Podcasts about old compton street

On 1st January 1932, in the attic room of 27 Old Compton Street in Soho, 19-year-old domestic servant Edith McQuaid gave birth to a baby boy. Whether he died of natural causes, or she took his life by infanticide will never be known. But she wasn't alone. Edith was one of 1000s of women who concealed the pregnancy, the body of the dead babies or murdered them at birth across the United Kingdom, and yet, it wasn't there fault, as this national scandal had been raging for centuries.Date: 1st of January 1932 (birth and death of her baby)Location: attic, 27 Old Compton Street, Soho, London, UK, W1Victim: 1 (name unknown)Culprits: 1 (Edith McQuaid)Method: infanticide / neonaticideMurder Mile is one of the best UK / British / English true crime podcasts covering only 20 square miles of West London. It is researched, written and performed by Michael of Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein and Jon Boux of Cult With No Name and additional music, as used under the Creative Commons License 4.0. A full listing of tracks used and a full transcript for each episode is listed here and a legal disclaimer.For links click hereTo subscribe via Patreon, click here Support this show http://supporter.acast.com/murdermile. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

This week's episode could very well be titled 'The Many Lovers of Frank Akinsete', because we somehow manage to cover off about half a dozen love affairs during our conversation!And if you're a longtime listener ofLost Spaces you already know that we love a good detour here. Honestly, I think those are the best episodes, where we get to truly know a person and trace their many, many queer footsteps.This week's guest is Frank Akinsete, a fashion stylist and consultant who's been part of London's queer scene since the70s, giving him a front-row seat to its evolution over the decades.Frank and I caught up to talk aboutThe Mews, a late-night, dingy little club with almost no digital footprint, but we also talk about The Embassy, and just what Soho in London was like in the 70s and beyond. And, on top of that, we dive into his coming-out story, his overprotective cat, and, of course, hismany lovers.For some context: for a long time, the heart of London's gay scene was in Soho, particularly around Old Compton Street. But thanks to gentrification, that landscape has shifted, and the scene is much more fragmented now.Follow meInstagram: ⁠⁠www.instagram.com/lostspacespod⁠⁠Facebook: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠www.facebook.com/lostspacespod⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠TikTok:⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://www.tiktok.com/@lostspacespod⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Sign up to the Queer Word newsletter:https://queer-word.beehiiv.com/subscribe⁠⁠⁠⁠Support meBuy Me A Coffee:⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://www.buymeacoffee.com/lostspacespod⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Follow my guestInstagram:https://www.instagram.com/frankakinsete/Vintage Fashion Instagram:https://www.instagram.com/souledoutathouseofprovenance/

This episode is brought to you by LIFESAFE Technologies Stay safe "All In 1" Fire extinguisher. Click on the link and your discount will be applied Kevin's inspiration to join the Police was prompted by a robbery where at the age of 14 he was held at knifepoint and his pedal cycle was stolen. He went on to see the suspect in a local park on the stolen bike. The police were contacted and when they arrived, they arrested the suspect and seized the bike. The rest as they say is history.Kevin was 20 when he joined the Metropolitan Police, and the year was 1983. His service commenced in Edmonton and after 6 years transferred to King Cross. This area was not the affluent location that it is now!The Harrods Bombing, The murder of Yvonne Fletcher and the Broadwater farm riots took place in his early years in the job. Kevin describes the significant events and the Tottenham riots in particular; he was patrolling Southgate when he was told to return to base pick up his public order kit and travel to the infamous Broadwater Farm.Kevin's love for cars help directed him to the stolen vehicle squad. It was during this time that he honed his skills as an investigator. He went on to lead a team at Kings Cross and headed missing persons enquires. One such was Paula Field, Her body was found minus its identifying features in a holdall in the canal at Camden. He was invited to apply for the role in SO10 which specialised in undercover deployments and stayed in the role for 8 years. He found the role particularly political, and we discuss the issues in managing undercovers and the associated issues. During his time he became a hostage negotiator and recalls vividly the kidnap of a 10 year old boy.He concluded his services a s Chief Superintendent and was an operational lead during the 2021 Olympics .A memorable day during his service was the nail bombing in Old Compton Street at the Admiral Duncan Pub. He talks about a member of the public Named David Morley who had been injured in the explosion. This mans nickname was Cinders. He survived the bombing and was a very kind individual. A few years later Mr Morley was murdered on the South Bank by a group of youths.Since leaving the Police Kevin has been behind the television shows “The Hunted” and “The Heist” He is now a published author and his book “Where The Evidence Takes Us” Is available from all good book sellers. John Sutherland and Adam Kay were inspirations and John has written has written a recommendation. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Hello from London!!! Yes. We're here. We're in the capital. We're, erm, home!?! Obviously it's not home yet and there is no home yet but we're here. We're saving the house-hunting chat for the next episode because today we have a lot to tell you, including...• A double dirty protest on the way to London.• A flash of excitement near Hyde Park.• Greenwich, the Thames, the market & the cottage.• How London changes on every corner.• Daylight robbery in the pubs.• World Cup viewing.• Heathers & date night.• Fanny pizzas.• The lady on Old Compton Street.• Original Source Mint shower gel.• Our introduction (and subsequent purchase) of Snuddies.• A man with a very peculiar allergy.• Just how f**king freaked out we both are right now.We'll be doing a big update on the next episode about what it's like trying to find somewhere to live in London with no jobs, no money and no idea what we're doing but in the meantime, if you'd like to get in touch, you can email us here: husbandandwifepod@gmail.com Or get us on our socials here:Simon on Insta: https://www.instagram.com/catboyradio Lorra on Insta: https://www.instagram.com/lorranotlaura Simon on Twitter: https://twitter.com/catboyradio Lorra on Twitter: https://twitter.com/lorranotlaura Us on TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@catboyandlorraSee you next time xSupport this show http://supporter.acast.com/husband-wife-sentenced-to-life. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

On 15th September 1894, being part way through a world tour to spread the word of God, Father Louis Caceres, a portly elderly priest had booked a room for himself and his faithful assistant Eugene at Blondel's Hotel on Old Compton Street in Soho. But growing depressed at his failing health as the tour took its toll, here the priest would take his own life.His death sent shock waves throughout the Catholic faith, but not just because his suicide was a sin.Murder Mile is researched, written and performed by Michael of Murder Mile Walks with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein and Jon Boux of Cult With No Name and additional music, as used under the Creative Commons License 4.0. A full listing of tracks used and a full transcript for each episode is listed here and a legal disclaimer.For LINKS CLICK HERETo subscribe via Patreon, click hereSupport this show http://supporter.acast.com/murdermile. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

This is Part Five of Ten of The Soho Strangler. May 1936. Three weeks after and two street south of the murder of Marie Cotton, and just two streets east of French Fifi, ‘Dutch Leah' a third sex-worker would be found strangled in her Soho flat, on the second floor of 66 Old Compton Street. Again, there were no obvious signs of break-in, robbery or sexual assault. Again, the only entry point was a locked street door off a busy street. And again, the killer left no fingerprints, no clues to his identity and witnesses to the murder. It's as if this maniac had attacked and vanished into thin air.With two women slaughtered in similar circumstances just streets apart, again, the police had a prime suspect, a man known to the victim who had a method and a motive. But with two murders still unsolved and with no suspects, had they caught a killer, or another scapegoat for their incompetence? With a panic rumbling across Soho, as women wondered how safe they were in their own beds, as much as the police refused to believe it, their last option was one too terrifying to consider……that a serial-killer stalked these very streets, who the press would dub - The Soho Strangler.Murder Mile is researched, written and performed by Michael of Murder Mile Walks with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein and Jon Boux of Cult With No Name and additional music, as used under the Creative Commons License 4.0. A full listing of tracks used and a full transcript for each episode is listed here and a legal disclaimer.For LINKS CLICK HERESupport this show http://supporter.acast.com/murdermile. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

June 1863. In the basement of 11 Old Compton Street in Soho, 21-year-old Susan Lattaney lived and worked as a prostitute. Having met and fell in love with glass decorator Henry Broughton - keen to fullfil her dreams of a great life together - she agreed to keep selling her body for sex, with Henry as her pimp. It was a small sacrifice she would make for herself and the man she loved... ...but in truth, she would be trapped by his lies, his cruelty and she would become a prisoner inside her own life.Murder Mile is researched, written and performed by Michael of Murder Mile Walks with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein and Jon Boux of Cult With No Name and additional music, as used under the Creative Commons License 4.0. A full listing of tracks used and a full transcript for each episode is listed here and a legal disclaimer.For LINKS CLICK HERESupport this show http://supporter.acast.com/murdermile. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Percusson Discussion - Episode 88 - Brian BennettWe are firmly back in the legends lounge for this episode.Joining me today is Drummer, Composer, Arranger, Pianist, three times winner of the Ivor Novello award, Brian Bennett, OBE.Join Brian and myself as we celebrate some of the highlights of his remarkable career.Brian shares with us at the age of 82 years old he still writes and records every day in his studio, this just proves that age is merely a number!We talk about Brian's early years and how after a year of violin lessons he realised it wasnt for him, on to the gig as house drummer (shared with his life long pal and another remarkable UK drummer Clem Cattini) at the legendary 2i"s coffee bar in Old Compton Street, Soho, said to be the the birthplace of British Rock n Roll, a small cramped venue that hosted some of the biggest stars of the day, Brian explains it was this showcase that got him most of his work at that time including the gig with the hugely popular Oh Boy a BBC Music show featuring many huge stars. Of course we had to talk about The Shadows and how Brian didn't initially want to join after 10 years of solid touring, however he did and the remarkable results are there for all to see! I ask Brian a couple of questions from a previous guest on the show and another legendary british drummer, founder member of both Free & Bad Company Simon Kirke for whom Brian was a huge influence when beginning his musical path. It was an absoloute pleasure chtting to Brian, i really appreciate him finding time in his incredibly packed schedule! I also have to thank our mutual friend and wonderful drummer Ian Palmer for putting us in contact initially.

Cyrielle, an actress living in Paris recounts three personal stories of divine support that arrived when she most needed it. In one of these encounters, she meets an eccentric colorfully dressed character at a cafe on Old Compton Street, in London, who wears a tall decorative turban and is giving out free hugs. He joyfully shares the message that "we are all one."

This episode is a conversation with Terence (Tee) Ayuk Eben who is founder of the Never Fade Factory -- a futurist fashion brand showroom based in Soho, London. The flagship underground concept store and creative space is focused on innovation, social impact, technology and sustainability. The creative-process is the heartbeat of the Never Fade Factory which promotes artistic community for fashion, art, photography, design and exhibition. The ethos of the Never Fade Factory is to incubate and accelerate emerging talent by providing free work space and commercial opportunity to showcase their art fostering a knowledge based ecosystems of support, teaching and sharing human resources within the creative industries. This philosophy creates brand collaborations between emerging brands and corporate partnerships focused on tech and sustainability. Please join us for an on-location conversation that took place on a sunny Saturday in the window of the Never Fade Factory located on Old Compton Street where we discuss Tee's journey of being the only black owned business in Soho and examine fashion from a zeitgeist point of view including circular fashion and the Factory's #swapfactory partnership with Lablaco. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/zara-korutz/message

Lee Akpareva is a fashion designer, tailor and technology consultant.  He's also creative director of Never Fade, a fashion store and creative space on Old Compton Street in London. We chat about collaborations within the fashion industry, helping new designers get a head start, and how blockchain and technology are impacting the fashion industry and manufacturing. Discover: About Lee and his background before becoming a designer 02:40 Having a second-life career 05:34 Why he decided to go to fashion school as a mature student 07:58 How he started working with Never Face 10:27 About the Never Fade store and the designers they work with 12:17 Why Lee is focusing on UK production 15:32 How they select the up-and-coming designers for Never Fade 16:09 How money and funding is a big constraint for new designers 17:43 Why there's not more diversity in fashion colleges 18:21 Why aren't there more black tailors? 21:40 Lee's future plans for his business? 23:23 Why collaboration is the way forward for the industry 25:31 The rise of Blockchain and NFC 26:26 The rise of 'digital' clothing and accessories 29:32 The adoption of technology in fashion manufacturing 32:35 How we can reinvigorate our high streets 37:06 More about Lee Akpareva Lee Akpareva on Instagram   More Make it British Join Make it British -  become a member of our community Work with me -  find out how we can work together to build your British-made brand Make it British website Make it British Brands Directory - search for brands and manufacturers that make in the UK Manufacturers Directory - search for manufacturers that are verified members of Make it British Make it British Instagram

On Monday 25th October 1943, at roughly 3:30pm, a businessman called Savvas Demetriades was murdered in broad daylight on a public pavement outside of the Helvetia pub at 23 Old Compton Street. The Police's investigation should have collapsed owing to the code of silence in Soho’s Greek-Cypriot community. But this would collapse owing to how petty the murder was.Murder Mile is researched, written and performed by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne of Murder Mile Walks with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein and Jon Boux of Cult With No Name with additional music, as used under the Creative Commons License 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive and YouTube Music. A full listing of tracks used and a full transcript for each episode is listed here and a legal disclaimer.TICKETS TO CRIME CON UK 2021Go to Crime Con UK website www.crimecon.co.ukEnter code MILE for 10% off and a free Murder Mile goodie.FOLLOW US HERE:FacebookTwitterInstagramMurder Mile Discussion GroupYoutubeSUPPORT THE PODCAST:Support us via PATREON.Buy Merch in THE SHOPFree Goodies HERE Support this show http://supporter.acast.com/murdermile. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Kelly this week speaks to Kristina - manager and larger than life character who runs the famous Il Camisa deli on Old Compton Street. London's original Italian deli since 1961, founded by the Camisa brothers.

This is Meander Mile #4, a casual little dawdle around Piccadilly Circus, W1 in London's West End. Over just 600 feet, I'll introduce you to loads of murder cases (solved and unsolved) which you may never have heard of, and showing you just how many murder can appear on one street. Previous streets explored were Old Compton Street, Covent Garden and Gerrard Street (Chinatown).If you'd like to follow this on GoogleMap, click this link - https://tinyurl.com/ycsw57tf See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

This is Meander Mile #3, a casual little dawdle down Gerrard Street, W1 in London's West End, commonly known as 'Chinatown'. Over just 400 feet, I'll introduce you to loads of murder cases (solved and unsolved) which you may never have heard of, and showing you just how many murder can appear on one street. Previous streets explored were Old Compton Street and Covent Garden. If you'd like to follow this on GoogleMap, click this link - https://tinyurl.com/y8mtom8f See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

Nightjar is London's most highly acclaimed speakeasy. It's been named in the top 50 bars in the world several years running and holds multiple industry awards. The entrance to Nightjar is through an unmarked door near a chicken shop on Old Street roundabout. You can just about hear the live jazz playing and taste the craft prohibition style cocktails being made in the bar below. Today there is no shortage of speakeasies in London but when this husband and wife team created Nightjar back in 2010 they really pioneered the trend. One review of the bar said "Nightjar is the kind of place all other speakeasies aspire to be when they grow up". The pair went on to open two more successful bars - Oriole in Smithfield Market and Swift in Old Compton Street (nearly at the same time). In this episode you'll hear of the couple's journey opening all three bars, bumps they hit along the way and how they overcame them, and the kits you can get from them during the lockdown. But first we spoke to Roisin about her experience contracting Corona virus at 28 weeks pregnant!Support this show http://supporter.acast.com/your-tables-ready. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

George Skeggs is without question one of London’s very own last remaining living legends. Otherwise known as ‘Soho George’, he is a gentleman with a truly unique style—and if by chance you are unfamiliar with his name, you certainly will not be unfamiliar with his image if you spend any time around London’s historic Soho streets and cafés. Born in the East End, George arrived in Soho as a young boy for the first time in 1957 and was blown away by the sights and sounds that emanated from coffee shops like the 2is in Old Compton Street, often recognized as the birthplace of  the British Rock and Roll scene. George is one of the most colourful personalities you’re ever likely to meet, with his striking dress of hand made tailored suits and Fedora hats. He doesn’t follow fashion—he just is what he wants to be and simply doesn’t care what you think. At 74 he talks and moves more like someone half his age and has an abundance of wonderful stories from of his life and times in Soho right through from the 50’s to the present day. I love London because of people like Soho George. “First day I had four followers—three days later its gone up to 544, and most of them in Japan, they have a great sense of style.” [8:00] George was brought up during the war alongside three siblings and he gives a lot of credit to his Mum for raising the family. His creativity started to spark after they moved to Hackney where he attended a new school at the age of 6-7. The art teacher helped push him—and some of Geroge’s paintings were included in a children’s art tour of China, making him an international artist before the age of 10. [27:36] Soho was what George jokingly calls “a reservation for weirdos” a category he puts himself in.  It was a centre to strike out against conformity. Coffee bars and subterranean music venues are what George grew up and was shaped by, playing in jug bands and growing as an artist. Some of his creativity was blatantly obvious, at it manifested through his dress. George doesn’t call himself a fashionista, someone following and working inside trends, but rather he sees himself as an individualist with a modernists style. He follows his own sense of style and tailors his own clothing—long double-breasted coats, always 45 inches long, blue checked—fedoras from Covet Garden, his whole outfit on any given day would run about £2-3K. “The Western Galleries—it’s fantastic…when I went in there two weeks ago it brought back all those memories when I first walked in there. I thought, you know what, I could live in there really. I could live under that statue of David.” [57:00] Nowadays George is busy doing things like showing his art off at the Royal Academy—something his art teacher said would happen back when he was a kid. He’s been working on 4 foot by 4 foot triptych comic series—comics told through just three panels. When he’s not busy with his art he can be found on his daily walk through Soho, popping in and out of his favorite art galleries and coffee shops, living his life through art and culture while carrying it all forward on the shoulders of his personality and trademark coats. I’d tell you to follow in his footsteps—but George would be the first to tell you to follow your own.   Links @SohoGeorge (https://twitter.com/SohoGeorge) Support this podcast

In the second episode of FO?FQ!, JK and Darren meet with activist, campaigner and LGBT+ influencer Rhammel Afflick. In this episode we record in one of the most well know gay districts of London where Rhammel share some of his queer journey, They discuss racism, transphobia, working with pride organisations, the hopes for LGBT+ equality and much more!

For our 7th episode, we strolled down to Old Compton Street to visit a Soho institution: the historic Camisa & Son. As one of the oldest and most celebrated Italian delis in London, its fair to say we were looking forward to this one. Did it meet our expectations? Did Sam struggle with basic Italian pronunciation? Will Greg finally compare a sandwich to a famous tennis player? All will be answered in your new favourite sandwich review podcast. If you like rustic Italian interiors (don’t lie… we know you do), you will love our snaps of this place. Check them out on the B2S Instagram page here: @between2slices

Episode 49 is part of the Autumn 2017 / Winter 2018 double issue! "Granny Death and the Drag King of London" is a GLITTERSHIP ORIGINAL. Support GlitterShip by picking up your copy here: http://www.glittership.com/buy/     Granny Death and the Drag King of London By A.J. Fitzwater      Monday, November 25, 1991. Lacey James had been working for Redpath Catering for three months when Freddie Mercury died. "Fuck," she mouthed around her fist and bit harder into her numb flesh. The news was hours old, but still her oesophagus made odd wheezy hiccups, and she couldn't swallow past the perpetual lump of granite in her chest. "Fuck fuck fuck." All going terrible, the weird black sparkles that invaded her vision at a whiff of death would arrive soon, the awful memories of helping nurse Stevie and Toad would nail her, or the creepy old lady that haunted funerals on her catering beat would turn up. Or all at once. Kitty. Stevie. Gin-Gin. Toad. Paulette. Manil. Now Freddie. Not another one. Not Freddie. No. Hold it together. Big bois don't cry.   [Full transcript after the cut]   Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip Episode 49 for February 13, 2018. This is your host, Keffy, and I'm super excited to be sharing this story with you. I'm sorry that it's been so long since I last brought you any fiction—to make it up to you, this episode is part of a double issue, which means that there are six originals and six reprints coming your way as quickly as I can get them out for you. I would also like to officially welcome Nibedita Sen as GlitterShip's official assistant editor. She will be helping out with keeping the Ship running smoothly... and hopefully more on time than it has been in the past. Today we have a poem and a GlitterShip original for you. The poem is "Seven Handy Ideas for Algorithmic Shapeshifting," by Bogi Takács read by Bogi eirself. Bogi Takács is a Hungarian Jewish agender trans person currently living in the US as a resident alien. Eir speculative fiction, poetry and nonfiction have been published in a variety of venues like Clarkesworld, Apex, Strange Horizons and podcast on Glittership, among others. You can follow Bogi on Twitter, Instagram and Patreon, or visit eir website at www.prezzey.net. Bogi also recently edited Transcendent 2: The Year's Best Transgender Speculative Fiction 2016, for Lethe Press. Seven Handy Ideas for Algorithmic Shapeshifting by Bogi Takács   Try it now – guaranteed enjoyment or your money back! Loss of life not covered under the terms of the user agreement. The classic original: Shapeshift to a surface color the inverse of your environment [reverse chameleon]To confuse people: Shapeshift to duplicate a nearby object, then change as others move you around [pulse in rhythm / undulate / who turned the sound off]For a drinking game: Shapeshift into a weasel for 5 seconds whenever someone drinks a stout [some puns deserve to remain obscure] [mind: wildlife needs to be careful around humans] To make a somewhat mangled political statement: Shapeshift into an object whose possession is illegal in the state and/or country you are entering [no human is illegal] [weaponize your thoughts / fall under export restrictions] [make sure to read the small print] To receive blessings: Shapeshift into a monk when in the 500 m radius of a Catholic church, respond to Laudetur [nunc et in æternum – practice] [works well in combination with previous]For the trickster types: Shapeshift into a set of food items, then change back to your original shape as the first person attempts to eat you [do not change back] [change back after you passed through the alimentary canal / the plumbing / all water returns to the sea] To satisfy extreme curiosity: Shapeshift into a cis person, at random intervals of time. Cry for 5 minutes. Change back [how did that feel?]       The GlitterShip original short story is "Granny Death and the Drag King of London" by A.J. Fitzwater, also read by the author. Amanda Fitzwater is a dragon wearing a human meat suit from Christchurch, New Zealand. A graduate of Clarion 2014, she’s had stories published in Shimmer Magazine, Andromeda Spaceways Magazine, and in Paper Road Press's "At The Edge" anthology. She also has stories coming soon at Kaleidotrope and PodCastle. As a narrator, her voice has been heard across the Escape Artists Network, on Redstone SF, and Interzone. She tweets under her penname as @AJFitzwater There is a content warning for slurs, homophobia and a lot discussion of AIDS deaths.   Granny Death and the Drag King of London By A.J. Fitzwater      Monday, November 25, 1991.   Lacey James had been working for Redpath Catering for three months when Freddie Mercury died. "Fuck," she mouthed around her fist and bit harder into her numb flesh. The news was hours old, but still her esophagus made odd wheezy hiccups, and she couldn't swallow past the perpetual lump of granite in her chest. "Fuck fuck fuck." All going terrible, the weird black sparkles that invaded her vision at a whiff of death would arrive soon, the awful memories of helping nurse Stevie and Toad would nail her, or the creepy old lady that haunted funerals on her catering beat would turn up. Or all at once. Kitty. Stevie. Gin-Gin. Toad. Paulette. Manil. Now Freddie. Not another one. Not Freddie. No. Hold it together. Big bois don't cry. The brick wall of the east end church (where the hell am I today?) didn't do its job of holding her up and she slumped behind the rubbish skip. She didn't care if that bastard Rocko docked her pay for a wet and dirty uniform. She didn't care about the latest job rejection letter crumpled in her pocket. She didn't care if the cold bricks made her back seize up; there'd be no sleep tonight. The back door pinged on its spring-hinge, banging off the scabby handrail, and Lacey sprang to her feet. "Oi!" Rocko Redpath barked, all six foot two of his dirty blondness. "How long does it take one to take out the rubbish. Move one's dyke arse." Not a dyke, arsehole. Lacey let her square ragged nails do the work on her palms. "Coming." "You better be." The stagnant scent of cabbage and wine biscuits gusted out as the door banged shut. Why do I have to keep putting up with this git? Because I can't get a serious job in this town. No one wants a dyke import. Loser. Lacey knuckled her dry eyes and straightened her ill-fitting jacket best she could. The darts under the arms made it too tight across the chest even though she'd bound up with a fresh Ace bandage that morning. Come on, loser. Be the best king Freddie'd want you to be. Inside, the strange blast of cold concrete and oven heat sunk claws into Lacey's flesh. She bit her lip hard to hold back another dry heave sob. Breathing deeply sometimes delayed the black sparkles. But this was a funeral. They were bound to come. Stainless steel clanged. Ovens whooped. Crockery clattered. Scones hunkered everywhere. Girls in too tight skirts bickered with too young chefs in too skinny pants. Rocko Redpath lorded over it all. Redpath sounded like a lad but he dressed Saint Pauls, pretending he was James Bond on a Maxwell Smart budget. "Jesus, you kiwis are all so bloody lazy." He sneered, the perfect villain. "What's the matter, Lace? Who took a dump in your cornflakes?" Only my friends call me Lace, arsehole. "Got the news a friend died," she mumbled as she swung towards the door with a tray of finger sandwiches. Was that a flinch from Rocko? "Aww, poor widdle Wace all boo hoo. You gonna cry, widdle girl?" He clicked his fingers in front of her face, blocking her path, sunshine breaking across his craggy, broken-nose face. "Wait, wait. I think I heard it on the news. That rock star fag you like. That who you mean?" That...feeling. A tickle on the back of her neck; it was how she imagined if the black sparkles were made flesh. All jokes about gaydars aside, she was one hundred percent dead on (dead. on) at picking them. She knew some closeted gay guys had massive internalized issues, but Rocko? One of the girls whipping cream flinched, her pink mouth popping open in shock. "But Freddie only announced two days ago..." Rocko snapped his fingers in her direction and pointed, finger quivering slightly. "Quiet. Lace. That homo with the mo. That who you cut up about?" Shut up I need this job shut up. Good girls don't get into fights. "Ah forget it. One less virulent motherfucker clogging up the NHS." Rocko flipped a hand. Lacey flinched away. Rocko's eyes were red like he was on another bender. "Do yer job. Go say hello to your favorite funeral-loving geriatric." "What?" "Eff-day Granny-yay," Rocko stage whispered as he whisked aside dramatically and held the door open. Fuck. Now this. Granny Death. Parishioners were doddering into the hall while bored kids played in the dusty blue velvet curtains. Ancient radiant heaters fizzed and popped, and Lacey dodged along the walls from cold to heat. She needed a new pair of brogues as desperately as she needed a haircut, but neither was in her next pay day. The black sparkles arrived. The languor of death clung tight to church walls, its nails scraping along the gravel lodged in her chest like on a blackboard. Freddie Freddie Freddie's dead that fucking virus who's next you's next DEAD. Lacey swung with the sandwich tray through waves of evil-smelling olds. Sure enough, there she was in all her silver coiffed, green-pink-cream-yellow floral glory. The scent of lavender smacked Lacey in the face clear across the hall. Fucking Granny Death. An emotional vampire. An ever moving shark in necrophiliac waters. She was worse than the front page of The Sun. "Excuse me, dear. Could you tell me where the powder room is please?" Fucking hell! She was Right There. Her face wrinkled by a smile and expectation, but still oddly smooth. Her eyes weren't blue like Lacey had expected but a very light green. God, I spaced out again. Concentrate. They'll send you right back to the loony bin. "Umm." Where it always is in these cold concrete pits of 1950s hell, you creepy old bat. "Down that ramp by the kitchen, then straight ahead." "Thank you, dear." Granny Death's walking stick thumped a death march on the heel-scarred floor. Lacey bit her free fist again, squeezing her eyes shut. They made a liquid pop when she opened them. The black sparkles parted just enough. In between the strands of perfectly set silver hair on the back of Granny Death's head, a gold eye stared out at Lacey, bloodshot, like it had been crying. What the...?! That's it. They said this is what happens to girls who wear too much black. I've got that fucking virus and it's made me batshit. The idea of some loony old lollypop lady going round churches scaring the beejus out of mourners weighed heavy. If she turned up at Freddie's funeral, I fucking swear... The stench of ammonia and cheap soap hit Lacey full in the face as she pushed into the ladies toilets. Granny Death leaned against the cracked sink, hands folded primly before her. "Well, this is interesting," she said. "What?" Lacey pulled up short. The finality of the door boom sealed her in. Oh shit. What if she's some sort of serial killer? "You can See." "What?" Granny Death sighed and rolled her eyes. Lacey shuddered, imagining that third eye doing the same. "Come now, dear. I know you're not stupid. I don't have all the time in the world. There are other funerals to get to today. What did you See?" Freddie, help me. That fucking virus is eating my brain. "Uh. I get black sparkles," Lacey stammered, wriggling her fingers beside her temples. "But you...you've got an eye in the back of your head." "Hmm." Granny Death's stillness disturbed Lacey. Come on, this is absurd! "What do you mean 'hmm'?" she demanded, hands on hips in an attempt to make herself bigger. "You have an eye in the back of your head, lady!" "I mean 'hmm' because usually they see horns—" Granny Death twiddled her fingers above her head. "—or hooves. Or wings. Sometimes just bloody stumps of wings, depending." "On what?" Lacey glanced behind her, but no one came in. No rampaging horde of hell beasts? Granny Death chuckled as if she could hear the noise constantly taking up space in Lacey's head. "Whatever they gods pleases them. Whatever they think lurks under the skin of a harmless old lady." Lacey backed up two steps. "Lady, there is no god in this world if AIDS exists. There's an explanation for everything. I'm having a meltdown coz it's a bad day. You don't seem harmless to me. What are you? What's with all the funerals?" "Hmm. So you've seen me before." Granny Death stroked a beard that wasn't there. "Damn right. I see you stuffing sandwiches in your handbag at least twice a week." Now it was Lacey's turn to fold her arms, but it didn't have quite the same effect as Granny Death's quiet poise. "Is this how you get your jollies? Knocking off the catering staff, scaring them into not reporting you to the police?" Granny Death didn't stare at Lacey like she imagined a whacko would size up their prey. "You have questions. You deserve answers." Granny Death scooped up her walking stick and took an assured step towards towards Lacey. "I take the sandwiches because I like them. No, I don't like scaring people. Funerals are hard enough places as they are. And people who See—" Granny Death scratched the back of her head. "—do so because they are close to the end of the line." Oh god, I do have that fucking virus. Despite her tiny stature, Granny Death came face to face with Lacey. She continued: "You have lost someone very dear to you recently. That agony slices through The Templace. We feel those cuts." Lacey flinched, but Granny Death didn't pat her on the shoulder awkwardly in comfort. She didn't even say she was sorry. What's the point of saying you're sorry to the bereaved, anyway? The black danced close around Lacey's vision again. Granny Death nodded. "When you're ready for the full truth, we'll be ready for you. We'll find you. We need more good people." Granny Death pushed out through the toilet door, her lavender scent obscuring the dankness. "Wait!" Lacey called. "Who is this 'we' you speak of?" The third eye winked, and Granny Death glanced back. She didn't smile or grimace, sneer or raise her eyebrows. "Death," came her quiet reply. "I work for the entity you know as Death."     Tuesday, November 26, 1991.   Even the tube couldn't lull Lacey into a desperate rest. Calling in sick allowed Rocko a hysteria-tinged rant about lazy kiwi dykes. The tea-bags her flatmates had left for her—what she had stolen from the Redpath pantries had run out—gave her no sense of comradeship. Throwing the letter from Gore, New Zealand unopened in the rubbish extended none of the usual satisfaction. Wrapping herself around a hot water bottle in her dank Hackney flat didn't bring any comfort. The impossible backwards lean, open lips, and microphone as extension of self of her Queen: Live at Wembley poster was a constant reminder. I'll never see darling Freddie live, see him alive, now. I'm two years too late. Did you know way back when, dear Freddie? Did you have that fucking alien in your brain, and you were just ignoring it? Don't look don't look don't look don't look death in the eye. The crowd on the tube did their best to ignore the girl in a cheap suit, though her pride and joy was the only thing holding her together. The granite lump in her chest grew too large, the mountain of its pressure almost choking her. The younger ones eyed the AIDS posters like they'd leap out and bite them. Kitty. Stevie. Gin-Gin. Toad. Paulette. Manil. All Gone. All invaded. All stats. Maybe I picked it up off the shit piss blood vomit. Maybe it's been dormant in my mattress all this time. She'd had no experience in nursing, but she did her best when the families of her friends shut their doors, ignoring their wasting away until it was time to play the magnanimous heroes and return their soul to where it didn't want to be.    A strange thought grabbed her: Had Granny been there? Had she witnessed? A too skinny guy in a too big trench coat coughed, and Lacey swore everyone in the tube car flinched. Never going to eat going to die emaciated and covered in lesions never going to fuck again. Would Granny Death come and laugh at my funeral? She'd be the only one I'd want there. Where had that come from? Logan Place would now be packed with, but a crowd meant touching. A crowd meant all new sorts of pain, a public display of grief she couldn't face yet. Old Compton Street felt the safest place to be. The girls there knew when to touch and when to not. It would be a shitter of a wake, but at least she could bum free alcohol off Blue. Someone behind her barked a laugh just like Rocko's and she had to turn to check it wasn't him. He'd been his usual self on the phone, but his nastiness had sounded forced. Judging tone of voice, pitch, weight of the words had been a skill she'd honed over her years to avoid the knife tip slipping under her ribs. Questions. Granny said she had the answers. What a load of horse shit. No one has answers to anything. Not a yes for a good job. Not to this virus. "STOP WHINING," said her mother, thousands of miles and years ago. "Why can't you just wear a dress like all good little girls? You'd look so much prettier." I don't want to be pretty. I want to be handsome. The walk from King's Cross looked the same. The tourists, the red buses, the yuppies in their Savile Row suits, the casuals in their too clean Adidas trackies yelling slurs at the too tired girls in their big wigs and small skirts. Some caring Soho record store blared out Bohemian Rhapsody. Street lights flickered up, too bright for the street, too dim for the faces. How can you all carry on like nothing has changed? It had taken Lacey an entire year to work up the gumption to walk back on to Old Compton Street after a disastrous first visit to the Pembroke in Earls Court. Even three years on she often had to stop and take a moment to check if she was allowed on the street, but women in suits or ripped jeans and plaid either ignored her or offered small up-nods. Lacey shivered, resisting the urge to touch-check the mascara on her upper lip and sideburns. Her chest binding and suit were alright, but just alright. She didn't have the money to keep up with Soho. I like my suit. My suit likes me. The door to The Belle Jar was propped open. Lacey watched a pair of kings enter the black maw before working up the courage to approach. Flipper sat inside the stairs on a slashed up chair, licking closed a thin rollie. The muscled bouncer stood up when she saw Lacey, but didn't offer a hand. The girls round here knew how things went. "Fucking sucks, man," Flipper grunted, her blue eyes more steel than sea. "Tell me about it," Lacey sighed. "You're taking it well." Flipper undid the two buttons of her Sonny Crockett jacket, then did them back up. Lacey shrugged. "You want in? Blue says no cover charge tonight and tomorrow." "Good of her. Might ask for a shift." "Yeah. The girls have been crying into their Midoris since the news broke. It's like a fucking morgue in there." Flipper offered Lacey a drag of her cigarette, but Lacey shook her head. More down-in-the-mouth kings, queens, femmes, and butches passed by (just for once all moving in the same direction; marching to or from death?). Flipper blew out a long trail of smoke. "Funeral is tomorrow. Private thing." "Yeah, saw that on the news." Lacey couldn't look at Flipper in the eye. The big girl had tears forming (no no don't please fuck what do I do). Lacey barrelled down the stairs. The sticky-sweet stench of years of liquor trod into the carpet, sweaty eye shadow, weed, and clove cigarettes rose up to greet her. Bronski Beat throbbed gently from the speakers. Girls lounged over every upright surface, too many glasses scattered across table and bar top. None of them were anywhere near old enough to be Granny. Have you ever seen an old drag queen? An old dyke? Where do they go? Two shot glasses banged on the bar. "How the fuck is Maggie Thatcher still alive, and Freddie Mercury isn't," growled Blue, sloshing tequila. Lacey accepted the offering without complaint despite her bad relationship with tequila. How is anyone alive while Freddie isn't? "We only just get the country back from the old witch, now this." Lacey tried on a joke for size. "God fuck the Iron Lady," Blue growled. They tugged the bottoms of their waistcoats, saluted with their glasses, and slammed. "Next one you'll have to pay for, darlin'," Blue said after they coughed it down. "Don't worry. I 'spect tonight will be easy selling the top shelf." Lacey took a long hard look around the bar. It was already too full. When girls got all up in their liquor, tears and fists tended to fly. "Great, we're short-handed. I'll give you six percent, cause I'm feelin' generous." Blue slid a glass of water towards Lacey. "Ten." Lacey grimaced at the DJ who had just put on Adam Ant. It was too early for Adam Ant. No one got up to dance. Lacey gave the DJ the fingers. "Seven and a half. Final offer." "Tally carries over if I don't use it all tonight." The DJ gave Lacey the fingers back and lit a cigarette. Blue sighed. "Fine." "Tell that dick to play better music." "Oh god, shut up," slurred some girl at the bar with bright red lipstick. "I happen to like Adam Ant." "Lacey. Drop it," Blue said in a low voice. "Go sell something to table five. They've got dosh." The lipstick girl's top lip curled up and she whispered something to her friend. A flash of silver caught Lacey's eye as someone slid onto an empty stool. "What's the best whiskey you would recommend?" Lacey's tongue went numb. "You!" "Hello, dear." "Hey, Blue! You see this old bag here?" Lacey pointed at Granny Death smoothing out her gloves on the sticky bar top. Blue gave a don't-care shrug and turned away to serve Lipstick again. "Sure. I see her round here all the time. Her money is good as any other girl's." All the time? Oh my god, not Blue no no no NO. Lacey sat, blocking Granny's view of the rest of the bar. "This funeral bloody well isn't for you," she growled. "Perhaps not," Granny replied. Her eye shadow was a green twenty years out of date. "But I go wherever I'm needed, and tonight I am needed here." Lacey leaned to get a better look at the back of Granny's head. Sure enough, the red-rimmed gold eye blinked at her. She gestured at Blue to pour out a couple fingers of whiskey. Granny smoothed out a note, Blue pinged it into the register without comment, and made the first mark on Lacey's tally. Lacey drank without salute. "Come to get your jollies off a pack of miserable kings and queens, huh?" "I get my jollies off a good cup of tea and watching Star Trek," Granny replied, sipping delicately at her drink. "I get no joy from seeing people in pain. I'd take it all away from all you lovely dears if I could. I like your clothes. I like your faces." Granny sighed. "It's not fair. He was a very nice chap." It's not fair. Lacey grimaced and helped herself to another measure. She didn't care she was drinking too fast. "Then what's with—" She circled a hand. "—doing Death's dirty work tonight? Freddie's funeral is tomorrow." Granny dabbed her lips with a paper serviette. "Mister Bulsara does not get just one funeral, my dear. There are many funerals, big and small, happening all over the world. The unmarked ones are just as important. There's no quality control on this particular passing. Mister Bulsara's essence has well and truly passed through a Rift to the next dimension. A stable Rift in the Templace is simply a random, if rare, occurrence." Lacey rudely crunched ice through the speech. "Nice line, grandma." Granny placed the glass carefully on the bar. "I am no one's grandmother, let alone anyone's mother. This is a calling, not a job. And besides, despite what this form may allude to, I could not procreate if I wished to. Which I do not." Bloody hell. "I have another, more important reason to be at this particular funeral," Granny continued. "I am here for you." Lacey slid backwards off her stool, hands up. "Woah now there, whack job." I AM dead, I just don't know it. Granny sighed. "I am here with a proposition—" "You got to be shitting me. Our age gap has to be illegal." Lacey backed up further until she bumped into Lipstick, who cussed her out for spilling her drink. "—of a position within our administration. Death wants you to apprentice to me. You can See me. You talk about the black sparkles. That's a prelude to being trained to see the Rifts.." "I said, you owe me another fucking drink, you ugly cunt!" Hate that word hate it go on call me it again. "And I said hold your fucking horses," Lacey growled. But when she turned back, Granny Death was gone. Only the prim outline of pink lipstick on her glass suggested she had even been there. Lipstick shoved Lacey in the shoulder. "You fucking ugly dyke cunt. Replace my drink now or I fucking swear." "Or what?" Lacey whirled, fingernails cutting her palms. Don't don't, be a good girl. Everyone's desperate. Desperately sad, desperately drunk, desperately afraid. Lipstick scowled. She looked just as scared as Rocko had been the day before. "Have some common decency." Lacey lowered her voice. "There's a funeral going on here." Lipstick's friend tugged on her arm. "Come on, not tonight." Lipstick shook her off. "Oh yeah? Which of these ugly trannies did us a favor and fucked off?" Lacey's fists ached. Heat rushed from her groin to the top of her skull. Good girls don't get angry anger is so ugly. Lipstick's friend whispered at her. "Oh riiight. Wah wah. One less gay white man to colonize our spaces," Lipstick spat. "That's it, you're cut off," Blue growled. Don't don't I've got this. "He's not gay. He's bisexual, like me. And Parsi. He's from Zanzibar."  "Wot?" Liptstick got so close Lacey could taste the sour sweetness on her breath. "Bisexual? You hiding a dick in there too?" By now the friend was backing away, hands up, wanting no part in Lipstick's charade. Lacey knew the taste of a bully's fear. "Wrong one, asshole. Bye-secks-ual." "You a Paki loving tranny? Is that it?" Lipstick sneered. "You better stop," Lacey said. There was something satisfying in the simple threat. "Or what? Bisexual. Bullshit. You're either with us or against us. No wonder he died. So fucking promiscuous. Good riddance to bad rubbish." The bar disappeared. The granite in Lacey's chest didn't so much as shatter as simply melt away. What she had imagined as meters-thick solid rock was nothing more than a millimeter thin shell that gave way beneath the lightest touch. Kitty. Stevie. Gin-Gin. Toad. Paulette. Manil. Freddie. The names became a chant, faces whirling about, grating along her knuckles, clipping the rims of her ears, the smell of antiseptics and fresh washed sheets clogging up her nostrils.  Infect. Rinse. Repeat. The granite infected her fists, like she was attempting to build a wall one punch at a time. "Lace." Blue's voice. "Hey, Lace." Hands on her arms. Arms across her chest. "God damn it, Lace." Flipper's voice, angry, cold, annoyed, satisfied. Lacey struggled to shake off the infecting hands, but they held tight. Lipstick stood near the stairs, a wall of girls in suits blocking her in. Blue stared the girl down, her words lost beneath the screech of stone on stone in Lacey's head. Lipstick had a hand over her bloodied nose. The virus is passed through the sharing of infected bodily fluids. Someone sauntered out of the bathrooms. "Hey Blue. The condom and dam dispensers are empty," they shouted, oblivious to the tense scene. Flipper's hands relaxed, and she smoothed Lacey's hair with a sigh. Don't TOUCH me... "What?" grumbled Blue. "I've refilled them once tonight already." A figure at the top of the stairs, weak twilight framing curly hair into a halo. When they turned away, a golden point of light shrunk with each step, like a train moving back up a tunnel. Doom moving in reverse. That's right, little virus, you better run.     Wednesday, November 27, 1991.   Lacey fingered the scratch down the side of her nose. 'Tis nothing. How much of me is left under her fingernails though? The crowd milled about Logan Place in respectful patterns. Most were sitting, waiting for something, anything. Lacey ran her fingers along the flapping letters tacked up on the fence, catching a word here or there. I should write something let him know but I can't I can't what are words inadequate how could I compete. "Hello dear." Granny Death blocked her way, wrinkled face scrunched up at the outpouring of love and grief. Lacey hung her head. "I'm sorry you had to see that display last night. It wasn't like me at all." "You're not sorry, and of course it was you. That was you in that moment, the you you needed to be." Granny Death didn't scold. Blue had done that enough. "I'm banned from The Belle Jar for a month," Lacey said. "That other chick's banned for life. She's not going to press charges because that was her third strike. Caught her flipping coke in the bathroom. Blue assures me she threw the first bitch slap, but, well, I don't remember. It was pretty tame by all accounts. But I did land a good one on her nose." "And you're very proud of that." "First and last, Granny. First and last." But it felt GOOD. Flick of the wrist, and you're gone baby. Lacey looked up from her battered sneakers, raised an eyebrow. "You said you have a job for me. Some interview that was, then." "So you believe I am who I say I am." Granny Death pressed a floral note in amongst the forest of words. Lacey didn't recognize the language. "No. Yes. I don't know." Lacey sighed and rubbed her eyes, catching the edge of the scratch. She licked blood off her finger. "Everything's...weird. Heavy and light at the same time. I wouldn't be at all surprised if I'm having a dissociative break." "Yes, it has been a strange few days," Granny Death replied, sounding surprised at being surprised. She pulled the shade of a tree around them and the quiet murmur dampened further. "What do you want to believe?" Granny continued, taking out a pack of hard mints. Lacey sucked the lolly thoughtfully until the taste stung the back of her nose. "That Freddie isn't dead," she said, voice as meek as if her mother stood over her. "It doesn't work like that," Granny said. "We only see them to the edge of the Rift. What becomes of them after? Death doesn't even know." "You make Death sound like a semi-decent kinda person," Lacey said. "As far as employers go, they're better than most," Granny said. "It's a service someone has got to do. And the benefits aren't all that bad. Form of your choosing, extended life span—" "—free lunch." "You get to know who does the better catering," Granny admitted. Suddenly her eyebrows lifted. Expecting a spectral figure in a black robe come to put her blood on the dotted line, Lacey turned to follow her gaze. Rocko Redpath slinked through the crowd, features set in a brokenness Lacey could never have imagined his rat-like face achieving. He held the hand of a handsome muscle man. Lacey couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Rocko was right in front of her. He flinched, shuffled a little. Muscles said 'You right, love?' Lacey gave her boss a nod. Rocko nodded back, fumbled in his net shopping bag. A peace offering: a packet of PG Tips. He melted into the crowd. "So, I'm beginning to suspect I don't just See things when it comes to Death," Lacey said. "I knew about Rocko, and it wasn't just gaydar. Not sure if I forgive him though." "You don't have to," Granny said. "Let time do its thing. Life has a way of surprising you." "Does Life have an admin division too?" Lacey shoved the packet of tea into her backpack, and scrubbed at her face with her palms. Her scratch caught again. Pain is good. I can feel it this time. "I presume so, but we don't do Sunday barbeques in Hyde Park," Granny replied, deadly serious. "Never the twain, and all that." "Something like that," Granny said. A ripple passed through the crowd. People were returning to the house after the service. Some paparazzi called out, jostling for space. Fucking paps. "So, is a benefit one of those eyes in the back of your head?" Lacey asked in an undertone. Her fingers tingled, and she felt like her body was rushing through a tunnel, rushing through all the spaces in the world at once but the meat of her brain stood stock still, sloshing up against the thin eggshell that held her inside. Asking for release. Let me out, let me be. "Dear." Granny patted the air above Lacey's hand. "We have eyes in all sorts of places." Together, they waited out the rest of vigil in silence. Because silence felt good.     Monday, April 20, 1992.   Lacey paused in her duties of handing out red ribbons, condoms, and dams to watch in wonder as Extreme stormed the Wembley Stadium stage with a hot shit rendition of 'Keep Yourself Alive'. Seventy-two thousand people surged, thundered, cried, and laughed. It was turning out to be a hell of a funeral. Granny Death popped up beside Lacey, one of her hideous floral scarves tied around her forehead like an aging hippy. It went well with the terrible green polyester flares, sleeveless pastel pink twin set, and pearls. "How the hell did you get tickets!" Lacey laugh-shouted over the roar of the crowd. "This concert sold out in three hours!" "I have a little sway here and there." Granny clapped out of time with the music. "What, Death is a Queen fan?" "Something like that." Lacey squinted up into the glary Easter Monday sky. The weather held, actually pleasant for London temperatures, but the haze made it difficult to spot Rifts. Granny followed her gaze. "Relax. This is a day off." "You? Saying relax?" Lacey made a whip-crack noise. "Someone else is covering our territory for the day," Granny replied, jiggling her ample hips. That's new. More passers-by dug their hands into Lacey's box of goodies. She'd have to go back for a refill soon. Just like Blue had to keep refilling the dispensers in the bogs at the Belle Jar. Just like supplies had to topped up at the house. 'No rubber, no loving' had become the slogan whenever someone brought a date home to the Hackney flat. Even Blue had gone to get herself tested. Clear. Thank the Templace, she's all clear. Lacey carried her own letter detailing her HIV negative position like a good luck charm in a hidden inner suit jacket pocket. Granny followed her at a trot as she took a swing through the upper terraces, getting winks and up-nods from the odd king or butch. "That's nice dear," Granny said, sipping a beer. "What is?" "Seeing you smile." "Ugh, Granny." Lacey rolled her eyes. "Don't be so sloppy." Freddie, my darling. I miss you so hard gone away gone away. The chunk of granite in her chest orbited once. Glittering dust sanded off, softening an edge. Rubbing the hopeful bump on the back of her head, Lacey stared hard into the white hazy sky, forcing her eyes—all of them—to stay dry. With a gleam like the dust from the fresh edge in her chest, a Rift pondered its way open over the top of stadium. "Granny, look!" Lacey pointed up. "That's the biggest I've seen yet!" "Well done!" Granny clapped her hands, bouncing in place. Lacey was sure the old bat would ache like buggery the next day, and she'd be fetching cups of tea and hot water bottles. "Goodness me, that's a pretty one!" And it was pretty, layers of blue-shot silver with sparkling black on top, the edges curled up like a smile. Lacey nudged Granny. "He's watching us, I swear!" "Now you're just being fanciful." Granny danced off into the crowd. Her voice wafted back along with a teaser of lavender perfume. "You know the Rifts are only a one way trip." The Rift stayed open for the entirety of the concert, the longest Lacey had seen. Every time she looked up at the iridescent void, the Nothing that held Everything, her voice inside quelled to a quiet murmur. Tomorrow. I'll take my letter down to the fence at Logan Place tomorrow...   END "Seven Handy Ideas for Algorithmic Shapeshifting" is copyright Bogi Takács 2018. "Granny Death and the Drag King of London" is copyright A.J. Fitzwater 2018. This recording is a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license which means you can share it with anyone you’d like, but please don’t change or sell it. Our theme is “Aurora Borealis” by Bird Creek, available through the Google Audio Library. You can support GlitterShip by checking out our Patreon at patreon.com/keffy, subscribing to our feed, or by leaving reviews on iTunes. Thanks for listening, and we'll be back soon with a reprint of "Smooth Stones and Empty Bones" by Bennett North.

In this weeks episode of THE LIKES OF US podcast, dedicated to Working-Class Life, Art, Politics and Culture, your host, Neil Bradley goes Christmas shopping (for himself), takes a trip to the Dickens town of Rochester for a festive lunch with the Open Book boys, attempts completing himself by way of consumerism, walks lost around Bluewater, skips through Old Compton Street, and has a gay old Christmas time in Soho!

On 4th September 1974, Soho gangster Alfredo Zomparelli was shot to death as he played on a pinball machine in the Golden Goose amusement arcade on Old Compton Street, by two hitmen in what was supposedly a contract killing. But who ordered him killed? And why? Murder Mile is a true-crime podcast and audio-guided walk of 300+ untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murder cases, all set within one square mile of the West End. Each episode is accompanied by photos, videos and an interactive murder map, so that no matter where you’re listening to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. https://www.murdermiletours.com/podcast.htmlMurder Mile is researched, written and performed by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne of Murder Mile Walks with music written and performed by Erik Stein and Jon Boux of Cult With No Name with additional music by Kai Engel and Serge Chereminisnov, as used under the Creative Commons Licence 4.0 (Attribution) via Free Music Archive. A full listing of tracks used is on the script transcript and sources for each episode, as listed here.FOLLOW US HERE:FacebookTwitterInstagramMurder Mile Discussion GroupFor a transcript of each episode, click here. If you’d like to sign-up for exclusive Murder Mile content, check out our Patreon Page by CLICKING HERE. And for OFFICIAL MERCHANDISE, please visit the Murder Mile Shop. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

On Saturday 9th May 1936, on 66 Old Compton Street, Soho prostitute “Dutch Leah” was brutally strangled and beaten to death in her flat, a crime which, over 80 years on, remains unsolved. And yet, the secret life of the Soho prostitute “Dutch Leah” is even more mysterious than her murder.Murder Mile is a true-crime podcast and audio-guided walk of London’s most notorious (and often forgotten) murder cases, all set within one square mile of the West End. Each episode is accompanied by photos, videos and an interactive murder map, so that no matter where you’re listening to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. https://www.murdermiletours.com/podcast.htmlMurder Mile is researched, written and performed by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne of Murder Mile Walks with music written and performed by Erik Stein and Jon Boux of Cult With No NameFOLLOW US HERE:FacebookTwitterInstagramMurder Mile Discussion GroupFor a transcript of each episode, click here. If you’d like to sign-up for exclusive Murder Mile content, check out our Patreon Page by CLICKING HERE. And for OFFICIAL MERCHANDISE, please visit the Murder Mile Shop. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

This week I fly solo again. I talk about having a wobbly week and how one dusts themselves down and picks up themselves up and how it's fine to have a wobbly week! My main topic is to go back through my own experience of London's Gay Scene and my days in Earls Court - The Colherne pub and it's extremely well known clientele, the early experiences of clubbing and then heading into Soho and Old Compton Street. I chat about the history behind London's notorious 'Molly houses' right through to how Soho was affected by the bombing of the Admiral Duncan in the late 90's. I look forward to expanding further into the LGBTQ history on my city in further episodes. Links to my just giving page - to raise funds in memory of my Mum for the Alzheimers society. https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/matt-kelly4

At a special event last weekend we celebrated the launch of the National Trust's Soho Stories app (available from all good App Stores) at Foyles Bookshop. Clayton Littlewood told this story of his time living in Soho, based on his new book 'Goodbye to Soho'. WARNING - as you'd expect, the story contains very graphic sexual language. This one's not for hearing with the kids about! See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.