Interlude: Madonna knows…

“Where do you live?” she asks when we meet later. Dalston, I say. The name doesn’t register. Stoke Newington, I add as a pointer. “That’s not even in London,” she scoffs. And it isn’t, to be fair. Or not in this London, at any rate.

Dude, should’ve said ”north of Shoreditch.” I know Madge would feel that.

-jp

#20 – Dalstweets

Real excerpts from Dalston’s life on Twitter.

#19 – A Dalston Miscellany

When a traveller in north-east London takes the wrong turning at the junction of Mare Street just beyond Amhurst Road, he comes upon a crowded and curious quarter.

Dalston is where it all began, and whence it will all return. Theosophists have identified it as the original Omphalos, the ‘navel of the World’, although a recent exegesis of an encyphered John Dee manuscript has suggested that ‘navel’ may be a euphemism for another circular feature located further down the human abdomen.

#18 – Petrarch was a bloody idiot: a Somine sonnet

The moonlit lentils blazed a blinding white
From the altar in Hackney’s Holy See
There I saw the divine revealed to me
Deep red turned pale, and my stew waxed bright.
Orbited by her Turkish satellites
An Imam swooned, they yelled ‘bayildi’
And so did I, beset by lunacy
Her soupy eyes soared into stellar flight.
She glittered coyly like a meze tray
For my Marvell-mistress was too discreet;
Scattering cous-cous I stood up to say
‘Ye must gather ye rosebuds while ye may’.
Let the words tumble down Arcola Street:
This day I found my love, in Somine

-Dan Hancox

#17 – Ballad of the Media-Worker

I work at a failing magazine
And I live in Dalston, o
The editor has fired our art director
And hired a graphic designer from Maxim, o

Should I go freelance?
I might have to move to Clapton, o
Where the water is green, because of algae
And the rent is cheaper, o

[refrain]
’twas but two years gone
we had a big party in the Tate
but now it’s too late, too late

Many a year at university
And now I’m writing bilge, o
I should have gone travelling round India
And dreadlocked my hair, o

Summer’s kiss has faded
Yet news-stand sales stay low
The brand management team is closing in
And soon we will all go, o, o, o

[refrain, repeated until everyone gets a job in PR]

- Trad. arr. Blind Joe McQuark

#16 – Dalstopia

Valasca surveyed her domain from the roof of dsquaretower1. She turned to the east and saw E5 and E9. Fallen. Northwards and N16, Stoke Newington, burned. The mummies were dead. Only the international airport remained. The blades of her fleet of rotoflyers glinted as a patch of sunlight broke through the cobalt. Turn. And smoke shrouded Newington Brown. Coming near full-circle she spied the border with Islington. N1. Between her and the prize. The looted palaces of old-times. Not to mention access to the tunnels. She needed the tunnels. Imagine. She could clear them of ratverminwormscum. She could send her hipstermameluks through the tunnels. To kill the inbred children of the South. To raid the small farms of the West. They would fear her. They would fear Dalston.

But first Is-Ling-Ton. She tasted every syllable. She would taste the blood of angels. Their tattooed wings would be removed. Their skins worn to fright whoever else dared make war on Dalston. Yes. Good coffee would be drunk tonight. Flickies would be watched. Hipstermameluks would feast at thepizzaexpress. It was time. She gave the order. Rotoflyers skyward. Shiny tights, new era and neon, her kamikazes ran down Englefield road. Screaming they approached Southgate. Nearer and nearer. The border. Sound of ripping. Explosions. Hot blood. Dalston.

-Morgan Lloyd

#15 – Edgy haiku

A Dalston bedsit.
Full of edgy artists, blud.
O look! Pashmina.

-Francis Sandbrook

#14 – Last Dan standing

The hinges of the saloon doors were rusty, and they creaked painfully as Dan emerged into the fierce sunshine. Sweat clung to his stubble. Nervousness ate away at his insides. He felt for the reassuring steel of the Colt holstered to his side, but it was eerily cold to the touch, all the more chilling as he saw the dusty, black-coated figure standing in the middle of the street, silhouetted in the afternoon glare.

“So, Dan, it’s come to this,” Dan said, mustering what courage he could.
“It sure has,” the man said.
“Dalston ain’t big enough for the both of us.”
“It ain’t.”

Tumbleweed skittered past Nimrod Passage. The denizens of the betting shop quickly set the odds – heavily in Dan’s favour – and exchanged a few fivers. Conchita at El Aguajal made herself a strong pisquirita and locked the entrance door.

Both Dan and Dan kept their arms loose to the side, their eyes trained on each other’s smallest movements. Time slowed to an eternal ooze. But just when Dan thought he could take it no more, when he would reach for the gun and usher in the moment of reckoning, a shot rang out, clear as day. His opponent crumpled. Dan spun around and there it was, the hard muzzle of a Winchester aimed right at his chest. It was the last thing he ever saw.

Dan and Dan lay cold on the street. Shouldering his Winchester, Dan slowly walked away.

(In honour of our neighbourhood’s many journalist Dans: B, H and T)

-KVBT

#13 – CHANNEL 4 – THE LAND THAT STARBUCKS FORGOT – TX: 17 SEPTEMBER 2008 PART 1 of 2

#12 – Suzanna and ZaFro

Suzanna threw her metallic green reading glasses down onto her reclaimed wood desk in exasperation. “I’m sorry, Suze,” said ZaFro. “There’s nothing I can do – GASR is gonna have to close down this week unless we can get a cash injection”. ZaFro was the conceptual shaman of GASR, the Hoxton Square based freesheet that had given Suzanna her start in the world of cutting edge journalism. Her expose on Council policy on bike parking had given her a headstart, but now it was all threatened for the most pathetic reason imaginable. They had run out of cash.

“Look, Suze, the Bank just won’t have it. Apparently you can’t leverage a commercial loan using an Egg Card. those fucking squares are still living in the 90s man, it was crazy down there. The woman even asked me to take my shades off. I mean fuck that, yeah?”. Suze pulled her hair in frustration. It was little surprise that HSBC had such little imagination. It seemed incredible that the man would spend billions invading Iraq but could manage a few thou for such an important cultural isotope. “Can’t you go to your dad, Zaf?”. “Nah, Suze,” he replied mournfully. “Not since I blew all that dough on the ice sculpture. I mean fuck, I know it melted and all but the artist never said I had to keep in the fridge or shit. I thought he had sprayed it or something.” Suzanna looked at the puddle in the corner of the office and nodded sagely. “Anyways, it is what it is,” ZaFro said. “We gotta be outta here in by the end of the week, so just do what you gotta do”. Suzanna picked up the credit card he had discarded on her desk, thought for a second and then plunged out into the Hoxton sunshine.

***

The barman looked at her. “This card says it belongs to Zachary Frobisher – that aint you is it?”. “Er…he’s my boss,” she replied weakly. “He’s on his way down now”. The barman grunted and got her the bottle of Heinekin she had ordered. “You know we do a pint of Heiny for less than that yeah?”. “Yeah sure,” she replied. “Well…why dont you get that?” “I want a bottle,” she said. “But it’s more in a pint – you can throw some of it away if you cant finish it”. “Nah, just the bottle,” she said swinging sideways on her barstool. If it’s good enough for McNulty it’s good enough for me, she thought. Some people just don’t get it, she thought, as she watched the barman wipe the specials off the board.

Three hours later ZaFro emerged from the toilet sniffing loudly. Suzanna was pretty drunk by now, and looked longingly at his tight brown jeans and the three inches of purple trainer tongue on show. He was pushing 40 now, but he still had the look. His asymetrical fringe sad up like a proud cockerel on his head. “Wanna fuck?” he asked. “Sure,” she replied, sliding off her beanbag.

***

The next morning Suzanna awoke to find ZaFro sitting on the window sill looking thoughtful. “That’s never happened before Suze I swear, even on the funny powder,” he said. She sighed. “Don’t sweat it, Zaf, we had a great chat anyway, and your thoughts on the occupation of Iraq being a bit like Carry on Camping has given me some great ideas for a new article. It was well meta.” Zaf got up, smiled and ruffled her hair. Maybe everything would be ok after all.

-Gabon Lahore