79.squall-longleg.6.2

Got out into the badlands for a change, which reminded me that the last time I had ventured that side of "The Great Northern" -- the Causeway, was during the storms of hail-ripperthroat over a year ago. The difference in the ferocity of the river Dun was marked -- a year ago it was bursting its banks, sweeping away diseased trees, filth and all manner of debris, to be dumped miles away. Today, it was a mere trickle in comparison. The badlands though, or crosslands, or the netherlands, however you refer to them are like a canker on the butt of Hellsborough, a creeping corruption and decay, littered with rust and detritus. Of course, the nethermen refer to Hellsborough in the same way, and it is quite refreshing to roam free -- as it were -- without psycmask and without being constantly surveilled by the eyes of the organic network. A veritable junkyard, the crumbling and grumbling of ancient architecture, I saw no-one other than a solitary moldenke -- with of course the requisite electric scooter. The place reminded me of some research I did when I was in Oxford that I dramatised: Junkyard Speedball -- I've dug it out and put it in the Urban Myths & Hymns area of the site. It is also available to download as an EPub if you have a free subscription from your My Hellsborough page.