WELCOME

It has been a long and muddling ride to get to this petty point.

Oh well!

Bienvenue and how are you goin'. This is NAG.

My name may not matter, and I’ll be your host for the foreseeable. Perhaps I shall rub your feet, perhaps I shall not, we’ll just have to see.

Well, fuck. I couldn’t have known that when I put out the snaily feelers for this creation back in early March in this unrelenting 2020 that the world would just about be on its last legs a month later with a global plague and the largest civil rights movement in recent history, so admittedly, this sweet thing has taken the back burner. For that, shit, I have to apologise. If I could give you all a morsel of my gratitude for your patience and understanding, know that that very morsel would come in the form of a potato, to depict the real reason I have been otherwise engaged (growing potatoes).

NAG is a place to find solace, to be silly and to let it rip in whatever which way you deem suitable. Perhaps you'll find your fingers twitching to draw or write, perhaps you'll shed a wee tear because screens hurt your eyes or, better, you're moved, or perhaps you'll let out the kind of gas you should be proud of and look around, left to right, wishing you could laugh it off with a comrade. This place is outside of the otherwise. It's not an art school side eye or EVEN a poetry reading mocking nod, it's that broken part of your sofa that is undoubtedly the most comfortable spot in the flat or the cold daal in your fridge that tastes best when you eat it naked with a piece of bread at 2:24am in the glorious silence of night.

So without further adieu, I present to you NAG MAGAZINE 1, here in the digital catacomb freedoms of Hot Glue. The content is grand, the variation a delight and I want to hang out with it all night. Please pour yourself your favourite dram, slouch down, let it all out, and engage.

ACAB, IDEMT, warmest warms,

JM