After eleven yeArsof co n-struction, the world’s most talked about public appendageis ope n-ing. 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 Mus e-um’s Superintendent and Dire c-tor of Operations. “After the first week when it will be opened by royalty and privately viewed there will be public access, thus giving the whole city an insight into the mys-teries of the deep. A 14,000 step wrought iron, gas lamp illumina t-ed 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 diam e-ter of the Deep Sea Duct is only 25 feet, thus e n-suring inhabitants will continually be swimming into view. The pri vi-leged will also fish and the humpback angle r-fish, this oceanic cross section will be stocked by inhabitants of all depths including fifteen diffe r-ent species of eel. The museum is keen to point out that theutmost carehas been taken toensure 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 bea happy and safe environment for spectators and inhabitants alike.” beable toobserve marine life from theinterior 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 shortageof things to see with over 250 species making the duct their home. Salt levels, water movement and filtr a-tion will be monitored constantly to ensurea faultless, healthy, sea-like environment. Besides containing many deep water fish including the lante rn-D u ct de nizen: th e serpent eel
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o c cA sio na lc urio finding beach co mb er of l i f e ’ s l e s s p o p u l a r p e b b l y i n l e t s low wavbv vbbvv“C ha rle
s II”, murmured Fleur into her pillow, “was rather a dear”
or
The London Sinister Exaggera
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Deep Sea Duct: Cross Section water Ground Level Top bit Bottom bit Duct housed in West Wingthe door (pictured right) is definitely still there (Shore d-itch) at the time of going to press. All the door’s colours however, have faded since this recent pi c-ture. Any graffiti not shown (added since it was photographed) will also have faded. As will, (due to the body’s natural ag e-ing process) our own ability to perceive the vibrancy of its colour.
a r r i
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“this will finAlly open up the west. In a few years time I see The Oxen Ford as a gat e-way for many adventurous pioneers who are itching to explore the lands of the D u-rotriges and beyond”. So says Tar Stalinborg, theengineer who has overseen constru c-tion 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 certai n-ly strong and sturdy. But can it takeall 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 arriveat the Ford, it becomes quickly a p-parent the settlement is little more than a few cottages, oc-cupied by fur dealers who eke out a living by trade with, stray, friendly members of tribes from the west.
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 volu n-teered. 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 pre s-sure group who want the push stopped is sickened that the council have allowed it. When asked earlier today for her rea c-tion to the goahead 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 i m-mediately. It’s just not fair on the kids.” The last known survivor from two years agois Ted Bad who swam upriver to Henley where he sought sa nc-tuary. He now lives in a cell in the convent of The Little Sisters of the Law. mAny moreiron 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 produceincreasing 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 book-shop used to be. And up past the electronics book-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 mop-top, 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. Fuck-ing 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.
Im-perious 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 recommen-dation 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 ner-vously 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...
oldsconstantlyselect- ingandarrangingwordspurelyfortheentertainmentofmankind
it’sbeenovera fo rt-night now since The Chameleoplane change. The sequence should have been orange/ pink/taupe/aquamarine. However, it’s stuck b e-tween orangeand pink.
cicily sAint-sAëns has agreed to sing at the Sea M u-seum Fish Abyss opening ceremony. Accompanied on piano by partner Phiz Fi tz-patrick, she will sing from a selection including Schubert’s ‘Heidenröslein’ and Styrene’s ‘Oh Bondage Up Yours’. Archie penhAllAgrAm ‘The Zooglueman’ passed away peac e-fully last week after a medium i ll-ness. Archie, the founder of Pe n-hallagram 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.
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 Pri m-my and front runner, ‘Sports Day For The Mentals’ by Sir Sibbly Strithfellow Gore – a forty five foot friezeincluding every oneof theeight hundred and forty four inmates of Dour Mooer Asylum. To avoid the scenes of bloody pand e-monium that accompanied last year’s show, all paintings in the Sir Betfred Cummings Lozenge will now be surrounded by co n-creteanchored crash barriers and patrolled by an extra five security beasts. Trivia note: Highest skied entry: Dennis Whittock’s ‘Tulips for Julie’ (258 feet). “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 toappear in northernmost corners, especially when a damp day follows two dry”, advises spokesman, Rob Spiers. “Onceinside theorid can terrify almost any living thing – from very rich kings to micr o-scopic, one celled orga n-isms.” 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.” thomAs ‘little’ Pucker of Penge has today been hanged (00.01 - 01.15) at Pe nd-leton Glee gaol for the felonious acquisition of five curlew eggs. Tri-bearded, boxnosed, prancingfrog? orheadless, grapherof phoTog? promenadin’ with thefog that has covered the east of the city for the last two weeks, moved yesterday, a quarter of a mile south-west.
E
on the cornet CRIPPLEGATE 452 + support reyhoundg
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 Im-maculate Tea Towel Thrower continue their residency at the Church of the Avu n-cular 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 wi th-out trace: Holloway Helmore’s Sold Up The River. Albums in... On The Boards – Taste, Unprincipled Maniac – The Gladstones and Lapwing Bap from Unsympathet i-cally Matched Hotel Annexe. Coming next month: The Brunels’ From Here To Maidenhead and The Forgivemenots’ Make to Yourself Friends Of The Ma m-mon Of Unrighteousness.seEk And eNjoy
See, seeand seeagainSpaniels of Destiny with sexy frontman Shirty Flirty. Special shout-out to Sham 67, All Lime Chem
i-calsandLittle Girls Like Soap.
shrIEk And dEsTroy
The Supercalafragilistics’ platter of misery, Granny’ll look after yer.
s
HoUldn’T
h
AvE
Dolly Damsels’ Agincourtin’.so oooooooooooooo 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 – lu ng-ing onto the granularsootcore bandwagon a century too late. And Seanarina – the fact your dad is Alonso Multirima Cultino means nothing tous.streEtEsT PrEaChEr
Check out Crazy Bill Morris at Ha m-mersmith Square – something about socia l-isation – stap meif I know what he’s on about, but he means it maaaaaaaan.swAnkiEsT swEePer
Checkout Wilfo – Classiest broom in theeast. 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 LiAr
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 Pe r-fect Sibilants’ Cider Cellar Stella and Stressed Pheasants’ Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.?
?
?
tAmford my siAmese generally wakes meat 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, otherwiseit’s Twyn-ings Soft Tea, wholemeal toast and marmalade (Tiptree ‘Old Times’). Whatever I’m doing that day I a l-ways 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 Parl ia-ment. We were having a duffle bag fight on Westmi n-ster Pier when someone caughtme bang onthe 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. Istayed unconscious a whole week in intensive careat Tommy’s, and when I came to, a very select selection of doctory boffinologists discovered my su r-vival was dueentirelytoa strange infection. I’d become hosttoa 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 toourselves, weactually report to the Public D e-partment of Safety and Health. Theoffice is run by Lindseys One and Two, without whom my life would almost immediately unravel. Theother twoin the team, Captain Phipps the skipper and Chips the cabin boy are crew, although there’s four of us in the boat alt o-gether if youinclude John. Underwater days are the first Friday of each month, and by that time I can sense John’s usually quiteag i-tated and hungry for action. We take the boat out from Westminster Pier whereit’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 diff i-cult toisolate 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 mein (I have to be thrown, I can’t jump in myself). I usually wear a loin cloth, two transmitters (oneis a backup) and some ropeattached to the boat. Oncein I’ll immediately sink, stop breathing, getreally 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 awareof where I am, with only theodd 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
armour, chain mail and helmet sometimes. Once he’s got into my mind I don’t panic, in fact it’s quitea relief as we sometimes go to some quite nasty places. A few minutes of getting used toeach other and then we’reoff. Wealways try to work with the tides – to keep it natural and go with the flow. I’ll bump and glideup or down the river, wha t-ever 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 tountangle. If the tide’s too slow then the boat will pull me,and I scud along at around a milean hour with my eyes tight shut. Without us constantly cleaning, dirty stuff can pileup and out of the water. And when it’s into theair 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 whousually 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 theengager wealways 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 doabout 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 senseabout 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
Gush himself. They can rest easy, weoperateon a much lower level – just humble sweepers of one, long flue. By theend of a fiveor six hour stint we’reall done. John Higgs fades away and the boat stops, leaving me rocking and rolling on the river bottom likea 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 surfacearound 1pm on a Sunday (just in time to have missed Chi s-wick car boot sale,as Lindsey Twoalways reminds me) in PDSH’s research centrein 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 ce n-tre whereit will have been carefully unloaded and popped into bed. By Monday my temperature, breathing and heart rateare normal. I don’t want to give theimpression 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 doa regular nine to fiveand I’m back in my garden flat in Highgate by six. If it’s summer I’ll maybe take my kiteout 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 pizzaor 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 havea 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.
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neArtheCross 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.
deliciA deepoolI worship you. How I’d love to scale your noseand tippytoe along its exquisitely contoured ridgeuntil I reach your brow – then dive right into your big brown eye... Al i g h t i n g from a hansom cab outside Ha k-kasan, gorgeous Whoregerina Wilde shows mea shapely set of pins. “Fuck off tosser”, she shouts at me coquettishly before disa p-pearing inside. i bump intoa less than ebullient Hogiein Lei c-ester Fields who tells me he’s worried about the possibleeffects of Cha r-lie. The Bonny Prince natch. “He’s reached as far as Derby”, he tells me and fears the barbarians will soon beat the gates. Sooffto Soho to clear the gloom where I spot The Gilded Guttersnipe himself outside Wheelers. But instead of his raunchy, hedonistic self he’s wo r-ried about the fact that 400 thousand Soviet troops are poised toinvade. For Peacesakes tim o-rous daubers, wake up and smell the turps – it ain’t Guernica happen... enrouteto t he Rit z I chanceupon the deli ght-ful Emma Potts in M a-dame Kelly’s. I catch her mid ‘Attitude’ and take a sly snap on the old iPhone. Miss Potts confides she’s looking for a sailor. “Yo ho ho”, say aye aye. B oo dl e s B og u s N im ,The Mathmatical Mutt, caug ht co m p u t i n g ou t s i d e daffodil drummond is not just
daughter of national treasure dolly. she’s also a talented singer, actress, presenter, author,
dJ, jewellery maker, wallpaper designer, perfume putter-outer
and lingerie range
put-her-name-toer in her very own right
.
first londonmemories? 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 Eddieand Ricky. Ricky was so good loo k-ing then. I also saw the captured queen – the She-Wolf herself, in a chariot thing with people spi t-ting and throwing actual wee at her. So bizarre – a really strong mem. Well scrope. . fAvourite perfume? I’ll always love Dior’s Eau S au-vage – it reminds me of an old boyfriend. I also like Spink by Gobb. And Flambé doa really spiney whaff called Poor. hill? 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, out next whenever. Floo r-wise, it’s gonna be uncond i-tionally garganche 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 cluste r-buster 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 Highgateor Hamps. fAve book? Oh Catcher in the Rye definit e-ly. I love the bits when he goes on about phonies. That’s just so true. What really slugs meis e v-eryone thinks they’re like him. Get erect! Actch I’m more like his sister. Advice for outoftowners? Scrimmy round West Cents in a doldrum – always. Don’t snozz floofers. Scrineafter nine. Never nunny on a nimbus! And don’t tip pot boys.
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clubs? Psychic Clit at Doodles on Tuesdays and on Thursdays, Serengeti at Vermicelli, o th-erwise for a laugh, Spacement at The Newish Cavendish. For chillout I usually end up at Spunked or Riparian Armchair. top dj? Zookieblook blows meaway. fAshist designers? Oh Gush how many pages have we got? For classic styleit has to be Ritblat Floof, Sonbrid Bassle and of course, Sincrum Du f-flet. 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 Groa n-ings literally blew meaway. fAve pAinting? The Execution of Lady Jane Grey by Delaroche. Oh Gush it’s so sad. Those ladies in waiting, weeping and wailing, theexec u-tioner not wanting to chop her head off, that creepy guy whi s-pering in her ear and Lady JaneS
m
oke
I
nter nIS
kInt tran ScrI beS daffodil drummond is not just daughter of nationaltreasure dolly. she’s also a talented singer, actress,
presenter, author, dJ, jewellery maker, wallpaper designer, perfume putter-outer
and lingerie range put-her-name-toer in her
own right
.
yours trulyas ‘The Swinging Sultan’ at the Pepperton’s Conce n-trated Ox Paste Relish, fancy-dress, launch bash at Pumfy-Comfy’s
in Shep’s Mar on Mon. Also passing muster were Lady Ennui D u-Nutting as ‘The Most Beautifulist Princess in The World’, boyfriend Laird Hamish McBeamish of Tra’neeas Boadicea, the Glammis girls as merry milkmaids and Sonjaritaas a sphinx. Spaniels of De s-tiny 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 fa ll-ings – four with bloomers showing. Aprés do drunken straggler bea t-ing and pepper torture by as always those naughty Mohocks.
www.thegreatwen.co.uk [email protected]
