No 1

or The London Sinister Exagge

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a
t
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In a move that sIgnals to
many the inevitability of war,
Londons tallest building, known to
all simply as The Shard, is being
quickly dismantled. Once disas-
sembled, the entire edifice will be
catalogued, then carefully trans-
ported to a secret place of safety,
possibly in the Chiltern Hills.
Minister of Attack Eric Blurdocks
explained to us exclusively: Since
the secession of that little sod Sur-
rey on Thursday weve been on
a permanent war footing. This is
manifested by the introduction of
certain measures to protect any
potential areas of possible enemy
activity. We believe The Shard
could become a prime soft target
should hostilities escalate.
Since Chief Secheles refusal to
recognise the breakaway state and
the reluctance of its leader Dave
Jeffries to reach a diplomatic solu-
tion, the prospect of war is pos-
sible, if not probable, especially
since a Port of London pleasure
steamer was fired upon by rebels
in Isleworth yesterday.
A militia has been hastily con-
vened and all around the citys
western edges citizens are busy
digging earthworks -- an action
precipitated by rumours that the
rebel army led by former high-
wayman Robber Ely is mass-
ing outside the breakaway shires
newly declared capital, Richmond.
S
h
iftin
g
of T
he Shard to its sec
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promenadin
with
ar r i on
eeds
I Care for Lissy
a tragIc accIdent occurred
yesterday within The Deep Sea
Duct -- the two mile deep aquar-
ium, commonly known as The
Fish Abyss, housed within the
Museum of Sea and Oceanogra-
phy. A chain moving the aquari-
ums diving bell seized-up when
the apparatus was fifty fathoms
down, rendering the craft immo-
bile and causing five people, yet
unnamed, to perish from lack of
oxygen. Despite the best efforts
of museum diving staff to free the
stricken vessel, it remains stuck
fast. Obviously our first concern is
to retrieve the bodies said Under-
water Deceased Retrieval Expert
and Maritime Aquarium Risk As-
sessor, Adrianus Air. He added it
was, imperative to bring the bell
to the surface, as it restricts oxygen
to the denizens below, who already
have a depleted supply due to a
malfunction of air pumps and fil-
ters, damaged when the aquarium
recently sprung a leak. He went
on to paint a bleak picture of what
conditions were like below the ma-
rooned, submerged craft, describ-
ing it as, a stewing, black soup of
deoxygenated water and decaying
sea creatures an environment
where only a few hardy species out
of the thousands that were origi-
nally housed will be able to adapt
and survive. No-one really knows
the full extent of what is going on
down there in that benighted pit,
but if you could see it, which luckily
isnt an option, it would be unpleas-
ant in the extreme. One can only
surmise it is a murky, putrescent
hellhole of death, darkness and
decay.
However, The Sea Museums
Superintendent and Director of
Operations Professor Soames No-
menclature was a lantern of opti-
mism when we spoke to him ear-
lier today. The public are getting
this out of proportion, he said.
I agree the temporary blockage
is impeding light and oxygen, but
the top of the tank is still visible
-- and, for a considerably reduced
fee, families can come to see some
lovely little fish and eels swimming
around the aquariums surface.
Pressed about the fatalities, he con-
tinued in a positive manner. Its
never good when lives are lost ac-
cidently, but let me assure every
one of the deceaseds relatives we
take these deaths seriously. So seri-
ously, that their loved ones will live
on in the form of a commemora-
tive, brass plaque we plan to site
in the future, next to the tank of
neons in the concourse. But, please,
I beseech you all, lets get this act
of Gush in context. Four times
that number of navvies perished
in the last year of the aquariums
construction alone. For a disaster, a
death toll of five is excellent.
laurI e sorry
was hanged at
Brittleton Caper
Gaol last Monday.
His name
sounded just too
similar to Surrey,
and we couldnt
afford to take the
risk of nefarious,
fifth column activ-
ity, said someone
ina senior position
somewhere.
In conjunction
with the Morning
Parp, Daily Blart,
and Evening Toot
we wish to an-
nounce that con-
jecture concerning
the whereabouts
of beautiful, miss-
ing soprano Deli-
cia Deepool (see
previous issue) is
now at an end.
Furthermore, un-
less in the unlikely
event that her
body is discov-
ered, the story will
remain dead and
buried.
y y stroll should have started at the Indian
Bean Tree fronting St Jamess Church in Piccadilly, until
I discovered on arrival, that a gang of crazed and drunken
Mohocks had seen fit to chop it down. That singular plant
had been a meeting point for as long as I care to remember.
Now, sadly, like so many legends in ones lifetime, it
has disappeared from sight, and very soon will fade from
memory too. Who now recalls The Deptford Speckled
Honeysuckle or Bow Albino Larch? And do any folk
today even vaguely reminisce upon a piss for luck gainst
the long since poisoned Willesden Thorny Willow?
So tis with heavy heart and drooping foot I leave the
space that noble tree once occupied, to plod by way of
Piccadilly, the short but stuff-packed path to the Inglori-
ous Charnel Tube of Trafalgar Square.
Looming almost instantly - the Circus itself. Lots of
interesting things to say about this famous bit of London
Town and for anyone interested I advise a perusal of
Wikipedia. But comprehansive as their descriptions are,
they omit one major occasion in The Dillys illustrious past.
An event during The War Of The Roses, precipitated by
the Lancastrian army beating the ruling Yorkists in battle
near the Hertfordshire village of Sidetache on Kneaded.
The victorious Lancastrians, on entering the city, released
Henry VI, their poor, mad king from The Tower and
brought him straight here to be exhibited. Wrapped in blue,
moth-eaten cloak and topped with new found crown, he pa-
raded round the statue of Anteros fourteen times before a
threadbare mob, supposedly in triumph, but resembling more
to my mind, a sad, old, dancing bear.
Avoiding Leicester Square and its thuggish tourists, I
turn off right and head down Haymarket - that great pa-
rade ground of abandoned women. But its neither hay nor
whore which occupies my memory now. My mind is filled
with scenes of expectation. The expectation of a lucky few,
back in the winter of 1968, who patiently wait to see the
Greatest English Film Ever Made: If.... naturally. If.... with
its idiosyncratic, four dots rather than the traditionally accepted,
irregular three. Here Ill let my dear and trusted thespy pal,
Malcolm Maccy D Mc Dowell elucidate.
I got this call from Lindsay on the Sunday. The film
had opened on the Friday at the Plaza on the Haymarket,
and he said, Malcolm, youve gotta come down! Come
down right now. So I got my dad to drive me. And were
driving up Lower Regent Street, and theres a line of people
that went miles down the road, and I thought it was for the
Odeon which was sort of two blocks down. And I thought,
Wow, what the hell is playing there? But then I realised
as we went up with the traffic, no, no, no, the queue went
right past that cinema. IT WAS FOR US!
Where Haymarket meets Pall Mall East I espy a
gorgeous bottom. So tempting to overtake and with sly and
sideways glance, put arse to face, so to speak. But remem-
bering Ive only got around 200 words left I press on. In-
stead I choose to see in minds eye the shackled survivors
of a sad, defeated Kentish army - remnants of the last great
battle of the Last Great Kentish War, fronted by a white
and frightened Ex-King Horsa shuffling down Pall Mall
East towards their terrifying, public deaths. Wretched men,
who upon reaching Trafalgar Square are confronted, not by
the manicured and silly, war-glorifying, outer coating of what
is now nicknamed Nelsons Column, but instead a grim
and sturdy, stone cylinder, sheathed by rickety scaffolding,
standing godlessly alone.
In a fearful trance, persuaded only by the prick of spear,
the spittle-spattered prisoners approach and then ascend.
Its lid off, this long, thin canister of bones from bygone wars
is ready to receive its latest offerings. The bashed and
shackled train climbs slowly to the top. Then, accompanied
by a whoop of joy from the crowd below, (not unlike that
bit in Apocalypto) each soldier is cast in turn, into the pit.
Whether it was preferable to go first into the darkness and
be skewered by previous vanquished armies bones, or to
lie upon the top, dying slowly, entwined amongst ones bro-
ken comrades is hard to say. But look today and youll see
the outer casing built to mask the horror, has from the bottom
where the bodies lie the densest, begun to crack....
olds constantly selecting and arranging words purely for the entertainment of mankind
the fog that has covered the
north of the city for the last
two weeks moved yesterday, a
quarter of a mile south-east.
N
O
T SURE ABOU
T
W
A
R
A
T
h
e
e
d
g
e
o
f the door B The end of the pike C
th
e
d
o
g
s
ta
il
to thInk they used to be our pal.
Now every time I look upon a map
of our fair city, all I see attached to
its soft, south-western underbelly
is a canker taut with treachery.
So said an angry Chief Sechele,
in his most bellicose speech to date.
Standing on a recently erected
scaffolding stage in front of the
Banqueting House, resplendent
in full, two-shirted, war regalia, he
addressed a partisan crowd, call-
ing upon, every citizen to be pre-
pared to tame, with torch, pike or
gun, that odious, rebel, governance
of Surrey. Citing the secession as
nothing more than rebellion,
labelling its self-proclaimed leader
a ninny and its legality a sham,
he continued in belligerent tone, fi-
nally dispelling any notion of a dip-
lomatic solution by labelling Surrey,
A benighted, tin pot, sheep shat
shire of cheese, wool and slavery
-- fit only to supply our beloved
populace with milk and mittens.
Asked by our own correspon-
dent afterwards if he was worried
Kent might join the rebel state to
form a confederacy, he replied with
confidence, Kents fucked. It died
with Horsa. Its going nowhere.
The breaking news in our previous issue
A
S
e
r
g
e
a
n
t w
ith
h
is p
ike, going into an alehouse w
ith
h
is d
o
g
fo
llo
w
in
g
.






D
r
a
w
n
in
o
n
ly
th
ree strokes by Billy H
ogarth
o
f
S
m
it
h
f e
ld
.
to avert beIng obtru-
sive prey to feasible anti-
aircraft fire, the Cha-
meleoplane is this week
sporting a camoufage
exterior. Unfortunately,
due to a programming
error, the camoufage
mix of duck-egg blue
and battleship grey is
appearing as riot-grrrrl-
day-glo-grrrrreeeeeen
and puki-punki-pinki.
a new football
stadium is being hast-
ily constructed just off
Junction 24 of the M25.
Teams of workers are
toiling day and night to
ensure it opens on time
-- though no-one we
contacted knows exactly
when this will be.
Locals are viewing the
developing situation with
a mixture of interest and
pride -- not to mention a
large dollop of curiosity
as to who will be actually
playing there. Certainly
not nearest team, Potters
Barbarians, who record
anaverage home gate of
only 250, nor nearest big
club, Tottenham, who
have uncharacteristically
shown no interest in en-
quiring about the new
stadiums availability.
To make matters more
mysterious, The Wen can
find no evidence of who
has commissioned this
spankingnewstructure.
Asto allthingsunfathom-
able in this city we look to
The Public Department
of Safety and Health for
guidance. Sadly, at the
time of going to press
their usually ubiquitous
spokesperson Rob Spiers
was uncontactable.



M
y baby takes the m
orning train
He works from
nine till five and then
He takes another hom
e again
To find m
e waitin for him

9.5 9.5
Tri
c
orn






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synThetIcS
No time for the singles. its here!
Forged by fairies, borne by storkangels and
heralded by sirens... since it arrived yest aft,
Not Nearly Naughty Enough by the calafra-
galistic Glass Eyed And Wooden Tailed
Mother has been abs perm glued to the turn-
ingtable. And for those with luckiness enough
to catch them last month at the Conundrum...
you know just how good they can be.
What makes The Woodentails so spesh, so
diff, so divinely def, is imposs to fath. But from
the opening chord of Kent Plains Drifter to the
final tinkle of Requiem For A Small Teacup,
this is ... and I do not use this word lightly (it
is, after all, a word with god, go and od [needs
another d really] in it )... good. Raindrops on
roses and whiskers on kittens simply cannot
hold a candle to this blessed, holey, plastic,
round and thinnish thing of felicity and
bliss.
The Woodentails. The nazz.
SHINgIGGERY
Bipolar Blacksmith are spesh guests
of Stressed-Out Serf at Shackles in
Shadwell on Sat. Also on the bill: Slaves
With Issues, Angsty Milkmaid and An-
orexic Eunuch. The Walrus and Carpen-
ters Arms hosts Mock-Filled Platitude on
the 32nd, supported as always by Papas
Pecuniary. Shrinking Boards and Al-
batrosses steer for the Hope and Anchor-
less on Sun. Also that night, Dr. Footlights
is scheduled to shine pon Glib Tattoo
Phrase at Camdens Piss Bucket. Theres
a rare outing too, for acid infuenced Big
Breadwinner Hogg, doing the hons at the
opening night of new ven Curs on Thurs ...
And this just in... Dainty Bentley show-
cases her doub alb
, How Beautiful Upon The Mountains Are
The Feet Of Him That Bringeth Good Tid-
ings, next Mon lunchtime at The Midnight
Bell. Warm up, Tony McPhee and his
mighty Groundhogs.
T
O
M
S
K
I TE

.
TE MP
L
E

2
2
2
plus
men who
noodle about in
photoshop
, ,
,
way, way, way back,
his great, great, great,
great, great, great, great,
great, great,

great,

great,

great,

great
grandfather was the one who knocked the praying arms and faces off the effigies in Ashby Polville Church.
Swinging a blacksmiths hammer with all the gusto a Puritans righteousness could muster. Crudely smoothing
the stone of a church gone bad.
Now, as his hands begin to uncontrollably shake, an image from his own short history ficks into mind. A
country walk. His striding father in charge as usual. This time, deftly swishing his walking stick down on a
rabbits head. 1962 and myxomatosis is in full fow. Rabbits expire everywhere. Shuffing around in fields and
woods with swollen heads and pus-filled eyes; dying in ugly agony. A big idea, recklessly released and out of
control. His dad was only doing the right thing really. Putting them out of their misery.
Even though bashing was in his blood, so was restraint. He tried to stay calm whenever his conscience
provoked. Like with the parrots when his generations own mad scientists let Paraquash out of its tall, glass
cage. Released one day into the country just like myxomatosis just like the parrots themselves. Of course
the perpetrator who turned loose that original fecund pair of parakeets could never have envisaged the trouble
they would cause. But Paraquash? Had those clever men not thought it through? As the shaking subsides he
hums that song from Childrens Favourites he used to listen to as a child:
She swallowed the spider to catch the fy,
I dont know why she swallowed the fy,
Perhaps shell die.
He moved to London the year that Paraquash took its hold. The first of a long line of countrymen to come
to the city. A city full of dying parakeets. And magpies too. They also got hit. Now his son will never see a
magpie. Like his father never saw the short-lived English parrot. Two breeds of bullies gone in a trice. Hard
to believe, when recently hed only had to walk back from work through the cemetery down by the Thames
to see them twitching on the ground, where theyd fallen off the twig, were kicking the bucket, shuffing off
their mortal coil, running down the curtain and joining the bleedin choir invisible. But it wasnt funny, there
were just too many. And all the while they died he continued to resist that antecedent urge to thwack. Besides,
he had no walking stick. A manbag is not an efficient parrot culler.
He was relieved he hadnt had to dipatch as his dad had called it, even though hed had plenty of temp-
tation. You could hardly walk around that place without stepping on something feebly fapping. Theyd been
partial to life by the river, and that cemetery was Parrotopolis. But no sooner had they gone and rotted, than
the new thing started. The thing with the pottery. The thing with the river and the headstones.
He didnt realise before he came to live here, that the river this far up was tidal. He liked that link with the
sea. It reminded him of holidays. And when he walked along the river bank, when the tide was out, hed
sometimes jump down to where he could walk along a strip of thin, exposed beach. Not a sandy beach, but
a stony, muddy one fecked with (if hed chosen to take a closer look) little shards of pottery. Thousands of
smashed fragments. Detritus from the last two centuries of urban growth.
Where he lived, next to the church, down by the river, had been a village once. But like the tide, the city
had moved upstream, replacing the water meadows with houses. It was here in the churchyard the only
kind of field remaining locally that after the parrots died, the pottery (or more accurately, crockery) began
to sprout. As though bored with being sluiced and submerged for so long, bits had slithered through the bank
and into the fertile soil of the cemetery. Once there, each shard chose a spot, turned in the ground to point its
sharpest end skyward, and like dragons teeth of legend, grew.
Pointy bits of Victorian cup and plate pricked up out of the ground. Irregular, china shapes emerged, pat-
terned with their own peculiar secret history wisps of willow, shaves of fern, or a snatch of some extinct,
botanical extravaganza. Many in their infancy, were cut down by clumsy, council mowing machines. But that
only made the ones they missed grow quicker. In days, a shard of plate could grow to full size (about the same
height as a normal headstone). And it was with the oldest, most crooked headstones the survivors especially
liked to mingle curling round them cavalierly, or tilting in a sympathetic counterpoint artfully assimilating
and surviving. Naturally, the contract gardeners noticed, but it wasnt in their remit to remove them. Besides,
the ten or so that made it to full height, merged in so well, it looked as though theyd been there ages.
But to him it really mattered. Those pottery imposters had no right to be there. Hed noticed them
straightaway, and they didnt belong. He hated the way theyd inveigled their vulgar, Victorian way into the
home of the older, carefully carved, legitimately positioned tombstones, slithering around their hosts like ivy
taking hold of an oak.
His urge to righteously bash finally broke free. He bought a hammer from Robert Dyas and one night set
to work. They smashed easily. As easily as he expected giant bits of crockery would. It didnt take long to bash
it all down. The council couldnt ignore this. Sharp, white ceramic shards and splinters littered the ground.
The gardeners would have to sort it out clear it all up. And then what? Would that be the end or would those
things grow back stronger? Hed stopped shaking, and stood there sweating, hammer in his hand. A bub-
bling mix of certainty and doubt. Though deep, deep down, he knew in his heart of hearts hed done what
hed always, always had to do.
Avery short story by Polly Porringer
u a th ma h c u t y, by th v ,
th n, a th v u d, tw ty m f th a
explosIvacIous! Have just seen
the soon to-be-released remake of An-
tonionis classic, Blow-Up -- yknow
the one, with David Hemmings
as a trendy, Bailey-esque lensman,
who finds hes accidently papped
a murder. Well, the remake turns
upncomin snapper into venerated
wood engraver --bravely casting comic
veteran Charles Hello, My Dar-
lings Drake as master of the genre,
Thomas Bewick.
Drake doesnt disappoint, bossing
the role of the cold, yet simmering,
yet fiery genius on a mission to elevate
his craft by refusing to cut on the
plank and instead choosing to work
on the hard end-grain of boxwood,
thus facilitating the use of the copper
engravers more delicate tools, thereby
ensuring a vastly more intricate and
elaborate end product.
The action starts when the fastidious
Bewick notices a mark on the back-
ground of one of his freshly executed,
pastoral vignettes. On closer exami-
nation (and here we witness bravura
Drake complexity), he discovers hes
inadvertently engraved a garotting
into the undergrowth. The plot trots,
lopes, canters, then finally gallops
towards a thrilling climax. (Theres
oats too - watch out for the engravers
saucy milkmaid model audition!)
Thomas The Bewick himself was
at last nights screening and I man-
aged to grab a few words. We know he
loved the flm but what did he think
of London?
It appears to be a world of itself,
where everything in the extreme
might at once be seen --extreme riches,
extreme poverty, extreme grandeur and
extreme wretchedness. Fair enough,
each to his own, but would he possibly
stay on for a bit of sightseeing?
I would rather be herding sheep
on Mickley Bank Top than remain in
London if, even for doing so, I was to
be made Premier of all England.
Er, quite so. (Atch, I know for a fact he
caught Band of Skulls last night at the
Roundhouse.) Whatevs, bumpkin boy.
Gravure of Garotte opens at the
Regal in Leicester Fields on the 44th.
IdentIcally named conjoined twins
Colin and Colin Kilpatrick are set to
appear soon at the Puddnhead Gallery in
Piccadilly. The controversial performance
artists intend to mime the old Captain
Beefheart number My Head Is My Only
House Unless It Rains 100 times in one
day, or until they get the words right. Said Colin:
Beefheart was a perfectionist and so am we.
hIrem scarums Wild West Cowboy
Whoop-Em-Up hits Hackney Marshes all this
week. Thrill to The Daredevil Donkey Rid-
ers of the Beaconsfield Plain. Chill to Sidney,
the Wild, Woad-Encrusted, Durotriges War-
rior. (But dont) Spill the beans from Chef Zhou
Enlais chow-down tent.
Country music comes courtesy of Sentimental
Drunken Murderess, singing (fings crossed) their
classic: Beelzebub Went Down to Buckinghamshire.
Join the fun at the otter skinning workshop, or run
for your lives fromthe nightly fennec stampede. Fearless
gents canevenbrave a shoot-out twixt famedgunslingers,
Ol Why Does Every Two Bit Punk in Every One Horse
Town Want Nothing But Trouble? Dunn, and cocky up-
start, Pup You Spilled My Sasparilla Squeak.
Sorry, I dont know who he is.
advIce for out-of-towners?
Dont go to Garfunkels.
fave street lamp?
Theyre just there. I have no
preferences.
fave mInt?
I dont like mints -- except toffee
ones, but I never buy them.
mayor for the day?
I wouldnt care to have that
much responsibility -- and I
cant really think what Id do
anyway.
most embarrassIng
moment?
I was reaching up to light a
lamp near Buckingham Palace
wearing some holey old trousers
when my cock fell out just as
Queen Victoria walked past.
secret shoppIng lIst?
Most things I need, I get from
Tesco. Apart from the coffee
mentioned earlier, the only
other thing is cream for my piles
which I get on prescription.
who would play you In a
fIlm?
Someone that looks like me.
look, you havent really banged
on enough and weve nothIng
left to ask you now
Thats ok. But what happens
if theres not enough words?
no worrIes we just pad It
out
Is it that easy?
absolutely no problem
starbucks or slaughters?
I always take a fask with me
brewed from whatever takes my
fancy at the Monmouth Coffee
Company in Covent Garden.
fave carel weIght pIece?
Im torn between The Silence
and Anger.
who would you InvIte to
your dream dInner party?
I live in a hostel and its dining
area is self service. Its also a
big room and a bit clattery, so it
would be pretty impracticable.
when dId you last cry and
why?
I really would rather not say --
the whole thing is still very raw
and painful.
guIlty pleasure?
Occasional bouts of arson.
last book bought?
Not sure... think it was The
Catcher in the Rye.
If you were asked to be on
desert Island dIscs whIch
nIck cave track would you
choose?
L
e
n
n
y
L
A
m
b
e
n
t
Gas lamps from Lampton to Lambeth -
Londons last Lamplighter has lit them all.
A love of fire, dusk, fog and solitude has
led him on the daily path to conflagration.
But what, pray, enkindles his singular wick?
have to be mutually
exclusive.
hIll?
Corn.

food?
I like different things at dif-
ferent times and I dont like it
at all when Im not hungry.
have you ever In the
foggy dawn mIasma,
caught sIght of spook
or spectre, or at daybreak
heard the rIver banshees
call to sea?
Er... Nope.
fags?
Park Drive.
fIrst lon mem?
Light possibly.
crazIest occurrence of
your long, IllustrIous,
lamp lIghtIng career?
Nothing really.
strangest sIght seen
through the mIsts of the
early morn?
Cant remember anything in
particular.
musIc?
The Streets. Only kidding,
hes shit.
arthur wallIs or scottIe
wIlson?
I like both. They really dont
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The one duty we owe to history is to detrite it