it becomes a flip book of the last month's pub crawls, you die of shame. So where's the cash coming from? 1. We'll try advertising. 2. Out of our own pocket to begin with and then, I don't know, throw a party or something?During the day the trendy, dark and wooden, Hare and Hounds is empty save for a bored looking hot barmaid. Well, her and an old regular who used to come to here before it got renovated and now comes here to drink out of stubbornness even though the charmingly eclectic retro furniture hurts his back. You can't afford to drink too much, even though they have San Miguel on tap it's curiously tasteless (gain just 1 PP). Don feels uncomfortable here, there are simply no tables where it's possible to converse-the seating is so 'charming' that you're never at the same altitude. He asks are you sure you want to go through with this? 1. Yeah seems a laugh. 2. Nope, in the cold light of day it's actually kinda dumb.Everyone who's anyone on the Interweb agrees that crowd-funding is the future. You fire up Kickstarter and spam your friends' collective ass off with videos and he-lar-i-ous excuses to snidely post the link. Sure enough after a few months of hard work you end up with 1.75 and a slightly soiled banana.Don't be silly Capsule never get funding, no matter what they do. Good job they put on such fantastic gigs and the wonderful ear-buggering Supersonic festival. They didn't really need a half-assed magazine anyway. 1. Try the other group. 2. Bugger this.Don smiles, do you want a cup of coffee? 1. Yes, when in Rome and all that. 2. Nah let's slip off to the Goose. 3. Nah, let's slip off to a trendy pub.Congratulations you have a magazine published, it's excellent, but the Moseley sandal and tofu mafia have a hit out on you. Spend the rest of your life dodging anything made by men with beards and anywhere that sells things made of hemp. Which isn't such a bad life. You never find any more adverts and never publish anything ever again. ENDULTRA'S ATTACK - You've strayed in to the Birmingham Poetry Ultra's turf. The PU are poetry's foremost hooligan firm. Wearing Kappa and Lacoste, they circle you both bearing socks filled with a host of golden daffodils, Byronesque blades and menacing grins. Quick what's your PP? 1. Less than seven. 2. More than seven.As you sip your overpriced skinny half cream mocha latte ameri-fucked-if-i-careo (lose 1 PP) your inebriation drops and you begin to realise the sheer volume of work you've just agreed to. In the wise words of President Nixon "bugger this for a game of soldiers". The magazine never happens. The magazine is now all printed, and after several more meetings (plus 1 PP) you and Don have organised a fabulous launch event. There's to be bands, comedians, beer, all sorts. Liquorice all sorts. The only problem left being how to get all your lovely magazines to the event. 1. Pile em into your car and hope for the best. 2. Rely on family and friends to ferry you about.Wow, you have a beautiful magazine about to go to print. Now REALLY where is the money coming from? 1. If your PP is above 10 you can choose nefarious means. 2. An online appeal like Kickstarter. 3. Scrape them money together and hope that you can sell enough at events to keep the magazine ticking over.You get good quality submissions but not as many as you'd like, there's not really enough for a magazine. One option is to put the stuff on a blog, build some interest. You move your magazine online and, frankly, no sod reads it. You become bored with it within a month. She's interested, but needs some more information, there's a supplementary form to fill in. 1. Agree to meet and have a chat. 2. Submit your form anyway 3. Burn the forms in a back garden ritual where you both paint your faces with the ink of stolen office supplies and vow to find some other way to do it (gain 1 PP).You can't pay them, remember? You've barely got enough money to pay for the glue. The illustrators hunt you down and staple your ample balls to Bristol Board. Stay there for a while and think about what you did. As you sip your flat cheap larger you begin to realise the sheer volume of work you've just agreed too, in the wise words of Martin Luther King Jr. "bugger this for a game of soldiers". You drain your Tennent's, and feel dejected. The magazine never happens. After a few weeks wait, you finally have a final meeting with the funding panel, once again slicking your hair down and putting on your best clothes you get the bus into town. The office building you are meeting in is a maze, pastel carpets and wood paneling everywhere. Eventually you find the right room, there is terrible tea in those shallow white cups and biscuits you daren't eat as you've got to talk. Trying your hardest to concentrate and nod in the right places both you and Don put forward your case. They like you but advise you that they would look more favourably on your proposal if you partnered with another organisation. Which organisation would you like to approach? 1. The #hyperlocal lesbian refugee group 'Rootless Petals'. 2. Capsule, a local organisation that has been putting on consistantly high quality events bringing in people from all over the World and gaining untold respect. 3. More forms? Balls to that.Congratulations, You now have a magazine, the sponsors love it. It has just the right balance of adverts, listings and uncritical shite. Too bad you've locked yourself into an endless spiral of shite and your souls are dead. You weave your way home, stopping only to soil yourself with gloriously dirty food from King Kebab. Not adverse to fracturing a few laws eh? What's the plan, chummy? 1. An armed blag. 2. Bank fraud.Only a quarter of the original half reply to your feedback (that makes about an sixth of the class by our maths) and only one of them has attempted to change their copy. You do however receive about twenty links to the #hyperlocal blogs they have all set up for their post code."What would you like to see on *your* #hyperlocal blog?" they say. You need more submissions: 1. Try the writing groups. 2. Put up a call out on the internet and hope for the best.You're not sufficiently pissed enough to fight them off. They send you packing with a Larkin smile and a comprehensive kicking. You lack the self-esteem to continue. It's over, you sad sonnet-loving fuck. You're right, it's a school night and the prices here are astronomical. Best get home before you get too drunk. You're a sensible person, a wise sage. You go home and dream of what could have been... a little dead-er inside. A shooter, a pair of charity-shop tights, a rakish hooped sweater as worn by villains, rugby lads and the French, all set. Don will drive, he's shit but fast. The Post Office is the target, on Thursday when it's got all the pension money in. But disaster, the metal pole and belt queue thing is a nightmare to navigate, you trip and an old man smelling of embrocation sits on you while staff call the law. They'll never take you alive. You're dead - you tried to rob a bank pissed, what did you think would happen? The smell of coffee hits your nose (lose 1 PP) and over the sea of Macbooks you see Don suffering as much as you. A large americano here costs north of two quid, even though it's just hot dirt and water. It's your last chance are you sure you want to go through with this idea? 1. Yeah, seems a laugh. 2. Nope, in the cold light of day it's actually kinda dumb.What's the brief? You're about to put the call out but you don't know what to ask for. 1. Pick a theme but make it narrow to keep the magazine coherent. 2. Pick a theme but make it broad, when have you ever worried about coherence? 3. Complete freedom, rules are for losers.The Goose looks like a ungodly cross between a council estate in hell and a Victorian sideshow, but it is very cheap (gain 2 PP) and at least it's not full of skinny jeans and polka dot dresses. It's easy to find, you just scan the High Street for a bus stop where people are leaning at odd angles, dribbling from everywhere that can leak. That's the one outside the pub. Don feels comfortable here, he's found a booth up the far corner behind the pool table safe from random attack. He asks are you sure you want to go through with this? 1. Yeah, seems a laugh 2. Nope, in the cold light of day it's actually kinda dumb.Not doing the writing justice by using terrible visuals means that your magazine never reaches a wide audience. No-one picks up an ugly bit of print, it won't fly in nice shops and looks pants on the web. All you can do is leave it in record shops and sweaty bars. It's buried underneath all the other 'zines. You won't bother with that again.As you sip your flat overpriced larger you begin to realise the sheer volume of work you've just agreed too, in the wise words of TV's Rodney Bewes "bugger this for a game of soldiers". The magazine never happens. Failure. You're gonna pass some dodgy cheques at the local bank. Fortunately for NatWest the staff are so stupid and the processes so slow that it's impossible to commit any sort of transaction. Unfortunately for their customers this includes normal sober honest banking. Seriously NatWest are fucking terrible, they've given us nothing but hassle don't use them. You contact the universities, through a near impenetrable confusion of bureaucracy, and eventually pitch your magazine to several classes of students. They look young and dumb, but you are cheered by such a positive response. Nearly all of them promise to send you something. About half of them send you something. What is sent is lazy, derivative and boring. What now? 1. Do the best with what you have. 2. Edit heavily and send back with hours of written feedback.GAH you wake up, it feels like someone has scooped out your brain and replaced it with ice cream made from sharp piss (your PP drops to 3) the only thing rattling around your head is the magazine idea. Your phone rings, what once was a jolly ringtone feels like someone slowly pushing a knitting needle into your right eye. Don wants to meet and talk about the idea some more. Where do you want to meet? 1. A local independant coffeeshop with fucking lovely cupcakes? 2. The Goose, a rather rough but very cheap pub. 3. Back to the trendy pub. One more pint, one more to your Pints Points total, this is sounding like it's do-able. Is your PP more than 6? 1. No. 2. Yes.The response is massive, the various community writing groups send you a shitload of incredably earnest poetry about the World's problems, various mental difficulties and thinly veiled metaphors involving flowers. It's. All. Shit. Do you? 1. Get some friends together and hold a collating party where you staple together photocopied pages of this drivel over hommous dips and a nice claret. 2. Throw taste out the window, dredge up all the terribly taught poetry lessons from school and give feedback on rhythm, meter and scansion.Yeah, you got it out, super, smashing. Now do it again. It turns out the only illustators that will put with your micro-managment are either terrible or want paying. 1. Pay them 2. Use the terrible ones.With the fighting ability that only strong continental lager can bring, you bravely swing your fists and connect with ear after ear. Your forehead smashes down on many a nose. It's a rout. The Ultras put down their weapons and take you for a manly pint. Having earnt their respect they offer to edit any poetry for you. You give them what you have. You was right, it IS all shit. You're left with one usable submission. Where do you get the rest? 1. Ask everyone you know. 2.Try for fresh blood at the universities.You spend a couple of months chasing clueless uninspired writers, they don't really know what you want and won't ask any questions. It drags on, eventually you get bored and distracted by the next shiny new project. You're sobering up. Trying to edit and print your own magazine isn't the silliest thing you've tried to do while drunk, but it's definitely in the top ten. You give it up as a bad job.Is your PP over 3? 1. Yes 2. No, of course not I would never drink and drive.It's your round. As you weave your way to the bar you see the crowds of people standing between you and your prized premium lager. Your fist clenches at the thought of having to wait to be noticed. But as you get closer you see that the people there aren't actually waiting for a drink, they're just selfishly standing there. Generously dishing out a sly elbow and treading on their winkle pickers you get served. A Carling dash for Don and your own. Want any crisps? They have those posh waxy ones made out of root vegetables, mmm! Oh no, you've run out of cash and the pub is far too hipster to accept cards, the barman sneers over his thick-rimmed glasses, do you? 1. Run home, never looking back, it's your last chance. 2. Insult the barman and go to the cashpoint for the money.2*/70# '1774 "  -+&583$! 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