“Did you know they found a mammoth under there?” She nodded across at the derelict Drummond Street entrance to Euston station I was trying to photograph. “A dead one, obviously.”
King’s Cross
by Paul Bradley
Tiny beads of sweat began to pump out of the speaker’s forehead and, up on the screen, his hunched silhouette looked vulnerable. The poor fellow just wants to eat, drink, sleep and laugh, Mr Hughes thought, but ends up doing this to keep it all going. What does he do in his spare time? Maybe he enjoys sitting in a cosy bird hide with an old tartan flask, corned beef sandwiches and binoculars. Wide open spaces, fresh air and birdsong. [read more…]
by Susan Harlan
It’s a terrible thing to say, but I’m bored. I’m bored at the British Library. So there it is. It seems like I’ve been here forever. I look at my watch: I’ve been here for two hours and eighteen minutes. I figure this means that I can’t leave yet. Two hours and eighteen minutes is not an honest work day. Two hours and eighteen minutes does not represent a good Protestant work ethic. [read more…]
by Daniel Ross
The first time we saw him was in 2009, on Euston Road by King’s Cross station. We walked right past him and then immediately turned to each other to remark on his outré ensemble and delightfully carefree disposition. What a case, we said. Much better than the Elvis impersonator we saw shuffling to a gig on Caledonian Road with full golden costume and burger sweats. [read more…]
by Matt Haynes
The caffs round King’s Cross are full of downcast Scotsmen eating breakfast. Outside O’Neill’s, others stand in kilts and saltires, pints in hand. Soon, it will be time to cross the Euston Road and catch the train back home. [read more…]
On the Pentonville Road by Howard Colyer
After three years of trying, my colleague, Malcolm Taylor, managed to throw a scrunched-up piece of paper into a bin five yards from his desk. [read more…]
by Dale Lately
A “hip, funky, upbeat kind of stay” is how one online guide describes this distinctive London accommodation, and the shiny-eyed receptionist – barely out of her teens – gives you a hip, funky, upbeat kind of swipe card when you hand over a grubby twenty. Cell 14, she tells you. Sorry? She smiles. That’s what we call them. It’s part of the theme. [read more…]
by Matt Haynes
If, on nearing the top end of Gray’s Inn Road, your response to the deepening pond of filth sloshing round your hush puppies is to lift your eyes heavenwards in search of spiritual sustenance, then you’re in for disappointment. For stiffly mounted on a pinnacle with his sceptre pointing skywards and his bare toes gripping a weighty ball is this cocky young lad making a most ambiguous gesture. [read more…]
As staff sweep up, a blue-haired Japanese girl sits in McDonald’s window, ear to mobile, lips unmoving, two dark wet smudges fixed through glass on somewhere that’s not Pentonville Road.
by Matt Haynes
Although ostensibly a celebration of rampant free-market capitalism, Monopoly stifles those very instincts that should engender success by insisting council planning departments impose draconian building regulations that allow for the construction of nothing but small green houses or big red hotels; you don’t get the chance to open, say, a department store or computer showroom, or to have a small parade of bakers, greengrocers and shoe repairers. [read more…]