We gather around the start of a causeway down to the Thames. It's a pretty cold night and there's a breeze coming off the river. I've found the girl, or she's found me, and we're smoking a cigarette while we watch the dim silhouettes of the French Raj and his fireworks bearer down on the bank. They're fucking around with the box. I ask her what people do with fireworks for so long before they're ready to light. She doesn't know.
He went in there with a camera to film it before he moved out of the building. He didn't think anyone would believe the story if he didn't have proof.
My inability to confront the old racist failed actor is distracting me. I decide not to tell her about it.
And thank you for telling me that the manner in which the narrator consistently fails to act morally is really compelling. Fuck you.
I'm sat out the front of a cafe in Hatton Garden. I've just eaten a brie and bacon panini, and I'm rolling a cigarette. Feeling very London. An old man comes up to me and asks for a roll-up. I oblige.
Thank you, Jack, for telling me I'm just as bad as the characters (actually they're people, if that means anything to you) that I'm writing about.
we need to be deconstructing our identities
The Hatton geezer (fuck off) reminds me of this old failed actor who I'd met at a party a few years ago, another man out of time and out of place. This actor had scored a minor role in Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and never really let go of it, had gone on to build his whole identity around it. I can't really blame him.
what do you think my name is
i love it here
isaac newton
isaac
ion
the textwall is as much for me as it is for you
not their contents
Windrush Art Kid Oligarch
i did until you asked which kind of gave it away
like people can read 100 books and still not have the fire within them
was it worth it
Mon, 03 Nov 2025 08:38:49
all that is to say