Please welcome to the world … Perfect Angel Press and Gob Nation present … Perfect Angel 1

 

pre-order at:
perfectangelpress.com

 

A North Walian teenager called ‘Bum Head’ quietly raps about “sucking pussy on the regs”. A Hermes Warehouse Operative derives sexual pleasure from the condoned destruction of Christmas presents. Paul Dunwoody frantically tries to report his neighbour for ‘having unprotected sex with Craig Rusby’ A sinister plot threatens to ruin Benny Blue’s birthday a.k.a ‘the most mental day of the year’. Claire Champagne infiltrates her local Torture Therapy Allotment and accuses her psychotherapist ex-husband of seducing a refugee. California dreaming in Greggs. Carveries with a married man. Drinking a pot noodle with a hand on one hip.

Perfect Angel 1 is a collection of twelve spiteful blasts of short fiction and poetry. Some of these writers are publishing for the first time. Others are in the publishing/journo world. Most write stories about what Paul Dunwoody would term ‘the droppings of society’. Almost all of them are members and affiliates of Gob Nation, and play in bands like Sniffany and The Nits and The Tubs. I’ve heard them compared from everyone from Kathy Acker to Dennis Cooper to Marguerite Duras to Julia Davis to Donald Barthelme, but taken together, their work takes on an aesthetic coherence due to, in our opinion, a shared talent for capturing the strangeness of morbid boring Britain today.

 

Perfect Angel Press is the new literature arm of Gob Nation- the South London collective/label/promoter made of band members from The Tubs, Sniffany & The Nits, Ex-Void etc.

 

PERFECT ANGEL 1 features stories and poetry from:

Edwin Stevens is from Llanfairfechan. Edwin’s first novel, Seagulls (Very Bon Books), was one of Dennis Cooper’s favourite books of 2020. Blair James (author of Bernard & Pat) described it as a “perfect flash of his gross, rotting, and beautiful head.” He makes music with the projects The Web of Lies, Yerba Mansa Trio and Irma Vep. In 2023, he released his first solo album “God on All Fours” (Ankst).

Excerpt from one of his contributions to PERFECT ANGEL 1:

BUM HEAD SONGS 1

All the boys are waiting. It’s a Mexican wave of side eyes and nervous shuffling. I’m up on the ceiling. Roy storms in and slams the door, drops his bag of bricks in the middle of the room, leans back and shouts what everyone here already knows; Shut isn’t coming to club tonight. He circles his bag with hands on hips, and announces that Shut isn’t going to be coming back, ever, he says. He says he’s disgusted, disappointed, that he’s fucking gutted. He’s clapping between barks, head nodding from high blood pressure. Bum Head yawns (he does this when he’s nervous) but Roy cuts him off, asks him if he saw what happened earlier, if Bum Head saw what happened on the golf course, if it was Bum Head that helped Shut steal the car bonnet from Glyn’s garage just so they could get a cheap fucking thrill – just so they could get a cheap fucking thrill bombing it down in the snow like a pair of fucking yobs – like a pair of fucking idiot-yob-idiot-fucking-bell-ends – on a stolen car bonnet – for-fucks-sakes – fucking idiots, he says. He says it like this, ‘Ffycken Ee-dee-yots’. Bum Head shakes his fat lips, no, and looks to his feet for sympathy. Bum Head burps that he didn’t see Shut today. Bum Head is lying. He points down the line all nervous, saying he was with Mark playing Call of Duty. Mark stares straight ahead, shaking. Roy fakes a laugh and asks if he’s supposed to believe that, on a snow day of all days. Tears circle Mark’s eyes, he lifts his head back so the sockets absorb the wet. Bum Head gulps and swears down on his nain’s grave he wasn’t on the golf course at all today. Mark blinks and swears down on his taids’ grave he was playing Call of Duty all day with Bum Head. Mark is lying. Roy flicks his head back and licks his lips lizard style, looks around the room for effect, stomps the snow off his boots and challenges Mark and Bum Head to swear down on my grave. The cold air starts to vibrate. Steam floats quiet off the ceiling. Swear down on Stevie’s grave he says, lip dripping on his chin. Bum Head looks at Mark. Mark looks at Bum Head. Mark looks at his watch. Bum Head coughs. Bum Head licks his lips and swears down on my grave. Mark blinks a lot and swears down on my grave, all ashamed. A tear slips off his cheek and marks his shirt and I want to tell him I would have done the same. Roy, unsatisfied, laps his bag and looks desperately at his hands, he stretches them up and around the basement and stops suddenly like he’s seen me. For a second I’m sure he’s seen me, but he hasn’t because he can’t, because I’m dead, obviously.

Edwin R Stevens, Purgatory Game

 

 

Josephine Edwards is from Brighton. She has published several graphic novels, most recently The Will-O’-The-Wisp (Breakdown Press) which It’s Nice That described as a “dizzying mix of humour and gothic surrealism”. She’s also the singer in the “evil” (Loud and Quiet) Sniffany & The Nits, some of whose lyrics you’ll find in PERFECT ANGEL 1. She also painted/designed the cover and back.

Excerpt from her contribution: THE DIARY OF CLAIRE CHAMPAGNE

No breakfast for me, alas, as I had to keep my abdominal muscles looking tight and toned and avoid bloating from any IBS flare-ups. The clothes make the WO-man, so I sauntered up the stairs and selected an ensemble from my wardrobe which was elegant and stable with a hint of mystery. If I were to have strutted sexy stuff to the allotment in a denim mini or a Missguided bodycon, the nosy pensioners would have tut-tutted, and assumed I was there for something other than gardening. I admired myself in the mirror. I’d selected a starched lilac blouse with a button missing around a certain pair of breasts – worn in a Britney Spears style. I paired it with my suede cord and embroidered jeans, ombre sunnies and a pair of kitten heeled calf-high leather boots. I tussled my hair with my Dyson Air Wrap into a boho-chic loose beach wave style, donned my straw River Island sun hat and used my Dior duo eye palette to blend out a shimmering brown smokey eye.

Simon had obviously decided he’d like as little contact with me as possible. 24 years of marriage discarded in the gutter. We all have our flaws, and believe me when I say the abuse he put me through led to endless nights screaming and crying in torturous pain. I fell into the arms of strangers. I destroyed the furniture in our beautiful marital home. My self esteem was in bits and I felt no desire for beauty and glamour. I was withering before his very eyes and he couldn’t give a toss. No compliments or special treats, no matter how many times I clipped cuttings from catalogues and blu-tacked them onto the fridge or placed them in his pack lunches. I’m a fool. I suffer gladly, and, alas, I am but still… a fool in love…

•

I picked up around 50 primroses, violets and irises from B&Q on the way, spent an hour digging holes with a trowel into the hard ground and placed them all in pretty rows. I actually have a life so whenever I return everything is brown and crispy and I’m not bothered. I can change my garden to my own fancies and delight on any given day. I don’t like vegetables that come from the allotment – they’re always covered in soil and insects and in weird shapes that taste bad.

I spotted Simon and a certain Sri Lankan single mother pottering around their little plot. They tried to avoid eye contact but there was no way you could miss me: beads of sweat sparkling in the British sunlight, dangling belly bar swinging to and fro in time with Simon’s lanyard. He probably thought my being on the plot was a ‘plot’ in itself (ha!) but as the mother of his children we are inescapably tethered by an eternal cosmic chain.

Simon’s a psychotherapist working with asylum seekers and refugees. He gives them free therapy and takes them on little field trips to cooking or picture painting classes which are supposed to calm them down. Sounds more like a bloody nursery to me.

Sniffany & The Nits – Chicken Liver

 

 

PANEL FROM THE WILL O’ THE WISP

 

 

Russell Walker is from Ruislip and is the author of When New Towns Act Tough (Larching Books). Picture the Scene (Very Bon Books), a recent collection of his work, was featured as one of Dennis Cooper’s favourite books of 2022. He also plays with the bands The Pheromoans, The Bomber Jackets and The Lloyd Pack.

Excerpt from his contribution: ONE TO ONE

A shaft of light revealed a large quantity of dust in the air. Paul sat with his drink and a hardback novel propped open at the page he’d saved the day before. As usual there was nobody else there, the tablecloths bright white and empty.

The door handle went.

‘Sorry buddy – is this the bar?’ Paul looked up from his book. A man standing in the doorway. ‘I was looking for the bar.’

‘It is sort of. This is the reading room – the actual bar is next door.’

‘Nice one buddy.’

Paul’s heart sank as he tried to get back involved in the story. Should he try another book? He’d been half hoping someone would’ve taken this one so he’d have an excuse to give up. He was scanning the book spines from afar when the door went again.

‘Thought I’ll stick myself in here as it’s nice and peaceful,’ the man from earlier said, carrying a pint over to a table.

He was wearing a dark blue suit and tie and by the way he immediately whipped out his phone and started typing, Paul could tell he was at the hotel on business. So he was surprised a few minutes later when the man said, brightly,

‘Decent place this isn’t it?’

‘Yeah it’s OK.’

‘Here for work?’ he asked.

Paul didn’t feel like answering this.

‘You?’

‘I’m sort of like the policeman in The Wicker Man.’

‘What?’

‘Ever seen The Wicker Man?’

‘No.’

‘Well I work for a well known bank. Basically we closed our branch in the town to cut costs.’

‘I don’t blame you matey. People in this town are scum.’

‘Well what we do now for people who don’t like to use online banking is send one of us to the town to host a surgery. This month -for my sins- it’s my turn. So I’m like Edward Woodward arriving on the island.’

‘Well as long as you’re not old bill,’ Paul said.

Craig laughed and got to his feet. They’d both finished their drinks.

‘What are you reading?’

Paul turned it over to show the cover: Bernard Cornwell.

‘Nice one. I’m Craig Rusby, by the way.”

The Pheromoans – ‘Downtown’ [OFFICIAL VIDEO]

 

 

O Williams is from Cardiff. He’s the founder of Perfect Angel Press. One of his stories included within – The OMG Penguin – was recently longlisted for the Desperate Literature Short Fiction Prize. He’s also the singer of The Tubs, and is in the bands Sniffany & The Nits and Ex-Vöid. He currently lives in London.

Excerpt from his contribution THEATRE OF CRUELTY:

Pippa stares at Artaud’s photograph on the cover. He looks like a matinee idol – ruffled jet-black hair, bold angular features. But there is also something unmistakably mental about him. The eyes maybe. She opens the book and begins reading a letter Artaud sent to a magazine editor who’d rejected some of his poems. The tone is a mixture of imperious and pathetic, and this reminds Pippa of her mother. The way she’d, over the course of a party, transform from haughty hilarious star of the room to floating nuisance. It wasn’t the antics- the throwing up, dropping bottles of wine- that pained Pippa. It was the way she’d derail everyone’s conversations. Swoop in and change the subject. Rant about her agent, other writers. Ask outrightly for favours, commissions, opportunities she didn’t even want. Casually disclose, without any forewarning, a vivid moment of abuse from her childhood- her mother calling her a ‘whore’ when she was eight, uncle Greg being hit over the head with a chopping board etc. Pippa there, cross-legged on the sofa, picking at some vegetable crisps, inhaling second-hand smoke.

Pippa reads on. “I suffer from a horrible sickness of the mind” Artaud tells the editor, apropos of nothing. The editor’s response is familiar, too. That blend of mortification, fondness, respect and concern. “I was so touched that you chose to confide in me. I shall always be delighted to chat with you, and to read anything you would like to submit to me.” And, of course, Pippa recognises Artuad’s funny, unfair response: “I had presented myself to you a genuine psychic anomaly and you answered me with a literary judgement on some poems.” The exact sort of rug-pull Lily would come out with.

The Tubs “Wretched Lie” (Official Video)

 

 

Valentina Lamour is a multidisciplinary artist originally from Stockport, currently based in Glasgow. She is the author of LEUDD, IDLE, FROWARD AND VNCOSTANT (Very Bon Books).

Excerpt from her contribution PHANTOM FRAGRANCE

THE OLFACTORY SENSE IS PERHAPS THE LAST WE MIGHT
EXPECT TO BE AFFECTED BY GHOSTLY INFLUENCES, YET
PHANTOM FRAGRANCES AND ABSTRACT ODOURS OFTEN
ACCOMPANY SUPERNATURAL EVENTS
IT IS A RIDDLE CONCERNING THE CHEMISTRY OF SMELLS
FOR WHICH THERE DOES NOT APPEAR TO BE AN ANSWER
THE MOST OBNOXIOUS ODOURS PROVOKING A SENSE OF
NAUSEA AND REVULSION
FRAGRANCES STIMULATING THE SCENT OF ACRID SMOKE,
DISINFECTANT AND PISS
SOME HAUNTED HOUSES
THE ROOMS YOU DON’T ENTER, PLAGUED WITH THE MOST
DISAGREEABLE SMELLS ASSOCIATED WITH BAD SANITATION
AND DECOMPOSING VERMIN
INVISIBLE EFFECTS WITHOUT VISIBLE CAUSE
THE RESURRECTION OF HIS SPIRIT
SETTING APART THE DEVOTIONS OF THE LIVING
HIS BODY ROSE FROM THE GROUND TO THE TERROR OF
SEVERAL SPECTATORS
HE DESERTED THE COFFIN
ARISING OUT FROM THE GRAVE
ASCENDING TOWARDS HEAVEN
CHORAL MUSIC PLAYED
“HATH HE NO WINDING SHEETS ABOUT HIM?”
HE DID NOT APPEAR QUITE NAKED, HIS VESTURE SEEMED
STREAKED WITH GOLD AND LIGHT, INTERLACED WITH
SABLE AND SKIRTED IN WHITE
THE AGILITY OF HIS MOTIONS AND THE SWIFTNESS OF HIS

ASCENT QUICKLY HE WAS NO LONGER VISIBLE
A LINGERING ODOUR TRAILED BEHIND HIM

 

 

Taylor Stewart a.k.a Romeo Taylor is from Coatbridge. He has published several volumes of fan fiction – most notably The Doctor and The Chief, which explores a fictional friendship between Halo’s Master Chief and BBC’s Dr Who. He is also the co-founder of Vlogable, the hugely popular content creation team who have “changed the Youtube game” and popularised the phrase “everything is Vlogable.” He plays in The Tubs and The TSG.

Excerpt from his contribution BENNY BLUE:

How many times have you come up with the best idea ever?
Once or twice?
Only once?
Three Times?
I doubt it.
It’s probably zero times.
For most people, they have never come up with the best idea ever.
This isn’t the case for Benny Blue…
Our tale begins on the most mental day of the year: Benny’s birthday.

Romeo Taylor – ‘The Kingdom Of Scotland’ (Official Video)

 

 

Lan McArdle is from London. Their work has appeared in Modern Queer Poets Vol. 1 (Pilot Press), Prelude, Structo, Shabby Doll House and The Aleph, among others. Their poetry pamphlet ‘split ends/rooms’ was published by Makina Books, and they play in the band Ex-Vöid.

Excerpt from their contribution PLATESVILLE:

When I realise something is about to be over I start wanting to die. That’s what I don’t get about these guys on steroids. They want it to end so soon. I know that life is hard. I know that nothing lasts forever. But that’s the thing. Everything ends over and over again until there’s nothing, forever.

I’ve always been like this. I’m not too proud to admit that when it got close to pick-up time from a playdate I’d sit at the top of the steps and cry. These days all it takes is for the barber to start brushing down the nape of my neck and unfastening the cape. Sometimes, it’s as simple as the day fading out. The fear always washes through, and I still wake up all the same.

Roid-heads don’t see the value in slowing the process, in drawing out each rep like it’s a dance. They’re seeking the before and after photo. But then what? Depression. Emotional problems. Horrible shrunken bollocks and man-boobs and hormonal anguish. If you cross the finish line too soon, death comes at you like a bazooka. They may as well have already died. They may as well have killed themselves.

I don’t say much to the other guys in the gym, why would I? There’s very few things in life that anyone actually needs. What matters is what you control. Total and actual control, not the feeling of control. All the rest is optional or made up. And if it’s not made up, it’s real but meaningless, like a pet fish. I don’t know why everyone gets bogged down in things like concepts or feelings. That’s why proper bodybuilders are happy. There is no philosophy that counts for anything except the body, because it’s not a philosophy. It’s reality. Physicality. Paul my P.E. teacher taught me that. He saw something special in my body and brought it out.

Ex-Vöid – Bigger Than Before [FULL ALBUM STREAM]

 

 

Glenn Gofton was born in the north east of England and now lives in London.

Excerpt from his contribution YOU START TO FEEL YOU’RE PUPPETEERING A CORPSE:

It’s The Valley again for orc_meat, or Meat for short, and it looks the same as always. Green-purple trees and planes of jagged earth; pixel-fog rolling over the distant hills; wind shaking the grass in pre-defined rhythms. Meat had used a string of really shit and generic names back when he was a Mage : vanguard557, black_magic12, psychotic-mirage, stuff like that. It was still free to change your name then. He stuck with orc_meat because he liked to hunt Orcs. Then people in his guild started calling him Meat and he liked the sound of it, the single-syllable and the hard “t” sound at the end was cool. He’d tried ‘ch*nk_meat’ first but it got flagged, obviously, even with the asterisk — but everyone knows what orc_meat means. There’s only one kind of player who uses the Orc Class — Gold Farmers — and they’re all Chinese, so it’s a kind of euphemism. They’ll never flag the word ‘Orc’; they can’t, it’s part of the world. Meat’s avatar is a Hunter Class Bow-Man with a maxed out stealth stat dressed in liquid armour that shifts and shimmers in the light as he moves. He’s basically invisible to other players, and even on his own ageing computer his avatar has the quality of pure water. He still likes hunting in a way, but only really does it because he’s over-specialised. He can’t turn back and become a tank or a hand to hand combat specialist now — what would he do with all this gear?

 

 

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p.s. Hey. This weekend the blog has the total pleasure of helping to occasion the first public appearance of ‘Perfect Angel’, a new literary project dedicated to, and I quote, ‘spiteful, grotty, petty, mundane U.K lit’, which is a noble venture if there ever was one, I’m sure you’ll agree. Please peruse its offers on hand and consider forking out for the totality. You won’t be sorry. My thanks to Perfect Angel Press and Gob Nation for the honor. ** Dominik, Hi!!! Thanks. She’s gone silent, so it isn’t looking good. Feta! Very short lifespan. I also imagine all of his plays subsequently including skateboarding scenes and how it would be a different world today if so. Good course as the home choice. Love has the best taste. Love explaining to me why people prefer taking baths than showering, G. ** _Black_Acrylic, We have one of those Puttstars-like places in Paris called Crazy Golf and I haven’t tried ours either, I don’t know why. I will absorb ‘How to Have Sex’ thanks to your and, subsequently, Justin D’s urgings. Thanks, pal. ** Justin D, Hey. I was just typing about you. Well, mini-golf is tacky even in the most artful of circumstances, but I don’t need to tell you that art and tackiness are not always mutually exclusive. No news from George’s friend so far, sadly, but the photos mean a lot. I think adding a Koi is a fine way to spend your weekend. How does one choose the best Koi? Wait, I’m sure they look different from one another, never mind. And no sooner do I type the words ‘never mind’ than you bring up Mr. Cobain! And how wrong he was in that one instance. How did your weekend plan out ultimately? ** Sypha, Yes, your willingness to mini golf is something that lingers in my memory warmly. You’ve done Steamboat Landing! It looks so irresistibly rustic. I did see those pictures, and why I spaced on including it in the post is anyone’s guess. ** Steve, All strength to you through all of that. The X-Files convention was charming. It was held in this huge building that was normally the Goodyear Blimp’s garage. There were sets, props, and so on. Panels. Duchovny addressed the assembled via video in a most visibly bored way. It was fun enough. Shitty merch. I look forward to your I SAW THE TV GLOW review. I too quite liked … WORLD’S FAIR. I’ll look for Avalanche Kaito, sounds tasty. Weekend: uh, hopefully see Gisele (Vienne) for the first time in over a year. Work on script. See my friend John Tuite who plays ‘Extravagantly Costumed Guy’ in ‘Room Temperature’ and who is visiting Paris. Stuff like that. Enjoy(ed) yours. ** Misanthrope, That’s probably because you’re paying to much attention to the game. The game is just the excuse to be there, like the story part of a novel. (I know many disagree). Ouch, but how colorful: the cheek. I too have no idea what the fuck is wrong with people. Enjoy your weekend with/without your temporarily scary looking dude. ** Harper, Most people I know aren’t morning people. Which is nice because my mornings are more empty and peaceful. Zac’s like you: he starts getting energised and inspired about 4 or 5 pm and not before. Do tell about ‘Vineland.’ It’s the hole in my Pynchon knowledge. Did you see the film? What did you think, if so? Me too, about the organising. And especially re: lists. I’m a total list fetishist. I even get excited every Sunday when they release the weekend movie box office tallies/lists. And I make up lists of favorite or least favorite whatevers in my head all the time. Nice to hear I’m not alone. ** Dev, I will, as soon as I can find it and feed my consciousness into it. Japan is a very serious must. Where have I been? Let’s see … Tokyo, Kyoto, Osaka, Nagasaki, the islands Naoshima and Yakushima, and a bunch of small towns/places whose names I’m forgetting. It’s so easy to travel there with the bullet trains. Congrats on the BBQ and its lingering effect. I hope your weekend really counts. ** Uday, Learning French is really good idea, I say hypocritically. I did start looking at people on the metro and thinking about how they might dress and undress yesterday and it was very interesting. So I owe you. I’m trying to think of a way in which mini-golf and calculus are similar, and I think there is probably a way. ** darby🥛🤨, Small d! Appropriately coupled glass of milk! You’re two for two. Wow, that does sound uncomfortable: the ‘public ‘gifted’ designation. I had something like that happen. When I was a young teen my mom dated this arrogant jerk for a while, and the family, including him, were eating dinner, and he just out of the blue announced that I was the truly special, gifted child of the family at great length to my horrid embarrassment and secret pleasure. My siblings have had a not so secret strain of resentment towards me ever since. That said, yes, I was definitely a weird child. I think that boyfriend of my mom’s mistook my weirdness for something of a higher level. Uh, it’s good to chop or scramble tofu, and bake it or microwave it, and you’re gonna want to use spices or sauce or something, and probably mix something in with it. Or that’s what I do. ** Catachrestic, Whimsy is a highly useable component. Very flexible. I think I’ve been to the Sherman Oaks course. It’s nice, it’s very doable. There used to be a great one near LAX but they tore it down. There’s a pretty great one near Pomona that I think is still extant? Whenever people even mention clove cigarettes I remember their horrible dead body on fire smell and I can’t deal with it. I like your TV show idea, natch. I’m sure the X Files context could accommodate me getting a twink Scully pregnant, or, if not, mpreg is a fun option. ** Oscar 🌀, Hi. The French do like to rebel. There are literally fairly big protest marches against one thing or another here every single day. Glasgow, yeah, I liked it. I mostly just walked around looking at it. Zac and I showed our film ‘PGL’ at the university there, and that was great, cool people. I like Tramway. I liked Edinburgh, but it seemed kind of, I don’t know, scenic but not very friendly or welcoming or something. Like, I couldn’t imagine actually living there, as opposed to Glasgow. Ha ha, thanks for reading and protecting ‘The Sluts’. My Saturday seems fairly promising so far. Yours? Or, well, I guess I should ask how the whole weekend shebang was in its totality? ** Okay. Let ‘Perfect Angel’ guide you through the local part of your weekend, and I’ll see you on Monday.