Anyone who doubts the validity of the small press publication would do well to refer themselves to this little zine and take note. For here is one of those rare idiosyncratic ideas that would never be countenaced by a sane publisher, or even a sane creator for that matter. An idea so deliciously perverse that is requires as part of the makeup of its existence, the lone small presser, feverishly printing, folding and stapling in his dank bedsit.
The premise of the project is this, Oliver created some call girl cards of the variety found in London phone boxes, but instead of using an image lifted from the pages of Penthouse, and captioned with a suitably lewd salutation, Oliver’s cards are bizarre etchings depicting mounds of dimorphous and organically spreading flesh. Tits pile on top of each other and legs sprout in unnerving directions like the result of some unsuccessful laboratory experiment. The captions of these horrific images are yet more eyebrow raising; ‘Flesh Trestle’ says one, ‘Pyjama Race’ says another ‘Bone and Fist Onanist’ a third.
The zine contains photographs taken of the cards in the phone boxes, nestling awkwardly against more conventional offerings like an ageing transvestite who’s crashed a junior prom. Presumably Oliver then runs away and waits to see if anyone calls the number, if so I hope he publishes the transcripts in the follow up zine.
This is all good clean family fun, and I’d recommend it highly, often I take it down from my shelves to reassure myself that is actually exists and I didn’t dream the whole thing.
Check out his website dancing eye