It’s Eid today. So a hearty Eid Mubarak to all my Muslim readers.
Whitechapel is abuzz, I can tell you. Many men in pink scarves. And I was out there this morning, at about nine o’clock, practicing my Whitechapel Ghost Style.
333 arm swings and a lot of Mizong. A light leisurely morning, I watched over to the blue heights of the new extension to the Royal London Hospital. The crows were playing in thermals off the helipad.
And, just now, a repulsive black fly on the Pain au Raisin on display at Rinkoffs. I write this, not as a rebuke to the good baking which goes on there, because it just shows how much everyone wants their cakes and goodies…
So, I left them girls from Montreal, they went to Sainsburys and I down to Brick Lane. It turned out that the rest of the Whitechapel Anarchist Group were late, but we amassed nearby the new railway bridge, to distribute our latest periodical to the plebs, punks, proles, dossers and street drinkers – trying hard to avoid giving out, nay wasting, our hard earned freesheets to the West End boys and girls who colonise the Lane on a Sunday.
Later, after a successful jaunt and a swift pint of porter at the White Hart, I and another of the group ambled along to Christ Church in Spitalfields, where the doors have been flung open to the people for the weekend. My first time inside dear reader, and I must say how impressed I was with the design and execution of the interior, though slightly unnerved by the off-kilter symmetry, not visible in this photograph…
More crooked and disturbing was a tour of the western vestibule where many memorial tablets are hung to commemorate important persons, related to the Victorian history of the Christ Church Spitalfields. Eleven of the fourteen tablets there specifically commend the work done by some local Christian gentleman for the London Society for Promoting Christianity amongst the Jews. The Jews here are often to referred to as “God’s chosen people,” and to think that they lived here, right outside Hawksmoor’s Church, in the East End of London, apparently in desperate need of conversion.
Less interestingly perhaps; the church organ was notable only in its absence. It is in Devon, awaiting mending.
I left the Church and my companion, walking down Fournier Street to return home. My attention was diverted by a French market seller, who had lain an array of books on the pavement for public perusal. Earlier in the day, I had happened to earwig that a fellow anarchist harbours a near-obsession with Conan the Barbarian. And Lo! What should lay on the pavement but 5, count them, 5! early Conan novels. Conan: The Barbarian: The Conqueror: The Wandered: The Avenger and The Rebel. Yeah Conan… Dish it to the mainstream.
Suddenly, frighteningly, I was invited into a house, a normal enough house on Fournier Street where I wandered alone into a back room, painted entirely in white, with a gaggle of weird and extroverted artists gathered around a table. Against the wall stood an upright piano, adorned with mother of pearl. Cigarette ends filled the candle holders. And hanging around the room were an assortment of dressing gowns, towels and bed sheets, all standardly issued from the Great Eastern Hotel (I do like to keep things to the East), all spattered and soaked in shitty brown stains. The blood of Franko B, who had blood-let in some performances at the hotel.
Frankly, I liked it…