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.
