Prologue
In the shadowed streets of urban sprawl, deception weaves its intricate web. A cunning scam, known as "Twining" or "Ringing the Changes," thrives in whispers across the country. Its origins are murky, its practitioners elusive—ghosts gliding through time for millennia. With nimble fingers and silver tongues, these con artists dance between truth and lies, from the ancient cities of the East to the gritty streets of wartime London.
From Rags to Riches and Back
...
Blog
I had the pleasure of working with John Cartledge, or Johnny as we called him, back in my bricklaying days in London. This was after he’d kicked his drinking habit. Johnny had a wild sense of humor and a story that stuck with me: at the peak of his alcoholism, he claimed he’d pour cider on his cornflakes before heading to work. True or not, it cracked me up at the time, and I’ve even toyed with the idea of trying it myself one day—just...
Cellmates
Trigger Warning: Racism, violence, strong language
In the sweltering belly of Wormwood Scrubs, the air reeked of sweat and despair. I was just a kid, barely 15, shoved into a cell on my first day, heart pounding like a trapped bird. The door slammed shut, the screw’s keys jangled, and his boots echoed down the landing, leaving me to face my fate.
The cell was a furnace, the stench of the pisspot in the corner choking the air. On the bottom bunk sprawled a guy, maybe 20, his cropped...
When my flat burned down, I was lost, staring at the charred remains of my old life. I didn’t know what I was doing when I started writing, but I’d always loved reading, so I threw myself into it. I poured my heart into pages, ignoring grammar, structure, or anything else. I wrote with a fire that matched the one that took my flat, scribbling in a cramped corner of my new gaff, surrounded by notebooks and empty coffee cups. I’d write...
Tommie Rae Brown provides stunning backing vocals, while Gary Bundy plays double bass.
#LondonCowboys #MusicRevival #SteveDior #BarryJones #PeterWassif #TommieRaeBrown #GaryBundy #W11Studios #KevinHarris #DoubleAlbum #NewMusic #RockAndRoll #MusicProduction #StudioVibes #EpicTracks #BackingVocals #DoubleBass #RecordingSession #MexicoBound...
By Tommy Kennedy IV
I wonder why my mother named me Elusive as I trudge through London’s rain, the city choking on its own filth. The pavements, slick with piss and petrol, shimmer under flickering neon. The air reeks of cheap kebabs and bad decisions. I slip down a basement stairwell off Greek Street, where a club thumps with basslines that could rupture my skull. I stub out my spliff before stepping inside. Why are all these pricks vaping? You’d never catch James Dean or...
Demented Desires
By Tommy Kennedy IV
I dragged myself out of the off-licence, shoulders tight, nerves buzzing. The doorbell clanged as some other wrecked alkie shoved past. My carrier bag clinked with cheap booze. I had one thing in mind: get Mickey round, get him wired, and take what I needed.
I didn’t fall for men’s games. I played them. Love? That was for my kids. Men gave me other things.
Earlier that afternoon, I necked two bottles of cheap wine. I felt older than I looked—older than I ever...
In 2006, Steve Dior formed a band called the Delinquents, which consisted of him and a girl from Los Angeles called Kelly Pizzo, with Sid Mayall on drums, Edd Whyte on guitar, and Sam on bass. They recorded a song called Pretty Dope Fiend in the film Who Killed Nancy, directed by Alan G Parker. But after 6 months, Kelly returned to Los Angeles!
We took on a six-month residency at the Cock Tavern in Kilburn, a rough old dive. The first night they...
I’m still studying creative writing at Birkbeck University, a journey I began in 2022 after years of organising charity gigs all over london and, for a time, working with Musicians Against Homelessness (MAH). My life has been a wild ride—born in Warrington, I bounced between convents, caravans, and care homes, landing seven custodial sentences by age 22. Homelessness gripped me for over four years, and addiction nearly broke me, but music became my lifeline, pulling me from petty crime to...
I’m not sure what compelled me to write this, but here we go. Yesterday, I nipped to the shop for a few bits, my head foggy from a sleepless night. I trudged back, ready for the afternoon, when someone shouted my name. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, so I squinted and wandered toward the pub across the square. I spotted two old mates sitting outside, necking beers. I was still clutching my shopping bags. We shared a laugh, and my mate bought a few beers. Then one...
Holly smooths her nurse’s uniform, exhaustion tugging at her bones as her hospital shift ends. The death of an elderly patient lingers in her heart, casting a shadow of sorrow. The patient’s daughter, eyes red with grief, clasps Holly’s hand. “Thank you, Nurse. You’ve done so much for my father. We’re grateful.”
Holly, swallowing tears, offers a gentle hug. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Take care.” Her compassionate nature, a lifelong trait, makes detachment impossible despite the professional...
John Flaherty was born in 1945 in Castleblayney, County Monaghan, where rain-soaked streets met the dark waters of Lake Muckno. Raised in a town surrounded by stone-walled fields, he grew up with calloused hands and a heart tied to the land. At twenty-five, in 1970, ambition pulled him across the Irish Sea to London, leaving behind the familiar damp earth for a city pulsing with noise and possibility.
Portobello Road and Norland Road Markets overwhelmed him—market...
FLASH FICTION FRIDAY
LADY KILL-A
Trigger Warning: Contains raw depictions of addiction, violence, and recovery
Gutter Birthday
I came to on my sixtieth, face-down in a gutter behind Piccadilly Circus. January snow was spitting on my back, my skin was numb, and my clothes were soaked.
Someone was rifling my pockets.
My eyes snapped open.
“Get lost, you thieving little shite,” I growled.
It was that Colombian street rat—thin, twitchy, always lurking. He flinched, then lashed out, booting me hard in the...
Michael’s Story: Surviving Eastwood Park
Content Warning: This story contains vivid accounts of physical and emotional abuse, racism, and institutional cruelty that may distress readers. For support, contact Samaritans at 116 123 or visit www.samaritans.org.
Summer 1981: A Reckless Dare
It’s 7 July 1981, and the Birmingham sun bakes the cracked pavement outside a police van where you, Michael, sit handcuffed. You’re 15, a wiry kid who loves The Clash’s...
Meeting Mentona K: A Bangkok Hustle Gone Silent
The Lost Soul of Lamai Beach, 1999
Some Stories Fucking Haunt You
Some people leave an impression, then fuck off into the ether.
Some stories get under your skin and never let go.
This is one of them.
Back in January 1999, I was tearing through Thailand—chasing noise, chasing trouble, chasing something I couldn’t name. I didn’t know I was about to meet a singer with a voice that could’ve blown the doors off the world.
His name was Mentona K.
A Liberian...
This post contains strong language and mature themes that may not be suitable for all readers. It captures the raw, unfiltered reality of band management in the ‘90s music scene. Reader discretion is advised.
Gas Solari: Burn Hard, Fade Out
Bangkok to Manchester: The Relentless Hustle
I arrived in Manchester in the ‘90s, broke, sunburned, and dragging a bag stuffed with regrets and unpaid bar tabs. Years spent working in a Thai bar—chasing fleeting highs, dodging brass, and angry...
Steve Dior – Born Survivor
An In-Depth Interview | London, 23 June 2025
Few have lived the life that Steve Dior has – a life steeped in the raw pulse of punk rock, soaked in rebellion, and marked by survival against the odds. From the streets of Ladbroke Grove to stages around the world, Dior’s journey is a jagged ride through the heart of punk. Ahead of his exclusive acoustic set at The Stewart Arms in Notting Hill on 28 June, I sat down with the man himself to talk music, mayhem, and the...
Steve Dior: Born Survivor
Blood, Sweat, and Six Strings
By Tommy Kennedy IV | London, June 2025
The Punk Still Stands
Steve Dior doesn’t just play rock ‘n’ roll. He lives it.
A street-hardened survivor of London’s punk underground, Dior has spent decades walking the razor’s edge – from the smoky dive bars of Ladbroke Grove to the tequila-stained stages of America and Mexico. He’s brawled with addiction, played with legends, and walked away from the wreckage with his guitar slung over his back.
“...
Come On Train!
For Russ Redfern – gone but never forgotten.
Some people burn so bright, you think they’ll shine forever.
Russ Redfern was that for me.
My best mate. My brother in all but blood.
When he went, he left a hole nothing’s ever filled.
This story’s for him. For us. For the buzz we chased that made us feel truly alive.
Come on train.
Shut me eyes. There he is. Russ.
Clear as day. Loud as owt in me head. Sharp as ever, laughing his gob off like he never left.
We were proper mates from kids....
SANDY CLARKE
NO FEAR. NO BOLLOCKS.
A Punk Survivor: From Care Homes to Cancer Scares (1980 to Now)
“15 to 60 in the blink of an eye”
By Tommy Kennedy IV
Content Warning: Strong language, violence, racism, abuse, drug use, classism, police brutality, state neglect, institutionalisation, rebellion. Reader discretion advised.
She Didn’t Need the 100 Club
Sandra Clarke didn’t get on the guest list at the 100 Club in ’76.
She didn’t queue outside The Roxy with a...
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