Stuffed sea gulls hanging from the roof, a blood pudding and potato dish called “heaven and earth”, “professional mentalist” Derren Brown in the basement. Surely this was a weird dream brought about by tiredness or a red meat deficit?
But what if it wasn’t, what if I only thought I was eating out with ol’ Derren in the basement, what if I were really on stage in the Albert Hall, hypnotised by the illusionist into thinking I was eating in Soho? And my thoughts just kept on coming back to that stuffed seagull, and the upside down cake-mobile describing slow circles over my head. Continue reading










