o t
es
rl
or The London Sinister Exagg e r a
a “C h
r
No1 I I”,
m u r m u red Fleur into her pillow, “was rather a dear”
low wavbv vbbvv
Duct housed in West Wing
be able to observe marine life from the interior of a five man diving bell called the Well Bucket which is positioned over the duct and can be lowered on chains to the very bottom. There will be no shortage of things to see with over 250 species making the duct their home. Salt levels, water movement and filtration will be monitored constantly to ensure a faultless, healthy, sea-like environment. Besides containing many deep water fish including the lantern-
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be public access, thus giving the whole city an insight into the mysteries of the deep. A 14,000 step wrought iron, gas lamp illuminated staircase wraps itself around the duct and one can observe its denizens through especially toughened glass portholes at 200 foot intervals.” Though the world’s deepest aquarium by far, the diameter of the Deep Sea Duct io is only 25 feet, thus enur c suring inhabitants l a will continually be swimming into view. The privileged will also
b
e
Deep Sea Duct: Cross Section
w
eleven years of construction, the world’s most talked about public appendage is opening. The Museum of Sea and Oceanography’s Deep Sea Duct is finally ready for inspection. “It is essentially a two mile long, hermetically sealed, steel built, brick lined, saline filled, twin-turbine powered, fish and crustacean stocked, stair encased, hole”, says Professor Soames Gnomenclature, The Sea Museum’s Superintendent and Director of Operations. “After the first week when it will be opened by royalty and privately viewed there will
fish and the humpback anglerfish, this oceanic cross section will be stocked by inhabitants of all depths including fifteen different species of eel. The museum is keen to point out that the utmost care has been taken to ensure that all creatures will exist in what they call ‘wild harmony’. “Think of the Duct”, adds Professor Gnomenclature, “as an extraordinarily long test tube. Although”, he laughs, “there is nothing experimental about the contents. Years of meticulous planning by experts has ensured this will be a happy and safe environment for spectators and inhabitants alike.”
e ni e n z
e : th
ent eel serp
olds constantly select-
ing and arranging words purely for the entertainment of mankind
promenadin’ with
ar rion
The fog that has covered the east of the city for the last two weeks, moved yesterday, a quarter of a mile south-west.
“Brace yourself for an epidemic of orids. And especially watch warm, wet windowsills”, warns the Public Department of Safety and Health. “Orids are most likely to appear in northernmost corners, especially when a damp day follows two dry”, advises spokesman, Rob Spiers. “Once inside the orid can terrify almost any living thing – from very rich kings to microscopic, one celled organisms.” Adding to public orid anxiety there are now reports the pest has been deliberately released in areas to the north, south, east and possibly west of the city. “Anyone acting suspiciously”, says Rob, “will be paraffined with moderate prejudice.”
Tri-bearded, box nosed, prancing frog? Or headless, grapher of photog?
eeds
It’s been over a fortnight now since The Chameleoplane change. The sequence should have been orange/ pink/taupe/aquamarine. However, it’s stuck between orange and pink.
Archie Penhallagram ‘The Zooglueman’ passed away peacefully last week after a medium illness. Archie, the founder of Penhallagram Adhesives and known and loved by many was often seen as he journeyed on his distinctive green cart between the city’s four zoos and his factory in Hackney.
Thomas ‘Little’ Pucker of Penge has today been hanged (00.01 - 01.15) at Pendleton Glee gaol for the felonious acquisition of five curlew eggs.
Cicily Saint-Saëns h as agreed to sing at the Sea Museum Fish Abyss opening ceremony. Accompanied on piano by partner Phiz Fitzpatrick, she will sing from a selection including Schubert’s ‘Heidenröslein’ and Styrene’s ‘Oh Bondage Up Yours’.
Queues are already forming for the fifty-first Ethelred Institute Summer Show which starts on Thursday with a private view attended by the Chief and Queen. Shortlisted paintings for the Scrotonium this year include: ‘Subjectless Symphony in Cinnamon’ by Sir Stark Trumpeter, ‘Unto The Pure All Things Are Well Pure’ by Canon Durdle Dore, ‘Old Nug’ by Primmy and front runner, ‘Sports Day For The Mentals’ by Sir Sibbly Strithfellow Gore – a forty five foot frieze including every one of the eight hundred and forty four inmates of Dour Mooer Asylum. To avoid the scenes of bloody pandemonium that accompanied last year’s show, all paintings in the Sir Betfred Cummings Lozenge will now be surrounded by concrete anchored crash barriers and patrolled by an extra five security beasts. Trivia note: Highest skied entry: Dennis Whittock’s ‘Tulips for Julie’ (258 feet).
“This will finally open up the west. In a few years time I see The Oxen Ford as a gateway for many adventurous pioneers who are itching to explore the lands of the Durotriges and beyond”. So says Tar Stalinborg, the engineer who has overseen construction of every inch of the new fifty three mile Oxen Ford highway. Built mainly of stone, with beech tracking through the Chilterns, the road is certainly strong and sturdy. But can it take all the traffic it’s likely to attract? “In some parts nearer London two carts can pass without stopping”, says Tar. However before anyone starts planning their travels it should not need us to point out that beyond the Chilterns the terrain is dangerous. And when one does arrive at the Ford, it becomes quickly apparent the settlement is little more than a few cottages, occupied by fur dealers who eke out a living by trade with, stray, friendly members of tribes from the west.
The door (pictured right) is definitely still there (Shoreditch) at the time of going to press. All the door’s colours however, have faded since this recent picture. Any graffiti not shown (added since it was photographed) will also have faded. As will, (due to the body’s natural ageing process) our own ability to perceive the vibrancy of its colour.
The Hammersmith Prisoner Push is back on – despite no-one surviving last year’s festivities. Notwithstanding the grim mortality rate, 450 prisoners from the city’s five main gaols have volunteered. Children from the local St Moses primary will do the honours this time, pushing in batches of 50 then rushing down to stone from the bank. Not everyone is celebrating though. Nadia Nine of ‘NO!!!!!!!!’ a local pressure group who want the push stopped is sickened that the council have allowed it. When asked earlier today for her reaction to the go ahead she replied, “This is crazy – absolute madness. I’ve said all along this should be moved to the summer. The chances of any of the children inflicting lethal blows are severely restricted when the coldness of the water will cull almost immediately. It’s just not fair on the kids.” The last known survivor from two years ago is Ted Bad who swam upriver to Henley where he sought sanctuary. He now lives in a cell in the convent of The Little Sisters of the Law.
Many more iron things are being made than ever before. From tiny things to very big things we lead the world in manufacture, with foundries working night and day to produce increasing amounts. “Pig, cast or wrought, not to mention the big one: steel. We make stuff from the lot”, said an anonymous, industry insider.
fter bidding my favourite belle adieu it’s down the sticky stairs from Tartfordshire and into the bleached, blond afternoon of Lisle Street. Straight down Leicester Place – where the silly, young starlets queue for their premières – and right into Leicester Square towards The Hay Market. Outside the Swiss Centre the formidable Mr Lowen Coxhill busks. I’m keen to stride but I stay awhile. He has that special gift - playing the saxophone sans schmaltz. (A mercurial instrument - plainly demonstrated by the fact its plangent riff on Gerald Rafferty’s ‘Baker Street’ shares the song with what is almost certainly one of the worst solos the instrument has been forced to produce). At Picadilly I aim to walk up Regent Street but then I see the middle, oval window right at the top above Swan and Edgar, staring insolently. I was going to promenade up Regent Street but that quite puts me off. So I swing into Shaftesbury Avenue then take a left into Great Windmill Street. Soho, Soho. So many tales, so many stories. Where young and frantic, lusty woodlice crawl over slower, older, drunker woodlice all looking for what the cognoscenti call ‘the shit’. So many missed mornings from misplaced nights. So many lovers lost and found over cheap chianti and expended coffee grounds. So many – actually, to be honest, I don’t know it that well. Well that was Soho – we’re in Tottenham Court Road now. We came up Dean Street, right down The Oxen Ford Road and left through Hanway Street if you’re interested. Up past where the porn bookshop used to be. And up past the electronics shops where bored salesman compete to not sell anything. Up into the quartier mobilier. Heals on the right – used to be a dairy farm y’know. I’m walking past lots of interesting nooks and crannies overflowing with historical stuff when I become aware of walking behind an odd arguing couple. She with curious, pudding bowl haircut, sporting jodhpurs and scowl; he with crazy moptop, shabby suit and backpack, spitting venom. I’m no trick cyclist but it looks like a good shag might sort them out... Right at the top into Euston Road, once plodded by herds of doomed cattle and soldiers but now used by station comers and goers. I press east with the traffic. To my right Travelcardcongestionzoneone, to my left across the road the eponymous station – one of four which lap the Marylebone/Euston shoreline. Unmodishly modern, it hides back from the road with far too many windows for my liking. Is one blinking? That squat, sly station just doesn’t want to be here. It doesn’t even want to be a station. Give it some planes and make it happy. Straight on past lots of historical things far too interesting to mention. Actually it’s taking all my guile just to keep crossing these bastard side roads. Fucking cyclists want it both ways. To my left Somers Town, whose gangs steal boys from Brick Lane and don’t give them back. To my right, more stuff – litter and history mainly. Coming up to Pret now and across the road by way of welcome to the British Library a huge bronze man bares his arse. But then on the corner by O’Neills I see it. Imperious and brooding. Aloofly cogitating. Standing in all its sturdy glory just below the circling bats and thunder clouds. Vibrating and juddery, railinged and shadowy... Queen Alexandra Mansions. (just opposite that fancy dan station). On the recommendation of my friend Paul I once went to view a flat there for sale. Once inside that dark, dappled place the accompanying agent told me as he knocked nervously on the door, that the vendor had sworn if he was ever in when a prospective buyer called, he’d kill whomsoever it was. On entry it was luckily empty, but it quickly transpired that this was actually the flat of a devil. I didn’t buy it but its proximity to King’s Cross does remind me I have the devilish horn upon me once more, bringing me to at least my vertical ramble’s end...
CRI PLEGATE 4 P 52
e on the cornet
SHINDIGERY
Surfeit of Lampreys support Sophistical Rhetorician in a six week residency at The Squalid Fig. The Seers start their semi-mini tour at the Cybercave. Sozzled, Stoned, Plastic-Policeman’s-Helmet-Wearing, Ripped-Off, Swedish Student play a one-off at The Drunken Boat while Immaculate Tea Towel Thrower continue their residency at the Church of the Avuncular Molar.
synthetic stuff
Singles out... Speak Lord For Thy Servant Heareth from Can These Dry Bones Live? Bear, Bear and Bear again from Danny Ton-up and the Mountain Boys. Slicin’ ’n’ Hopin’ ’n’ Thinkin’ of Lovin’ from Victor, The Crooning Whittler and Cuntitative Easing from Buster Boom and the Bad Pennies. Sadly sinking without trace: Holloway Helmore’s Sold Up The River. Albums in... On The Boards – Taste, Unprincipled Maniac – The Gladstones and Lapwing Bap from Unsympathetically Matched Hotel Annexe. Coming next month: The Brunels’ From Here To Maidenhead and The Forgivemenots’ Make to Yourself Friends Of The Mammon Of Unrighteousness.
SeEk and enjoy
See, see and see again Spaniels of Destiny with sexy frontman Shirty Flirty. Special shout-out to Sham 67, All Lime Chemicals and Little Girls Like Soap.
ShrIEk and destroy
The Supercalafragilistics’ platter misery, Granny’ll look after yer.
shouldn’t have
Dolly Damsels’ Agincourtin’.
g
+ support
reyhound
of
So OoOoOoOoOoOo Oo LoNg
Radiobore – Georgie Shaw. Too long in the comfy chair. The beard, the blarney, the brogue, the Brahms and the Billy Bragg – and that oh so sad veggie cookery slot.
steer clear
The Noggins – Keep on Nog Nog Noggin’ Along – er, no. Soylant Greenford – lunging onto the granularsootcore bandwagon a century too late. And Seanarina – the fact your dad is Alonso Multirima Cultino means nothing to us.
St ReEt est PrEaChEr
Check out Crazy Bill Morris at Hammersmith Square – something about socialisation – stap me if I know what he’s on about, but he means it maaaaaaaan.
swankiest SwEePeR
Checkout Wilfo – Classiest broom in the east. Junction of Cannon Street and Commercial Road.
spunky mudlark
Fleet outflow boy with red hair and rickets, who shouts at passing, pretty ladies, “God bless porridge.”
Street li ar
The Everything Man, of Exmouth Market. “Buy fat chickens and tormenters for your fleas. Flounders, figs and periwigs, and rind to bind your cheese.”
StOp PrEss
Best test pressings just in... Hoarse Whisperer’s Silent Assassins. The Perfect Sibilants’ Cider Cellar Stella and Stressed Pheasants’ Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.
?
? ? ? ? ✕
'
Riverpsychle
tamford my siamese generally wakes me at dawn by lying across my neck and purring loudly. As an alarm clock it may not be that reliable but it’s a pleasant enough way to slip into the day. After I get up and shower I meditate for 15 minutes before having breakfast. If it’s an underwater day I’ll have a full English, otherwise it’s Twynings Soft Tea, wholemeal toast and marmalade (Tiptree ‘Old Times’). Whatever I’m doing that day I always check in the office first, which is just off the Strand. I get in around nine, grabbing a coffee from either Pret or Old Slaughter’s on the way. I’ve been a riverpsychleaner for 21 years now. It all started when I was 11 and larking about on a school trip to The Houses of Parliament. We were having a duffle bag fight on Westminster Pier when someone caught me bang on the side of the head and knocked me straight in. I apparently stayed under for two hours until the river police spotted me pop up a mile downstream. I stayed unconscious a whole week in intensive care at Tommy’s, and when I came to, a very select selection of doctory boffinologists discovered my survival was due entirely to a strange infection. I’d become host to a murdered, 13th century mercenary. Hard to take
in really. They said I’d been ‘infected’ but he’s part of me now – a telepathic tapeworm – only properly stirring when it’s spiritual feeding time. I call him John Higgs. Although there’s only five of us in our department and we’re pretty much left to ourselves, we actually report to the Public Department of Safety and Health. The office is run by Lindseys One and Two, without whom my life would almost immediately unravel. The other two in the team, Captain Phipps the skipper and Chips the cabin boy are crew, although there’s four of us in the boat altogether if you include John. Underwater days are the first Friday of each month, and by that time I can sense John’s usually quite agitated and hungry for action. We take the boat out from Westminster Pier where it’s moored. Depending on reports, we go to where the river’s most clogged. South of The Fleet is always harder to clear as there’s so much blood in the water from Smithfield, making it difficult to isolate problem areas and generally muddying up perception. If it’s west of the Fleet all we have to look out for is green parrots. They don’t actually interfere with communication like the blood, it’s just that John doesn’t like them. Once we’ve found a spot the skipper will chuck me in (I have to be thrown, I can’t jump in myself). I usually wear a loin cloth, two transmitters (one is a backup) and some rope attached to the boat. Once in I’ll immediately sink, stop breathing, get really cold, and get in a bit of a trance while I wait for John. This can often be the loneliest part – lying on the river bed half aware of where I am, with only the odd diving cormorant for company. Within an hour, when he feels I’m ready, John will join me. I say join but he really takes over. I can feel him welling up until I’m sort of just watching. I still feel physical things though. I can even feel like I’m wearing his
Effra aner Ian Riparian tells
Peck-N
armour, chain mail and helmet sometimes. Once he’s got into my mind I don’t panic, in fact it’s quite a relief as we sometimes go to some quite nasty places. A few minutes of getting used to each other and then we’re off. We always try to work with the tides – to keep it natural and go with the flow. I’ll bump and glide up or down the river, whatever way we’ve decided previously. Sometimes I get stuck in mud or snagged on a shopping trolley, but a good tug from the skipper will invariably do the trick – otherwise Chips is chucked in to untangle. If the tide’s too slow then the boat will pull me, and I scud along at around a mile an hour with my eyes tight shut. Without us constantly cleaning, dirty stuff can pile up and out of the water. And when it’s into the air you’ve got problems. I can feel John Higgs radiating as we move – a big, red, bossy, glow. Shooing off some things sucking in others. Shaking it up and settling it down again. There’s many a poor soul in there who usually John just soothes. But he’s a soldier, and if they resist or don’t move along when he tells them they get engaged. That can be kind of scary, but being the engager we always get our way. Though sometimes the sounds they make can put the fear of Gush upon you. I can identify most of this world’s noises quite quickly now though – from bleaty, sacks of kittens to the low, silty moans of suicides and murderees. Depending on resistance we’ll do about five miles a day. If we get what we call a spiritclog or an atmandam we can spend the whole session in one place. Luckily the skipper’s got a sixth sense about these things and he’s more than happy to sit on deck and smoke his pipe while we get our hands dirty. But mostly it’s standard stuff. Some people worry we’ll upset the water deities – even disturb Big
eckinger about h is
day
and
oth
er stuff
Gush himself. They can rest easy, we operate on a much lower level – just humble sweepers of one, long flue. By the end of a five or six hour stint we’re all done. John Higgs fades away and the boat stops, leaving me rocking and rolling on the river bottom like a caddis fly husk. It all goes white – and then it all goes black... The last Saturday of the month doesn’t exist for me. I normally surface around 1pm on a Sunday (just in time to have missed Chiswick car boot sale, as Lindsey Two always reminds me) in PDSH’s research centre in Barnes where they monitor me for the day. Previously, my cold little bod will have been hauled up by the crew, wrapped in white linen and dispatched post haste to the centre where it will have been carefully unloaded and popped into bed. By Monday my temperature, breathing and heart rate are normal. I don’t want to give the impression that psychic dredging is one big adventure. Most days I’ll spend in the office writing reports or in numerous planning meetings. In fact, I mainly do a regular nine to five and I’m back in my garden flat in Highgate by six. If it’s summer I’ll maybe take my kite out on the heath (I’m president of Highgate Kite Fighters). It’s how I unwind – on top of a hill looking up at the sky. I might stop off for a takeaway pizza or curry on the way back, or whip up a stir-fry at home. After watching the ten o’clock news with the cat on my lap I generally turn in. I’ll brush and floss and have a quick wash, but I never fill the basin and never use the bath at that time. The last thing I want is old John Higgs waking up when it’s time to get some serious shuteye.
cr
es ib
d n o D ru m m
Daffodil Drummond is not just daughter of national treasure Dolly. She’s alsojust a Daffodil Drummond is not talented ofsinger, actress, daughter national treasure presenter, DJ, Dolly. She’s author, also a talented jewellery maker, wallpaper singer, actress, presenter, author, designer, perfume putter-outer DJ, jewellery maker, wallpaper and lingerie range put-herdesigner, perfume putter-outer in her and name-toer lingerie range put-herright . own right. name-toer own in her very
.
Favourite
ba n
o gs
perfume?
I’ll always love Dior’s Eau Sauvage – it reminds me of an old boyfriend. I also like Spink by Gobb. And Flambé do a really spiney whaff called Poor.
Hill?
First London
memories? Being on my dad’s shoulders watching the army come back after victory at Tewkesbury. I just remember all these dirty soldiers marching and these big kettle drums banging and bonging, and all these really weird horns honking. The crowd were going krosstic. I saw both Eddie and Ricky. Ricky was so good looking then. I also saw the captured queen – the She-Wolf herself, in a chariot thing with people spitting and throwing actual wee at her. So bizarre – a really strong mem. Well scrope.
Box.
Soap?
Hilldrop Crescent.
When
were you most twatted? Scrofula at Verdigris two years ago. Most of the night I swear the dancefloor was at 45º!
On
the pod? A mix by Primpy of my sis Dystopia’s second sing, Solo 69, ou t n e xt wh e n e v e r. Fl oo rw i s e , i t’s g o nn a b e unconditionally garganche
ra
Sk
ou
Clubs?
Psychic Clit at Doodles on Tuesdays and on Thursdays, Serengeti at Vermicelli, otherwise for a laugh, Spacement at The Newish Cavendish. For chillout I usually end up at Spunked or Riparian Armchair.
Top
dj?
Zookieblook blows me away.
Fashist
designers?
Oh Gush how many pages have we got? For classic style it has to be Ritblat Floof, Sonbrid Bassle and of course, Sincrum Dufflet. For edgy I wear Frruup, Splangg, Mmmmm!!?!! and Golden Eggg. Of the new stuff Connie Simmz is doing some inspirational things with hessian and the student show at Groanings literally blew me away.
Fave
painting?
The Execution of Lady Jane Grey by Delaroche. Oh Gush it’s so sad. Those ladies in waiting, weeping and wailing, the executioner not wanting to chop her head off, that creepy guy whispering in her ear and Lady Jane
looking so pulchry in that silky dress and being so brave with that blindfold and everything. I so cry when I see it. It makes me want to be her – but just for like that second only though.
Cheat Recipe?
I do a really amazing cottage cheese lasagne.
Film Line?
When Droozy Hawkes finds Slo-mo Joe in the clusterbuster in Winks and screams ‘Ain’t that just a cootietootie’ Klassick.
Group?
The Spans, obs. My bro went to school with Gluey Huey and says he was a real normal. But Shirty is sooooo scruuuupy.
Hol
dest?
My parents have a riverside kroal in Richmond. We go there most summers. If we’re not upriver when it’s plaguey we go to Highgate or Hamps.
Fave
book?
Oh Catcher in the Rye definitely. I love the bits when he goes on about phonies. That’s just so true. What really slugs me is everyone thinks they’re like him. Get erect! Actch I’m more like his sister.
En route t o
the Ritz I chance upon the delightful Emma Potts in Madame Kelly’s. Icatch her mid ‘Attitude’ and take a sly snap on the old iPhone. Miss Potts confides she’s looking for a sailor. “Yo ho ho”, s ay ay e ay e .
Advice
for outoftowners ? Scrimmy round West Cents in a doldrum – always. Don’t snozz floofers. Scrine after nine. Never nunny on a nimbus! And don’t tip pot boys.
Yours truly as ‘The Swinging Sultan’ at the Pepperton’s Concentrated Ox Paste Relish, fancy-dress, launch bash at Pumfy-Comfy’s in Shep’s Mar on Mon. Also passing muster were Lady Ennui DuNutting as ‘The Most Beautifulist Princess in The World’, boyfriend Laird Hamish McBeamish of Tra’nee as Boadicea, the Glammis girls as merry milkmaids and Sonjarita as a sphinx. Spaniels of Destiny bass boy, Hunki Spunki DJed, with live sounds by The Scions. Bouncer baiting was led by Viscount Bonky Doofer. Despite pap thrashing starting early, on exit there were fifteen recorded filly fallings – four with bloomers showing. Aprés do drunken straggler beating and pepper torture by as always those naughty Mohocks.
I
Delicia Deepool I worship you. How I’d love to
Bogu
scale your nose and tippytoe along its exquisitely contoured ridge until I reach your brow – then dive right into your big brown eye...
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Alighting
from a hansom cab outside Hakkasan, gorgeous Wh o r e g e r i n a Wilde shows me a shapely set of pins. “Fuck off tosser”, she shouts at me coquettishly before disappearing inside.
bump into a less than ebullient Hogie in Lei ce ste r Fie lds who te lls me he’s worried about the possible effects of Charlie. The Bonny Prince natch. “He’s reached as far as Derby”, he tells me and fears the barbarians will soon be at the gates. So off to Soho to clear the gloom where I spot The Gilded Guttersnipe himself outside Wheelers. But instead of his raunchy, hedonistic self he’s worried about the fact that 400 thousand Soviet troops are poised to invade. For Peacesakes timorous daubers, wake up and smell the turps – it ain’t Guernica happen...
Near the Cross of King’s I espy that tiny tomtom tickler Drumbo just back from his first American tour where he says he “knocked ’em dead”. Best gigs, Blackburn’s Ford and Bull Run – both fests.
www.thegreatwen.co.uk
[email protected]
“The one duty we owe to history is to rewrite it”
