A London Peculiar
I was recently introduced to Smoke: A London Peculiar, and instantly developed a crush.
from A Cold Wind Blows Through New Cross Gate by Matt Haynes
And what do I tell people who want to know where I live? If I tell them I live in Lambeth, they think of Lambeth Town Hall, and assume I’m a Brixton boy, with all that that implies. So I’ve learnt to play it by ear: if I’m at a party and trying to impress some pony-loving blonde from Up West by implying I might own a period pad in one of south London’s rare Georgian enclaves, I say I live in Kennington; but if I’m wanting to appear cool and funky or tickle a drag-queen’s fancy, I say I live in Vauxhall; and if I’m in the kitchen swapping small-talk with an estate-agent, I tell him I live in South Waterloo, and that I really must be getting home.
from Sunlight On The Lino by Lucy Munro
People tend to forget about Squeeze, but they shouldn’t — they produced some of the best city songs ever: literate, witty and eminently singable. Although Squeeze’s intermittent piano-thumper Jools Holland is now ubiquitous, the nucleus of the band was always the singer-song-writers, Glenn Tilbrook and Chris Difford: music and lyrics; lead and rhythm guitar; fair and dark; tenor and baritone. The voice of a bruised angel and the voice of someone who goes around bruising angels, often yoked together in a distinctive octave unison.
from Notes on the Exercise of the Derive by Sam Geall
And I will realise that this clue to her tribe is a big sign of what’s going on, and I will start to see all the tribes that this city is pulling together in its detritus of street signs, high-rise window boxes and discarded elastic bands. And I will start to look at pinstripe men with briefcases and stare at them on trains watching them become high-rank druids with cartoon robes but arcane and serious expressions.