A Boy From Kentish Town

The Slip Inn was not Matthew's local. He lived up the hill.

The pub was traditional - more so than traditional pubs. It had a central bar in a room that had never been refurbished. Panes of glass had been replaced and sections of carpet relayed. The pub had little time for prospective regulars. It was kind of anonymous.

Matthew stood by a table outside, holding a freshly opened bottle of Bud. The pavement exuded a proud warmth. Dusk was a choking haze hanging in the air. Downtown cars reeking of vinyl LP's and Marlboro cigarettes tore off the junction, up Highgate West Hill. He emptied some beer into his throat. He was not depressed. He was just cruising towards a trough.

Later, though, he would meet with someone.

After he had drained some more Buds. He always wished for something else. Now he wished he were at work being wooed by an admiring client. Then he would wish he were emptying beers with friends.

Or maybe he was depressed.

It was hard to tell without thinking and becoming depressed.

The beer was dead. He crossed to the station, hustling down the escalator. Tears blew across his temples as wind rushed from the tunnels. The Northern Line always made him want to cry. It was a huge artistic statement on dreary monotony. On a disused platform at Kentish Town South, a fairytale plaque was sooted black. It read,

'Two black mambas in formaldehyde AKA The unbearable paralysis of being a boy called Matthew AKA The Northern Line.'

It was the ultimate in art. An installation that no one knew was an installation, yet they themselves were part of it.

Camden Town came, and went. Soon Matthew was marching past signs that said 'No Exit', pushing against the flow of jabbering idiots in Tottenham Court Road tube. Even the man and dog were part of it - 'Spare some love, Gov.'

Further down Charing Cross Road, Matthew dived into Soho. His feet were in a Scalextrix track, the power faltering as he waded through the Moon under Water, then dying as he reached The Village.

'A Budvar please, Hon.'

Matthew was not gay. He was lonely. Men understood. Matthew could get free prostitutional love from a boy called Jeremy or Steven or James. There were no strings. He knew that the thrill of being wanted would help him float.

A Jeremy patted him on the buttocks.

Several hours later Matthew sat on that stairs of the N20 Night bus. People were bubbling around him, eating kebabs. He was not talking although his voice muttered stock responses from time-to-time. He was depressed. An infinite wretchedness plummeted through his torso.

His silent scream cried, 'Let me outta here.'

But all that could happen would be more drained bottles and more silent screams. His leaded shoes to be dragged up the hill to his frigid apartment. Then Sunday, then Monday. There were no adjectives on a tube map. Or perhaps Kentish might have been. A hand caressed his neck, but the muscles were still paralysed in the skin of the mambas. Then Tuesday, Wednesday. Then Thursday.

'Please Let me go!'

Those screams were the roar of helicopter blades. Then fellatio Friday, and a snog on Saturday.

But it was delirium. Then Sunday. Stop.

'It's OK. You don't have to fight any more.'

She was two steps above.

She was not from London.

She was beautiful.

She was the melody to the song his sub-conscious had been keeping time to.

She placed her hands around his shoulders. And then they kissed, and something had changed.

The bus was just a bus. The Northern Line was only an hour in 24. Matthew didn't need art to see beauty, for it was on the N20, it was skipping through Gospel Oak Gardens; Up the hill to his flat.

Years later the station at Kentish Town South reopened as an entrance to the most popular exhibition of modern art. The world saw the black mambas, which were no longer sinister thoughts in the mind of a Boy from Kentish Town.