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Danger: Void Behind Door

Writing by Matt Haynes

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A Public Disservice

Danger: Void Behind Door

In which I am forced to bribe an elderly man in Wolverhampton with a spongey dessert in order to demonstrate to Richard Branson that trains are not planes and that you only need choice if the system has failed.

A Miscellany of Despair

Danger: Void Behind Door

How the National Maritime Museum is providing new opportunities for French people to shrug and go “bof”.

The Ecstasy of Michael Gove

Danger: Void Behind Door

I stare bleakly into the abyss and wonder whether the election of Boris Johnson is all my fault (it’s not, it’s all yours).

Taxi for Mr Johnson

Danger: Void Behind Door

How the removal of bendy buses on route 507 inspired a new TfL competition to redesign the wheel in time for 2012.

Anti-Zizzi, Anti-Pasti

Danger: Void Behind Door

Protests regarding the plethora of new chain restaurants at Greenwich pierhead stall when fossil records show that chickens first emerged on the small Greek island of Nandos.

Excuse me, miss, I bought this Jedi here last week, and it doesn’t work

Danger: Void Behind Door

Why the lack of recent postings cannot be blamed entirely on the inverse square law of gravitation and also definitely not on dragons.

The Unbelievable Niceness of Penge

Danger: Void Behind Door

How only Penge Homebase, out of all south-east London’s DIY superstores, seems to have grasped that Christmas is an annual event.

A Higher Evil

Danger: Void Behind Door

Are independent bookshops their own worst enemy, or just my own worst enemy?

The Spherical Love of French Teenagers

Danger: Void Behind Door

An unwelcome discovery on the meridian line makes me question whether padlocks have any role in a loving relationship.

You’re So Quiet You Sound Like Aldershot

Danger: Void Behind Door

Why it’s not just the lack of an internationally renowned art gallery, good tapas and an occasionally murderous independence movement that distinguishes Leyton from Bilbao.

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Sifted by Ilk

  • Fiction
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  • Poems and Parodies

“See you tomorrow, love,” says the barmaid, blustering out into the E10 afternoon. He nods, Wetherspoons pie half-eaten, coat still buttoned against the cold he feels much more these days.

Serendipity Doo-Dahs

Kensal Rise, Early In The Morning

A driver on the last remaining Routemaster service, the 159 from Marble Arch to Streatham, reflects on the relative inflexibility of women and buses.

You’re So Quiet You Sound Like Aldershot

Why it’s not just the lack of an internationally renowned art gallery, good tapas and an occasionally murderous independence movement that distinguishes Leyton from Bilbao.

A Riot Of Their Own

How I had my faith in human nature restored by the people of Sidcup and why toddlers and anarchists should neither be given Sunny Delight nor put in charge of the Northern Line.

For The Greater Good

A response to UKIP in not the only language its supporters don't understand: poetry.

The Unbelievable Niceness of Penge

How only Penge Homebase, out of all south-east London's DIY superstores, seems to have grasped that Christmas is an annual event.

The Scowl Beneath The Cowl

How I felt less badly about being mugged once the Daily Mail had explained that all the misunderstood urban yout’ really want is to be able to park sideways-on to the kerb.

And What’s With The Big Boat?

Is transpontine mating safe, or is the unholy union of a Bethnal Green girl and a Bermondsey boy likely to produce some sterile mule-like creature, useful only as a beast of burden or underworld goon?

Boris Johnson versus Dean Cox

A melancholy reflection on whether baklavas, beer, aubergine rasavangy and an 82nd-minute equaliser at Brisbane Road can ever compensate for the existence of Boris Johnson.

The New Romantic Luge

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.

The Hungry Cabbie

How Victorian philanthropists strove to fit thirteen grown men into a small green shed without recourse to contortionism, immodesty or facial depilation. And how an ill-advised sausage led to the discovery of south London.

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