I was delighted to hear from one of the original GANTOBers today, after a break of a couple of years.
A copy of the GANTOB novella is winging its way across the Forth of Forth shortly.
There is now only one copy left, first come first served.
This book is the ticket to GANTOB’s 25 Paintings.
Applications to join the Mural of Desperation – thereby earning the hardback magnum opus – must be received by 23 April (the only exception is somebody who shares his birthday with Bill Drummond the following week).
The life and times of Gillian Finks, in her role as GANTOB (August 2023-August 2025), can be considered in three phases:
Travelling Salesperson (but not The Travelling Salesman)
Krofter (with a sideline in telesales, having been fired as Travelling Salesperson for spending too much time on K-themed aktivities)
Writer (settling into her role as contributing editor of 52 Pamphlets/ GANTOB’s 25 Paintings, with other books along the way; one might also consider this her Chekhov period)
During this period there was a lot of upheaval in the Finks household, with Ali Finks, Gillian’s husband, leaving his position as minister (after over 20 years in post, due to church mergers), trying his hand at sheep farming (a different type of flock), and then returning to a church in a different town. The Finks’ youngest child (the Purple Mulleted One) left for uni. Their daughter Fiona was the one stable influence, studying diligently throughout.
Though Gillian Finks disappeared on 23 August 2025, there have been multiple “finds” in her papers and paintings. You may have seen the text – and illustrations – for Little Grapefruit at Sea.
The following stories, which her daughter Fiona Finks (AKA The Masters Student) found in a shoe box of GANTOB pin badges and craft materials, are undated. Between them they appear to bridge the three phases of Gillian’s GANTOB years, drawing on her observations of Ali’s time as a new minister (the first time round), their life in a glen in the Scottish Highlands, and the inexorable wave of so-called-progress that is the modern world. There are, I believe, parallels here with her story “Ridge”, which appeared in an issue of Vipers Tongue Quarterly.
We can, I think, be confident that the stories were written in winter. Following Fiona’s finds we edited the first one – Construction – for potential publication, but it was rejected by the Tangerine Press chapbook The Hempen Jig (March 2026).
The rather longer version – Sandwiches – with its different range of themes and characters, written in three parts each 400 words long, appears (going by the file name attached to it on the version subsequently retrieved from the GANTOB laptop) to have been written for submission to Vipers Tongue Quarterly. It is not known if Gillian did send it to them, but it does not appear to have been published.
The name of the principal character is the same in both stories – though representing very different roles, and therefore presumably two separate people. Fiona tells me, after studying Sandwiches, that she has good reason to believe that his name is a nod to Gillian’s favourite Russian author, but will not reveal why.
Anyway, we hope that you enjoy these rescued stories from the pen of Gillian Finks.
MAUREEN KATZ, DEPUTY MANAGER OF GANTOB 27 March 2026
CONSTRUCTION (by GILLIAN FINKS)
Had Mark Dounne, his wife and three sons arrived in the village just a couple of weeks earlier, they might have survived. He was the advance guard, preparing for the construction of a dam over the next ten years. The drowning of our valley.
Even I had mixed feelings about the project. The first year promised jobs, investment, mobile phone reception and the internet. It would bring life to the area. That was how they sold it. We had been cut off so long. Even within the community we had been separated by much more than the distances between our cottages. The river cut through, forcing us across a single bridge that was on its last legs. Farms had been bought by businessmen from the city, merged and fenced off for shooting and fishing parties, forever inaccessible. Marshland was for the birds and tourists. We would have new roads, preparing access for the industrial equipment that would follow a couple of years down the line. I could not bring myself to think about that stage.
“Kept themselves to themselves”. That is how one local put it, when the journalists descended, ahead of the police and emergency services. How could a family disappear like that, leaving the car in the drive, the table laid for breakfast, school bags packed?
How I blame myself! I was there to welcome the family when they arrived, digging out my winter gear and gathering provisions as promised. Milk, bread, a box of eggs. Anxious about meeting these newcomers I rehearsed some local tips and short cuts. I had used one myself in my rush to meet them, treading carefully across the marshland, ground solid, water frozen for the winter, watching out for the usual landmarks – a boulder, a tree – always a relief to reach tarmac, even in the knowledge it would be passable for months.
Over the road, Mark stood confidently with his family. I could hear him explaining the work he had planned. The three boys were primary school age by the looks of them. They would double the school roll. Another plus for the project.
Various theories have circulated since their disappearance the following spring. A fragment of material. An unknown car spotted in the area. But I know. I watched the whole family march out across the marsh, Mark leading the way, and I prayed to keep our valley safe from drowning.
SANDWICHES (by GILLIAN FINKS)
PART 1
Counting down the days before taking up his new charge – his first post! – he practised his opening words to the congregation. “Hello, I am the Reverend Mark Dounne. Like June”. A lame James Bond introduction more like, he thought. No matter. He still had a few days.
He had read histories of the area, unfamiliar to him a few months ago, and had procured a map that included the nearest railway station and wider region. He drew the parish boundaries in pencil, planning his travel, noting short cuts, many of them forestry trails. It might be possible by bike.
Even the steep climb from the station in the neighbouring glen was cyclable, pushing up behind the distillery before conquering the treeless wasteland between, as remote and barren as the surface of the moon. It would give him a lot of time to think – an opportunity to break up the day rather than wall-to-wall meetings. Yes, pushbike it was. He could carry his gowns, Bible and hymnary in panniers – a minister in waterproofs, arriving for a funeral. The parishioners would soon accept his city ways. Besides, he could not afford to run a car.
Kids’ services. Dementia café. Traditional hymns. Refreshments after worship. Meetings on Tuesday evenings. Schools. Uniformed organisations. He ticked off all the requirements listed in his appointment letter. Fine. He would let things run as they had been for a few months, keen to be seen to be listening, aware that people do not generally like a shakeup.
He mulled over the coming Sunday’s sermon as he travelled up by train. He felt compelled to do something original, but worried about losing his audience with forced analogies, or stumbling, whether due to nerves or the unfamiliarity of the message. He skimmed the three readings from the lectionary and breathed a sigh of relief. He would do a Markan sandwich instead.
Opting for such a familiar structure – a story within a story – was a well-trodden path. He could draw on some of his previous sermons, being careful to inject some originality while sticking mainly to the readings prescribed by church HQ.
Viburnum was flowering at the door of the manse when he arrived. A letter lay on the table, addressed to him. No stamp. It was from the most recent locum – laying out the territory covered in recent sermons. The sandwich structure would fit in perfectly.
SANDWICHES (PART 2)
“Particularly hard winter this year”, said the plumber fixing a burst pipe in the manse.
“Absolutely!”, the Reverend agreed, “Right across the country”. He listened patiently to reports of how long the house had sat unoccupied and the sudden disappearance of his predecessor four years earlier, followed by a litany of locums coming for Sunday worship. Heaters were positioned at key points around the house. He would not freeze. The Rayburn ran on oil. He would not starve. He just needed a bit of peace to put pen to paper and write out ideas for his inaugural service.
Visitors. People kept arriving, making their introductions. The Reverend started switching off heaters in an attempt to freeze them out.
Long after his usual bedtime he sat in the kitchen, mindmapping ideas from the lectionary readings, current affairs and his hopes for the future. He had been signed up for the standard 5 years, with the option to continue if there was a good fit. Might as well sow the seeds early on.
Overnight, the cold snap tightened its grip. Condensation on the insides of windows froze solid. The sun barely rose above the trees. Almost comfortable for the first time that night, the Reverend Dounne couried in and slept through his alarm clock, waking half an hour before the service started, sermon still under development.
Vicarages are often positioned adjacent to their church. Not here though. It was quarter of a mile downhill to the river, over a bridge, then up to the church in the middle of the graveyard on the hill opposite. To make matters worse, it was too icy to cycle.
It was thanks to the meticulous notes from the most recent locum that Dounne managed to reach the church in time for his welcoming service. Seeing the surrounding area for the first time in daylight he followed the instructions to the letter.
Careful to avoid stepping too far into the marshes he kept his brogues dry, escaping even a smudge. He memorising the landmarks of shrubs and boulders along the way.
Happy to accept hospitality at the end of the service he agreed to a lift to lunch, soon lost in first names and gossip stretching back a century. He busied himself with the soup and sandwiches, wondering how long it would take to be embraced by a community like this.
SANDWICHES (PART 3)
After a few weeks the Reverend Dounne had established something of a routine. The plumbing was fixed and the house warm in parts. An early breakfast was followed by planning for the next Sunday, before the phone calls and emails started arriving at around 9AM. He did not want to fall behind. Living alone, he had control of dishes and laundry. He had a weekly slot with the supermarket van from the nearest city.
Neighbours invited him across a couple of nights a week. These encounters proved a mixed blessing. He was grateful for the company, enjoying the rhythm of family, the ritual of mealtimes. He was learning the connections and frictions between different branches, learning where to tread carefully and what not to mention. It was when conversation gravitated to him – his past, hopes, family, relationships, hobbies – that he grew uncomfortable. The distance from everything he knew and loved felt unmanageable at these times. He realised that the descriptions and explanations of his life – talking about strangers with strangers – must have sounded hollow compared with the only community that many of his congregation had ever known. He had not invited them over in return, aware of his limitations in cooking and entertaining, and desperate for a break from conversations about the landscape and the changing seasons.
The days were still short. He learnt to stay disciplined, spending part of each morning and afternoon outdoors, often walking to visit elderly parishioners or young families. Here the conversations were focused on those he had come to see, so he was on much more comfortable ground. He used routes he had learnt when he first arrived – typically the marsh, firm under foot in the winter, or the forestry trails.
On Mondays he took a break from church duties, sometimes cycling over to the station for a trip to the city, and more recently some gardening. He enjoyed watching the succession of spring flowers, often a full month later than in the city, listening to the resurgence of bird song. He thought about previous occupants of the manse.
News travelled fast the day that he disappeared – a Monday four months into his ministry. His bike was propped in an outhouse as usual. Footprints led to the marsh, now thawed until the following winter. A floating rucksack with sandwiches and soup still warm in the thermos helped locate his body submerged in the mud.
The GANTOBverse A place of cats, snails, a grapefruit or two and the odd wolf and dog for balance Are you due books 4 or 5GANTOB Books? Stake your claim Terms and conditions apply (typically an artistic creation of your own)
There are reenactments within reenactments in the GANTOBverse. A bit of KLF, a large dollop of Bill Drummond inspired material, the recreation of a tower (Cushionpaw Tower) where cats gather to be creative.
Gillian Finks, founder and main creative driver for the GANTOB reenactment, did not have much experience in art. She learnt on the job, writing and drawing her way up the tower from the black room, through the blue and green rooms to the white room, a metaphor for self actualisation. The story is told in the magnum opus GANTOB’s 25 Paintings, with the input of dozens of contributors.
Here is one of her early drawings (water colour pencils on paper). The papier-mâché head of Maurizio Cattelan (from an episode of BBC4’s art safari) is relatively well realised. The cat is art naïf, to put it kindly. The gold toilets and taped banana are further Cattelan references, simply realised. The Cubist cat a nod to Picasso’s blue period. The framed banana is a throw back to the stencilled art of Thomas Baumgärtel, as commonly encountered on the outside walls of art galleries across Europe in the 1990s.
Some of the chess pieces, useless as they are all blue, are symbols of other features from the GANTOBverse.
Gillian Finks was not entirely happy with this picture, particularly the cat. In her papers there is a rather starker version, painted in gouache on paper. The cat still has a slightly gnarly/ crumpled appearance. Finks was getting to grips with the new paint, with a turquoise rather than blue background to the Picasso tribute. This was not used in the book.
I am delighted to say, however, that we have now had a reenactment of this scene, sorting out the cat and the chess pieces. We can now see the kelpie inspired knight and the feline bishop. The light tortoiseshell cat takes the starring role. This, I am told, is acrylic paint on stretched canvas. The artist is keeping the piece for private display.
If you would like to reenact art from the GANTOB project please get in touch. Submissions will be collated on the reenactments page.
A small number of copies of GANTOB Books’ 5th book – Who Killed GANTOB? – are available on request. Email or message why you think you should receive a copy.
This book is also the key to unlocking GANTOB Book’s magnum opus – GANTOB’s 25 Paintings (the 4th book). There are so many insights and revelations in that huge book that you’d be mad to miss out.
The new (fifth) GANTOB book has been landing around the world this week (Who Killed GANTOB?) It unlocks the “missing” fourth book (25 Paintings) Books and associated paraphernalia have been submitted to the British Library
And don’t forget the Vipers Tongue Quarterly stories, unavailable elsewhere: – The A-Z of Curt Finks, Cult Edinburgh Fringe Performer – Rigid – Just Cope
Little Grapefruit At Sea is the “Now and Then” of the catalogue – may be finished with some extra contributions and Jeff Lynne production
The mural of desperation was established in the final stages of preparing the 5th GANTOB book, Who Killed GANTOB? (GANTOB Books, 2026). The purpose of this construction is explained in that book. If you are an original recipient of the 5th book then you can apply to be added to the wall. This will unlock the 4th book, GANTOB’s 25 Paintings (GANTOB Books, 2025).
Successful applicants, and their applications will be added to this post.
Hello Maureen, and whoever remains in the GANTOBverse that reads this,
Having read “Who Killed GANTOB?” I know that I must state my case to receive a hard copy of the “25 Paintings” book.
I shall do so, but not out of “desperation”. I rarely despair. My inclination is more towards hope. Hence I make my request from a sense of dissatisfaktion over “unfinished business” and hope it will be accepted.
I’ll try to explain. I understand the logik; the KLF “ethos” of Kaos and Destruktion and desire to resist “Kompletionism”, but apart from a time in my childhood when I kollected the cards that came with PG Tea and was passionate about filling their albums I have never really been a kompletionist. I will not be searching out copies of Vipers Tongue or other such esoterika. And the KLF themselves reversed much of their destruktion when they reissued their music. The destruktion argument no longer holds, despite The Benefaktor’s orchestrated burnings on the IOM.
My justification is that the GANTOB projekt drew me in from nowhere. One night of idle web browsing in August 2023 prompted a kwestion and the rest is history. I was in from the early days, I was prompted to do stuff I’d never done before and when the proof of the final opus appeared with a plea for assistance I gave it my best shot. I apologise again to The Observer for the italics business. But, as GANTOB knows well, my background involved projekt management, and no projekt manager worth their salt wants to walk away without a succesful konklusion and a formal sign off. This is usually followed with a review of “lessons learned”.
My proof kopy remains mysteriously out of sight. I’ve learned a lesson about keeping stuff organised. But there’s a hole on a shelf above BD’s “The 25 Paintings 2014” set aside for a similar sized book with a different set of 25 paintings. That kompanion book is required in order to kross the final stage boundary and close the last projekt gate. It will bug me for a long time if I don’t cross that (K)Line.
Regards
JR
After:
Thank you. The book arrived safely today. It’s something special.
JR
P.S.
The missing proof was really irritating me. As I was out walking today I called for reinforcements and took out my mental “time teleskope” and began a process…it went like this…
When did you send the last korrektions to DGMoG(tp)?
– Checks email. Late on Monday 27 Oct 2025
What else were you doing then?
– Checks calendar. It was a chemo day. We were at The Christie.
So you probably drafted the email while you were there, and the book was with you?
– Korrekt.
You normally go for a walk while H is on the drip. The book is heavy. Did you drop it off in the car boot as you set off?
– Probably.
Did you ever take it out?
– I must have done at some point.
Did you go anywhere unusual shortly after?
– Checks calendar. The car went into the garage for some repairs on Weds 29th.
So you would have emptied the car beforehand.
– Korrekt.
You normally dump everything in that big Lidl bag and use the opportunity to clear the car of surplus CDs and other excess baggage. Did you do that?
– Yes, I always do that when it goes to the garage..
Where did you put the surplus CDs?
– In an old cheese box.
Where did you put the box?
– On the desk in the spare bedroom with the other boxes.
Didn’t H make you tidy the spare bedroom before Christmas when you had guests?
– Korrekt.
Where did you put the boxes of CDs?
– In the bottom of the wardrobe.
Are they still there?
– Yes.
Have you looked in there for the book?
– Yes. And I looked in the big box under the bed.
Are you sure? Did you look properly? Or was it a “man look”?
– Errrm
Did you look behind the boxes of CDs and under those old coats that you really should take to the charity shop?
– I’d better have another look when I get home hadn’t I?
I think you should, I can see a hint of orange in that back korner…
Once again the time teleskope brought klarity.
Regards
JR
Christine’s contribution:
Stu’s contribution:
Dear Maureen,
First of all, thank you for the unexpected copy of ‘Who Killed GANTOB?’ (and the Relive pamphlet) that arrived last week. As you say in the pamphlet, it wasn’t the book I was expecting to arrive, but was welcome nonetheless.
It’s interesting how much Nigel Kneale influence makes in into the novel. I’d always say I was a fan of his work although, thinking about it, I may only ever have watched the original Quatermass trilogy (in both its TV and film versions) and The Year Of The Sex Olympics.
However, I had read ‘Minuke’ (mentioned in the pamphlet) quite recently, thanks to its inclusion in ‘Circles Of Stone: Weird Tales Of Pagan Sites And Ancient Rites’ (in the British Library ‘Tales Of The Weird’ series, this one edited by Katy Soar, 2023).
The climax of ‘Minuke’ reminded me of the finale of the BBC “as live” drama Ghostwatch (as did a key moment in ‘Who Killed GANTOB?’) but, in case you’ve not seen the TV programme, I won’t say why just now.
Anyway, the GANTOB novel is terrific: I read it down the launderette on Saturday afternoon and then again on the train up to London the following day. At least not EVERYONE in the story comes to a sticky end!
Of course, I would like to see a copy of ‘The 25 Paintings’ arrive in the post too one day, even if my previous 52 Pamphlets contributions and illustrations didn’t make the final edit.
I’m not feeling as desperate to see it as I was when I learned, from a reader, that I’d contributed to Bill Drummond’s ‘Biog 2024’/’Winning Is For Losers’ novella (Bill hadn’t passed that information on, so I had to chase down a copy via various Facebook groups).
And I’m sure I’m not feeling as disappointed as contributors to Bill’s ‘The Life Model’ must have done when a print edition didn’t come to fruition (twice!)
It’s not for completism’s sake. I know as a KLF fan I’ll never see, let alone own, a ‘Deep Shit’ flexi or plenty of their impossibly limited DJ promos and test pressings.
And I don’t even now hold copies of all the magazines etc I used to write for, having lent them back to friends and publishers or missed out on getting hold of them in the first place (I remember once bumping, unexpectedly, into an old friend in New York and she said “It was great to see you profiled inthe Guardian article the other weekend” – I’ve still no idea what that was about!)
It’s just, if ‘The 25 Paintings’ is, as described, GANTOB’s magnum opus, that’s got to be worth a look, especially if I did a bit in it.
If it had been GANTOB’s ‘The Black Room’ and never emerged, that would be worse I suppose!
Anyway, I hope when the dust settles on the strange incidents around the death of GANTOB, that the rest of ‘The 25 Paintings’ do indeed resurface and make their way to those who helped in its creation, albeit inadvertantly!
Right, gotta sign off and head to work now,
Catch up soon I hope,
stu
Gaynor’s contribution:
Before:
Dear GANTOB, Grapefruit, Gillian, Maureen whoever and whatever
I miss GANTOB. Where the devil is Gillian what am I having for tea ?
As a contributor to the 25 paintings book and with great consistency indeed included in the email of a GANTOB (ish) creation please may I have a copy of the book?
I just love it you know – thats all there is to it and I will accept this fantastic journey we have all been on will have come to an (whispers) end
I have loved it, found myself, accepted myself and let my lone ranger ride
Gaynor
After:
Just wanted to say book safely received
the sheer weighty ness
Opening it I’m just so overwhelmed to have been a part of this. Without you /them/ whoever
It would never have been
Who has the sheer grit to pull books off let alone this beauty ? You did
I’d forgotten all of this or maybe it was seeing it all together as one I don’t know? It’s truly amazing .
You made me brave
Thank you extremely sincerely
I’ve been inspired
By the pencil drawings from Bill’s writings
This week i’ll be sending some over for Little Grapefruit At Sea once I’m down from this cloud
Gaynor
Brechtian’s contribution:
Before
Aloha
Which is both a word for both hello and goodbye, and I think that’s a good match for the GANTOBesque GANTOBonian GANTOBness surrounding books, and the unburnt existence and locations thereof.
Late to the request and mural application I may be – I spy from Instagram that far more photogenic and poetic cases have been made by others far more talented than I (and that they seem to have successful) – I would still like to make my application and/or plea for a copy of the fine quality publication that is:
GANTOB’s 25 Paintings
My reason is simply that of wanting to continue, for as long as possible the adventure. Although I am behind on an earlier mention of typing up my contribution to The Life Model (and even extending it beyond the word count constraints), I still have plans to do these things, and when they are done, I’ll let people know about it.
I now realise there may be other things I am behind upon. I do remember submitting a jam jar photo for one thing, and an illustration of a big drum for something else. But I’m not sure now if these needed something else to follow up with. Penkiln Burn requests and GANTOB projects blend together like a cocktail of references, Mog books and Isle of Man train tickets. Throw in whatever KLF(RS) are up to these days, and it can be tricky to keep up, and perhaps, that’s the point….
I will be attempting a drawing for Little Grapefruit As Sea, once the desk is clear and the colour pencils are found.
Anyway, that’s all. Aside from a note that I feel I have a better chance of this request being approved than any of the books I backed via Unbound(*) seeing the light of day.
Aloha, hope all is as well as can be these days, and with regards,
Brechtian –
* – ex-book publisher which formally used crowd funding methods to get books published. They collapsed a few years back leaving some authors unpaid and backers out of pocket and with no books, much to a few grumbles.
After
Stephen Dorphin’s contribution:
Dear GANTOB, what a journey this has been. Based on my earlier discovery and connection with GANTOB via the KLFRS axis and subsequent sporadic contributions to the GANTOB-verse – it feels only right that I too should submit my application to be added to the wall of shame mural of desperation.
Having been a lifelong obsessive of KLF and KLF-related culture especially Bill Drummond’s output in recent years – I have now taken part in crazy events, met delightful interesting folks and shared creations I could never have dreamt of.
Simply stated it has been a pleasure to be a part of (albeit on the fringes) of a collective of like-minded individuals interested in creativity inspired loosely by a common interest.
I would be most grateful if I was selected to be an honoured recipient of the magnum opus that is GANTOB’s 25 Paintings.
It is now time to post the final book from the 25 Paintings/ 52 Pamphlets project to international GANTOB contributors, ahead of the 23 February launch. UK copies in I do hope you enjoy it. So long and thanks for all the grapefruit.
GANTOB blog 