We’d always talked about starting an arts label. A brave little collective of musicians, writers, poets, and artists who are going it alone.
In response, a number of things have been started. Sir Books is an independent publishing house. And yes, we are open to submissions.
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Thursday | December 30, 2010 | 3:43 pm
Looking out the windows of the aeroplane, all you could see was blackness, but as the plane began its descent and fluid sucked into my ear canals, there were little orange sodium pockets of streetlamps and a handful of yellow car headlights. The twenty-something man in front of me with a back-combed quiff and thinning crown, tapped the stewardess on the sleeve of her red jacket as she walked to her seat to prepare for landing, asked if she was staying overnight, then for her telephone number. A spotlight on the wing came on and illuminated the tail of the plane. I chewed hard on a menthol pastille until it superglued to my back teeth. The tyres skidded on the tarmac. A fat skinhead five rows in front, who I’d deliberately avoided making eye contact with, opened the overhead locker and pulled out a sports holdall before we’d even come to rest. And over the sound of sixty seatbelts unbuckling at the same time, the tinny overhead speakers crackled -  ‘Welcome to Sarajevo.’ Sir Books and Boat are in Sarajevo for January to create a publication.

Looking out the windows of the aeroplane, all you could see was blackness, but as the plane began its descent and fluid sucked into my ear canals, there were little orange sodium pockets of streetlamps and a handful of yellow car headlights. The twenty-something man in front of me with a back-combed quiff and thinning crown, tapped the stewardess on the sleeve of her red jacket as she walked to her seat to prepare for landing, asked if she was staying overnight, then for her telephone number. A spotlight on the wing came on and illuminated the tail of the plane. I chewed hard on a menthol pastille until it superglued to my back teeth. The tyres skidded on the tarmac. A fat skinhead five rows in front, who I’d deliberately avoided making eye contact with, opened the overhead locker and pulled out a sports holdall before we’d even come to rest. And over the sound of sixty seatbelts unbuckling at the same time, the tinny overhead speakers crackled -  ‘Welcome to Sarajevo.’

Sir Books and Boat are in Sarajevo for January to create a publication.

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