Smithfields: The last stop for Bos Taurus humanus

Smithfields market, opening hours 4am to 12pm, has been distributing dead cow to the city of London for just shy of 400 years. Its the last stop shop for our Bovine friends. But the days of the great cold cut houses have long past and what were once vast caverns of fleshy-distribution are now apartments of extreme gentrification. One of the slaughter houses still does business; opening hours 11pm to 8 am. Fabric moves meat, but this place is for Bos Taurus Humanus. 

On the 20th of March I made a bi monthly pilgrimage to the cathedral of sound. It is the primordial home of the electric drone; its the release of the animal soul. If the pillars of creation had a sound track it would have been put together on an Ableton pad. I was there to see R.Villalobos, a real hero of mine. An export from chilie, Villalobos gets the crowd heaving like no other. On Saturday, Fabric was rammed, you couldn't move for all the human down there. And, with the base thumping beat on the Body motion sound system my oils were flowing.

My Best friend and his Girlfriend were two of my companions for the evening, and you couldn't find a better pair; the best pair. I was chewing up the dance floor beside them for much of evening. I stopped a robbery too, or at least the attempt. Some snake of a human slithered up and tried to steal, said Girlfriends hand bag. What a disgrace. Some people have no class. 

I was bobbing about just behind when I saw these crafty claws have a fiddle with the buckle and strap. I leapt into a delayed action, it took me seconds to work out what was going on. I whipped off the Sunnies I'd been wearing to get a better look and I said.

"Oi what you playing at mate?"

That got him moving. 

Job done. 

You dont need to tell me I'm a hero
I know I am.

The incident put me on a parra for the whole evening. I kept seeing Absolute Anacondas everywhere , the place became the Viper rooms, which is a pity as it was the only downer on an absolute cracker of a night. 

I smoked 30 cigarettes that weekend. My lungs still feel sore, but sometimes you have to live a little.

We stumbled out the club at about 7am. 

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.

BASS, BASS, BASS.

There is nothing better than a night at the slaughter house of Bos Taurus Humanus.

Snakes in the Glass, staying with the Mudschute man.

I slip n slided my way to canary wharf the other day, it was precarious. That old tunnel dweller B. Crowe had let lose his legion of pale faced moles. I burrowed through all the hassle. Of course I made it; London underground aren't completely useless, just almost. You can always bet on them at being Incompetent at incompetence. After the torture of public transport, Canary wharf, was brilliant. Private Versus Public, Good Versus Bad, on some things the divide is too obvious. Government would be easy if it was n't that state intervention isn't always bad.

The docklands is a British Manhattan, except smaller and nothing like Manhattan at all. I passed the Barclay's building, The Kpmg, The Citi, all the guilty suspects that used to be The City. Its all Steel and Glass these days, no Bowlers and Canes a poverty of honesty too I'd have thought. I didn't see those Masters of the Universe either but one hopes they're thin on the ground after money markets collapsed. 

Suckers.

Unless of course there were so many of them they looked like normal people. In Canary Wharf you can never tell the snakes from all that glass.

I was coasting along on the Docklands light rail, it was certainly lite on speed. My friend claims he once ran faster than the DLR. I don't think that's possible, but L.Armstong on his velocipede would give the whole network a damn good drumming.

I was staying in Mudschute with one of my oldest and bestest friends. He is going to be a brilliant city lawyer. In another age he would have been a brilliant civil servant, servicing one of the arms of the state. In this reality its always best to look after your own end first. We went to, and seem to have stayed at the same school.

I had a meeting to go to with my future colleagues; all wonderful people. I was hung over and twenty minutes into it I felt my eyes closing. 

"Damn it", I thought. "We should't have opened the whisky."

I had an awful headache from all the booze. I was sweating. It was disgusting, I was more slug than man.

I had a leg ache and a back ache and an arm ache. You can blame the wine for the head but the rest were from the punches.

The night before the Mudschute man, one of my oldest and bestest friend had beaten me.

He really had.

With the friends I acquired later on in life we never fight, violence has never part of the relationship. With school friends to much of the boys remain in the men. I waited by his door as he was making his way to bed. I was battered and as I heard him come past I pounced on him like those Japs at Pearl harbour. I battered his kidneys and got in close at his soft underbelly. Blow after blow to the lower ribs. But a little courage is dangerous thing, you should drink-deep or not from the Herculean spring.

I ran back to my room and whipped on my spectacles

"You wouldn't hit a man with glasses" I cried.

Some bastards have no honour, you know that son-of-a-bitch actually hit me. He hit me all over.

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God I miss the Sun.

Women can be brilliant at just about anything, but they are Special-brilliant at being in sun. The City of London is purr-fect in the summer, beauties in tulip skirts everywhere. All the pretty ladies are solar-powered. I like them with Gucci sun glasses perched on the top of their heads. Sexy. Definitely Sexy. Its all miserable now like a requiem mass for the eyes. We've March-ed into Spring and Winter's still at siege. You only see fat men in tight suits in winter, but I know those beauties are out there, waiting to bask in those glorious rays


Here comes my Sun.