The greatest conspiracy - the most insidious and underhand of secret designs - is an intrigue of horror: it is a treasonous connivance instantiated by the middle-classes in their attempts to colonise Horsingdon’s folklore - or indeed the folklore of any locality - by their slick, artless, and dishonest linguistic virtuosity: disguising what is a wantonly self-serving literary endeavour as allyship, and by way of the false and degenerate claims clustered around clever semantic machinations, around paltry declarations of having penetrated to the authentic heart of things, and around hollow assertions of somehow having become one with (at the very same time as transcending) the inscrutable ‘folk’.
And all the while, having achieved this presumed state of primordial identification - albeit by way of a distorted, self-serving notion that your safe psychogeographical peregrinations and perambulations through an ‘edgy’ part of town somehow confer you with messianic status - the cold, empty, angrily gendered witchouses of Horsingdon spit contemptuously in your eye.
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