last time I saw him he had his own box at the Derngate Theatre to see comedian Stewart Lee

In the half a square mile of decay and demolition that was England’s Saxon capital, eternity is loitering between the firetrap tower blocks. Embedded in the grubby amber of the district’s narrative among its saints, kings, prostitutes and derelicts a different kind of human time is happening, a soiled simultaneity that does not differentiate between the petrol-coloured puddles and the fractured dreams of those who navigate them. Fiends last mentioned in the Book of Tobit wait in urine-scented stairwells, the delinquent spectres of unlucky children undermine a century with tunnels, and in upstairs parlours labourers with golden blood reduce fate to a snooker tournament.

Disappeared lanes yield their own voices, built from lost words and forgotten dialect, to speak their broken legends and recount their startling genealogies, family histories of shame and madness and the marvellous. There is a conversation in the thunderstruck dome of St. Paul’s cathedral, childbirth on the cobblestones of Lambeth Walk, an estranged couple sitting all night on the cold steps of a Gothic church-front, and an infant choking on a cough drop for eleven chapters. An art exhibition is in preparation, and above the world a naked old man and a beautiful dead baby race along the Attics of the Breath towards the heat death of the universe.

An opulent mythology for those without a pot to piss in, through the labyrinthine streets and pages of Jerusalem tread ghosts that sing of wealth and poverty; of Africa, and hymns, and our threadbare millennium. They discuss English as a visionary language from John Bunyan to James Joyce, hold forth on the illusion of mortality post-Einstein, and insist upon the meanest slum as Blake’s eternal holy city. Fierce in its imagining and stupefying in its scope, this is the tale of everything, told from a vanished gutter.

Library Journal
★ 07/01/2016
This latest work by Moore (Watchmen; V for Vendetta; From Hell) is difficult to define by flimsy constraints such as genre. In fact, during a first read-through, it's hard to say what this literary behemoth is even about. Ten years in the making, it is, on one hand, a fictional history of Northampton, England, stretching out over millenia. On another hand, it is a story of siblings Michael and Alma Warren, their extended family, and how they and their ancestors shape the fortunes of the denizens of The Boroughs, the ghetto in which they live. But also, and more importantly, it is a story about everything: life, death, the afterlife, free will, famous Northamptonians (John Clare, Oliver Cromwell, Philip Doddridge) rubbing elbows with prostitutes and drug addicts over time and space. It is about how, no matter what happens in life, we all go to the same place when we die; how everything, literally everything, is determined by four angels playing a game of snooker. It is confusing, hilarious, sad, mind-blowing, poignant, frustrating, and one of the most beautiful books ever written. VERDICT More of a work of art than a novel, this book simply needs to be read.—Tyler Hixson, Library Journal

------------------------------------------------------------------

“The endgame of epic modernism. There is nothing quite like this book in scale and bustling frenzy. Gamble everything. Read Jerusalem and you’ll never emerge in the same place.” – Iain Sinclair

“The highest achievement of the most ground-breaking English writer alive, Jerusalem will shatter your assumptions about what 26 letters and the human imagination can achieve.” – John Higgs

Jerusalem buzzes with life, it’s a semiotic ocean of a book which makes Ulysses look like a primer. Vigorous, vulgar and wise it’s packed with a million observations and insights and some of the best writing on the planet. It’s what we’ve been waiting for — the great British novel.” – Michael Moorcock

Cool, I've never seen him about. I live Sywell area now, what area are yourself/him based? I may stalk him