Cab-less and bewildered in Vauxhall’s afternoon heat, the micro-skirted blondes tottering up Newport Street – snazzy holdalls sagging on spaghetti-strapped shoulders – cast a ten-legged silhouette on the railway arches’ dusty brick.
Regular features
Urban Intervention No. 67
When you’ve finished with your London Lite, hand it back to the vendor, tell him how much you enjoyed it, and ask him if there’s anything else in a similar vein he’d recommend.

THE CLAPTON STICKS
WHAT ARE THEY?
WHO PUT THEM THERE?
WHAT ARE THEY FOR?
ARE THEY JUST BROWN… AND STICKY…?
[find out here…]
Passing The Rocket on Euston Road, I remember the hair rising from the nape of his neck, his toes under the table, the two-for-the-price-of-one meals going cold as we warmed.
Urban Intervention No. 31
With the aid of a small folding table, why not set up a stall on Westminster Bridge selling wire sculptures of John Prescott to Japanese tourists?
“I will always love you,” he bellows as he wheels his cleaning cart down Gresham Street, trousers too short, grey hair almost gone, iPod clearly turned up to the max.
Urban Intervention No. 82
Intrigue tourists on the South Bank by leaning a harpoon against the rail and gazing out malevolently across the river. If approached, silently produce a photo of a haddock and then roll up your trouser-leg to reveal a wooden stump (this may require some preparation).
“He’s too old to be skateboarding down Graham Road,” I muse, looking out the window as the 55 dawdles at the lights; and then, for a moment, feel immeasurably sad.
Urban Intervention No. 43
Find a busy bus stop and then, when a bus has pulled up and the doors have opened, point at the driver in terror and shout “it’s him – he has returned!” before running off flapping your hands and gibbering.
Beneath the Times plant’s blank facade the ornamental canal teems with grim-faced lunchtime joggers pounding the ghost-shipped wharves of Wapping with bright white-sneakered feet.