by Rhuar Dean
Charles leant forwards, hands clasped between us on the table, brittle gold-rimmed spectacles resting on his wide nose. “This airport,” he said, “is not like other airports. In other airports, people are going on holiday, they’re excited. There’s a buzz. The bar is always full. There are always some Irish to drink with.” He leant forwards again, his grey hair a fuzz of pale smoke. “Here, the only people drinking are fucking wankers.” [read more…]
by Wolf Orff
Gary Geistler knew he was probably sane. But who in their right mind would turn out for a poetry gig in Mortlake on a bitter Thursday evening in late January? He’d been promised a third of the door money. He’d be lucky if it stretched to a large glass of Chardonnay. [read more…]
At Clapham North he pulls a knob of root ginger from his bag and, with eyes cast down, rubs its surface tenderly; perhaps, I think, it’s his lucky magic ginger.
by James Hunt
In one hundred and four days I will be forty years old. Tonight, I am standing in a hall in north London with my arm around someone, pretending to be happy. Meanwhile, across town in Kilburn… is the one I really want to be with, again.
[read more…]
Wait until London Zoo has just shut, then stand outside the main entrance dressed as a bear, rattling the gate and tapping an imaginary wristwatch. To make it more convincing, carry an HMV bag in one paw.
Penny-Farthing, Lee Navigation Canal towpath, November 2012
[see more…]
Busker
by Phil Callaghan
Posted at the foot
of the escalators
he whistles
I’ll never fall in love again…
[read more…]
by Elisabeth Blanchet
The Excalibur Estate in Catford is Britain’s largest surviving post-war prefab estate. The 186 pre-fabricated homes were built by Italian and German prisoners of war in 1945/46 to house returning servicemen and their families, part of larger project which saw 160,000 prefabs erected across the UK. [see slideshow of images and read more…]
London Transport Apologises No. 1
Due to earlier passenger action, the Bakerloo Line has been suspended from the Victoria Line at Oxford Circus, and is now swinging gently from side to side. [read more…]
It is very early on a Sunday morning in June and today promises to be every bit as scorching as yesterday. The street is deserted. Your ears ring, your eyes sting, your mouth tastes like a small bat has curled up and died in it. You’re wearing black leather, PVC, crushed velvet and heavy, oily make-up. You’re going home. [read more…]