Tuesday, 21 July 2015


It’s not a frying-pan-wielding Warren Ellis you meet in a clothes shop. It’s not a money-sucking penny arcade you still can’t resist. It’s not a short story you write in a greasy café serving something exotic called ‘butterfly chicken'. It’s not even cod & fish you eat on an early, stormy morning pier. 

No, it’s something else. It’s that elderflower gin & tonic cocktail you drink late in the evening, just outside Kemptown. To the sound of “Piazza, New York Catcher”, drunk Englishmen discussing the Queen’s Hitler salute and an elf-like girl mixing the drinks for you like some witch from another world.