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

-jp

@poppylafond > @MR_ZZZ amazing! So ur twittering whilst being naked, loves it….me too!! Lol! Dalston superstore, is that not in east??

@gemma_charles > Mind you nice vegetarian-looking bloke with long hair helped me reach the tofu at Sainsbury’s Dalston so it’s not all bad.

@DalstonPeople > Add your Dalston graffiti photos here! http://is.gd/2av8W

@longpier > Off to the wonderful dalston today for part 1 of a shoot about the demise of polaroid.

@ireenie86 > Walked past a clothes shop which also sells lace wigs. But I am in Dalston, I shouldn’t be surprised.

@tomharle > Geri haliwell followed by fantasia on greensleeves followed by isla bonita – it’s the stone cave Turkish restaurant in dalston

@blacknerdgirls> @ondolady lol Dalston can do one better, they got the 98p shop across the road from the 99p shop, but u cant beat a namebrand like Poundland

@katchooo > All roads lead to Dalston Junction, it seems. #dejavu

@holasejal > Just saw granny tranny at the bus stop, dalston welcoming me back with open arms!

@shizzlemc > @cheydee aw, can’t get da H-town out of ya… i was in Dalston nt that long ago and i see that BIGhead woman in da wheelchair still beggin.

@amygwatkin > fuck, just walked round dalston with my flies undone

@heawood > I don’t know why this makes me so happy, it just does. RT @trixie Spotted! Will Young @ Dalston Jazz Bar

@patrickbajer > Don’t go back to Dalston, just come back to me

-Annabel Hodges

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.

The district – which is defined by the appearance of its shopfronts and the particular look characteristic of the faces of its denizens rather than by any strict geographical boundaries – is neatly bisected by the A10, which follows the course of Ermine Street, the ancient Roman road from Bishopsgate in the walls of old Londinium to Lincoln and York. Tacitus, in his Life of Agricola, recounts that the area now known as Dalston was sacred to the Trinovantes, and that the epicentre of worship was a grove dedicated to a local goddess whose name is now long forgotten, but whom he equated with Demeter. Today the site is occupied by a garishly-lit off license (cheapest Dragon Stout in E8) run by a surly one-eyed Chechen named Dmitri. A few doors south along Kingsland Road one encounters the Peruvian restaurant where, rumour has it, a syncretic DMT cult holds ayahuasca ceremonies in a secret basement room every other Thursday. This is the very stuff of Dalston: a nexus of unimagined interconnections, vectors of weirdness spiralling out from an ill-defined centre, gradients of unlikeliness from the merely surreal – so commonplace in these parts as to be mundane – to vistas of dizzying postmodern transcendence. One senses this most acutely at those odd times between night and daybreak when the sign in the Overground station appears to indicate that Dalston Kingsland is in InterZone 2, and this somehow seems more real than what one rationally knows to be true, in the headspace of a couple of late nights in a row, too many cans of Tyskie and the beginnings of what one perversely half-hopes might be swine flu, but is probably just a cold. To walk through this neighbourhood in a receptive state of mind is to be, like Robert Plant, a traveller of both time and space.

In the Old Brewery Tap, just across the road from the Peruvian joint, furtive whispers are exchanged under the over-loud strains of Lady Gaga about shadowy figures imagined or half-glimpsed to emerge from the restaurant’s darkened doorway and melt into the London night in the damp, dead hours of Friday morning at the winding up of a lock-in…human in size, but in the form of softly padding jaguars, jewel-green lizards and chevroned boas with glittering obsidian eyes, birds sporting exotic polychrome plumage. Jungle fauna. A Gunness-sodden Kerryman blinks uncertainly in the diffuse haze of sodium yellow and crosses himself as he stumbles home.

Returning to the east side of the street and heading a short distance further south, one reaches the Internet café run by friendly, qat-chomping Somalis, from which so-far unsuccessful attempts to topple the Mogadishu regime are orchestrated on an almost monthly basis.

* * *

Something in Dalston seems to exaggerate or caricature cultural memes. It was at the Sainsbury’s in Kingsland Shopping Centre that Keith Floyd appeared in person to launch the retail giant’s ‘Get Shitfaced For A Fiver’ campaign. Crossing Kingsland High Street to the west and following Balls Pond Road, one encounters an Afro-Futurist bookshop selling DVDs of revelatory lectures, ostensibly proving William Shakespeare’s authorship of the Holy Bible. I once witnessed a heated argument outside the shop between a Rasta and a Scientologist; frenzied yelling about Babylon and body thetans could just be made out above the roar of a passing 277. I left before things turned ugly. Back across Dalston Junction, past the noodle bar with the faded photographs of spring rolls and Tom Yum, then further on beyond a development of ill-planned luxury flats that will never be filled, our meandering route comes to an old Boy’s Brigade hall with a curious Latin motto newly emblazoned across the entrance. It was here that Dan Brown led a protest all of two-dozen strong against the opening by Ruth Kelly of London’s Opus Dei chapter HQ. It never made the papers: Kelly is a member of the same Lodge as Max Clifford. Just down the road is the primary school where London’s first pre-pubescent grime crew, Litl Shitz, gave their debut performance. Years later, Simon Reynolds would reminisce at length about the seminal show, although no-one else who attended would remember him being there.

It is presumably for reasons like these that the district has had such accolades of coolness heaped on it by Italian Vogue, leaving Shibuya, Friedrichshain and the Lower East Side in its fried chicken-scented wake. But Dalston also possesses that air of urban timelessness, as eternal today as when it was sensed by Charles Dickens and Arthur Morrison in another century. You can sense it still in the cryptic graffiti resembling obscure runic epitaphs or anthropomorphic petroglyphs, tags like tribal totems suggestive of animal or human forms that seem to belong more to the rock walls of Lascaux or Tassili n’Ajjer than to a twenty-first century city; alien and yet familiar, beckoning to us out of deep Time. Anachronism in E8 runs deeper than the reproduction 1980s Casio adorning the wrist of a would-be music journalist in his mid-20s as he sips a £4 bottle of cider in a chandelier-lit pub with ‘Love Is The Drug’ playing on the juke box…he raises his spare hand in laconic greeting to an underweight girl who’s just minced in from the street wearing a paper-thin vest top that hangs off one bony shoulder. The garment gaily proclaims the phrase HIROSHIMA PORNO in pink sequins. Her male companion boasts a hairstyle best described as cubist and wears a tight-fitting T-shirt with a stencilled design depicting Osama bin Laden and George Walker Bush clinched in a passionate homosexual embrace. When cultures commit suicide by autophagy it is in the form of nuggets such as these that they inevitably vent their self-digested residues. Society’s telomeres wane ever shorter.

Even the regions on Dalston’s borders give off an air of alienage and unguessed urban mysteries. To the north lie genteel Stoke Newington and the relative high ground of Stamford Hill where sites of druidic dedication have given way to rival strains of imported Semetic monotheism: Hasidim, Sunnis, Methodists. However it would be rash to dismiss entirely the legacy of the fertility rites once enacted in these long-tarmacked groves, given N16′s famous birth rate. West lies Canonbury and beyond that, Islington, where a recent spate of murders over primary school places was hushed up by a cartel of local estate agents. Following old Ermine Street south through De Beauvoir Town and Haggerston one reaches Shoreditch, whence whole tribes of hipsters once flocked to mine the rich seams of irony ore that have lately begun to run dry – hence their northward migration into Dalston in search of fresh deposits to exploit. A jazz bar that plays no jazz seems to be a logical place to start prospecting. Finally, we look east across Hackney proper to the Olympic development site, where (it is said) psychic youths recently battled in the unfinished stadium. Which reminds me, my mate’s uncle briefly shared a squat on Shacklewell Lane with Genesis P-Orridge, but Gen moved out because it was “too grotty” and “stank of fucking mouse piss”.

* * *

And yet the disparate conjunction of pound shops, Afro hair salons, Turkish restaurants and battered old Irish pubs gives birth to a strange synergy, an unlooked-for unity of feel and purpose that goes quite beyond the kaleidoscope of cultures and neuroses of the queer assortment of folk that inhabit it, work in it, pass through it, get drunk in it, buy their drugs in it, lose their Oyster card and/or mind in it. There are times when something approaching a genius loci seems to materialise from the flyer-strewn streets or ooze out of the stained brickwork like a Banksy you’ve stared at for too long after a couple of bad pills that failed to make your friend’s friend’s cod-Krautrock band any more interesting on a sultry summer evening at Passing Cloud. You may see him sometimes – I say “him”, it’s a “her” just as often – a shambling hooded presence, muttering in a tongue that could be Yoruba, or perhaps Old English; a black youth emitting clouds of pungent sensi fumes from a glowing stub; a pretty bottle-blonde barmaid with round Slavic features; a fit Japanese girl who might be a fashion student before you glance away for a moment but seems to have become a squat Bengali mum laden with groceries by the time you look back. One vision that remains imprinted on my memory – although with each day that passes I come to question more and more whether it ever happened outside a dream brought on by a large lamb shish with too much chili sauce – is that of a creature that resembled simultaneously a Victorian tramp, a mediaeval costermonger, a mean-looking Ted in brothel creepers and a tattooed, cheque-shirted hipster in a Trilby, somehow oscillating between these diverse guises as it strode down the High Street, like alternate interpretations of a Rorschach pattern competing for the consciousness’s attention.

Yet what strikes me most about this phantasmagoric being, as I recall it as best I can, is the looks it garnered from other passers-by: occasional recognition, even admiration, but nothing approaching the terror and wonder it inspired in me. They probably just thought it was Noel Fielding.

-Ollie Harris

-Dan Hancox

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

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

-Francis Sandbrook

“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

1. EXT – OVERLOOKING DALSTON – DAWN
Up Music Track – Optimistic Electro Pad
A timelapse over Dalston as the sun rises

Cut to:

2. EXT – KINGSLAND ROAD – MORNING
Up SOT – music continues underneath
Tina walks up to camera

TINA (PTC)
My name is Tina Davis and I love coffee

Tina exits frame

Cut to:

3. MONTAGE – CAFES IN SHOREDITCH – TINA DRINKING, LAUGHING, INTERACTING WITH PEOPLE IN CAFES
music continues

TINA (VO)
It’s only a recent phenomenon, but whether it’s a macchiato or an americano Londoners just can’t do without their morning espresso fix.

Cut to:

4.INT – MARKET ROAD COFFEE HOUSE SHOREDITCH – MORNING
Up SOT
Tina turns to camera holding takeaway coffee cup

TINA (PTC)
And here in Shoreditch the lattes are crème of the crema

Tina exits frame

Cut to:

5. INT – 243 BUS – DAY
Music continues
Tina is upstairs on the 243 (n.b. heading north) looking out over the canal.

TINA (VO)
Which is why when I moved to E8 recently I was disturbed to learn that just north of the canal, baristas were not so bountiful

Cut to:

6. INT – TURKISH CAFÉ – DAY
Up SOT – music continues
Tina takes a sip from a mug of filter coffee

TINA (visibly disgusted)
Urghh!

Cut to:

7. EXT – KINGSLAND ROAD – DAY
music continues
Slow motion hero shot of Tina walking down the road with purpose

TINA (VO)
That’s when I decided that I had a mission, I was going to bring real coffee to the people of Dalston.

Music swells
Cut to:

8. TITLES: THE LAND STARBUCKS FORGOT
Music fades.
FADE TO BLACK

FADE UP

9. EXT – KINGSLAND ROAD – DAY
Music fades up – positive indie acoustic
Tina walks with purpose down the street and enters Somine Restaurant

TINA (VO)
Now that I had resolved to bring good coffee into the lives of Dalstoners, I needed to find out why there wasn’t any in the first place

Cut to:

10. INT – SOMINE – MOMENTS LATER
Up SOT – Music fades down
Tina and proprietor of Somine in mid shot – intercut shots of Turkish stew, busy waiters, people eating and chatting.

TINA
So what kind of restaurant is Somine

PROPRIETOR
Somine is a Turkish restaurant serving good canteen style Turkish food. We are open 24 hours a day seven days a week.

TINA
And it’s Popular?

PROPRIETOR
Yes, we are always busy, customers like that we provide complimentary extras like bread and pickled vegetables. Everyone says we are best Lentil Soup on the high street.

TINA
Okay so, what about people that come in in the morning looking for a Latte and a Pain au Chocolat, how do you cater for them?

PROPRIETOR
Ah…. No one ever ask for that.

Cut to:

11. EXT – ARCOLA ST – DAY
Up music – positive indie acoustic
Tina walks towards a house and knocks on the door

TINA (VO)
Despite the unwillingness from the local food establishments to co-operate, I was not going to give up on my mission to bring good coffee to the area, I knew some people here had to feel the same way I did. It was just a matter of finding them.

Up SOT
The door of the house opens

SARAH
Hi, come on in

TINA
Thanks.

Cut To

12. INT – SARAH’S HOUSE (HALL) – MOMENTS LATER
Music fades down
Sarah leads Tina through the hallway

TINA
This is a great place you’ve got here

SARAH
Yeah, I moved here from Angel… Oh, it must be nearly 2 years now

Cut to:

13. INT – SARAH’S HOUSE (LOUNGE) – MOMENTS LATER
Intercut between Sarah on couch and “noddies” of Tina sitting opposite

SARAH
My partner and I had split up, and he had moved west to Fulham and I could no longer afford to keep the place in Angel on, so I moved to Dalston.

TINA
Mmnhmn

SARAH
I think that’s where my love of coffee really started… in Angel… because there are some great places there… not quite like the ones you’re used to in shoreditch/

TINA
/a bit more commercial/

SARAH
/yes exactly, but not Starbucks or anything.

TINA
And what happened when you moved to Dalston?

SARAH
Well on my first morning I thought I would explore the neighbourhood and see if I could get a latte, you know, to take away and in that first week I must have looked everywhere, but people either didn’t know what I was talking about or they didn’t serve espresso coffee. It really was the strangest thing.

TINA
And how did that make you feel?

SARAH
Well I was genuinely very upset as you can imagine. I had already split up with my partner and then another very important aspect of my life was needlessly taken away from me. I mean I could travel down past the canal or back to Angel but I shouldn’t have to. I work from home and cant really afford to be taking that much time out of my day.

TINA
It really is something that should be, within walking distance so you can have it close to or with breakfast…

SARAH
You’re absolutely right, this is what I’m saying. And do you know what else I miss? The little cupcakes that cafes do sometimes. They really were beautiful.

Sarah is visibly upset, Tina gives her a hug.

Cut To Commercial Break

By what-happened-to-cafe-mobile-highbury?

“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