London never sleeps, or at least it sleeps in shifts so you can always find some part awake, thriving or busy dying, somewhere it is still eye-balling something, like cement that will never dry the city soaks us all up into its damp dusty hold, swallowing us into its digestional tracts - the underground, those wriggling channels of people, swarming about with numb worried faces, sometimes curious but then only for an instant and like a light that goes out we arrive at another station, another organ in the belly of this horrible machine; and the true bile of this place is the newspapers handed out for free – simply adverts and various articles of plastic propaganda that tell the city what to think of the war of politicians what to buy when to do it and most importantly of celebrities – at the entrance and exit of stations, given you by people dressed in the bright garish colours of the paper they hand out, “Lite” with its street people dressed in luminous yellow trousers and coats, “London Paper” with its street people dressed in bright purple attires, and the papers blow about like tumble weed in the underground, swept up by the under pull of the carriage and they swirl up into the dust thick air, the puss press that floats about the consciousness of this swarming mass of people, the name “Lite”, not LIGHT, but LITE…perfect for out lite generation, thin on the ground, papers that reflect the people it reflects, a generation half obsessed and half starved by their own guilt, lite, diet pepsi, diet coke, diet organic carrots and organic ham and I feel sick and vomit heavily in the carriage of the underground train, and coughing on chunks of a mcdonalds’ hamburger that I had found on a seat before I boarded the train I assure the faceless bones of protest that yes, this is organic…and in the never distant back ground its that old whine of steel on steel as the train rockets down the tunnel unknowingly…
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