George Berger Column

Being the first in a series of psychogeographical memories of the trainline that took me from nowhere & nothing to somewhere and …something. Or other.

Yes, other. I came straight

In some ways, this article is an attempt to record the fact that this book exists, that I exist. Or existed if you’re reading this some time in the future.

Being the second in a series of psychogeographical memories of the trainline that took me from nowhere & nothing to somewhere and …something. Or other.

Yes, other. I came straight

My, how we clung onto Bowie. He knew. He was always on our side. Back at the age where it was all about sides. Every alienated kid who felt weird

As the trainline left Petts Wood, something happened. A fork. The Victoria line I’m writing about here headed off to Bromley whilst the London Bridge line sped on to Chislehurst.

It’s surely a failure of town planning to leave a sprawl of suburb with no redeeming features whatsoever. It’s not even bad, just featureless. A face without eyes, nose or

When I was young & innocent, my first window into the world was the Roberts transistor radio. Learning language was closely followed by hearing song lyrics. Words that swept me

And then, finally, I have a vision that changes everything. A vision of my father as a frightened little boy, one who had a far tougher upbringing than I did,

I’ve not written an introduction to any of the other chapters in this journey, but I fear that without one here, I might never get through it. Because this is

This is Dulwich College: a private school and semi-official groomers to the future inhabitants of the corridors of power. And Nigel Farage. I finished the previous chapter with my old

The protestant work ethic is hideously outdated these days, despite the reluctance of reactionaries on both the right and left to come to terms with this reality. I like to

In hindsight it’s clumsy, hopelessly over-romantic and not a little squirmy. But Brixton in the early 80s held the ultimate trump card for me. Whatever its faults, Brixton was always

I’ve felt pride and shame, and also felt incredibly small when considering how many other people could — and should — write completely different stories with the same chapter titles.

Bromley hasn’t changed. Petts Wood has got worse, if anything. Reform are hovering on the edge of winning the next election and here’s the human and vibrational evidence, in two