Parliament Hill Caff

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Parliament Hill is one of the London Mounds identified by E.O. Gordon in ‘Prehistoric London…’
Maiden Lane, now York Way, led the way from Penton Mound which was the journey we took on the No.214 bus all hot and bothered.
The mounds would have been used in pagan times as places of congregation, ritual and play. And there we were splashing around in the paddling pool and chasing someone’s pet rabbit.

Through Temple Bar into Paternoster Square. There’s a Mussolini-like modernism about it. Neo-classical fascist. It’s a cold Sunday night and a few souls criss-cross the asymmetrical space, it could be Rimini. I feel like a shape in a Di Chirico painting. It is ghostly and out-of-place which fits this city of dislocation. I’m pulled in strange directions from one side of the square to another, then under a portico which has sprouted concrete umbrellas from its ceiling.

I escape the vortex inside Paternoster Square and find myself looking into Hat and Mitre Court EC1, 10 yards long, chain-link gate, fragment of mediaeval street plan. Not a soul around. Brewhouse Yard, gleaming new and empty. The news from Clerkenwell is that loft development kills the street. The only flaneur round here is the deli of that name on Farringdon Road.

At Borat’s shop a 12-year old talks into his mobile phone. “That’s CID just gone past”.
“How can you tell?”. “I know, right”. They’re in a heightened state. Training their Bull Terrier to attack. Small time criminals in embryo.

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The Island Queen & The Mitre

Island Queen, Noel Road N1. At least they’ve kept the beautifully engraved mirrors from the Victorian interior and some wonderful wooden panelling. That aside Joe Orton who lived and was bludgeoned to death up the road might have thought he was back in Tangiers. The Belgian beer and kettle chips are a give-away. I’m supping a decent pint of Spitfire slouched on a soft stripy sofa and so I notice that the ornate ceiling has survived the trendification too.

The clientele are City Road chic and Clerkenwell refugees – American No Logo casual wear as modelled by Jude Law drinking rounds (of Belgian beer) bought on credit cards. Wine lists. Cocktails. Fans. Marinated vegetables in a large glass jar. Can’t say I totally dislike it because of the original features which have been retained almost begrudgingly. What I am doing this far south of Essex Road?

The Old Mitre just off Ely Place and I’m upstairs in the Bishops Room with pissed posh lawyers and their female co-workers they hope to fuck (and take polaroids). This all belonged to the Bishops of Ely and Ely Place is outside the jurisdiction of any London authorities. The gates at the end close at 10pm after which not even the police can enter without permission. There is a dark alley down which the pub is hidden, the other end emerges out in Hatton Garden among the jewellery traders. I drink up and head through a gate in the mystical wall at the end into Bleeding Heart Yard.

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