A brief rumination on the fickleness of both women and space-time, and the possibility that access to some sort of infinite primordial darkness can be gained from the southbound Bakerloo Line platform at Waterloo.
O dark devourer of the driver’s coin, what broken dreams was this leap meant to fix? What hope-denuded skyline did enjoin you to cast off on this East London Styx?
Hackney’s lost ski-slope, and how Boy George nearly brought Duran Duran’s career to a premature end when, clutching a garish mojito, he hurtled down the dendix piste using Simon le Bon as a toboggan.
O noble lantern ’neath whose kindly fire my love and I did oft together lark, our bodies, lust-engorged, ’twined in desire – why hast thou gone and left us in the dark?
Across the road is a nail salon, then a jeweller’s, a florist’s, and – I stare at the words above the next doorway: Divine Money, Financial Services. Why is that so familiar? Obviously it’s the sort of name you remember, but – where would I be remembering it from?
The lorries are starting to move now, rumbling across the deck of the James Newman and onto the ramps that shake and ring beneath their tyres. He is supposed to leave too; there is an announcement over the tannoy, every time a ferry docks, forbidding passengers to remain on board.
Two disconsolate psychogeographers reflect on how some of the ley lines that were dug up to build the Basketball Arena for the 2012 Olympics had been there since the days of King Lud.
How I was abducted by aliens from South Harrow station and had the true nature of Boris Johnson revealed to me after being forced to mate against my wishes.
How Josephine’s coquettish suggestion that Napoleon surprise her with something long and wrinkly led to a giant elephant being installed in the Place de la Bastille.