Clod Magazine editors in the British Library studio

Ah, here's a little, uh, section from the administration of Clod 36, which was a lockdown Clod, and the title of the little description of the Clod team and how we work is, ‘We Queue Up for Boiled Fish.’ I suppose you're asking what we do here at Clod Magazine that is so special? When we are, uh, when we are not cutting and sticking bits of paper down, what is it we do to banish the blues whilst effortlessly equalising society? Well, not much, as it turns out. We put this small press printed thing together every so often, a few of us. Our regular bulletins. Sometimes two in a year. We issue other little publications over time too. The team have known each other since the bad old days, before school, in fact. So how do we do it? What's a typical day? Well, each morning, to make a difference, the four of us will meet at an upturned barrel at the side of Duke Street in Hightown, Luton. You know, in the UK deprivation area, as recognised by the World Heritage Organisation. The barrel's on fire sometimes, so it's more like a brazier really. It's somewhere we can perch, you know. Somewhere we can rest an elbow and raise the other one for a drink or two, or for some sherbets when no one's paying attention. Anyway, it's on the street by the side of the road where it's quiet, on some old scrap land, rain or shine, near an innocuous little road junction, wire fences and weeds, a bucket in bits and some broken window panes. It doesn't sound very nice but it's perfectly suitable. Broken glass under foot, young mums wheeling kids to the shop, a bit of a smell. When the bottle's passed round, it makes things a bit rosier, you know. It whiles away our mornings, whiles the rest of the world, while the rest of the world works. And anyway, there's nothing better to do. We've tried other things before and they are pale form in comparison. Some of us will head off for a bite to eat later. Boiled fish is popular, with bread. After sharing the bottle of whatever it was, we'll have more of an appetite for food, and a better perspective for talk. We'll head to a nearby cafe that's still open and have our eats, and get talking about what we might put in the magazine, you know. An editorial meeting of sorts. We have a good time of it. We're all friends. It's over 30 years since we started our career with writing. The magazine does all right. It won't worry the tax man. It's a good excuse to keep regular at the barrel. We'll have a drink at least, magazine or no magazine. We don't complain. People seem to like it sometimes. We sell some copies in London all right. Two shops in New York take some copies, and Glasgow too, and down under in Melbourne. I don't think any of us have had much luck doing other things. It was just to occupy time really. To us it feels like our deserts, this writing thing. Our just deserts. It's our little indulgence and no one gets to say we can or can't, you know? We don't ask for anything and we don't expect anything. No one gets poor. It's best not to look too far beyond the beer barrel, the boiled fish, and the bread. Depends on your situation really. We're content putting this magazine together. It doesn't feel so much like work then. We know there's no one banging on the door or ringing us up asking for this or that. Nobody else gets to set the tone or ask us for special treatment, or if we want to borrow some of their money. Clod Magazine pays for itself. A cheap hobby. Keeps us going with our pen, paper and Pritt Stick. The world keeps turning, until the next day when we're back on- at the barrel again. Another brown bottle or two to share. There are other ways of doing things, we know this. That doesn't bother us. We just pull on our big coats and see what's going on, rain or shine, we'll be there. Broken glass under foot, young mums wheeling kids to the shop, a bit of a smell. Everyone has their own ideas. Everyone knows best. We're no different. Stood round a barrel in the rain. It's hardly a chore. There's more than one way to skin a cat.