If, on nearing the top end of Grayâ€™s Inn Road, your response to the deepening pond of filth sloshing round your hush puppies is to lift your eyes heavenwards in search of spiritual sustenance, then youâ€™re in for disappointment. For stiffly mounted on a pinnacle with his slender sceptre pointing skywards and his bare toes gripping a weighty ball is this cocky young lad making a most ambiguous gesture. Is he giving the finger to those who dare to criticise his choice of lifestyle and penchant for casually rucked loincloths? Or is he, perhaps, beckoning us to follow him back to his fully-serviced campsite and in through his tent flaps? Kingâ€™s Cross, despite all the attempts at gentrification, continues to pose many sticky questions; but the answer to most of them remains a simple no thanks, love.
[This piece originally appeared in Smoke 9.]