SHOP MEET
Self-Savagery 1006: You'll know by now of course, that you have to create your own myths and rumours.
SHOP MEET
[Transcription of a meeting with a stranger in Dalston Stationers, Kingsland Road. Sometimes you meet a walking exhibition of the idea that some of us are truly plugged into the map, genitalia first. Treasures they are, one and all.]
'Iain Sinclair's interviewing me for his book on London Geniuses,' he announced to the Kingland Road stationery shop and to the world. He looked a hard-lived one-hundred-and-five, toothless, hairless and with a stoop that carried the weight of the ideas his windmilling tongue couldn't yet ship out.
The shop-owner, guaging passage from the chatter of this visitor, said he hadn't heard of Iain Sinclair. The old man turned his attentions to me, bringing his salty pungence and the musty aroma of sharp thoughts expiring, unheard.
'I'm writing a crime story inside a psychological horror inside a nightmarish evocation of Hackney. Chapter Three: Author awakes, realising he can’t write anymore. The book turns inside-out. Experts told me it’s Britain’s only truly underground novel ever. Finished, it will be an escape pod to infinite dimensions. It's got secret formulas, lively ones. To finish it, the author runs away, meets an African mystic who gives him the ability to solve particular problems. That's real fact. There’s a quote on the back from the greatest ever. You know who that is?'
‘Jesus?’
‘No I didn’t meet him. It's Orson Welles. We met on a film which had a Spanish actor, forget his name, he was in Westerns with Dean Martin. Do you know what Welles said about me?’
He paused.
‘He said 'Ralph's like a cat tied in a bag. When you let him out he’ll either suffocate or come out screaming.' Haha! Wonderful! When you’ve got an Orson Welles endorsement, what else do you need?’
‘Did he read the book?’
‘No. Died before I started it. But ideas transcend, people are in the ether, the moon… Stephen Berkoff, friend of mine. You know him? Fine actor. Used to get the girls, Dad was a tailor. We'd go up the cafes in Stamford Hill. I was old even then, the fifties this was. Barbara Windsor, would come in, say to me ‘Ralph, I’m going to be in films,’ I’d say ‘But Barbara love, you can’t act. You’re terrible.' She became a big star, 'I told you I was going to act' she said, 'You're still terrible, Babs,' I said. And when Lionel Blair told me he was doing an Oliver Twist musical, I said it sounded awful. He sang a song, ‘boy for sale… he's going cheap…only seven guineas', and I said ‘Lionel dear, it’s terrible.’ It was a roaring success, and I said ‘Lionel, it’s still garbage. Popular garbage mind.' Anyway, don't see that lot now. Got rid of 'em to money and fame. Timewasters. Pickles. Braggarts. Forgetful liars. Nice but useless.'
He paused.
'I've just got my formulas. And when I get this book finished, you'll know, you'll feel it.'
SHOP MEET
[Transcription of a meeting with a stranger in Dalston Stationers, Kingsland Road. Sometimes you meet a walking exhibition of the idea that some of us are truly plugged into the map, genitalia first. Treasures they are, one and all.]
'Iain Sinclair's interviewing me for his book on London Geniuses,' he announced to the Kingland Road stationery shop and to the world. He looked a hard-lived one-hundred-and-five, toothless, hairless and with a stoop that carried the weight of the ideas his windmilling tongue couldn't yet ship out.
The shop-owner, guaging passage from the chatter of this visitor, said he hadn't heard of Iain Sinclair. The old man turned his attentions to me, bringing his salty pungence and the musty aroma of sharp thoughts expiring, unheard.
'I'm writing a crime story inside a psychological horror inside a nightmarish evocation of Hackney. Chapter Three: Author awakes, realising he can’t write anymore. The book turns inside-out. Experts told me it’s Britain’s only truly underground novel ever. Finished, it will be an escape pod to infinite dimensions. It's got secret formulas, lively ones. To finish it, the author runs away, meets an African mystic who gives him the ability to solve particular problems. That's real fact. There’s a quote on the back from the greatest ever. You know who that is?'
‘Jesus?’
‘No I didn’t meet him. It's Orson Welles. We met on a film which had a Spanish actor, forget his name, he was in Westerns with Dean Martin. Do you know what Welles said about me?’
He paused.
‘He said 'Ralph's like a cat tied in a bag. When you let him out he’ll either suffocate or come out screaming.' Haha! Wonderful! When you’ve got an Orson Welles endorsement, what else do you need?’
‘Did he read the book?’
‘No. Died before I started it. But ideas transcend, people are in the ether, the moon… Stephen Berkoff, friend of mine. You know him? Fine actor. Used to get the girls, Dad was a tailor. We'd go up the cafes in Stamford Hill. I was old even then, the fifties this was. Barbara Windsor, would come in, say to me ‘Ralph, I’m going to be in films,’ I’d say ‘But Barbara love, you can’t act. You’re terrible.' She became a big star, 'I told you I was going to act' she said, 'You're still terrible, Babs,' I said. And when Lionel Blair told me he was doing an Oliver Twist musical, I said it sounded awful. He sang a song, ‘boy for sale… he's going cheap…only seven guineas', and I said ‘Lionel dear, it’s terrible.’ It was a roaring success, and I said ‘Lionel, it’s still garbage. Popular garbage mind.' Anyway, don't see that lot now. Got rid of 'em to money and fame. Timewasters. Pickles. Braggarts. Forgetful liars. Nice but useless.'
He paused.
'I've just got my formulas. And when I get this book finished, you'll know, you'll feel it.'
posted by The Legendary Black Marquis at 9:36 am
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