Time, Gentlemen
Cameron says this and smiles, then chews on a cuticle and contorts an empty packet of salted peanuts. The last part — the bit about a ‘perpetual present’ — is ironic coming from Cameron. Everything he says is — in a myriad of different ways far too subtle to penetrate his dense brain — massively ironic. The pseudo-philosophical bullshit he spouts contains layer upon layer of hidden irony. Tectonic plates of irony. But he doesn’t even realise this, and never will. It would be funny if it wasn’t so crushingly depressing.
By James Crouchman.
Oi Oi Saveloy! Lick Your Lips, Here’s The Chips: An Interview With SaltPeter
Anyone who’s been in central London on the weekend at night, knows this is just how Leicester Square and Piccadilly look, cruelly ravaged after Sebastian Horsley’s had his way with them. The music is sensitive enough, sometimes, to carry off this Hogarth rudeness of piss-stained steps, winking night stars and tramps.
Sophie Parkin talks to SaltPeter about hunger being the best sauce and poetry the best lyrics.
Michael Palin on Acid
Psychogeography as a concept is nothing new. The psychological influence of habitat and locale is one that has been explored by writers for many years. The writer as walker is a similarly well-trodden path; whenever I think of Rimbaud he is forever on the move, wearing away shoe leather on an open country road. Self is a pleasing addition to the tradition. My problem with the genre — if it has yet gathered its own classification — is the often overly lyrical nature of the prose its authors produce.
Glenn Fisher reviews Will Self‘s Psychogeography.