Some news: Issue 3 of The Alarmist is now out and about. As I write, it’s doing its rounds, soiling readers’ fingers and spreading literary STDs all over the shop. I’m happy to report that its many venereal delights include one of my short stories, “Pigeons”. Which proves that the editors either have a faulty admin system or are happy to publish any old guff.
But more seriously: it’s a pretty nifty literary magazine. I’m biased, of course, but I think I can cross my heart and say it fairly objectively. The terms “breath of fresh air” and “irreverent” get bandied about a lot these days, but The Alarmist is the real thing. It’s packed with stories, poems and illustrations which alternate between hilarious, horrific, smutty and surreal, and which often hit the sweet spots between. It’s eclectic, but held nicely together by Christopher Tavoularis‘ graphic design, and by what I can only call a very Alarmist tone. It doesn’t take itself too seriously, yet at the same time only publishes stuff which is seriously good. (Does that include my short story? Well, it’s a story about dead pigeons and dribbling grannies. Whats not to love?)
The Alarmist is only three issues old and has already earned itself international distribution, a listing as one of Foyles‘ favourites, and enthusiastic reviews from the likes of Dazed and Confused and Rough Trade. Not bad going. On top of that, its editors are genuinely open to publishing work by unestablished writers – as proven by my case. Which is nice. Basically, it’s well worth a gander for readers, writers, poets and perverts.
Right, I think I’ve pushed my nose as far up The Alarmist‘s bum as it can go. So I’ll stop there and leave you with some photos (courtesy of Jan Vrhovnik) from Issue 3’s launch night, which took place in a bunker in somewhere in London Town. I was there. In the shadows. Watching.