Friday, December 18, 2009
Snow is now general all over London this Christmas. It falls across the dark centre, the hill stations, the free-fire zones, pound shops, no-go areas, dole queues, empty crisp packets and ripped up lottery tickets. Over the semenated upon peep show interiors, receivership notices, porn spam, closed Accident and Emergency Wards, dog shit, Suicide Bridge on Archway Road, muggers, landlords, current account charges, estate agents, BNP councillors, cancelled trains, churches turned into serviced apartments, war memorials, the 7 inch Johnny Reggae single in a second-hand record shop closing down sale, lifestyle interfaces, microwaveable cheeseburgers and terrified OAPs. Over crushed Red Bull cans, skinheads, dirty looks, underpasses on the North Circular Road, pet cemeteries, the ruins of World War Two aerodromes, monosodium glutamate, the archeological remains of the Hammersmith Palais and the Astoria, psychopaths, osteopaths and budget cigarettes. Over the Christmas ghosts of Lady Diana, Georgie Best and Steve Marriott. Over bottles of Fanta, bags of pickled onion Monster Munch, one pound and ten pence cans of Stella and retro packets of Opal Mints. Over the footsteps of Mary Millington in Soho and Dylan Thomas in Fitzrovia. Over every last tear, heartfelt sigh and lost dream in this broken city.