Viktor Wynd

In - Essays

The Adventures of Ted & Eddy – The Two Headed Teddy

Chapter One – In which Ted & Eddy are born, expelled from Teddy Bear Land captured by the nasty Pease family and sold for a sausage to kind lonely Mr.Wynd & given a new home

Ted & Eddy were born in Teddy Bear Land – a far away magical kingdom of Teddy Bear Happiness; it’s all cuddles & huggles and endless teas of jelly , meringues & peanut butter sandwiches in Teddy Bear Land, picnics in the woods and games of hide the furry bear in the mountain.

Now when Ted & Eddy were born there was some thing decidedly odd about them – they had one body but two heads – they were greeted with horror and outrage and fear and disgust, Daddy bear looked at Mummy Bear and said – what have you been doing? Mummy Bear wanted to know who Daddy Bear really was and Daddy Bear ran away and all the other teddy bears yelled freak freak freak and threw poor Ted & Eddy in the river.

But there are two happy endings, it’s very hard to drown a teddy bear, they tend to float and can hold their breath for hours – try having bath with a teddy bear and you’ll know what I mean. They don’t like it and it makes them cold and uncomfortable and miserable and sad but they don’t die. But the first happy ending was with mummy and daddy teddy bear. Daddy teddy bear was sad and lonely and hadn’t seen mummy teddy bear for two whole hours and was desperately in need of a cuddle, as you probably know teddy bears get very sad if they’re left on their own and not cuddled for even a few hours, that’s why most teddy bears always look so sad, they’re the teddy bears that got lost on the fringes of teddy bear land and got found by strangers and taken home; firstly they’re missing their home and their friends and families and secondly people seldom give them enough hugs and cuddles. Some people I know don’t even sleep with their bears – that is indescribably cruel.

So Daddy teddy bear was feeling very sad and then he saw some beautiful violets and picked a big bunch and went and looked for mummy teddy bear & gave them to her and she was very happy and they cuddled & huggled for hours and hours and decided not to have any more babies and to go for a picnic and to eat peanut butter sandwiches instead – with just a little bit of honey – mummy teddy bear’s favourite, they forgot all about Ted & Eddy and lived happily every after.

Ted & Eddy floated down the river feeling sadder and sadder and wetter and wetter and colder and colder and not really understanding what had happened to them and why nobody loved them – all they’d wanted was a cuddle and a huggle and a peanut butter sandwich. There were two of them it’s true and they could cuddle each other but it’s not really the same and Eddy doesn’t like being cuddled by Teddy as Eddy often tickles him and then he tickles Eddy back and it means neither of them get a proper cuddle, and anyways their arms aren’t long enough and they were trying to stay afloat.

So down the river they floated when – whooooosh – they were snatched out and propelled through the air “it’s a biggun – I’ve caught a whopper” gloated old Mr.Pease – “Dad you’ve never caught a fish in your live” said young Mr.Pease – “well I have now”
“no you haven’t you’ve caught a teddy bear”
“Daddy’s caught a teddy bear, daddy’s caught a teddy bear” chanted young Mr.Pease – now the Peases were a poor family who weren’t any good at fishing and didn’t like fishing and only fished because they were hungry,
“Well lets take it back to Mother” growled old Mr.Pease “ she can probably put it in a stew or something, gotta taste better than my shoes that we ate last night, far too tough”
“and smelly” added young Mr.Pease
But Mrs.Pease wasn’t having it – she’d baked young Mr.Pease’s Teddy bear Angus in a pie only the other week and it had been all stringy and puffy and tough and chewy and got stuck between her teeth and tasted of nothing nice, and she was very cross with Mr.Pease – she’d sent him out for a fish and he’d come back with a Teddy Bear – now what good was that?
- But Mrs.Pease wasn’t as stupid as Mr.Pease she’d noticed something strange about Tedd & Eddy – not only were they looking very sad and terrified but they had two heads!
- & she’d just read in the newspaper about a Mr.Wynd in London town who’d sold someone or other a two headed baby for a lot of money – and that baby had been dead so what would a two headed teddy bear be worth – millions she thought.

She thought wrong. She hid Tedd & Eddy in a black bag so she wouldn’t have to get them a ticket and took the train to London. Tedd & Eddy were very sad and very scared. In London she found Mr.Wynd in his little shop. Though it’s less of a shop than an orphanage, Mr.Wynd is a lonely man, very nice, they say, but lonely, and he lives in his shop that is more of an orphanage than a shop – from all over the world come creatures and things that no one else loves, but somehow he always sees in them something to love and gives them a home, it might look like a shop, and things might look like they are for sale but no one ever buys anything – no one else will give a home to the things he gives a home to – from dead rats to unloved bits of stone, dead penguins, people with three legs and all the outcasts of the world.

Mr.Wynd looked at Mrs Pease and thought she was a nasty, mean smelly person. He hated to judge but when she took out of her bag the sweetest most loveable pair – or almost a pare – (maybe an apple? ) of teddy bears, looking so sad and miserable and so desperately in need of a cuddle that he almost called the R.S.P.C.T.B. – The Royal Society for The Protection of Cruelty to Teddy Bears, but he didn’t for he thought that there were a lot of people in the world who didn’t cuddle their teddy bears properly and that they might not come out in a hurry and meanwhile the woman might go and the only way to give Ted & Eddy a proper cuddle was to buy them & cuddle them then and there.

So he put on a sad face and told Mrs.Pease that he really, really wanted a two headed fish – he had lots of two headed bears – they were two a penny he said – now a two headed fish! But Mrs.Pease hadn’t got a two headed fish – for which he would have paid millions and millions only a two headed bear that was hardly worth a sausage, however he leaned down into his drawer and found a particularly nice looking sausage and handed it over in exchange for Ted & Eddy.

As soon as the nasty woman was gone he gave Ted & Eddy the biggest cuddle they’d ever had and dried them with a hair dryer and gave them each a peanut butter sandwich with lashings of honey!

on a faraway beach at night where nobody sees

In - poems

i am not here
in front behind around
the faces stare
the old masters’ portraits of the wicked
the good
the dead

who are they
and why
and who am i?
(i’m not the one who knows)
they’re on the wall
& i am not

they were here once
some of them
here where i am
looking up and wishing they were there

where they now are

the painter & the painted

i like it here

seated looking

i just want to be alone with my thoughts of no one
& no one’s thoughts of me

i want to disappear
to be a wave that comes from nowhere


& grows

& simply dies on a faraway beach at night where nobody sees

the grip

In - poems

in my head the pain
in my knees the ache
in my back the pain
the grip

loves empty now
i feel inside me nothing to give
just a steady feeling
as if behind a mask i hide
but long forgotten what or who i mask

in my head the pain
in my knees the ache
in my back the pain

the grip

Viktor Wynd – A Retrospective 2001-2011

In - Essays

Viktor Wynd is delighted to announce the launch of his new website

an archive of his artistic endeavours over the last ten years

Viktor Wynd never wanted to be a train driver when he was little, he never wanted to fly a plane or run faster than anyone else. He wanted to write novels. He didn’t like being at school, he didn’t understand what it was for. It kept him away and it stopped him from doing what he wanted. He didn’t want to be told what to do, he wanted to learn about frogs and toads and carnivorous plants and Napoleon and Cavaliers & The Khan’s of The Golden Horde; he wanted to be Bonnie Prince Charlie, The White Rajah of Sarawak, Prime Minister, William Beckford & Cinderella. He didn’t want to read Sons & Lovers he wanted to read Huysmans & Artaud & Cocteau & Rimbaud. He didn’t want to learn about osmosis, sit through chapel every day; he was happy in the library reading and dreaming of dark Africa, Bougainville Island & The Chagos Archipelago. He didn’t like the other boys, or maybe they didn’t like him, he didn’t want to talk about sport or play their games. He wanted to read Beverley Nicholls & Compton Mackenzie & Milton & Wilde. He didn’t have any direction, even then, & built a greenhouse with a pond and a stream and put tree frogs, and painted frogs and fire salamanders in it and they walked out into the garden and the pond beside and died in a cold winter, so he built another enclosure for Natterjack toads and wall lizards and the toads natterjacked and the lizards got out and went in the chicken pen and had their tails pecked of and ran away. The alpine newts are still in the pond and still very pretty, the carnivorous plants are dead, the orchids are with him now and the bog garden is covered with sphagnum and one clump of glorious orchids.

So he packed his bags and moved to Paris to learn French and read Simone de Beavoir & Sartre & Soupault & Baudelaire (but when he had learnt French he wanted to read Ernst Junger & Marquez & llosa, which he did, in French & Artaud & Artaud & Artaud again) & lived in a garret & drank wine by the Seine and fell in love and thought he’d found his place & then the Islamic World beckoned and then Europe, Asia & America & grew magic mushrooms, mandragora, peyote, san pedro, khat fell out of love and cried and cried & listened to Jim Morrison singing “You’re Lost Little Girl” and thought it was about him. & wrote seven novels, slowly disintegrating, from the first with it’s beginning, middle and an end, to the last with it’s scraps of paper and receipts and little notes.

& then he became an artist and this is what he did

& he’d love to know what you think of it

except he’s hopeless and never finishes anything, so it’s all almost there, it just needs some photos and some images and some sound and some videos and then it will be done, & he hopes you like it. You can learn all about why he thinks he’s so f***ing special, the long and lonely nights he’s spent since you first left home, the league against ugly people, the girlspotters guide to the pretty girls of Europe, philosophy in the bedroom, the sorrows of young wynd and many more

but it doesn’t have anything about Viktor Wynd’s Palace of Broken Dreams because the Old Vic decided after many many months of promises that they don’t want to build it so Viktor Wynd has to live on in his hovel, and fans of what might have been may read below.

But the rest is done now and does it add up to anything? Mr.Wynd is confused and listless and doesn’t really know what he’s done or why he’s done it or what he’s going to do or how he’s going to do it or why ….

But he’d going to do something new soon – just see if he doesn’t…..

He’s more and more obsessed by opera and wants to direct and with Wyndstock launched is planning Wyndbourne…..

Viktor Wynd’s Palace of Broken Dreams

The Last Tuesday Society proposes it’s most ambitious project yet – a Bacchanalian Banquet of Lust & Disgust. Part theater, part installation, part banquet, part ball. The environment will serve as a frame, or a set, to challenge the audiences perceptions and transform them from spectators to cast members of a different drama that they will build every night.

The Palace
Within the tunnels will be created a vast baroque labyrinthine palace, taking as it’s inspiration Pater Greenaway’s The Cook, The Thief, His Wife, Her Lover, Gormenghast, Schloss Neuschwanstein, Stephen Calloway’s book Baroque Baroque, old master paintings, Mike Kelley, Christoph Buschel, Jean Cocteau’s La Belle et La Bete, William Beckford’s Fonthill Abbey, Quinta da Regaleira, Edward James’ Mexican Gardens & more

A place to dream & a place to play, a place to love & a place to decay,

A banquet of life, a temple of death, a palace of dreams, a garden of tortures…..

- All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players -

The Experience

Whilst the aim is to transform the guests from mere spectators into players the Palace will play host to an army of performers providing centres of entertainment. Visitors will wander at will but be free to stay for as long, or little, as they like in each room. The Palace may be a dream Palace, but it will be a functioning palace, made up of many rooms and chambers, including The Banqueting Hall, The Ball Room, The Kitchens, The Bathroom, Dressing Room, The Cinema, The Garden of Tortures, and more. At it’s heart will be The Banqueting Hall – a vast dining room, a great table, with seating for 200, will groan beneath enormous piles of food arranged as Flemish Still lives, adorned by naked painted wriggling people, the food will be maintained until everyone has had their fill, or it runs out, after which it will be a glorious baroque ruin of a banquet. The Bedroom will be dominated by a vast four poster bed – big enough to hold 40 people, & will play host to “Philosophy in the Bedroom” – a series of serious Philosophical lectures – see below, and, lecture over, will be a place to relax, or enjoy and host performances and spectacles – a life drawing class perhaps; the floor will be carpeted with Persian rugs, deep pillows, erotica will adorn the walls & the room will pay subtle homage both to Catherine The Great & to Dr.James Graham’s Celestial Bed. The Divine Marquis himself will have his own area in The Garden of Tortures,- an overgrown graveyard of a dark garden with strange bondage furniture, whippings and other joys from the S&M community. Within a tented Arabian themed room will nestle The Turkish Baths with twin bubbling hot tubs, towels and changing rooms will be provided. The Ballroom will be glorious and take as it’s central theme Cocteau’s Belle et la Bête, – early in the evening dancing classes will be provided – with an emphasis on fun and partner changing and introducing everyone to everyone, followed by headlining bands and a house jazz band, & djs for as long as people want to dance. Viktor Wynd’s Cinema of Broken Dreams will finally be built, a darkened hall of magic and mystery, partly programmed with new and strange macabre shorts and animations, and partly playing classics – such as Jodorowski’s Santa Sangre.

101 Reasons to Cry Today

In - Essays

One Hundred & One Reasons To Cry Today By Viktor Wynd

1/What was your first pet called?
- what type of animal?
- - what happened to it – is it dead?

2/think of your parents cat that got run over, or will get run over

3/think of your ex-girlfriend/boyfriend who won’t talk to you any more, think of the ex before that who stiiiiiillllllll talks to you

4/Think of your grandmother that’s dead,

5/think of your stepmother who’s got cancer, or soon will have

6/Who did you spend Valentines day with last year? And where are they now?

7/Think of someone you said “I love to” once who wont ever say it back to you now (and mean it)

8/Think of your goldfish that’s dead

9/Think how ugly you’ll be when you’re 92

10/think of when you were young and pretty and everyone wanted to kiss you and how you caught glandular fever and had to stay in bed for 6 months and not kiss anyone.

11/What colour was your first bicycle and where is it now?

12/ What was the name of your first ever love? Did you ever talk? Do you still talk?

13/who did you spend valentines day with the year before last and where are they now?

14/who did you spend valentine’s day with the year before the year before last

15/think of the person you wanted to come with tonight, and the ticket you bought for them and the person you ended up bringing

16/ think of going ho9me for Christmas and discovering that even the people who are supposed to love you don’t

17/ think of all the lambs being born this year. And what will happen to them.

18/ think of all the puppies in china that will be eaten

19/ think of little African children. And the people who adopt them

20/ think of how you cried the day Diana died, the day of her fubneral, and how that makes you feel today

21/ think of waking up in the morning and discovering the person next to you is someone else

22/ think of your first day at school, and your last, and all the horrible days in between

23/ codex alimentarius

24/ thinkof your grandmother who’s dead, and your grandmother who wishes she was dead

25/ think of saying goodbye at the airport, and how you never saw her again

26/ think of the time you said you loved him, and didn’t, and how that made him feel

27/ think of the time you said you’d run away with him, and he bought you a ticket, and you didn’t, and how that made him feel

28 think of the time you said you loved her, day after day, week after week, and didn’t, and she still didn’t let you sleep with her

29/ think of all the kittens in the world, and how there aren’t enough people with enough love in their hearts to make them all happy

30/ think of the first week you spent after your love left you and how you felt every morning when you woke up and your love wasn’t there, and how you felt when you realised your love would never be there again

31/ think of how happy you’d be if only you love would love you the way you love them, have loved them, do love them, will love them

32/ think of how you felt all those years ago when you had a friend

33/ think of the time your first dog got cancer and had to be put down, and of how you’ll feel when the next one dies

34/ think of waking up in the morning, and the old coffee cup by your bed, and the person you’re thinking about, and how they aren’t there and knowing that they’ll probably never be there, but longing for them to be there, smiling and giving you a hug and a kiss, and how they could be there, every morning, but won’t ever be there, again

35/ think of the time you said you didn’t love him, and don’t love him and won’t love him and how you much you have loved him, do love him and will love him, and how you’ll never be able to tell him that, and if you did how he wouldn’t care, and if you’d never told him you didn’t love him how happy you would be today, and aren’t

36/ think of all the poor roses being thrown away on the 15th february, and why, and the storie4s you could tell, and how lucky you would feel if you had someone to give roses to on valentine’s day who would be happy if you did

37/think of the time you did you homework but forget to bring it to school in the morning, and how your teacher didn’t believe you and wouldn’t ring your mum to check

suggested sample

101 Reasons To Cry Today
Viktor Wynd

Number 89
What colour was your first bicycle and where is it now?

Loss; an Evening of Exquisite Misery
Black Friday 13th February at The Tabernacle 2009

Words for a Pillow Book

In - poems

A poem I wrote for a proposed collaboration for a pillow book with Marcelle Hanselaar – an artist whose work i’m obsessed with

the dog paces outside the door

(but it’s not the dog i want. tried it once – paws on my back made me bleed)
my sweat soiled sheets
pulled up, pulled over


i want, but i don’t know who
i don’t care who any more
i just want.

you don’t have to stay, you just have to do,
then you can go go go

my legs twitch & itch, my fingers scratch and pull,
the clock strikes three, three fifteen will be next
& i’ll still be alone, alone when i sleep, alone when i awake

Stephen Tennant & Cecil Beaton

In - Upcoming

After two years of working on it the new show about Stephen Tennant has finally opened at my gallery

It’s a Sort of Life i Suppose

In - Essays

It’s a sort of life, I suppose, there’s always a gap, a something missing and a portion of that added misery called loneliness…

I seem to pass my time in empty spaces, alone, looking at empty rooms, watching empty roads at night fading into nothingness, cars driving away from me, dissolving,
Studying objects people have abandoned and just left to lie. The old glove, the old shoe, it used to house and it used to be intimate, like I used to hold, I used to be intimate, I used to sheaf, and yet I’m nothing, I know I’m nobody, just a hole, an empty road.

The couch they spent so long making love, the time they spent on the telephone, talking, maybe cuddling, perhaps they had something there, maybe she gave head whilst he watched the sport on the television that used to be adored, the discarded retina of the minds eye,
Abandoned now and left to rot, how central it used to be to their life, prols, the lumpenproletariat, can bread and circuses really make anyone happy? , Now there’s a new one sitting there and the old one’s gone.
No one thinks of it any more
No one thinks of me anymore
Abandoned, left out, the half-light, not quite seeing it, not quite being there.

The mattress, even more than the couch a place of life, like me, I used be there,
I didn’t used to alone. But who am I kidding, I was always alone, we’re always alone, all of us, we know who are, we’re the failures, we’re the people who ring other people because people don’t just ring us, we used to stand alone in the playground, we used to make up games that involved just one, that’s why winning never matters, we’re happy if someone wants to play with us, we’ll let them win, we don’t want to win, what we want is you, we think.

There’s got to be something out there for us.

We can’t just be abandoned souls spinning in a world of our own perceptions, where ghosts and shadows and the night intrigues,
Because like us they’re shimmers of light with no substance, there’s nothing there, at least nothing that any one else can see or feel.
They’re told it’s there, we’re there, I’m there. But really they don’t know and they don’t care.

We’re alone you and me, and really you’re not alone because you don’t exist, you’re my imaginary friend, I’ve created you to have someone to talk to, someone as isolated, as lost, as empty as myself, a way to make me feel that you’re out there, that it was you in the car that drove by, it was you leaving the aero plane, running down the empty street, when I see a couple on their way,
I think it’s me on the left, the man, they seem united, together they’ll face the world, they’ll disappear down the path, the world falls away and disappears on either side of them, their world, around them, of course they kid themselves that they’re happy and they know each other and they’re in love, when really they’re just as isolated as you and me, but the talking and the quarreling and the sex and the children plug the gaps in their emptiness
We have the luxury of the time and the space around us, falling beneath us, or soaring above, we know we’re alone and there’s nothing we can do and we don’t like it. Maybe they’re like us as well and have just made a cynical pact with the void whereby it’ll leave them alone for a while but come back to haunt and to claim them

They take the luxury of discarding loves (images of gloves)

we wouldn’t just abandon something that had been close to us, that had been a part of our life, a place we’d slept on, made love on, witnessed our sweaty disturbed nights and days on intermittent insomnia and unconsciousness, an every changing never remembered world.

How could we ever abandon something that had been so intimate to us, that had covered our most intimate emotions, that had served as both a barrier and a facilitator to an attempt to experience the universal, that at the time of greatest intimacy had taken some of the pleasure away and kept it for itself. What is designed for two will never be the same with three, but even so, you are a bit that I can keep hold of that wont leave me, that wont ignore my calls, my emails, my letters, a bit of a moment, a bit of time, when even for a second I felt not so very alone.

But I’m kidding myself, as I always do, that was a moment, those are moments when I feel more than ever that the world ends at me, I guess I could turn that around, see it a different way and say that the world begins at me, but that would be to deny the hope that sometimes, when I can be bothered, gets me out of bed in the morning, or afternoon, the hope that there is something out there, that there is someone out there, and that when I look at the night, for it’s always the night I look at, I don’t understand the certainty of day, I want the half world, it’s familiar, a place where shapes and meanings are ill defined, where its all very big, where I am but a shadow on the wall, if I’m anything. A place and a time when I can feel so very small that a flicker of a certainty can awaken, that in a place like this maybe maybe I’m not alone.

It’s possible that I’m not the only one sitting at the little table in the restaurant
Someone else too wore these clothes that I found on the street, someone else has played with these toys, another body rested in this bed, it’s intimacy at a remove, at several removes, but it’s intimacy and it’s all I’ve got.

It’s a sort of life I suppose

april 2008

A Vegetarian in Alligator Boots

In - Essays

An essay written for the catalogue of an exhibition at Bath Spa University in autumn 2010

I awake, nod to a couple of shrunken heads on my bedside table, after all some company is better than none at all, masturbate, walk across the leopard skin rug, past the Leonora Carrington, elephant teeth and Victorian stuffed puppies to the bathroom for the pinnacle of the day’s pleasure, a good defecation. It’s all downhill from now on, I shower and dress, a crimson velvet suit – it’s still winter, and I pull on a tight pair of Texas’ finest cowboy boots, made from the tails of two alligators. It’s a cold day so I won’t wear my cobra skin jacket, not cold enough for raccoon or seal either, but plenty cold enough to justify a full-length blue fox, left open, and last, but by no means least I select my rings, they must match my suit and my nail varnish, crimson, so some red coral mounted in silver, a couple of twelfth century golden Seljuk Rings and a black Tahitian pearl mounted in a miniature eagle’s talon.
It’s a work day so I’m going to my shop, I deal in rare and beautiful things, curiosities if you like, I glance gloatingly at my desk where some dodo bones, just arrived, lurk in crisp tissue paper next to an enormous hair ball removed from the stomach of a cow. Objects far too wonderful to go to the shop, just yet, but I know that one day, it may be soon or it may be years away, they will cease to fill me with wonder and I will cease to see them, like Mortimer, the lion skeleton, but unlike Mortimer who still sits in my library, unseen, when that day comes it will be simple to pop these, far more valuable items in my pocket and take them down to the shop.
But before I go out I allow myself one more fleeting pleasure, I inspect my orchids, Phragmipedium longifolium is just uncurling, continuously in flower for two and a half years now, whilst the Catelleyas are looking decidedly sad, one day, when I am rich, I will have a tropical house stuffed with orchids, nepenthes and ferns, I have an eight foot tree fern (Dicksonia squarrosa) in my library that I had shipped over from Tasmania and planted the trunk with epithetic bromeliads and orchids, but it’s too dry in there and they’ve all died, the fern itself is alive, just, I avert my eyes subconsciously, I no longer see it, though I still water it.
I pick up a crow in flight, a dead one, and walk up to the shop, wondering vaguely if I’m turning into a caricature of myself, well, no wonder, I’m comfortable. Sometimes I’m accused of being a dandy that, perplexes me, there are no mirrors in my house and I have no idea of what I look like, I know what I feel like, left to myself I would cavort naked all day fucking and eating, well that’ not quite true, it is precisely because I am left to my own devices that I need to fill the time with objects, books, clothes, pictures.
Crow deposited in shop it is time for breakfast at the organic cafe inVictoria Park, a full vegetarian breakfast, for I am, of course, like all the best, and some of the worst people from Francis Bacon to Hitler, a vegetarian. People sometimes laugh at me, a dealer and collector of the dead, a man with ten fur coats in his dressing room and shoes made from every imaginable animal, from anteater to ostrich, and accuse me of hypocrisy, I laugh back and point to Napoleon’s Death Mask, proudly displayed, and point to the note next to it quoting the late tyrant as saying that England was the land where the hypocrite had set up shop.
But whilst that is true it is also a bit of flippancy, for there is no inherent contradiction between being a vegetarian and most of my activities; I do feel sheepishly guilty about my shoes, but they are beautiful and they last so much longer than a burger. I’m vegetarian because I believe that there is something inherently unnecessary and disgusting, obscene, in the mass production and slaughter of animals for the purely transitory pleasure of feeding yet again. Nothing that I deal in or collect has been killed for the purpose of me profiting, it is but a mere by-product, rien est plus beau que la nature, antique relics of a previous age. And the pleasure I get from my alligator skin boots is much deeper and longer than the ephemeral, not to mention questionable, pleasure of eating a ham sandwich.There is also no substitute for alligator skin but many far more delicious and environmentally friendly substitutes for eating meat.This is how I sleep deep and long at night, with a conscience fairly under control, for an insomniac at any rate.
A Vegetarian in Alligator Shoes, Hackney, 2010


In - Upcoming

Wyndstock – The Country House Party – this summer – 25th June & 27th August
full details here