Sam Redlark

Dear M  I like to think that the attached image is what flashed before George Michael's eyes as he died, in part, as a result of dilated cardiomyopathy, during the early hours of last, last, last, last, last Christmas Day, 2016: A beautiful mandala comprising multiple Wham bars. It would have probably been quite a bittersweet moment for the writer of 'Faith' and 'Too Funky'. On the one hand, he was dying prematurely, at age of 53. On the other hand, the universe was acknowledging the extent of his contribution to popular culture by referencing the band that he formed, during his late teens, with Andrew Ridgeley, prior to launching a successful career as a solo artist. You will have correctly identified what, to a layman, appear to be scattered Hundreds & Thousands, as Boltzmann objects of the kind that spontaneously come into existence as a result of thermodynamic anomalies in the universe; in this instance the fluctuations in reality that occur whenever a prime

image generated by Craiyon [I came across this piece of faux journalism while going through some of my old files. I have no recollection of writing it. There is some strong, potentially offensive language, if that kind of thing bothers you] * * * * * It is a typical wintry day in mid-July. Ira Middleton and I are sheltering from the blizzard conditions among the genteel clientèle of The Brady Rooms in Royal Mayfair. In accordance with the hotel’s stringent dress code we have both donned quilted dressing gowns. On an adjacent table, a pair of elderly twin sisters are celebrating their 90th birthday. The flimsy white satin nighties that shrink-wrap their gaunt, bony frames leave very little to the imagination. “I once met the lead singer from the death metal band, Septic Entrails, at a convention centre in Detroit...” says Ira. He takes a sip of camomile tea from a dainty bone china cup “...I asked him whether he

In common with all great thinkers, I face an uphill battle against those who wish to censor the truths that stream from my mouth like a crystal clear mountain spring, cleansing all that it touches. Below is my one-star review of the Claber Aqua Pony Reel With Hose which Amazon have declined to publish as they obviously can't handle the truth - that this product is the harbinger of a dark and ignorant epoch in the unfolding history of our species. Like Benjamin Graham in Armstrong & Millers 'How Many Hats?' sketch (see below), I will not be silenced. ~ The Claber Aqua Pony Reel With Hose represents an uncharacteristic misstep for Italy - the nation that gave the world the Roman Empire, the renaissance, the unfettered genius of Leonardo Da Vinci, and pizza. I would go so far as to say that its very existence may be regarded by future historians as the first indicator of a dark age where mankind regressed both culturally and technologically. This product is lightweight. An

 (This post is intended to be one of a series covering my seldom-updated and seldom-viewed YouTube channel – 'London, building by building'. Subsequent entries will consist of the script for a single episode, along with my accompanying chapter notes.) A personal history of an occasional Londoner At the age of four, I travelled up to London, on the train, with my grandparents. We visited the Zoo in Regent's Park and, in the space of a few hours, I rode on the backs of both a camel and an elephant. Ever since that day, the city has been a treasure chest of adventure and ordeal. Many of my best and worst experiences have occurred inside its shifting boundaries. At the age of 18, I studied, for a year, at a private college that was located in a pair of adjoining town houses on Palace Gate, a few metres down the road from the Round Pond entrance to Kensington Gardens. It was at this point in my life that I began to explore the winding twists and turns of London's frequent