For more of Brian Blomerth's work, visit his website, Twitter, and Instagram.

This article originally appeared on VICE Canada

I got a chance to interview Mya Taylor of the movie Tangerine when she was in Toronto for Pride Month, and it reminded me how listening can be a political act. It is easy to engage in the erasure of trans people by speaking over people and not engaging them when they are telling us what they experience and what we can do to help.

Taylor's role in Tangerine earned acclaim for shining light on the lives of LA sex workers, a life she understood first-hand. We talked about her favourite scary movies, her Spirit Award win, and finding room to grow as an actress when so much stands in the way.

VICE: Why did you want to come and take part in Toronto's Pride celebration?
Mya Taylor: Why wouldn't I? I get to come and help to spread awareness and show the community that I'm still here and still active—trying to break barriers and make it easier for all of us. I'm just doing my own little part to try and make life better for all of us transgender people—not even just transgender people. For everybody.

You've become a spokesperson for the trans community. Do you feel pressure in this role?
Not at all. And the reason why is because I'm just myself. And I've been myself ever since I came into this business. So, that's why people are attracted to me—not sexually attracted but you, know, attracted to me and want be around me and why they want to advice and listen to me. It's because I'm real about every single thing. It's not hard, because I'm not trying to be something I'm not. Not saying that other people are—no shade!

What kind of roles are you looking to play?
I really want to be in a romantic comedy or a scary movie—you know, the movies that I like to watch. My favourite scary movies are Stephen King's Rose Red or It. I love those... "We all float down here!" And my favourite TV shows are like Empire and Sex in the City.

What do you feel like the future for trans actors is in Hollywood?
If all the directors and producers get past the transgender thing, then we'd be a lot better. But I think what we're going to have to start doing is creating our own. That's what it's going to have to be. We can't sit around and wait for other people to hire us and get comfortable. Time is money; money is time.

You're talking about creating your own space, but do things like critical acclaim and being nominated for Academy Awards—does that mean something to you?
Having an Academy Award does not tell you that this is a good actress. An Academy Award or a Spirit Award is just an award. I'm very grateful that I won the Spirit Award, but that doesn't define me as an actress. Think about it like this, Tamar Braxton said it best—and you know I love me some Tamar: You can't sit and look at the record sales and the numbers and the charts and everything, because if you focus on that, then you're going to lose the love that you have for the craft that you're doing. You have to just do what you love and go with that.

Just going back to you being a very visible person, do you think that has in any way changed the discrimination that you face in this business as a trans actress?
You know, I don't know, quite honestly. I really don't know. Let me say this: I was supposed to go to the GLAAD Awards, and I didn't make it. My manager's assistant sent me some ideas for fashion for what I was supposed to wear for the event. And he sent me all these pictures of what Laverne Cox wore, and that was it. And I immediately just blew up. No shade to Laverne Cox, because I love her, I adore her, and I think she's super super gorgeous. But why, everytime when I have to do something, why am I always compared to or have to refer to her just because I'm transgender. I transitioned to be a woman, so couldn't he send me pictures of what Taraji wore or Sarah Jessica Parker wore? Why are we always put into that one box. That's the issue I'm facing now being an actress.

So you are worried about being typecast and shoved into these roles.
Exactly. It feels like Hollywood wants you to do the same thing that you've done already over and over. And if they continue to do this then there's no room for growth as an actress.

We see cis actors getting critical acclaim and awards for playing trans roles. How do you feel about that?
I don't have anything negative to say about that because what I go by is, if there was a movie being made of me, I don't care if a chihuahua plays me. If the chihuahua looks like me, if it acts like me, if it can do that role then let the dog do play role. I feel like it shouldn't matter who plays it. But the issue there is with all the people who are getting awards for playing transgender people—transgender people never had the opportunity to try and get these parts and play these roles. Like the issue is not the fact that other people are winning the awards for playing transgender people, the issue for me is that there was no opportunity for another trans person to get those roles.

Is mainstream acceptance important to you?
No, it's not important to me because I'm not an actor to win Academy Awards or anything. I'm an actor because I love to do it. Winning an Academy Award just comes along with it. Now when I do win these awards, it shows I've accomplished something. But I'm a trans woman, and there's nobody else that's won the Spirit Award. So I realize that I've helped us to move forward, So that's what I'm most proud of.

Follow Kyrell Grant on Twitter.

A group of ERCI volunteers looking out for migrant boats. All photos by the author

This article originally appeared on VICE US

Nikos Flippidis's eyes were bloodshot as he sat in a silver SUV on a warm June night, scanning the seashore on the Greek island of Lesvos. As one of the search-and-rescue volunteers for the NGO Emergency Response Centre International (ERCI), he was working the midnight-to-morning shift, watching for refugee boats en route from western Turkey.

According to the UN's Refugee Agency, only about a dozen refugees a day have been arriving in Greece since last March, when the European Union and Turkey agreed to collaborate to keep an estimated 100,000 refugees in Turkey's Izmir province from crossing the Aegean Sea. Prior to the agreement, new arrivals numbered as many as 2,000 a day. Still, Flippidis and the Athens-based NGO he works for are still keeping a constant watch over the eastern coast of Lesvos and bracing for what many on the island expect to be a new surge this summer. To date, the group has helped bring over 30,000 migrants to shore in its seven months of operation.

"Things could change any minute, and when they do, we'll be here," Flippidis told VICE. He was referencing the overcrowded migrant boats that regularly capsize, accidents that have led to many deaths since the refugee crisis began.

I have a confession to make. Attending a life drawing class run by and featuring sex workers only made me nervous for one reason: I hadn't picked up an H3 pencil since my A-levels. As much as I love a Rothko, my "thing" in recent years developed into writing a sex column and exposés on sex parties – the nudity and sex toys weren't about to bother me.

At most, I figured I may catch sight of a couple of shielded hard-ons. But when I arrived, walking up to the first floor of a dingy pub in south east London, the atmosphere was incredibly relaxed. Subdued, even. Participants of different ages and genders perched on cushions, waiting patiently to begin. And kneeling on a blanket surrounded by vibrators was Ana, the bubbly woman who runs the classes.

The class, in motion

She briefly explained that she'd be posing first, and Pussy Willow, who specialises in physically strong women fetishes, would take over for the second half. The props she was posing with, she helpfully added, were all gifts from a sugar daddy. Squeezing in between a young female art student and a hairy guy, I picked up my pencil and waited for the sex to begin.

It didn't. Instead, Ana posed alone with different sex toys, eventually ending up naked, and used her laptop to recreate a "camming" scene – where a sex worker performs in real time for a client online over webcam video. She spoke throughout, commenting and joking about her experiences. The context was sexual, but the actual experience? Disarmingly normal.

"I thought people would come into the class and just like, get a boner from it,"Ana told me afterwards. "I worried about it being a free live sex show for people but it isn't that at all. I'm trying to create a more accessible space for people to create art, a political space." So is it a political act, or does using sex workers just gain the classes publicity? For me, the intention to kick off a wider discussion on the politics of sex work is there. But the conversation feels useless if you're only preaching to the choir.

Pussy Willow says she can lift a 12-stone man

Anyway, the second half of the class then featured Dominatrix Pussy Willow and her "victim" Jonathan, in various fetishised wrestling poses. Drawing them felt unusual – with their muscles strained and faces pulled taut as Pussy Willow took on a normally masculine role – but not sexual or sexy. Their poses were quick and energetic, and felt more like a performance rather than the intimate setting of Ana's session.

"Within art I've always studied the performative element of sex work, and performing gender," Ana said afterwards. "I looked into Thomas Ekings, a 17th century artist. He restructured life-drawing classes, so rather than using prostitutes and courtesans, everyone would draw each other. That created a whole new class division in the art world. But it's not the 1870s. If you are a prostitute you aren't this stereotype, riddled with disease, which is what they would have exploited back in the day, using you as an object to document through art. Now there's a lot of activism around sex work, and stripping and camming is very performative. The idea needs to be readdressed."

Ana has a point. As we learned last week, the Home Affairs Select Committee released a report calling for the decriminalisation of sex work after a long enquiry that some worried would lead to more regressive policing of the occupation. For the UK's estimated 72,800 sex workers, this could mean safer working practices. But for others, it may not go all the way to solving the seemingly innate exploitation that comes with the job. I wondered whether Ana's classes were part of a trend towards further normalising the objectification of women, or if sex work could actually be empowering.

"Not everyone that does sex work is greedy, or oppressed, or being exploited. But I don't think any work is empowering," she said. "The class is part of a movement towards decriminalisation; but that is specific for certain sex workers. I want to destigmatise sex work, and not focus on sex positivity – because some people hate sex with their clients, so for them it's about survival. But working towards both destigmatisation and decriminalisation will help create safety for sex workers. I want the public to confront sex work, to show that it's not as black-and-white as the media usually make it out to be. It can be erotic wrestling, or going shopping."

Obviously, as the creator of the class, Ana's had a lot of time to shape her opinions on it. I grabbed a few of my fellow sketchers to hear from them too. Why come to the class at all, beyond a loose expectation of titillation? "I don't know what I was expecting," said Tegan, a 20-year-old art student, when we spoke after the class. "I've done life drawing before, but nothing like this, never two people, never in those positions. And I haven't ever met a sex worker before."

Like the rest of the attendees, Tegan seemed pretty nonchalant about the sex element: "Whenever you go to a life drawing class," she said, "it takes a minute to get over the fact that they're naked. I just liked that it was really relaxed."

"And it's not just about it being an artistic space," agreed Rachel, 22, also an art student. "It's just a nice, quiet room, and not a lecture."

The author, getting a couple of pointers from one of the tutors

Deliberately or not, Ana has taken sex work into a context so normalised that it's referred to as "nice" and "quiet". She's doing her bit to move the profession beyond the realms of stereotypes, which is saying something. And it was a boner-free evening, at least from where I was sitting.

Some names have been changed to protect people's identities

@daisy_field / @CBethell_Photo

More on VICE:

The Amnesty Sex Work Argument, Broken Down

We Asked Sex Workers What Makes Their Favourite Clients Special

Cheap Oil Is Ruining Aberdeen's Sex Work Industry

Still via Two Soft Things, Two Hard Things

This article originally appeared on VICE Canada

Turns out all the sequins and balloons in the world can't cover up the fact that Pride parades are inherently contested political spaces. I like to hope that's the lesson many of us took away from the Black Lives Matter protest in Toronto this week, despite what a certain demographic of Canadian pundit seems to think. (You know who you are, jerks).

That's also a lesson learned at a much newer Pride party more than 2,000 kilometres north of Toronto. Now in its third year, Iqaluit's LGBT community is still figuring out what its own version of Pride should look like, with a whole different set of taboos and political circumstances making things complicated.

A documentary coming to Vancouver's Queer Film Festival next month self-consciously treads into this territory, tracing how church and state have pushed non-binary gender/sexuality/family structure out of traditional Inuit culture. At the same time, Two Soft Things, Two Hard Things also shows how queer culture is perceived as the stuff of non-Inuit outsiders in the far north.

For filmmakers Mark Kenneth Woods and Michael Yerxa, who came in to Iqaluit Pride as those "southern" white, gay outsiders, it was important not to arrive with expectations. "We knew that it would probably be small, we knew there had never been a parade or anything," Woods told VICE. "Knowing ahead of time about the colonial past, we thought, 'Oh, it looks like Pride would actually be quite difficult locally—let's see how that plays out.'"

Woods and Yerxa pay a lot of attention to the reasons why queerness is embraced by young Inuit and some elders, while the generation in the middle shows the most hesitation. "There's such a heavy Christian presence today it's tough to be LGBT and out," Woods said. "The generation between the elders and the youth are the ones that were Christianized, and have learned from their parents how to be Christians. That's where it's a bit uncomfortable."

Obviously the stakes are high for queer and trans people choosing to come out or move to the city, in part because it's so difficult to leave. "As Canadians we're not well versed in what it's like in the northern part of our country. There are no roads between communities, everything is fly-in and fly-out. It's insanely expensive."

The name of the film, Two Soft Things, Two Hard Things, comes from the Inuktitut words for lesbian and gay, passed on from the elders of a purple-haired Inuit youth leader. Roughly translated to English as "two soft things rubbing together" and "two hard things rubbing together," it hints at pre-colonial queerness in a traditional culture where plural marriages could take a lot of different shapes and structures.

In some ways the colonization of the north doesn't even qualify as history yet—it's only in the last 60 years that Canada forced relocation and assimilation, ending nomadic life for thousands of Inuit. The filmmakers pick up on quiet tensions playing out between the Pride event's white organizers and the Inuit community—but nothing loud, nothing heated.

In a town of 6,500 people, there were just enough Pride attendees to fill one local bar. There are all the rainbow balloons and dancefloor lights you'd expect, but no over-the-top performances, no protest. Although Inuit represent more than half of the local population, Woods found they were "by no means the majority" taking part in Pride publicly.

Woods acknowledges how problematic it is for the event to come from outside the Inuit community. "You have to be careful about not going in there as a white saviour and saying 'I'm going to help everybody' without actually listening," Woods said. "You're just re-colonizing if you're going in and saying 'Oh you should think of LGBT in this way.'"

In one of the film's more interesting moments, filmmaker Alethea Arnaquq-Baril suggests traditional Inuit culture is at odds with the concept of "pride" itself. She explains how Inuit from a young age are conditioned to be humble, not boastful.

For Woods, this cultural difference presents an interesting challenge for the future of Pride in the far north. "They really have to tailor-make their own LGBT celebration that works locally," he told VICE. "It's not going to be shouting at the top of your lungs and dancing down the streets saying 'We're here, we're queer, get used to it.'"

Woods says a conversation about how Pride can redefine itself in Iqaluit is already ongoing. But like the pace of anything in the north, that back-and-forth requires some patience.

It's interesting to think about—a slower, quieter Pride movement—after a week where courage and noise have been so effective at capturing the public imagination. But it's also tempting to see a fire just below the surface: I find it telling that Arnaquq-Baril's latest film is called Angry Inuk. Maybe next year will be Iqaluit's loud and proud moment.

Follow Sarah Berman on Twitter.

This article originally appeared on VICE US

We are a nation with a collective mind filled with horrific images. Many of us have watched the seemingly endless stream of videos of black bodies being destroyed in the streets. We have watched these videos over and over. What is the impact of us watching these graphic murders over and again? What is the influence of us walking around with indelible images of murder in our minds all the time?

I can see Eric Garner choking, Tamir Rice falling, Michael Brown laying in the street for hours. And, new this week, I see Alton Sterling on the ground with cops all over him and a gun pressed to his chest, and Philando Castile in his car, bleeding all over, while an officer holds a gun on him and his girlfriend screams. When Castile's four-year-old daughter tries to console, I crumble. We have consumed so many graphic images of violent deaths that prove the fragility of the black body. What they accomplish is the same thing the widely-distrusted photographs of lynchings once did—to remind everyone that black bodies are disposable.

When I was growing up, Blockbuster Video always had a few copies of Faces of Death available for rent in case anyone wanted to watch people dying in gruesome ways. I never wanted to see it. Who wants so many horrible images in their head? But nowadays it feels like I'm being forced to watch the macabre, black version of it.

Still, we have to watch—at least I have to watch. Because I have to know. Even though the quantity makes it all overwhelming, I have to know what's going on. I have to feel the pain and the anger. The moment demands it. But how much can one nation take? How much can black people take?

I don't watch these videos and see abstract events. These are things that could happen to me. I watch them and feel like what's happening onscreen is happening to my body. With each new video, I die again and again. Maybe you do, too. I have to watch, but what is it doing to me? Probably causing further scarring on a soul that's already wounded. Black people in America are in trauma. We are like Castile's girlfriend Diamond Reynolds pleading with Jesus, don't let him be dead. But he is bleeding. Over and over, again. Our nightmare is our reality.

Thursday's horrific mass shooting of Dallas police officers is more evidence of a nation in pain as well as a nation with access to too many weapons of war. I have problems with the way American police officers perform their jobs, but dear God I do not wish for dead cops. I wish for policing that is more effective, more judicious, and more empathetic. But to get there we need a radical restructuring of how America sees black people. We are viewed as the problem. We are viewed as prey. We are expendable and exploitable. All that means that black people are policed differently than white ones. Until that changes this policing crisis will continue.

That crisis has been going on for longer than I have been alive, it just feels hotter now because of the ubiquity of video cameras. And it will continue for as long as the broken windows theory continues to shape policing. Broken windows says you pursue small crimes aggressively and that will prevent more serious crimes. Garner was selling cigarettes on the street. Sterling was selling CDs. Castile had a broken tail light. If not for broken windows, they may have never talked to the cops that fateful day.

The crisis will continue as long as there is an over prevalence of guns in America which leads to police officers working in fear. Both Sterling and Castile were legally armed—which seems to have made them more vulnerable, not less. (Don't expect the NRA to stand up for them—the NRA is here to protect the gun rights of white people.)

The crisis will continue as long as officers are taught that blacks are to be targeted and arrested. The idea that the problem is merely a few bad apples is a fallacy. Yes, the overwhelming majority of police officers are good and serious people, but the direction they get from on high is that black people can be targeted and arrested. From black people they can extract revenue. We are the lambs they shear and slaughter.

We need a revolution in how America perceives and polices black people. There has been momentum growing since Michael Brown was killed. There is a much needed movement working to try to make things better. Body cameras here, consent decrees there, Black Lives Matter growing—there is a movement. I fear the Dallas massacre will discredit and derail that movement and leave us further than ever from progress. We are a nation in pain and that pain is only going to spread.

Follow Toure on Twitter.

This article originally appeared on VICE US

Hello eaters, my name's Nick Gazin and I'm VICE's art editor. Here are some reviews I wrote about frozen, microwavable macaroni and cheese.

The idea of frozen mac and cheese is a ridiculous notion to me since it isn't a difficult food to prepare. All you have to do is boil water, put in the pasta, throw in some cheese and milk—or that cheese powder stuff in the box—stir, and then consume. Voila.

For some, this is too much work and they just want to open a box, cut a one inch slit in the plastic wrapping that covers the frozen cheese/noodle brick, put said brick in the microwave, then hit a button before scalding their mouth on molten cheese, or, in some cases, a mystery substance manufacturers call "cheese sauce."

As usual, Amy's products were the best. Amy's is not paying me to say this. They just make the least gross, most food-like frozen food. I'm not even a vegetarian, but their food is higher quality and less chemical-y. Anyway, here are my reviews of a food product that should never have been invented in the first place.

Amy's Macaroni and Cheese

Since starting this column, people have suggested many times that I eat Amy's Mac and Cheese. So I ate it. I hope you're all glad I ate the thing you told me to eat.

The idea of microwaving a thing that's already stupidly easy to make didn't make sense to me, but after microwaving this product for seven minutes, it became more of a baked mac and cheese. It was good. It was macaroni and cheese.

GRADE: A+

AMY'S BOWLS: BROCCOLI & CHEDDAR BAKE

The food was exactly like what it looks like on the box. Eating it was like attending was a hot, cheesy broccoli party, and I was the guest of honor. And during the middle of the party, I was presented with an Amy's Broccoli & Cheddar Bake and then got a kiss from my crush. I win at food.

GRADE: A+

Smart Ones Weight Watchers Classic Favorites Macaroni & Cheese

I ate three forkfuls and threw it out. The cheese tasted like orange-colored water. It looked like mac and cheese, but this dish was a wolf in sheep's clothing.

GRADE: F

Stouffer's Macaroni & Cheese

Most microwavable frozen food gets microwaved for at least two-to-four minutes, but this beast asks consumers to nuke the product for a total of 11 minutes, with a brief intermission to stir the food around in its little black plastic serving casket. When I opened the 'wave, the mac and cheese trough was bubbling and burping hot cheese magma. Although I was afraid, I stirred on, and gave it a few more minutes to cook.

Upon opening the microwaving a second time and listening to the food gurgle with the heat, I found myself thinking of the movie The Fly. How much do the plastic fibers of the cheap dish and the cheap food intermingle? Am I eating plastic?

This mac and cheese was better than the Smart Ones garbage, but it was still awful. Get Amy's or Annie's mac.

Grade: C-

Lean Cuisine Favorites: Macaroni & Cheese

The macaroni's had a pleasant density, not too soft or hard, but the flavor and consistency of the cheesy was suspect. I ate all of this, but I was very hungry and feeling weird from swallowing small amounts of bleach while bleaching my mustache earlier in the night (don't ask).

If you like mac and cheese, there's no reason to not just boil some on the stove and make it yourself, even if you use that powdered cheese. I like the mac and cheese with the rabbit logo, and would choose that over frozen mac almost any day.

Grade: B-

That's it for this week. Check back next week to see what I think about the food I'm eating, and follow me on Instagram.

All photos by Zach Sokol

This article originally appeared on VICE US

There's a reason young people continuously move to New York City, despite countless reasons they shouldn't. To start with the bad, real estate and rent prices are higher than ever (despite growing income inequality and an affordable housing crisis), unemployment among 18 to 29-year-olds is just shy of 10 percent, spaces for artists are closing left and right (which, in part, leads to the gentrification of new neighborhoods), and student debt is inspiring millennials to bail on the country entirely. Plus, we'll never win the fight against the city's rats.

Despite the terrifying barriers to entry, as well as the myriad factors that make living here comfortably unsustainable, New York City is the best city in America, especially when it comes to nightlife. Yes, it is the "city that never sleeps," and not just because residents are up all night stressing about whether they can afford rent next month. New York City––and its infinite options for hedonism, inspiration, and opportunity––will always attract people from all corners of the world, from all walks of life.

If there's a niche facet of culture you're interested in, you can almost certainly find the right community for you if you go digging enough—be that in NYC's clubbing scene, our sex party subcultures, our countless options for fashion heads and foodies, and so on and so forth. It's the "golden age" of weed dealing in the Big Apple, cops are being less prickish about people drinking or pissing in public (super important when it comes to partying), and our pizza and bagels are still danker-than-dank. Bars stay open way later than is reasonable, and you can literally find a stranger to make you your favorite sandwich at any hour, of any day, at nearly any bodega.

Arca and Shane Oliver of Hood by Air doing a DJ set at 5 AM (RIP Spectrum). Photo by Zach Sokol

Recently, my colleagues across the Atlantic asked me to come up with some questions I had about UK nightlife, which they sufficiently answered (though I'm still not sure why cocaine is called "gak" over there). All in all, the replies confirmed what I already believed: London and its nightlife is essentially a watered down version of the city I live in. Call London "New York Lite™." With the very-real fear of how Brexit will change life in Britain, maybe now is time to consider a move to the States (depending, of course, on who wins our nightmare of a presidential election). And you might have some questions, even if they're as simple as, "What's the difference between 'molly' and 'E'?"

Francisco Garcia, a curious chav, had some questions about nightlife in the States. Though I can't speak to other cities, I can speak to New York, where I've lived for nearly seven years and where my dad grew up. While no primer on NYC nightlife could ever be complete, VICE staff writer Allie Conti and I did our best to answer questions about cheap booze, hard-hitting techno, and drugs that are considered social taboos. NYC is a city that will shit in your mouth and slap you across the face, but chances are the good stuff will outweigh the bad, and every other city will pale in comparison once you've clocked enough hours here.

DRUGS

Fran "Brit" Garcia: Is the weekend-long "rager" a thing over there? Like, do groups of frothing 20-somethings go out on three-night binges of increasingly depressing predictability and regularity? Or would it be considered transgressive and/or over-the-top?
Zach "Yank" Sokol: Yes, we certainly do, though the "group" aspect really depends on your social circle. It's not at all uncommon for gangs of friends to go out several nights a week and ruin their bodies together. Weekends tend to see those nights out followed by days of hedonistic hangover cures and group hangouts—an eighth of weed, disgusting bodega food, paranoid games of Uno. That changes when people get jobs that aren't just day jobs. Also, doing drugs on a Monday night isn't really fun, so fuck it.

I would say the "weekend warrior" trope is real not just in New York City but throughout a lot of America. Even though we should probably feel lucky we have jobs, lots of young people with Monday-Friday, 9-5 gigs often suppress their hatred of toiling away in front of screens, doing things they don't like in order to pay rent, by obliterating themselves on weekends. And then gluttonous recovery. I don't think Americans are great at balancing their professional and personal lives in a way that lets them grow both.

Brit: I've never quite been able to wrap my head around "molly" as a cultural phenomenon over in the US. What are the defining traits? Is it an aggressive, bro-y thing or what? Over here it has very different cultural associations––mainly early 90s acid house, the second summer of love and all the joy and empathy, albeit chemically-induced, that entails.
Zach "Yank" Sokol: I think the major difference between UK and US ecstasy culture is that "raving," as it's generally understood in Western culture, first took off in the UK. As a result, it will always feel like the US got into X––or E––after the Brits. A few chapters in Simon Reynolds' Energy Flash break down the history of ecstasy and dance music in both the US and UK really well. But you gotta remember that Detroit is responsible for techno, and Chicago and NYC pioneered house, so your Second Summer of Love isn't something we romanticize too much over here. I do know multiple people who have tattoos of Babyshambles lyrics, though, so I don't know what that says about transatlantic musical tastes.

The UK has a long and storied history with ecstasy, but so does the US. In 1985, a club in Dallas called Starck legally sold ecstasy, which, in part, led to the DEA reclassifying it as a Schedule I narcotic later that year. And the Chicago and New York house scenes of lore (think 90s clubs like Warehouse, NASA, Limelight) certainly weren't shy about it.

The main thing you're referencing, which is a conversation that's been running for at least three or four years, is that Americans refer to ecstasy as "molly," and not "E" or "ecstasy." When it comes to MDMA in America, pill form is way less common––or at least it was when the mainstream conversation around molly began. Instead, you'd buy powder, crystals, or "moon rocks" (boy, if you were lucky!) of supposedly "pure" MDMA (but realistically bath salts or speed/meth) sold in those lil plastic coke bags or in hand-packed capsules. Rappers and pop stars began referencing the drug, and many remember when "popped a molly, I'm sweatin'" became a household meme (Trinidad James isn't remembered as widely). That was 2012! The EDM bubble's popped. You asked in our first exchange why us Yanks don't fuck with ketamine over here––but me and your boy Max Daly subsequently answered that ;)

Brit: How much is too much? Is it common for people to go through a gram by themselves? Or is it more of a caring/sharing vibe?
Zach "Yank" Sokol: People like to front as if they're not stingy, but they are. Most people are leeches anyway, and affording luxuries like drugs isn't cheap in NYC, so stinginess is understandable. In your immediate friendship group, where everyone already owes someone else $20, you'd be an asshole not to share, though. I'll say people regularly offer drugs in social situations as a lame power move, to get attention, friends, or something sus'. And yes, a gram a night is common for many, though so is the number of young people who face addiction and substance abuse problems. Feels bad, man. People are always down to share weed, though.

Brit: Are any drugs taboo or just totally uncommon in NYC nightlife?
Allie "Yank" Conti: I know that ketamine is very prevalent over in the UK, but I feel like here it's definitely not as popular and is considered borderline unacceptable in a lot of social circles. I don't know where the stigma comes from, but for a long time I associated it with the movie Party Monster and an antiquated scene of down-and-out drug users, as opposed to quote-unquote "normal people" who just liked to get fucked up on the weekends. Even in New York, you usually only find yourself being offered K if you're with people who are significantly older than you are and have actually lived through that era. People in their twenties tend to balk at the idea of ketamine and have mostly never dabbled in it, unless they're from overseas.

Brit: There's a big university drug dealing culture over here, a lot of people will dabble in college/uni. Is that a thing over in the States?
Allie "Yank" Conti: Yeah, for sure, and I wish I participated to an extent. The people I used to buy drugs from in college are now totally upright members of society with boring-ass jobs who would never do it now. They basically made good money for four years and suffered zero consequences. Fuck, it was probably the coolest they ever were and ever will be. Meanwhile, I worked at a series of fast food restaurants and as an overnight security guard. Not a lot of social cachet in that, and the hours and wages were definitely worse.

Brit: The whole issue around legal highs is massively topical at the moment in the UK (there have been some high profile changes in the legislation over the past month or so). What's the general attitude towards this weird compound substances over there? Things like Spice, etc? Are they more prevalent in less densely populated areas where "traditional" drugs are that bit more difficult to acquire? And what are their social implications?
Allie "Yank" Conti: I've never seen K2 or Spice or any other synthetic, gas-station-purchased "drug" available in a social setting post-high school. From anecdotal experience, they're still used by 20-somethings in my hometown, but I'm from a suburban place that borders on rural. I literally cannot imagine someone offering me synthetic weed or bath salts at a party in New York. Doesn't happen here. Would be considered bottom-of-the-barrel trashy and would put people off massively to the point that they would leave.

Zach "Yank" Sokol: Allie's right, though people did fuck with salvia in high school, and I know a lot of kids who messed around with Silk Road to obtain research chemicals and synthetic analogs in college. Then media coverage of the horrors of bath salts and synthetic weed took off in America, and it scared people for good reason. There is still a synthetic weed problem in Brooklyn (some call it an "epidemic"), especially among poor and marginalized communities. Allie did some good reporting on this.

Brit: On that note, which drugs hold which place in the social pyramid?
Zach "Yank" Sokol: Cocaine will always be associated with wealth, or a superficial facade of wealth. Otherwise, unless you're getting extremely pure drugs, everything else ebbs and flows in terms of trendiness. The past couple years, more and more mainstream rappers have rapped about "xan," or Xanax. Before that, it was lean (which can be reaaaaally expensive. As Gucci Mane rapped in 2009, "$600 a pint, the going rate off in the A"). Also, molly had its moment when it intersected with both hip-hop and the EDM bubble and totally become a talking point throughout mainstream American pop culture. At the end of the day, whatever the biggest rock stars talk about will probably end up being the trendiest for at least a little while, and rappers are our biggest rock stars today.

Boooooze

Brit: Can you explain the "bum-wine" concept? We have similar stuff here like Buckfast/MD 2020, which have been appropriated by middle-class uni kids looking to get smashed like proles, minus the lingering threat of imminent financial oblivion. Is it the same deal over there?
Allie "Yank" Conti: Man, I love bum wine. I had a relatively unusual experience, because I spent a good portion of my college years living in a trailer and living out some sort of redneck-punk fantasy, but my friends and I used to buy something called Wild Irish Rose that would put you on your ass for $4. We also used to drink MD20/20, but mostly because of the Elliott Smith song. Franzia, which is a boxed wine, became popular here for a while. Most people don't fuck with any of that after their early twenties, but if someone offered you a swig at a party you might think it was cute or ironic or nostalgic and indulge.

Brit: What's the deal with tipping? Is it really mandatory? That is such a foreign concept to our tight British arses. We leave maybe 20p, max.
Allie "Yank" Conti: Yes, tipping is mandatory, unless you're a huge piece of human garbage. It's really ingrained and socially reinforced––if I saw someone not tip, I would think less of them. The idea is usually a dollar a drink if you're ordering a beer or something that takes only a second or two to procure. You're generally expected to give more if you're ordering some fancy shit, like a cocktail with more than three ingredients. If you're tipping on a card at the end of the night, 20 percent is the standard but 10 percent is the bare minimum.

Zach "Yank" Sokol: I agree with Allie, fully. I think the only exception––a very rare one––is if you're at a bar, it's not busy, and the bartender is outwardly rude (assuming you're not doing something dickish, like texting while asking for a drink). You'd only not tip to send a message, and this shouldn't be a message you send unless it's a battle worth picking. Otherwise you're on some Larry David shit.

The only other exception is when buying a cup of coffee. I was a barista for a while in college, and I didn't expect people to tip me if they ordered a drip coffee or iced coffee. If it's anything else––an Americano, cappuccino, flat white (just kidding, only silly Brits order those)––you should tip. The worst, though, is when someone doesn't tip, but makes it a whole awkward thing where you can tell they're over-thinking that decision through their body language or whatever. Just make a choice, be confident about that choice, and then get the fuck out––you're holding up the line!

Brit: I know you don't have a 'pub culture' (not that we will have for much longer, they're all dying) BUT is it a thing to go to a bar for a few post-work drinks, like several nights a week? Or would that be an intervention-triggering no no?
Allie "Yank" Conti: Definitely a thing.

Zach "Yank" Sokol: 100 percent a thing. Shout out to Broken Land, Happy Fun Hideaway, Jimmy's, The Commodore, Bossa Nova, 169 Bar, Forget Me Not, etc.

Brit: What's the policy on drinking alone? Not in the "9 bottles of paint stripper" sense, but the "4 cans in your pants with The Sopranos boxset" sense?
Zach "Yank" Sokol: A six pack, HBO, some masturbation, and maybe a spliff by yourself a few times a week is normal in your twenties. If you're doing this more than three or four nights a week, maybe you've got to check yourself––or your body will start warning you by getting all doughy and sad. If you're finishing a bottle or an eighth of weed alone in a single night, something's not going well in your life.

Lotic DJ'ing the five-year anniversary party of Tri Angle Records in a bank vault on Wall Street. Photo by Zach Sokol

Other stuff

Brit: When do you generally (all weekenders aside) get back from a night out? Is it all over by 4, like on this christ forsaken isle?
Zach "Yank" Sokol: In New York, it's common for people in their twenties and early thirties to come home as the sun is rising or even when the next day is already in full swing. As expanded upon below, there's a whole "Afters" scene just for electronic music, so you could technically party all weekend without ever leaving a room with DJ decks. While I think the vampire life option is more common during weekends, you can definitely stay out just as late during the week. Clubs and bars open to at least 4 AM, and if you're familiar enough with the party scene, you can probably figure out which locale will be busiest on a given night. Mondays and Tuesdays are chiller, but even then there are options to get weird and stay out if you look hard enough and have the money and resources to keep the party going. This is even more true if you're in a band, living in a commune/squat/arts space/ DIY space, or paint graffiti. "The City That Never Sleeps" tag has always been true and still feels on point to me.

Brit: What's the deal with afterparties? Is there an age-point when it just gets a bit sad bringing back a collection of gurning strangers to your flat every weekend? Or is it strictly mates only?
Zach "Yank" Sokol: The "Afters" nightclub and rave scenes—meaning parties that cater to catatonic young people (the dregs from any good party) from 4 AM to jah-knows-when—are super sus and depressing. Probably the only place you'll regularly see ketamine use in NYC.

But when it comes to art openings, record releases, fashion shows, or anything that involves a PR firm and lots of money, getting invited to the after party is more important than the party itself. And after parties at stranger's apartments are always where the fun, spooky, and memorable stuff happens—even if the memory ends up a bit foggy. You have to know when it's time to leave though, otherwise you'll be stuck in an awful conversation and won't have sex, or you'll be the asshole cockblocking someone else.

Brit: Please, please I need to know. Do people earnestly refer to EDM? Is it actually a thing. Please, I need to know.
Zach "Yank" Sokol: "EDM" refers to a very specific type of electronic music in the US. It's mostly associated with white, cis "bro" culture, or "basic" college campus culture. The opening scene of Harmony Korine's Springbreakers satirized this pretty well. The Zac Efron EDM movie wasn't received so well. As noted before, that mainstream EDM bubble has mostly popped. Only parents and people who don't listen to dance music of any sort would refer to electronic music, generally, as "EDM." And the culture that surrounded EDM at its peak did not reflect how deep and complicated dance music culture was in other communities in the US at the same time. Or how deep, complicated, and influential it still is today.

Here's a weird example: In April, 2014, Walt Disney Records put out an EDM remix compilation of music from movies like The Lion King. That same month, DJ Rashad, a genius and a pioneering force behind footwork, overdosed and died. A lot of people were affected by Rashad's passing, while most people don't even know about that embarrassing paycheck Avicii took from Disney.

But my mom doesn't know what footwork is, and she does know EDM means "awful music with that wub wub wub" sound, and she'd probably be able to recognize Skrillex (though, tbh, no shade on Sonny). What does that say about America, our cultural capital, its nightlife and the canon? I'm not quite sure.

Follow Zach, Allie, and Francisco on Twitter.

This article originally appeared on VICE US

In many prisons, the most valuable commodity is not tobacco or even hard drugs, but smut. Not everyone gets high or smokes, but every inmate jerks off, out of loneliness or horniness or sheer boredom. During my 21 years of incarceration in America, the one thing that I missed more than anything else was the company of a woman, especially as I had no conjugal visits while in the feds.

The most common form of porn that's circulated in prison is photocopied smut magazines, though modeling magazines that don't have nudity are also popular. Often, actual hardcore porn mags are smuggled in by correctional officers looking to make some extra money. If you have a magazine in its entirety, it can be hawked to other inmates for upwards of $200, depending on what condition it's in. The owners then make copies and resell them in black-and-white for $20 a pop. Copies (e.g. copies of copies) of spreads or certain pin-ups are then sold for a stamp a page, and prisoners often trade when they get bored of "their girls."

The other popular form of sexual entertainment is photos from the web that friends or family on the outside print out in bundles, then send through snail mail. A porn DVD—extremely rare in prison—can bring several hundred dollars to the officer who smuggled it in; phones with downloaded porn videos are sold for upward of $500.

"It's crazy the prices we pay," one prisoner recently told me over the phone. "But then again, it's prison. Checking out a little porn is all a guy really has to look forward to."

Since most prisons nationwide have banned porn, prisoners will go to great lengths to both preserve and conceal their collections. Depending on the individual institution's rules, punishments can range from confiscation or time in solitary confinement to disciplinary transfers to new criminal charges for the introduction or possession of sexually explicit materials. Some prisons have made masturbation, even without porn, an infraction.

To get some insight about how prisoners share smut today, we talked to several prisoners doing time around the nation to learn how they get porn in, how it's traded among inmates, and what it's like to hide something that free Americans spend countless hours with each day.

Prisoner One
31 Years Old
Serving Ten Years at FCI Beckley in West Virginia for Crystal Meth Distribution

Suitably beautiful promotional artwork for 'Ōkami'

Video games graphics have reached a point where you can see every crease in the rugged face of a protagonist, marvel at the swish of Lara Croft's hair and endlessly gaze over stunning realistic vistas. However, when we look back at those games hailed as graphical marvels of their time we can have a little chuckle to ourselves at what we once thought was the peak of realism. Lest we forget the LEGO arms of Final Fantasy VII and the 2D enemy sprites of the original DOOM – important artefacts of their times, but don't they look it.

But for me, Ōkami is the quintessential ageless game. It's a master class in art style over graphics. Its whole aesthetic is inspired by Japanese watercolour and wood carving art in the Ukiyo-e style and sumi-e ink wash paintings. For a game that's based on static art it uses its graphical style and cel shading to capture a real sense of fluidity and movement. Hitting your peak running speed as the white wolf goddess Amaterasu, with flowers and petals emerging behind you and the wind billowing, is as much a joy now as it was a decade ago. When people think of Ōkami they almost immediately go to how beautiful it was, and remains.

Both this and the next screenshot are from 'Ōkami HD' for the PlayStation 3, via PlayStation.com

It's often remarked that creativity flourishes when given boundaries. The hardware available to Ōkami's makers, the long-since-defunct Clover Studio, denied them photorealism as an option, much like how The Legend of Zelda: The Wind Waker's distinctive cel-shaded style was brought about by the GameCube's inability to run a game with that amount of realistic-looking water. Clover Studio clearly had experience when it came to ringing what they could get out of hardware. Many that worked on Ōkami, like producer Atsushi Inaba and director Hideki Kamiya (both now at PlatinumGames, the home of Bayonetta and The Wonderful 101), had also worked on the gorgeous Viewtiful Joe for the GameCube.

When I play games like Wind Waker and Ōkami and marvel at their loveliness, I thank the 13 Celestial Brush Gods that Clover didn't have photorealism as an option. If they had, and pursued it, I doubt Ōkami would be considered the classic it is today. The game itself is solid, its Zelda-like mechanics are fun, the music is great and the world is well realised – but it's the art and style of the experience that makes it truly stand out, even against today's most celebrated productions.

Article continues after the video below

Watch how this year's visually captivating RPG 'Hyper Light Drifter' was made

2016 marks the tenth anniversary of Ōkami's release. It wasn't a commercial success at the time, only the 100th-best-selling game in the US in 2006, but it's developed a passionate following since. You need not look far, either, to see its influence in newer games. In Blizzard's online shooter Overwatch, the character of Hanzo has an alternative skin named "Okami". A little disturbingly perhaps, it features the skin of a white wolf draped over Hanzo's shoulders. This could be reference to Clover's game, but equally it could also be because "okami", or "ookami", is Japanese for "wolf". It's nice to think that it's a nod to Amaterasu, though.

The imminent Monster Hunter Generations by Capcom – Capcom being the studio that funded Clover for its three years in existence, between 2004 and 2007 – is more open with its admiration of Ōkami. In April, a new trailer for the game was released that utilised the same distinctive art style of the lupine romp of ten years' previous, showing how players could dress their characters up as both Amaterasu and her companion, the Wandering Artist Issun, an insect-sized, sprite-like "Poncle".

New, on Motherboard: 'Pokémon Go' Led 11 Teens Right Into an Armed Robbery

In a number of episodes of South Park – such as the Nintendo Wii-focused "Go God Go", series 10 episode 12 – boxed copies of Ōkami can be seen on the shelves of the town's EvGames store. For a game that was a bit of a flop on its release, it has certainly stuck around in our collective consciousness. And the reason for that is simple enough: if you missed it the first time around, as I did, and go back and play it now, it will blow you away. It's the kind of game you sit down with and wonder how it was never the commercial success it deserved to be.

If you have yet to play Ōkami, the HD remaster for the PlayStation 3 – from which the screenshots here are taken – is by far the easiest, most convenient option, given its availability on Sony's online store. While the remaster definitely cleans up a few lines and creates an overall sharper experience, if you do choose to pick up the original game, for either Wii or the PS2, it still holds its ground. The remaster of this game isn't as essential to its enjoyment as other updated titles have been in recent years, purely because Ōkami was such a beautiful sight to behold in the first place.

At their very core, games that were great decades ago are often still good today. Gameplay mechanics may seem a little rusty after a while, but they rarely go truly bad. Yes, I may have once thought that Sabrina the Animated Series: Spooked! on my Gameboy Color was the best thing since, well, the Sabrina, the Teenage Witch TV show. However, it was hardly a critically well-received game. Titles with great gameplay at their very centres will usually remain incredibly enjoyable once we throw away the rose-tinted glasses and gaze upon them with more experienced eyes; but there's no denying that graphics are the thing that ages a game most. But artistic style, like we see in Ōkami? That doesn't age at all.

@nielsen_holly

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Bros on the prowl. Photo via Flickr user Mate Zec.

This article originally appeared on VICE Canada

As a female bouncer I've witnessed a lot of sketchy behaviour from dudes at the club. Over a five year span I've seen men approach women like they were smoother than an aged cognac but in reality just made women uncomfortable. The spectrum of ludicrous behaviour ran the gamut from a guy having a fake bachelor party so he could get free kisses to a group of men with "FREE MAMMOGRAM EXAMS HERE" T-shirts (offering breast exams on the spot) to my own personal favorite, a man just whipping his dick out and asking women what they thought of it at the bar. (Yeah, that happened.)

Some of these guys were relatively harmless but some were totally douchey/borderline criminal, it was like watching a depressingly skeezy Choose Your Own Adventure book play out every weekend. So in an effort to help you guys choose the right path (the one that keeps your penis in your pants) I made a list of the worst offenders and how to avoid being "that" guy on the dancefloor.

The Loner

This is the guy who cruises bars solo because apparently he has nothing to lose and wants to make sure there are no witnesses to his efforts. There was this one bar I used to work at that had a serial loner come two, three times a week. His line every time was, 'I come here alone to find beautiful women because I'm the ugliest of my friends.' Seriously bud? Now that approach just screams sanity and confidence to women.

To avoid being the loner and making people uncomfortable as you stare longingly at them, hey, make some friends? Or maybe, just go to the pub and talk to the bartender? It's much more inviting when a guy approaches a group of women with his own group of friends. The, "Who did you come here with?" line sucks when you respond with "Oh I came here alone."

The Isolator

Here's a fun fact: women are not zebra and you are not a lion trying to get your prey alone so you can attack. And yet so many dudes are tempted to isolate a woman by dancing her away from her group of friends or grabbing her arm and leading her to a more secluded area to "talk." At one bar I worked in, there was an older gentleman who couldn't hear well, so he would try to do this isolation to every woman he spoke to.

One time he actually grabbed the girl by the arm so hard to get her to walk away and talk to him, her shoulder popped out of her socket. He dislocated her shoulder because as she tried to walk away, he jerked her back. Trying to put someone's shoulder back in the socket in the middle of some garbage Justin Bieber song playing —not fun. It's insane actually. Maybe just talking to the girl you're interested in AND her friends will be better for everyone.

The Begatron

Do you refuse to take NO for an answer and think begging will eventually wear people down? This is called emotional manipulation and doesn't work in any scenario and makes everyone feel shitty. Don't beg her to take a shot with you. Don't beg her to dance with you, or beg her for her phone number. Learn to read the curve. If she says no, she means no.

The most pathetic response I have ever seen inside a nightclub to a girl refusing a dude's advances is this one time when a guy asked her for repayment on all the drinks he bought her. He had been talking to and buying her drinks all night and when it came time to go home, she said she was not interested. So he ACTUALLY refused to leave her alone because she would not repay him for all the money he "wasted" on her.

The only reason I knew this situation happened was because the guy eventually came to me to complain about his time being wasted and demanded the bar stop "fraud" like this from happening. The only waste however was in begging a girl who has no interest in you.

Classic dudes. Photo via Flickr user mbadsey.

The Spender

Flashing cash to peacock for a potential mate is a time-tested move. But offering to buy someone a drink is a lot different than trying to get someone super drunk, super fast. As a rule of thumb, if you're going to buy a person a drink, have them accompany you to the bar. I realize some guys want to throw around their money to make up for wherever else they lack, but getting a girl in a bar profusely drunk is sus as fuck.

Just like my begatron example, I have seen guys spend crazy amounts of money and not get what they want. But the answer is not to throw loonies and toonies at women when they refuse your advances. This has happened more than a dozen times on my watch. A guy will see he spent money and the "investment" is not going the way he wants, so he starts throwing change at the girl to degrade her and make her feel bad.

The Toucher

This is the absolute worst guy you will meet at a bar. He's not being affectionate, he's just a pervert. We see him "accidentally" touching every woman's butt as he walks by them, or managing to rub his chub on every woman in a crowd. There's nothing wrong with dancing, but no one wants to feel you being aroused because you saw an ankle bracelet.

My second shift at one bar, I had a male patron walking around with his hand in his pants and the other hand trying to touch as much breast and ass as he could. When I approached him about it he said that he was itchy and it didn't look like what I thought. Sorry, buddy, I don't care how severe your venereal disease is, please keep your hands to yourself—but not that close to yourself.

The Insulter

The negging trend should have died by now, but every once in a while someone surprises you with a retro move from The Game. I was working at a rave once and while doing searches birth control dropped out of a girl's purse and the guy in the line beside her yelled, "BIRTH CONTROL IS FOR SUCKERS AND UGLY CHICKS! BUT HEY, I'D STILL SMASH, BABY." As you can imagine, this definitely did not get him any love from the women in line.

The Stripper

One year during a shift I was working on St. Patrick's Day, a guy began stripping down to his underwear to impress a group of women. I told him to put his clothes on and he then proceeded to sit down on the ground (with no shirt, and half his pants off) and tell me if I wanted him out I would have to drag him out. Of course, I dragged him out as he was and he found himself shirtless in downtown Toronto in winter. To avoid being half naked and kicked out of a club in winter, please do not begin the process of getting half naked. We all know what happens to men's bodies in the cold.

Follow Mirna on Twitter.

You wouldn't expect anything less from Bristol than an all-out smiley and colourful display at Pride. It's sort of their thing, that combination of West Country cheer and the type of hippie-dippie tolerance that pushed people to fight against Tesco's aggressive expansion in the Stokes Croft neighbourhood back in 2011. With that inevitably come those woven hemp trousers and a few white people with badly maintained dreadlocks, but you can't win them all.

On Saturday, Bristol brought out its rainbow flags for a Pride parade that wound its way from Castle Park, around the city centre's Cabot Circus and over to the Harbourside. We sent photographer Álvaro Martínez García down, to take in the face paint, slick all-leather outfits and rainbow scarf-wearing dogs. Here's what he saw.

I love multiculturalism. I really do. But aside from the gulps of German pilsners, sips of French wines and overindulgences in Turkish falafels that I regret in the morning, I'll ashamedly admit to say that I probably haven't made the most of it. I always assumed I would get the chance to, until a few weeks back when Britain took a dagger and repeatedly started plunging it into the heart of diversity. Overnight our country changed, and with every hate crime and racially-driven attack, I realised that the writing was on the wall for the cultural paradise of the capital. Soon we'll all be legally bound to only eat jellied eels and scones, and drink weird British ales that smell like a sink, and tea, and salute the Queen at gongs that chime on the hour every hour.

So with all those dreams of spicy food in Portuguese Stockwell and rich moussakas in Greek Haringey disappearing over the horizon, I decided that I should make the most of the world on my doorstep. And there was the only one time to do it: The European Championships. I would use this crude celebration of national identities and coming together of people to learn about and revel in cultures I know little about. Without leaving the epicentre of multiculturalism that is central London, I would watch games in bars and areas with long-established communities from a particular nation, doing my best to fit in.

RUSSIA

EREBUNI BAR, BARBICAN.

I've always been intrigued by Russian culture, but don't know much about its people. And as they were getting a particularly bad rep this tournament because they kept throwing dads in England shirts over big railings. But I put that aside to flock to a beating heart of Russian Culture in Barbican. In spite of the history lessons about the iron curtain, fighting as Zangief on Street Fighter and watching late-night documentaries about Shostakovic on a comedown, I know nothing about normal Russian people. My blueprint is Robbie Coltrane in Goldeneye. If I can channel his pure, unadulterated Russian-ness into one outfit. It is this.

Sheets of sellotape, an old woman's jacket and a furrowed brow: one of the world's oldest and most complex cultures captured in one trip to the charity shop via the bathroom. Strutting through sunny central, I feel particularly Le Nin. However, aghast at my reflection in the windows in Erebuni, I chuck the definitely-in-bad-taste towel sellotaped to my head in the bin on the way in. What was I thinking? I was thinking English. Instead I needed to think Russian.

I stroll across the polished, glittery floors to the bar. The bar lady talks Russian to me casually and I reply, yawning and nodding, with absolutely no idea what she has just said. A frosted cold glass of vodka soon arrives and it is fucking delicious. I lift my hand in the air, gesturing for another. The woman starts pointing at the toilet door, saying more Russian things. I nod – she looks confused – and my cover is blown. Bumbling through an explanation, a group gathers around me and laughs, pinching my jacket. Ordering another vodka and some marinated tomatoes, I'm invited over by a lady for a bite to eat. We shovel sour food down and, like our bellies, the place fills up as the kick-off approaches.

Old bearded Russian men, generation X couples and millennial men; throughout the game, they flip between fist-slamming anger to cheering when Glushakov appears on screen. For example, one missed opportunity inspires the old guy behind me to harpoon his fork at the ground. And as it splutters across the floor, nobody bats an eyelid. Then, however, something bafflingly surreal occurs. Within 30 seconds of the final whistle, bitter defeat and a symphony of frustrated cries, the bartender switches the channel to some sort of Russian incarnation of You've Been Framed and the whole room - including the fork-throwing man – is giggling wholeheartedly. The hefty atmosphere is flushed in seconds as if history had been rewritten. Is this a Soviet Ministry of Truth hangover? Or are they simply better losers than we are? I have no idea, but one thing is for sure: Russian You've Been Framed is a fucking hoot.

ICELAND

NORDIC BAR, FITZROVIA.

Admit it: before Euro 2016, the word 'Iceland' just made you think of Sigur Ros, those wildlings they film beyond the wall there and Kerry Katona. But now they're in vogue. Everybody wants a piece of Iceland, and so did I. Not wanting to look like a scenester, I don some traditional Icelandic garb so I blend in seamlessly. With my blooded sword, fur shawl and luscious locks, I am the king beyond the wall.

Songs heartily reverberate around the basement walls and this place, around about 500 metres from Centre Point, isn't even supposed to be open tonight. But the special occasion has attracted brigades of London's full-on drinking-out-of-horns, volcano clapping Icelandic folks. I'm pouring with sweat in my fur shawl and, after a minute or two, four fans in Iceland shirts hail me down.

They're laughing at my 'beyond the wall' costume and, after a quick Google Image search, we agree that I look less Ygritte, more Nicola Sturgeon. Soon enough, I'm having a beer with 0.00123% of Iceland. These guys are more than a percentage though: they were in France for the group stages. The moment the whistle goes, they assume silence and start drinking. They sip in sync and at a ridiculous rate, one I can't match. But if there's something I'm learning about the Icelandic culture, it's that logic and numbers literally mean nothing, so I give it my best shot.

Iceland are getting fucked here. And I feel myself getting down, beaten and a little depressed with every goal slammed past them by the French. At half time, there's a surge up the stairs for cigarettes. Expecting the kind of post-mortem analysis I've been hearing since I first watched England bomb out of France '98, I'm surprised with what I find. A number of Icelandic fans, performing the volcano clap. Pulling against every fibre in my body, I join in. And they pretty much carry this steely determination of drinking coupled with optimism through into the game, they score the first to make it 2-1 and the volcano erupts. Iceland have the threaded scalp of Wayne Rooney and his England to their name – why not the mighty France too?

With every goal, the dream is disappearing before their eyes. Eventually the whistle is blown but they continue defiantly. I'm struggling to find an Icelandic in a similar same state of mind as mine and eventually I find Arne. When I ask whether he's disappointed, he simply shakes his head and says, 'Of course not, I'm just sad that this incredible time for my country has come to an end.' The beers continue and the clapping alike as I stumble out onto the street: these insatiable people are going to take over the world.

Winter is coming.

PORTUGAL

ESTRELA, STOCKWELL.

With both Euro 2016 and multiculturalism reaching their last kicks, it is time for the finale. The leafy streets of Stockwell and Ovul are calling; I'm heading to 'Little Portugal' for the semi-final. But with just a couple of hours to go, I realise that I actually know nothing about Portugal. I can't even think of a Portuguese person who isn't a footballer. And after page after page of Google image searching inspiring fuck all, I'm desperate. Staring at my phone, I have a 'eureka' moment: of course! My friend Merv will know, his family went there a tonne of times throughout his childhood.

"Merv – what is Portugal like?"

"Lovely, mate."

"But what are the people like? What is the culture out there?"

"It's sunny, it's pretty–"

"But the people Merv, what are they like?"

"I don't know, mate. It's essentially people on holiday?"

So I present to you, the cultural understanding of a white middle class Londoner in 2016, epitomised in one outfit. I present to you, the pride of Portugal: man on holiday.

Wheeling around the corner, I'm welcomed into a parade of expectation and excitement. Horns resound and every shop, bar and barber in the area has people piling up outside, watching the game. You can't get anywhere near the epicentre and security are having to limit those entering. So I join fans scaling walls and slopes to secure a view.

After a tense first half, I see off my corner shop Sagres and exploit a small gap to get inside for the real deal. For 20 minutes, I'm merely making my way towards the bar through a dense crowd made up of die-hard vocal elites, people munching on pastel de nata and grown men holding their head with teary-eyed disbelief at throw-ins. When I get there, an older guy spots me taking photos of the crowd reactions. He buys me a drink in exchange for me taking this photo of him.

The place has been alive the whole time but when Portugal score, it's something like celebratory apoplexy. Drinks go all over the place, an elderly lady in the corner yells at the top of her voice and pretty much everybody starts crying. Then comes the nerves. A man next to me that has been fanning himself now takes pinches of Sagres from his glass and dabs his forehead: it's not even hot. The final whistle is drowned out from vuvuzelas.

I've never seen anything like this: it is absolute unadulterated chaos. There's a hilarious ritualistic dancing and crossing the road that comes every time the green man appears. I'm trying my best to sing along, but can't stop myself laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. All that time seems to be doing is encouraging more to flock to the South Lambeth road.

And as the night finishes, the croons of a tuneful ditty named 'Fado' resound. This, I'm told, is a traditional Portuguese song that romanticises about Lisbon, its people and the values of home. Watching teenagers and pensioners singing arm-in-arm, hanging off of London pane trees and red telephone boxes, stood just 3.9 miles away from the banking centres of Fleet Street in this cultural oasis, it's hard to think of a place better suited for this ditty. For Portugal is not built on 'man on holiday' it is built on 'people at home', and that's exactly what they've found here.

And so I get back to my shed, drunk at 3am and clamber into bed. But I can't sleep: something just won't sit right – why have we as a nation voted to rid ourselves of something so beautiful, so human, so pure? I need to know. So I take off my shirt, paint a St George's flag on my face and sit in front of up my laptop rewatching the England vs Iceland game. Wayne Rooney's penalty goes in; I take a sip of Carling. Iceland reply, I punch a pork pie. The second flies in and I pull a flat cap over my face and scream: I pass out. Coming to in the second half, however, I see something in the corner of my eye. Daniel Sturridge, attempting step overs and edging for the wing. Raheem Sterling taking a dive, trying to win a penalty. I jump up into the air, because I've cracked it. Watching these English men, badly attempting tricks from the continent, one thing becomes apparent; different cultures are now coursing through our veins as a nation. We're no longer hoofing the ball: we've learned. Even at our most petulant, we're calling for cards and misplacing passes from the outside of the boot. Then at our most triumphant, our capital city can boast three unique and compelling experiences within just a few square miles. Both, equally pertinent, prove one thing: multiculturalism is here to stay.

@Oobahs

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Rollercoaster Blip
THORPE PARK STOPPED A RIDE AFTER SOMEONE STUCK THEIR LEG OUT
Colossus was halted when staff spotted someone who "ignored restrictions"

Colossus, on a normal day (Photo by Stefan Scheer via)

(via)

Staff at Thorpe Park stopped a rollercoaster in the middle of a ride on Sunday, after someone allegedly stuck their leg outside of their cart.

"We stopped the ride because a guest ignored our ride restrictions and put their leg outside of the cart while on board Colossus, which was spotted by our vigilant staff on CCTV," a spokesperson told The Independent. "Therefore we stopped the ride as soon as possible and evacuated all guests."

People at the amusement park shared photos of the Colussus riders stranded in mid-air, before they were brought down. The ride was soon back up and running.

Mother Dearest
ANDREA LEADSOM SUGGESTED BEING A MUM WOULD MAKE HER A BETTER PM
She then called the Times interview featuring her own words "gutter journalism"

This is the VICE Interview. Each week we ask a different famous and/or interesting person the same set of questions in a bid to peek deep into their psyche.

Tegan and Sara are the identical twins who everyone struggles to tell apart but if you chat to them, you'll quickly find Sara is anxious, and Tegan more laidback. They picked up the guitar at age 15, and started writing together as Plunk, using the school's recording studio to make two albums. Over the years their music has grown from confessional acoustic punk to electro pop but always exploring the inner workings of relationships, break-ups and their mind – always heartfelt.

Their album Heartthrob turned them from a cult indie-rock band into legit pop stars, seven records into their career, in 2013. They've opened for Katy Perry and Lady Gaga and soundtracked everything from Glee and One Tree Hill to Dallas Buyers Club and The Lego Movie . As well as being musicians, they've always been open about their sexuality and have created a visible LGBT presence in the scene.

Their new album Love You To Death dropped recently so we caught up with Sara Quin to get deep and talk about which of her cats she likes better.

What was your first ever email address?
Fuck, I don't know, I'm like 100 years old. Probably it was really basic like my age and my cat's name or something super embarrassing, I can't remember though. My email addresses have gotten increasingly more challenging, because when we first started out it was totally fine to have your name in your address, but emails became easy to hack once we started having a career. So my email addresses are now what I imagine President Obama's to be: like 400 characters and obscure words spelled wrong with exclamation marks. Sometimes when people say "Oh give me your email address," I'm like, why bother? Just forget you ever met me; don't even try to communicate with me moving forward.

How many people have been in love with you?
I hate that I don't know how many people loved me because I'm such a goon and I've probably hurt people's feelings. That I know of and actually told me they were in love with me – five? That question also forces me to think about all the people that probably weren't in love with me, which is upsetting.

Why did you break up with your first girlfriend?
Well, pretty pedestrian reason: I had feelings for someone else. I was infatuated and in love with someone else. It was a complicated situation to begin with. We weren't necessarily exclusive. We were very young and it was confusing. But she's still one of my very best friends in the world.

As I get older, I've realised a pattern in my life where I partner with people and then we transition into friendship. I'm incredibly loyal and once I've connected with somebody so deeply, it's very challenging for me to give it up no matter what. The choice is: do I get over being broken-hearted and maintain this really wonderful relationship? Or do I lose the relationship and the friendship?

What would your parents prefer you to have chosen as a career?
We were these really studious kids who loved school and were smart and potentially going to be lawyers and then we just totally fell off and turned into horrible teenage losers. For me going to college felt like an extension of childhood, and I was just ready to get the fuck out. When we told our parents that we were going to be musicians it was the equivalent of saying, "we plan on living in a gutter and shooting heroin in our eyes". I think they just thought "what the fuck?". But very quickly – because of their excellent parenting – we showed ourselves to be businesswomen. We got into merchandising and booking our own tours. They knew we had entrepreneurial spirit.

What was your worst phase?
I went through a very challenging stage in my 20s, where I was pretty grumpy and snobby. It was a difficult stage for me. Visually I really hit rock bottom between the ages of eight and 18. I'm probably judging the entire era of style but I specifically used to wear very oversized clothes, and layers. Mostly my problem actually wasn't the clothes, it was the hair. I had very long hair that I probably wouldn't get cut for years at a time. I was a frump. We grew up in a place where winter is for six months a year. I was like a teenage polar bear. You couldn't even remotely know what was underneath any of my clothing because there were so many layers.

Which conspiracy theories do you believe?
Growing up in Canada and being so close to the United States, one of the earliest conspiracy theories that you start hearing about is aliens. That's just so deeply embedded in the TV and film culture, I just remember that being something really early on that I was just like, "Holy shit, is this a real thing?" Tegan is more gullible and willing to try things out. She's open to new fads. I'm a hard sell.

When in your life have you been truly overcome with fear?
I have this memory of being 18 and at the hospital visiting my grandmother with my Mum. My mum went to get gas, and I was waiting for her. She took so long; I thought she had been kidnapped. When she picked me up in the car I started hysterically crying. A lot of times my fear comes from the idea that I'm going to lose people. I was totally the kind of kid that would cry themselves to sleep worrying that her family was gonna perish or that they were gonna get sick. I've learned how to bury that pretty deep inside and not lay around worrying every day that Tegan is going to die.

What is the nicest thing you own?
I love my cat so much, nothing in my life means anything to me. I would give up my apartment, give up all my clothing, give up my shoes. I would give up any nice thing I have purchased for my cat. I actually have two. My favorite cat is named Holiday, and she is my first-born. And then I have a second cat named Mickey, and he's an idiot. I can't lie and tell you I like them equally because I don't. Holiday is smart and cool and Mickey just follows me around like a dog.

What have you done in your life that you most regret?
I'm in a phase of my life right now where I am sort of looking back and evaluating certain relationships that didn't work out with people and the lingering regret or guilt. Instead of feeling like I have to repair the relationship with the person, I'm trying to think how do I prevent myself from being that person again in the future. I can be a bit of a selfish, impulsive and closed-off person, particularly when I was younger.

What would be your last meal?
My first thought was McDonald's. That's what I eat when I'm hungover or sad or when we've got a nine-hour flight delay and we have to sit at the airport. That's like my rock bottom food. Normally when I go, I only allow myself a cheeseburger and a small fries. But if it was my last meal, I'd go to town. A fillet of fish, chicken nuggets, and a double cheeseburger. I'd get all of the food.

@hannahrosewens

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Thousands of Portuguese football fans came together last night at the Terreiro do Paço square in Lisbon, to see Portugal's national team win their first ever Euro Cup.

The atmosphere on the square was tense throughout the game – people prayed, people cried when Cristiano Ronaldo was stretchered off in the 24th minute, people shouted as is only natural when victory is so close and so far at the same time. But much more so than during past tournaments, the most palpable feeling emanating from the Portuguese fans during the game was confidence – confidence that it was actually possible, this time.

More photos below.

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Euro 2016 Has Made Me Believe That Anything Is Possible

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This is Britain's newest newspaper, the New European

Look at the state of it, the state of it all. Right now Britain is in turmoil. Not an hour goes past without some new shitshow for us to get our head around: Boris, Gove, Leadsom. None of this is helped by the fact that our media seems to relish in the turmoil. Like the kids at school bluetoothing happyslaps across classrooms, the press are exacerbating every crash, coup and crisis they can get their inky fingers on. The 52% have claimed their country back, and the future looks bleak.

Enter the New European. "The New Pop-Up Paper For the 48%."

The editor of the New European, Matt Kelly, has said that he believes "the 48% who voted to Remain are not well served by the traditional press and that there is a clear opportunity for a newspaper that people will want to read and carry like a badge of honour". It sort of sounds like it makes sense. The Daily Mail, the Sun, the Sunday Times, the Daily Telegraph and the Sunday Telegraph all backed Brexit, right? But then the Guardian, the Mirror, the Observer, the Mail on Sunday and the Times all backed remain. What else did the 48% want?

On this basis, it's not entirely clear exactly what the New European is proposing to provide that is new. Page three models from the continent? Belgian word-searches? Coupon deals to save up for Mediterranean cruises? Or will it just be every post-Brexit thinkpiece that didn't make it onto Indy Voices that week?

Well, having read the first issue, it's clearly the latter. The New European is basically 48 (get it?) pages of reaction pieces, political infographics and 'best tweets of the referendum' type features. Some of it is good. Miranda Sawyer gestures in the right direction, writing about "friends who have visited Machu Picchu but never seen Newcastle", highlighting the ignorance to the rest of the UK that is so prevalent in heavily liberal parts of the country (London). Jonathan Freedland makes a good case for the need to present a positive relationship between Britain and Europe and Ajit Niranjan argues that the narrative which claims the referendum pitched old against young is disingenuous. There are some good points made, however they seem lost among the content that packs the other 46 pages.

The intentions are clearly noble, but what sets out to "celebrate Europe" only serves to highlight the colossal communication breakdowns that created this whole mess in the first place. The EU referendum was not about the virtues of Europe, or being European. Shit, for most people it wasn't even about the virtues of the EU. Yet, despite all of that, the New European continues to drive its Euro-paean home.

There's a "How X Will Be Affected By Brexit" piece for everything from tech start-ups to fashion, reviews of the best cafés in Paris, a lengthy and lyrical tribute to long evenings quaffing grilled sausages in Prague, and then, on page 38, this:

"MY EUROPEAN YEAR 2011: JOSH BARRIE TELLS A FREEDOM OF MOVEMENT ADVENTURE"

In case you hadn't guessed, Josh Barrie's 'freedom of movement' adventure was InterRailing. The piece comes complete with photos of the plucky millennial soaking up the delights of Europe; Irish bars in Amsterdam, hostels in Berlin, Barbie museums in Prague. It's a tale of museums and misdemeanours. If voting Remain would have meant more people writing about their gap years, then maybe we made the right decision after all.

The thing is, those who voted to remain are right to feel angry. But to market a newspaper at "the 48%" is not to be united by a love for Europe, but rather a disdain for the 52%.

Perhaps the New European isn't so bad. Perhaps it just grates because, for the first time in my political life, I've reached a point where I'm properly fed up with both sides of the argument. While this newspaper might contain some hot takes on post-Brexit Europe, while it might have some helpful hints as to the best cafés in Paris, it sends out a terrible signal. It's the same as everyone on your Facebook feed crying over the "uneducated idiots" who voted out or the video of a kissing chain throughout Europe or the illustrations of Boris Johnson snogging Donald Trump. Yeah, they're all sort of valid, but they all come from a place of bewildered resentment, a sort of baffled "yeah, but Europe is so lovely why would you chose Nigel Farage over vol-au-vents?"

The post-EU conversation in Britain currently feels like this: It's Friday night and you're going out, but you've only got two options open to you. Your first option is a rooftop bar in Dalston, where loads of privately educated girls and boys are snapchatting themselves drinking mojitos and self-congratulating their liberal-minded perspectives. Your other option is a fusty pub round the corner, full of bigoted blokes and their bigoted sons, talking about immigrants and the Falklands. You're probably going to go to the rooftop bar, let's be honest, because you have a more in common with the people there.

That said, while you sip on your mojito and a girl called Bethany starts talking about how gross that pub round the corner is, you can't help but feel, 'my dad goes to pubs like that'. You also become aware that the mojitos here are £8 and that everyone in the fusty pub goes there because they can get a pint of Doombar for £2.60. But then you start to think, hold on, don't patronise the fusty pub. They aren't stupid. So you spend your evening running between the two, the rooftop bar and the pub, both as self-righteous and unwilling to listen as the other. Eventually you slump on the pavement somewhere between the two, your belly full of brown pints and insipid neon cocktails. You look up at the night's sky, grey clouds covering the stars, and you vomit on your trainers.

Follow Angus on Twitter

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Aphrodite Vati's empty taverna (All photos author's own)

"It's a lonely feeling," says Aphrodite Vati, "especially after what happened".

The English language teacher is having breakfast with her parents Dimitrios and Menie in their beachside hotel near Molyvos, northern Lesvos.

This time last year, the upmarket hotel was full of guests; now it lies empty, quiet. Its sky-blue pool is still, immaculate lounge and terrace unused, kayaks idle, its staff – many of them like family members – reduced from 15 to three.

In June last year, the Aphrodite Hotel had 120 guests. This year, however, reservations for the month were down 70 percent and look like being 80 percent lower by the end of the tourist season. Annual revenue is expected to shrink 90 percent.

"It's a bit like being a rock star," jokes Aphrodite wryly. "You can say you hired a whole resort yourself!"

Aphrodite Vati

Just 4km away, across the Aegean sea, lie the hills of Turkey. Like many islanders, Aphrodite and her family were on the front line in helping thousands of traumatised refugees last year.

Of the 750,000 people who landed on Lesvos, just 2,800 remain in two camps. Since April, refugee boats have averaged just one or two a week, and the main tourist beaches have returned to normal.

But the images that shook Europeans and headlines about "holidays from hell" have stuck. While the story in Lesvos has moved on, the world's media has forgotten to tell it.

In the small town of Molyvos on the northern coast – normally the jewel of tourism on the island – the labyrinth of winding cobbled streets, twinkling lights and tunnels of vines is quiet. Fishermen's catches get little demand, car hire companies await drivers, boat trips go unbooked, and the town's tavernas serve just a handful of diners.

Holiday bookings across the island are thought to be down 75 to 80 percent, according to the island's municipal office. Tour operators have pulled out and at the beginning of the tourist season charter flights had shrunk from 27 a week to nine, with flights from key countries like the Netherlands, Germany and Denmark either reduced or cut completely. UK holiday operator Thomas Cook now offers some of the only remaining direct flights from outside Greece.

"The hotel can't sustain more than one season of this," says Aphrodite. "We have the possibility of losing – this would not have been in our thoughts, ever before. Our plans for the future, our hopes and dreams are totally changed."

The same uncertainty faces many islanders, already worn down by Greece's six years of economic hardship. This, coupled with the trauma of the refugee crisis, will be a increasing strain on many people, says Niko Dekeyzer, a Belgian therapist running Sappho House, a geranium-clad retreat near the Aphrodite Hotel.

"For the local people who suffered, having time to just think is not good," says Niko. "They are used to working very hard through the summer and they need success for their businesses. But now with time to think, people will start to realise what they saw and experienced. They are generous, big-hearted people, but it is going to be a very hard winter for many."

The harbour in Skala Sikamineas

To the east, along the coast, lies the picturesque village of Skala Sikamineas, where the fishermen became famous for their refugee sea rescues. "We feel like we are being punished for a situation we helped deal with," says Panagiotis Kallipolitis, a kind-faced taverna owner.

His family's restaurant, which is reached through shady olive groves, serves grilled fish, sweet tomato prawn saganaki and syrupy quinces, but is mostly empty.

"Despite Greece's worsening economic crisis, we tried to help as much as we could. [Last year] customers congratulated us for helping but said they would only come back when this is over. This wasn't our fault and if we were in their shoes we would understand because we work hard and we would want a nice holiday. But we haven't had time to show tourists everything is fine now," he says.

"We don't let this thing take us down, we will try to keep this business going. Greece is the ideal holiday location, people are very warm, they welcome you, the food is very good and clean and there are nice beaches and fresh air."

Some tourists are arriving, though, with the specific aim of helping local people by combining holiday-making and volunteering. At Korakas, the northern-most tip of the island jutting out towards Turkey, tourists help Swedish NGO Lighthouse Relief clear the last remaining dinghies. Ingrid Kemper and Steffen Barentsen, a couple from the Netherlands, cut deflated rubber into pieces while their friend Jacques dons a wetsuit and dives for sunken fragments.

"When we heard about all the problems it broke our hearts," says Ingrid. "We didn't know if we could help much but one thing we can do is come and support the tourism. When I first came I was so overwhelmed by this island, the people, the beauty, the nature," she says.

Molyvos at night

All the major tourist beaches on the north coast have now been cleared, explains Isabel Cardenas, from Lighthouse Relief, but the operation needs more money and volunteers to clear the most remote beaches. "People can come and have a nice holiday and then if they want, help clean the beach and get a work out for an hour, a day or a week," she says.

Back at the Aphrodite Hotel, British tourists Joanna and Neil Smith from Hull soak up the sun in the peace and quiet.

"Everyone at home turned their noses up when we said we were going to Lesvos," says Neil. "We've not seen a single refugee since we've been here. The island needs tourism and we would hate for it to die away. I love the food and the people and you feel really happy to be spending your money with the locals."

In the office, Aphrodite's father Dimitrious is defiant. "We must be optimistic it will get better," he says.

@overthefarmgate

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This is the only photo of the dorm in question, and it's tiny, because every insane flat listing in London comes with tiny and low quality images of the room available, for some reason (via Gumtree)

What is it? Hard exactly to tell and we will look into that further anon but the most I can say at this point is 'a sort of bunk bed dormitory synthesis where wanking is strictly encouraged', so
Where is it? Tooting, home to a lido, a load of people who have children and their shit together, and a fair number of Australian-owned cafés where people legitimately say "fair dinkum" and charge you £4 for an imported Cherry Ripe.
What is there to do locally? Honestly what I normally do when I have never been to an area and I need to fill out this bit is Google 'things to do Tooting' and invariably get sent to the TimeOut website which just says 'there's a good place to get curry' and I sort of wasted all the good jokes gleaned from that in the bit above so I can't tell you, what to do, here, the façade has slipped.
Alright, how much are they asking? Just £300 of your English pounds, therefore making this about the only appropriately priced property in all of London, although obviously with caveats (the primary caveat being wanking) (although as stated we'll get to that).

Hey if you're a man and you're a fan of wanking then do I have a treat for you:

Listen there's a lot going on here and I think we need to eschew such fripperies as 'written through paragraphs' and 'endless riffs that go ultimately nowhere and just serve to infuriate the three regular VICE commenters who remember the old days and miss them' and instead enter here into a No Fuckabout Zone™ where we are absolutely Not Fucking About, there is no room for it, and so here is the No Fuckabout Zone™, welcome to it:

THE LONDON RENTAL OPPORTUNITY OF THE WEEK NO FUCKABOUT ZONE™

What is going on here, Sir? I don't know exactly but I am pretty sure we are deep into someone's fetish, and this someone's fetish has stemmed from every single film and TV show about young men living in college dorms, and that is their fetish, their fetish is that breathless, heavy-on-the-air unspoken homoeroticism, that sort of 'no homo bro!' exclamation of defence bros make right before they all toss off onto a biscuit, and what he is trying to do here is synthesis dormitory culture right here in the UK, in Tooting, and so is offering alleviated rents under the guise of just four guys living in the same quadruple-sized room, hey guys, hey brah, we're all just boys here, just boying around and having fun, wanking, hey, it's just banter and jokes my bro, haha, cool, hey, here's a cool thing: can I suck your sweet dick? That sort of thing;

Where exactly does this advert go a bit off? It goes a bit off exactly at the word "wankin", I have to tell you that, because up until then it is an exceedingly cheery advert offering an unusual if understandable living arrangement, and you are flipping through the images pulled from Google Images of 'bros in dorms' and you are like, 'huh, you know what: maybe this is a life I could lead, maybe just a few months, 300 sheets a month and it's just be and the guys, bills included, it could be like old times, palling around with the boys and—

Ah, no, it's definitely a wank dungeon, this, isn't it, this is definitely just a trap set up specifically to watch me wank.'

How long do you think the person who wrote this advert spent looking at the word "wanking" and then deliberately dropping the "g" on the end to form the more casual-seeming "wankin"? I would estimate a day and a half.

What is the motivation of the dude behind this? Normally I am inclined to say 'murder' because anything weird like this is almost certainly done with the idea that it's really easy to murder people when they are asleep in a bunkbed in the same room as you, trust me, trust me on that, but then also I do truly believe the person organising this does truly want to see some good old-fashioned wankin before he does eventually plunge the knife, so yes although murder is almost certainly the ulterior motive here, the primary motive is seeing some sweet, sweet jacked penises before they do. And, in many ways, is that not truly what is motivating us all?

Do you think the 'girlfriend' mentioned in the advert as being visited every weekend by the wank-liking man actually exists? No I do not.

What would the smell of a four-man dormitory where one of the dudes is bang into watching the other three dudes masturbate be like? It would be sweet and heavy, this sort of human muskiness, like: you know when you sit in a room alone all day with the curtains drawn – you're having an episode, or something, you're binge-watching a Netflix show – and you leave the room to go and prepare a small meal, and 30 minutes later you walk back into the room and you are like, 'well good goddamn does it smell of sad person in here'? Well imagine that, but 100% of the time, no amount of opening the window and Febreze-ing the soft furnishings will ever get that out, one month of four dudes laughing and wanking in this room will essentially condemn the entire building because there's no way you're getting that smell out, that smell is getting in the bricks—

But is £300 not a fine price to pay for rented accommodation in London? Yes, totally, and actually I think if the advert was way up front about it – 'I will subsidise your rent if I can sleep in your room in a bunkbed beneath you and occasionally watch you jack' – then the process of finding housemates to all sleep in this Tooting dorm would actually be a lot simpler, although would maybe defy a little of the crackling under-the-surface homoeroticism this is clearly trying to create, so actually, I haven't thought this through. God, actually. You can really see the logistical difficulty in designing a situation where you can watch three straight dudes wank.

How messed up is London when the prospect of paying £300 a month to toss it in a room with three strangers is actually not even the worst rental opportunity currently on offer in the city? Totally fucko!

@joelgolby

More from this cheery series:

A Bed in a Kitchen in Euston!

A Windowless Prison in Brixton!

It Finally Happened, a Space Literally Described as a 'Harry Potter Room'!

"PROmances" – celebrity pairings that are less about love and more about profile – are nothing new, but watching Taylor Swift and Tom Hiddleston make out around the world is like watching a fruit rotting in time lapse; the accelerated grossness is fascinating, and it teaches us something both literal and metaphorical about the world around us.

On the surface, the pair make a lot of sense: Taylor, the most successful popstar on the planet, Tom, a very British actor in a very successful franchise. She's tall, he's tall. Neither of them can dance. But the very public way in which they have played out their romance so far – kissing on a beach in front of the paparazzi, meeting each other's parents in front of the paparazzi, touring Rome in front of the paparazzi, celebrating the 4th of July in front of the paparazzi – has led everyone from their respective fanbases to Phillip Schofield to call bullshit on the whole spectacle.

But celebrities end up in fake relationships (if it indeed is a fake relationship) all the time, for many reasons. Usually it's just good old-fashioned, dead-eyed cynical ambition. As proved by genuine couples as far back as Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbank, through to mainstays such as the Beckhams, the Knowles-Carters, the Kardashian-Wests and the Jolie-Pitts, two celebs are better than one in terms of earning power and brand recognition. For the rich and famous it makes sense, strategically speaking, to date other rich and famous people.

Kaley Cuoco in The Big Bang Theory/CBS

Sometimes this kind of pairing turns into a spectacular shitshow. Kaley Cuoco, star of inexplicably long-running, award-winning canned laughter show The Big Bang Theory and Henry Cavill, the guy who got the role of Superman because he's the not-gay Matt Bomer, were represented by the same PR company and completely coincidentally began dating in 2013 around the release of Man of Steel. Their grocery shopping outings struggled to make anyone believe the two were doing anything more than holding hands the second a camera lens pointed their way, and the "relationship" was almost comically brief. They now have the dubious honour of being at the top of every "TOP TEN CELEBRITY RELATIONSHIPS THAT WERE TOTALLY FAKE!!" list ever published.

On the other hand, relationships forged in a marketing boardroom can occasionally blossom into something more genuine. It seems likely that Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart, as the stars of one of the biggest teen movie franchises in the world, were encouraged towards replicating their on-screen romance off-screen to further sell in the idea of true, unending vampire love to Twilight fans. Their relationship, never properly confirmed, but told through long lenses and red carpet appearances, may have began as work, but four years down the line appeared to be very real. By the time Kristen was caught cheating on R.Pattz with the director of her movie The Huntsman, they had moved in together, got pets and were more relaxed about talking about their romance.

Then there are bearding PROmances, where one or more celebrity in the pairing is concealing their sexuality in order to maintain desirability within the industry and to the public. Again, this practice has been invoked in celebrity circles for years – constant co-stars Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy, one of the Golden Age of Hollywood's prominent power couples, never married and conducted same-sex affairs throughout the whole of their long-term relationship. The public never had a clue.

Recently, with attitudes towards gay relationships becoming more accepting, this kind of PR arrangement is less frequent, with high profile personalities who shy away from being publicly out preferring to live in a "glass closet" and maintaining privacy, while never explicitly lying about their sexuality.

The trend towards PR relationships seems to have tailed off in a social media age, which relies more on transparency and honesty than deception and manipulation. Celebs are still spotted together, of course, more often than not because they have agents, publicists, managers, record labels in common, but once the pics hit the press and the speculation begins, they can tweet a rebuttal which gives them two bites at the publicity apple: the "ARE THEY?" headline and the "FAMOUS PERSON DENIES RUMOURS!" headline, which is often just as effective as faking a romance. When relationships are engineered, they are usually handled with such finesse that suspicion is never aroused.

Which is why Hiddleswift, wild-eyed and practically clawing at your skin for attention, seems particularly clumsy. If Tom was making a bid at raising his profile in order to secure the role of James Bond, the entire caper has backfired spectacularly, with him being ruled out despite putting in an all accounts excellent extended audition in The Night Manager.

Another more likely sequence of events could be that Taylor wanted to get a massive jump on the Kim Kardashian GQ cover story, in which she accused Taylor of signing off on the controversial lyric in Kanye's single "Famous", which was followed by the even more controversial video – a wax model of Taylor naked in a bed alongside Kanye, Kim and other celebrities – a story she was probably keen to bury under a deluge of "better" news, such as a new boyfriend, a mere three weeks after she dumped her old one.

Whatever the truth, when operating at as high a level as Taylor, to some degree, every move you make is calculated PR to some extent. Her personal life has felt as stage-managed as her professional life as far back as her squad and the constant welcoming to the stage of her last world tour. Every pyjama party, every 4th of July back garden BBQ, comes with a professional photographer providing photos for everyone on Instagram. Perhaps Taylor and Tom are truly a match made in thirsty, thirsty heaven. In which case, good luck to them and may the lord have mercy on the rest of us.

@oneofthosefaces

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