Free-Thinking London Babble: My Fucked Interview With Iain Sinclair
An easy interview. Iain Sinclair sits genially and talks into the recorder for over an hour, and there’s the sly undercurrent in this of a benign Sir William Gull instructing the ignorant Netley of the ventricles of London, England’s heart, as they turn down Greenwood Road as far as Albion Drive to survey London Fields and the suburb of Hackney containing the overspill of the East End. I’m the duff Netley, the stuttering ignoramus, wrestling with the recording machine and then failing to register its weird failure. Two hours later, speeding away in an unwashed van cluttered with dead paperbacks, used up Costa paper cups and rotten apple cores, I’m clicking the corpse button trying for the replay and finding nothing but white noise.
By Richard Marshall.