Twenty years ago, in a series of mysterious, incandescent writings, David Seabrook told of the places he knew best: the declining resort towns of the Kent coast.
Dark, strange and immediate, this is a classic work of sui generis British literature.
THere are Devils here, and the reader will remember them..
And all the time, tHere is Seabrook himself - desperate perhaps, and in danger.
Clandestine fascist networks emerge.
Septuagenarian rent boys recall the good old days and Carry On stars go to seed.
Here, the ghosts of murderers and mad artists crawl the streets.
The pieces were no advert for the local tourist board.
Twenty years ago, in a series of mysterious, incandescent writings, David Seabrook told of the places he knew best: the declining resort towns of the Kent coast