Martin Kettle, formally of Stoneyclough but now resident of Penn Beacon, was stood on a table in the Eight Kings. He was taping the fourth corner of a large poster of Bob Dylan's face to the wall at the end of the bar. "No, no, Sam," he was saying. "It's ‘uff’, not ‘ow’. Stoneyclough." He … Continue reading The Bristol Arm.
Speedy Ange laughs. Don’t know ya up from ya down, do ya. I'm all over the place. They’re cooking up hot knives in the kitchenette; Tammy and Speedy Ange. I’m failing to tune a guitar in the other room. Bare boards and candles and incense. Ash on china. I’m on my back, Tammy’s sunburst Jaguar … Continue reading The Crow Court.
We sat, the six of us, on two black, vinyl settees facing each other and waited in the waiting room to be interviewed for the orthodontic apprentice technician position. A clock ticked on a wall, a cheese plant slouched by a window, old magazines were splayed on a glass-topped table. The nearest publication had a … Continue reading English Teeth.
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