You should have seen the lightning last night.
One of the consequences of that dazzling display is we have no internet so I have no idea when this will see publication.
Let’s keep it brief.
The London Nobody Knows (Geoffrey Fletcher, 1965 Penguin) is a book I picked up at Henry Pourdes, a shop I recommend to anyone who appreciates books. It was made into a documentary with James Mason in the presiding role, as a kind of pre-Attenborough. Except where Attenborough will wax enthusiastic about the hunting rituals of the blue-crested booby, Mason is more interested in the wrecks of old London town.
“There is romance and adventure,” said the Guardian in its review, “but mostly there is malnourishment. London looks like a shithole.”
The more things change.
This is all the more surprising since it’s a 1960s phenomenon, a time Cool Britannia looks back on with fondness. British culture and music seemed to be taking over the world stage. Shop-worn and crumbling parts of it may have been, but this is London at its predominance in the modern world.
Looking back over its shoulder at its Victoriana, forgetting that the most prevalent bits were slums and cheap structures built for industry and the working class.
This is definitely one for the Bookhounds crowd.
Borrowing from page 61:
The cast-iron lavatories of London (I mean those entirely of cast iron ...) are very decorative. [The Star Yard lavatory] has an intricate pattern of ornament to offset the starkness of this strictly utilitarian structure, providing standing room only. [Presumably because to do anything else would require intricate plumbing and sewage arrangements.] The Royal coat of arms appears in several of the panels; no doubt, the manufacturers had a royal warrant for their other productions – greenhouses, perhaps. Birmingham and the surrounding Black Country was the home of these iron conveniences, and they are all of them more solid than their French counterparts ...
Public lavatories are a worldbuilding finesse that most world builders seem to avoid, probably because the average GM/DM never excretes. They suffer.
The structure Fletcher describes still exists and is Grade II listed, but don’t expect to use it for its intended purpose should you visit. I understand the house next door owns the structure and has turned it to alternate use. God knows how; the thing must stink like a midden in hot weather.
Interesting that the example Fletcher picks is standing room only. I suggest a reason for that, but another reason might be that, where it is, was at one time the warehouse district. You wouldn’t expect to find many women there.
I have mentioned Whittington’s Long House before; this is another example of some forgotten urban architect coming up with a solution to a common problem.
Which brings me to:
Poetry Without Motion
There’s a scribbler who hangs round the shop cadging fags and cups of tea. Geoff, his name is. Nobody knows his last name; they just call him The Blot, on account of the ink stains he leaves wherever his fingers wander. Shop staff must keep an eye on him when he’s in, lest he damage the stock.
He’s always trying to publish his poetry, without much luck. It’s foul stuff, turgid and unremarkable. He ekes out a living with the Radical crowd, writing up their screeds. He’s not a bad editor, just a lousy creator.
Except for this last month, when he started coming out with the most intriguing poetry. Ethereal. Otherworldly. Gothic. Haunting. Not quite world-beating, but interesting enough that one of the smaller presses is giving him a chance. His book’s out next month. The Blot is over the moon.
The shop staff want to know where he got his inspiration, but the Blot isn’t talking.
However, the Blot is spending rather a lot of time at a public lavatory not far from the shop ...
Option One: The Ghosts of London. Thanks to generations of public use, this little corner of London has become a Fane, of sorts. An overlooked source of Magick, an accidental creation. The Blot has tuned in to this frequency and that’s where his inspiration is coming from, but it’s only a matter of time before more unscrupulous users of Magick realize what’s going on and muscle in on The Blot’s turf.
Option Two: Otherworldly Frequencies. Peculiar entities have attached a special device to this cast-iron convenience. It’s operating as a kind of receiver for Yithian agents, who have a cell nearby. They weren’t expecting some rando to tune into their broadcasts. If they find out the Blot is listening in they shall not be happy. Of course, they’re bound to find out when the Blot’s poetry gets published ...
Option Three: The Unnamed Poet. The Blot isn’t the only frustrated poet in London. He has a co-author, a Ghoul. This public convenience is their meeting spot, one where neither author has to see the other. They collaborate in secret. The Blot is the editorial mastermind, the Ghoul the creative brain. Together, they could become an unstoppable poetic force. Though the Ghoul is beginning to wonder if he really needs the Blot. Surely, the Ghoul reasons, I could just ... consume him, become him, absorb his editorial skills and make my own success. The Ghoul isn’t wrong, but this kind of reasoning spells trouble for the Blot.
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