by Matt Haynes
I think we can all tell by the way he uses his walk that Neptune is… well, a bit of an old tart, frankly, especially after a dose of Saturday Night Sea Fever has led him to try busting a few salty moves at the local Palais de Danse. Not for him, though, Travolta’s white suit and pointy collars – instead, just some kind of disco cape, the sort of thing you might toss on hastily should the doorbell ring as you were nakedly honing your hustle at home. [read more…]
by Sean Longden
One night they took me out. Up to Camden: couple of beers, round to visit some bloke from Scritti Politti at his squat, then to Dingwalls to see The Smiths. Walking there, I was amazed to hear the words “Oh – didn’t I mention it? We’re on the guest list.” It was getting better by the minute. I could just see myself back at school telling all this to the handful of people who would actually be impressed. [read more…]
… the Kilburn Newsdog says: “I recommend Smoke to all my regulars – it’s woofing great!” [read more…]
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.
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…]
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…]
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…]
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…]
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…]
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…]