Now, as with all moves into the unknown, a large dollop of ambiguity accompanies it, a good dose of mist to conceal that clarity you know is just over there, but can we see it? Beyond a rough outline, a furry few edges, it remains thoroughly in the obscure. How will Generic Mugwump cope in this bustling conurbation? Will it’s reviewing fall deep into the wayside? Short stories into the abyss? All that other assorted ephemera chucked into a black bin-liner and given the rail death treatment?
Well hopefully not. I promise to at least endeavour not to let this place be forgotten like Pantera’s first four albums. The glistening chaos of The City mile, the Ballardian high-rises, the collage of humanity painted using a truly global palate, all will undoubtedly inspire and motivate, all will give the necessary shove to excommunicate that panoply of thoughts from the head onto the page. There may not be as many masterpiece movies viewed, but with every experience lessened comes fresh, nascent ones to enthral and enrapture.
One assurance I do give is that I will restrain my more pretentious tendencies and resist a horde of articles beginning with such nauseating dreck as: “I was standing in Tate Modern yesterday, staring deep into the belly of a Max Ernst, when suddenly…” or “There I was, standing adjacent to Will Self in Waterstones.” That braggart ostentation would scrape the bile from the walls of my stomach in less than a second.
I’ll be in touch.