… the Kilburn Newsdog says: “I recommend Smoke to all my regulars – it’s woofing great!” [read more…]
Oct 032012
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Oct 012012
Beside the track at Richmond, a large stuffed bear slumps against the wall and stares at the gravel. “Mister Bear” says the aerosol scrawl, an arrow pointing at his head.
Sep 272012
by Zoë Fairbairns
“Oh south London,” he said, as if I ought to have made that clear before, as if it was generally understood among right-thinking people that the word “London” does not encompass “south London”.
“That’s right,” I said.
“We’ve got a girl in our office,” he said, “who comes from south London. She’s got the most marvellous accent.” [read more…]
Sep 242012
The MoD this morning called for calm after confirming that London had been invaded overnight by Ant People. “We’ve offered to take them to our leader,” a spokesman said sadly, waving a photo of Boris Johnson, “but it seems they just want to go through our bins.” [read more…]
Sep 212012
Walking Round You Sometimes Hear The Sunshine Beating Down In Time With The Rhythm Of Your Shoes by Lucy Munro
Wide-eyed and precocious, we come blinking out of the station, trying not to look at the A-Z. It’s noisy, grubby, and there are smells we know we’re too young to recognise. We’ve seen Camden Town in Madness videos: the boys skanking down Kentish Town Road to Holt’s in search of DMs; Chrissy-Boy standing on the traffic island wearing nothing but a tan mac and a cardboard sign. [read more…]
Sep 142012
by Julian Ridgway
It was a motorway. Or was once meant to be. One that would have stretched from the river to the M1, and then round a whole city-manacling circuit of similar pre-cast gaugings. The London Motorway Box. A high-flying lap of the city, with slip roads. This particular piece would have flown or carved through much of West London, even leaping over the Earl’s Court exhibition halls. I emitted a tender gasp of Brutalist desire. [read more…]
Sep 102012
by Matt Haynes
I picture his right foot tense on the accelerator, desperate to push down and unleash a fuel-injected spray of petrol and testosterone into the cylinder head. It’s so stupid, so futile. If he’d just waited, handbrake on, behind the line, I’d have gone past, and we’d both now be on our way. Instead, I’ve slowed almost to walking pace; I need to be able to throw myself sideways, if he decides he needs to make a point. [read more…]
Sep 072012
Unreal City by Jude Rogers
So we went then, you and I, waiting for the rest of our lives to wake us from the winter. “Come,” I’d whispered on that white afternoon, as your train pulled away to the north and you still stood there on Silver Street’s empty platform, your cheeks iced and bright, your eyes warm, your arms wrapped tight around my ruby red coat. “Come and watch the spring begin with me.” [read more…]
Sep 052012
“Sorry, mate,” says the man on the footbridge, turning aside to let me cycle past. “Cheers,” I reply. He nods, tight-lipped, then continues urinating onto the Blackwall Tunnel Southern Approach.
Sep 022012
by Howard Colyer
He looked as if he had been a waiter in Soho for many years – perhaps he had never been anything else – and there were only the two of us in the room, and I was in the corner: and he got out a CD from his bag, silenced the radio, and put on his music – ragtime. And in imitation of his younger self he danced and twitched about. [read more…]