Rob Ward

I am sitting in the cafe at Dox in Prague, looking up at some kids playing chess in the roof, sipping periodically at a second Earl Grey and listening to Illinoise by Sufjan Stevens so I don't have to listen to the kids running around the place. I am, at the same time, writing into a handful of text files that represent a handful of html pages that I may later today, tomorrow, or indeed three, four, six, nine months from now transfer to a server. The result will be a website, my website, into which I can write this or any other crap I like. You will be able to read it and think I'm a great guy, a neglected genius, a soon-to-be-recognised literary talent or another autistic weirdo with a Linux fixation. That will be the extent of the compact between you and me.

Not so long ago, when the conkers were falling all around us from the trees by Dejvice station, a guy walked around selling copies of "Volá Lonýn", "London is Calling", a photocopied typewritten periodical said to be influenced by an unnamed London musical scene and featuring news of the pond-building activities of a distant village and a pull-out section about President Clinton. We gave him thirty crowns.

Now, I'm more generous than that. Hell, you can read my zine for free. Should you like the cut of my jib, however, you can throw me a bob or two. If you have no idea why you or anyone else should wish to do so, well, you may not be alone, but it takes all types, and for all the geographical confusion and temporal laxity of Volá Londýn, somebody or something has kept that boy going for getting on for fifteen years and good look to him I say.

Who am I?




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