Burn The Shard
Well that was shit wasn’t it?
Just kidding. Part one of Burn The Shard is done and dusted, and my day went something like this…
23rd November 2017
12:45pm. I’m on the train, jotting scrappy notes on my iPhone (23?) before the night erases them. The three weeks between the announcement and today have flown by — or maybe collapsed into that dream-logic where you don’t remember how you got there, you’re just in it.
Priority one: finish rereading 2023. Three chapters left, quickly dispatched, leaving me with all the usual post-book debris: questions, reflections, a hollow ache, and a grasping for meaning. Who’s the real main character? Roberta Wilson, with her diary? Malabo, the narrator? Winnie, whose story we actually follow? Or is it the year 2023 itself?
As with everything around The JAMS, the “answer” doesn’t sit still.
But here’s the thing: 2023 is good. Funny, confusing, sharp, messy, gonzo in the best way. If it had been shite, I’d happily say so. It wasn’t.
And now I’m headed south, book finished, brain fizzing with unanswered questions, hoping tonight might shine a little light on them.
6:45pm. HQ is the Barge House, canal-side. The Ice Kream Van sits parked down the alley like a familiar old ghost. Inside, a poster of rules (of course), a hand-stamp, and the immortal words: “Report to Oliver.” Hurrah. Oliver! His booming voice is always a balm.
Jobs on offer tonight: Explainer, Dead Perch PR, First Aid, Life Guard (for canal emergencies), DPM Security, Actor Lighter, Paste Mixer, Poster Hander-Outer, Tangerine Distributor, Pies of Mu… I go with “Emotional First Responder 1.” Figured if nothing else, I could pat someone’s back if it all got too much. The hi-vis vest came with it — later mistaken by Gimpo as me volunteering to be his assistant. As if.
7pm. Downstairs, Oliver welcomes us properly. Daisy Eris Campbell delivers the “first and longest” reading of 2023: Winnie’s canal-side run. We’re told that if anyone asks what we’re doing, reply: “We’re going to get Big Mac with Fries.” If anyone asks who’s in charge: “We’re all volunteers.”
Then we’re outside, lined up along the canal in our hi-vis and yellow macs. Winnie (or at least a jogger playing her) passes, Gimpo lobs yellow smoke bombs, and we follow.
Moments later, across the canal: Yoko (the younger), tape-mouthed, tipping John Lennon’s sheet-covered corpse into the water. Actor Lighters beam their torches. Grim, surreal, perfect.
We march on to Henry Da Riot’s flats. Oliver reads from 2023 again, describing Henry’s bricks-through-windows routine. Tangerines are handed out. Why? Who knows. Tangerines are always funny.
Next we follow Chodak, single-file, clinging to a rope, chanting “Big Mac with Fries.” Daisy urges us: “When you see the yellow arches, start the chant!”
So here we are: Dalston High Street, Thursday night, 8:30pm. Busy. Loud. Passers-by baffled as a line of volunteers snakes into McDonald’s chanting. One local tweets later that we were chanting “Bring back mince pies.” Close enough.
We shuffle in, round the bemused diners, out the other door, straight into a pub (why not?), then to the Arcola Theatre (closed to us, so we perform outside instead). On to Gillett Square, where whisky shots and Mu Mu mince pies (allegedly baked by Bill himself) are handed out from the van. I don’t like whisky. I don’t like mince pies. I eat and drink both anyway.
Ronald McDonald appears, being spun in a shopping trolley. Surreal doesn’t cover it.
Yoko and Winnie re-enact their scene, then give us a fly-posting tutorial. Buckets and posters are handed out. I don’t get one, but I watch. At a construction wall, 49 pairs paste up their 2023: What The Fuuk Is Going On? posters. Passers-by stop to ask what’s going on. Someone points out the wall once held a Banksy. Perfect.
By morning, all the posters are gone. Shame. Would’ve liked to see the public stumble across them.
We return to the Barge House. Badger Kull 2.0 awaits — four blokes in fisherman sweaters and sailor caps, standing on the stairs. They lead us in Burn The Shard, half sea-shanty, half piss-take, then Jerusalem, joined by Ronald and Henry. Dead Perch Brew flows.
Jimmy stamps books. Bill joins in. When the line thins, the new merch appears:
Audiobook + free poster + free 7″
Poster + free audiobook + free 7″
7″ + free poster + free audiobook
All £20.23, naturally. I take what I’m handed, stash it away, and by 11:30 I’m slipping off, 5:27 train looming. I thank Bill on my way out.
Of course I don’t sleep. I just lie there, thinking. About Grapefruit Are Not The Only Bombs, about how Burn The Shard seemed to echo the 400’s creations back to us. They wrote a book that inspired us, we made a book that inspired them, and now they’ve made an event out of that. Dominoes.
Some online mutterings have since called the night a damp squib: “just a walk, some chanting, some fly-posting.” Maybe so. But so what? That’s still a better Thursday than most.
Was it as good as Welcome to the Dark Ages? No. Different scale, different intent, different energy. But for the 99, it worked. Especially for those who weren’t at WTTDA — this was their first taste. And you only get one first taste.
For me, it was another inventive, surreal, joyfully baffling chapter. If there’s a Part 2, I’ll be there. I suspect we’ll all be keeping the 23rd free from now on.