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It came to pass that our time in the Lonely Shack was at an end and we found ourselves homeless once more.

And just as happened before on the Drunken Boat we found ourselves adventuring outwards in search of new headquarters.

We decided to try our luck in the city this time.

Lights and mirrors, smoke and noise.

Other people.

Someone told us about this place that was receptive to lost souls such as ourselves.

Bretonville they called it.

It took us a while to get our bearings but we found the place in the end.

And somewhere down the side street of the perpetual bothering now we came across a café that had no name but seemed to hold all secrets.

We sensed that from the moment we walked in.

Sensed that somehow we were home again.

Poets in all corners.

Other mischief makers and general layabouts too.

Long haired men in tattered cardigans and profuse beards were drinking blonde beers and throwing down lazy dominoes. Dogs slept at their feet.

Women sat at the bar pretending to ignore them.

A certain style was reassuringly absent.

The music was Argentine; bandoneon tunes played in a tense manner. There was a tatty photo of Ian Curtis above the bar.

The barman we guessed knew all about the enigma of fatality.

We knew nothing.

Mark Read was at the table in the corner, reading misfortune in the coffee dregs lost in a fugue of smoke, casting runes with the words of the masters, a free agent in a world of no reason...

We asked him if we could join him.

Sure...

We told him all about Radio Joy and our search for new premises.

What about this place...

He said, waving an expressionists hand...

It's...

As good or bad a place to broadcast a season of radio transmissions as any other.

Nothing crass though...

He warned us.

All the modern stuff bored him.

He waved his copy of Nadja at us and asked us if we knew where he could score for some similar stuff.

This century...

He said, quietly.

Is possessed by the wrong kind of madness altogether.

We too were sick to death of this century already.

At this moment at least.

Boredom as Sanglot Corsair would often proclaim, is, was, shall be, all.

Boredom, boredom, boredom...

Mind you...

Even though we were fast making new friends.

We still didn’t have much of an idea what we wanted to broadcast in this season coming up in this new found place of ours and were quickly turning to the drink when the door of the bar was flung open.

Taales paused at the threshold for a moment and then walked over to the corner where we were sat.

He threw down the pile of books like they were a challenge.

They scattered on the table top like a cursed flock of marked cards.

French, early to mid century mostly.

A lot of them Olympia Press.

And some obscure titles from London's Atlas publishing house.

Tattered covers, much thumbed pages, but, a real beauty shining out of them.

We reared back in shock as the mythical names fought for our attention on the table, Desnos, Aberhardt, Genet, Jarry, De Sade, Breton himself…and many, many more.

We had heard of some, but not all.

This was rare stock indeed.

- Make something out of these, you idiots.

We looked at our new companions.

The poets...

A quiet frenzy was upon them.

Robert Yates expressed his utter contempt for Aragon and snatched a book of his poetry up off the table.

There were more than a few things he would make of poor Luis.

Karen Margolis confessed her love for Henri Michaux and wanted to try out some translations that Louise Landes Levi had made.

Blood was flowing.

Vic Godard got handed Robert Desnos and was given instructions to find Liberty or Love.

Christopher Brierley declared that God was dead and only the words of Nerval could put the house back in order.

Pagan vocalist Aled Rees didn't have a clue who Jarry was, we gave him one of the two of Alfred's books.

Man of theatre Mischa Twitchin certainly knew who Jarry was, he got the other.

Soon the room was fighting scrapping over Van Bergen's bequethment.

We looked up at Taales, idiots that we most certainly were, and asked him, just precisely what we should do with them...

In his humble opinion.

But he had already gone.

Had not even finished his drink.

We weren't sure we could do Taales justice but we knew too we couldn’t refuse him.

And we sensed we owed something...

Not not just to Taales but to all the poets and lovers out there.

And to the magical insanity of the place we had found ourselves in.

Another round of drinks are ordered in.

We decide then and to try and give it our best and worst shots.

Follow De Nerval's lead when he wrote Chimera

Cut and recut sentences and passages, using the rearranged passages as some kind of divining tool.

That could point towards a new kind of faith.

Could sonic mischief and abstract lyricism be the key?

Who knows...

Assidious lovemaking leaves no time to experience love.

But...

For the next season and maybe transgressing all the way into the next.

We will be cutting up resplicing and broadcasting the early French classics.

from this new place of Bretonville.

On thee own station Radio Joy.