Deus Pecuniam Phallae

The ancient City of Londinium, founded before the Romans ever sailed up the Thames. The walled settlement became The City of London and developed into the most economically powerful city on earth, powered by trade and exploration. The old City was so powerful that the Monarch had to ask permission to enter, and still does today. Over the centuries many beautiful buildings were created. The streets were never set out in any kind of planned grid, it was a city that followed no man’s vision, it just followed its own path. When the ancient gothic cathedral of St Paul and a quarter of the city burnt down in 1666 plans were drawn up by Christopher Wren to build wide avenues and boulevards radiating out from his new cathedral, in imitation of Rome. But the city refused his outrageous ideas and so the new cathedral took its place among the narrow streets, lanes and alleys that still stood. The City was never in the habit of changing to suit the ideas of a mere upstart architect.

Until now.

Look at the picture above. The City of London has allowed itself to be raped, buggered, sodomised and fucked by loathsome, parvenue architects. These odious onanists whose erections force themselves upon us, abusing our senses, despoiling our souls and ejaculating their disgusting jism of wealth into our faces, roaring and sneering at our discomfort and pain like a gang of aristocratic pederasts. Everywhere the glitter of tumescent glass cocks, like arrogant and priapic satyrs – you can almost hear them braying like the hellfire club, slobbering paraphilliacs egging each other on into ever-more depraved acts of concupiscence, defiling the ragged-arsed servants and sating their Dionysian thirst for perversion with the chamber maids. It is horror, it is horror…

St Paul’s Cathedral was, until 1963, the tallest building in London. Standing on the highest point of the city, Ludgate Hill, it towered above the rest of London, a magnificent baroque confection with a dome second only in size to St Peter’s in Rome. Imagine how fucking impressive it must have looked when it was finally completed in 1710…

Upon Ludgate Hill, 1710 – a crowd gathers to stare open-mouthed at the newly unveiled dome of St. Paul’s –

“Fuck me Lizzie, that’s impressive!” “I should say it is, Samuel. Very fucking impressive” “Why, I do believe Sir Christopher must have designed his dome in homage of your delightful bosom, my dear” “Oooh, Samuel Cockington, I do believe you are a rascal! You make me blush, sir!” “And you, my dear lady, make me proud. Come, let us away to the ale house where your cherry red lips may play a merry melody upon my pink oboe and fill your blushing cheeks with my pretty notes” “Oh, Mr Cockington, that’s fucking impressive.”

…but now it is barely noticeable, standing to the left of the Deo pecuniae phallae that despoil the skyline of London, an almost insignificant pimple among the thrusting clusters of finance and power. On the opposing side stands the nasty protuberance known as the Shard. Designed by the risible Italian scarecrow, Renzo Piano. What kind of name is that, for fuck’s sake? Imagine calling your kid Eric Trumpet or Florence Flute or Pink Oboe. I’m sure he loves to tickle his own ivories at every opportunity. This piece of glass just stands there, sharp and pointy, oblivious to its surroundings, blind to its brutality, ignorant of its utter lack of humanity. It has no civic function. It has nothing to offer, except a raspberry in the face of the bewildered public. It is a monument to Piano’s no doubt Trimalchian ego and deserves nothing but scorn, derision and mockery. Not only that, but it’s also on the wrong side of the river. Only on the north bank of the venerable Thames can one be a real Londoner. Those on the southern banks are merely rural Surrey peasants. The other carbuncles that block out the light have been mockingly titled by Londoners, who have always been scathing about those upstarts who think they are greater than the world’s most wonderful city. They are fiercely contemptuous of rotters, cunts and blowhards. The “Walkie-Talkie” in Fenchurch Street, the “Gherkin” in St Mary Axe, the “Cheese Grater” in Leadenhall Street, are a few of the derisive epithets by which these carbuncles are now known. The architects try to play down this mockery, preferring instead to believe that these risible names have been bestowed as a mark of affection by the grateful peasantry. Cunts. The other thing that escapes the wit of the architect is this: almost as soon as their brand new shiny cock is erected, it is out-of-date and old-fashioned. It is a flash in the pan, it comes and is quickly spent, like yesterday’s news it is soon forgotten. Its life span no more than a few decades, like the mayfly it will have an all-too brief moment in the sun and then expire, having done nothing of any use, unlike the mayfly – whose single reason to exist is to copulate before it expires. A totally miserable exercise in futility. But it probably amuses God, who likes a joke – after all he gave most of the oil to the Arabs and cars to the rest of us. Ho Ho.

However, much to the chagrin of the snivelling cunts whose dearest wish is for another great fire, or war, to raze the remaining ancient buildings (anything more than twenty years old) to the ground so they can then fill the space with forests of priapic glass penises, in another 300 years that seemingly insignificant pimple of baroque splendour that is St Paul’s Cathedral will still be there, beautiful and majestic, welcoming millions of visitors who will come to look in awe and admiration at the sheer magnificence of the building, perfect in its proportion, ratio and form, filled with light, embellished with paintings and carvings by master craftsmen, a-topped by that great dome at the City’s summit, bathed in the empyrean light, while the cocks of the money God will have long-since have become flaccid and limp, shrivelled husks that no amount of financial viagra will make rise again and down they will come.

After all, nobody wants a limp dick.

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  1. between Godot and this relish… yes a feast. money cocks indeed. what a delightful little sonata with a bit of fugal fancy on the cockingtons. splendid.


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