Swell Zine: Popinjay

—And that's why I'm a piece of contemporary art, said Potato Covered in Toothpicks.

From his perch he could see a number 55 emerging round the corner from the High Street.

—Well, I'll be, said Rusty Razor Blade. And here I thought you were an example of the punk DIY aesthetic.

—It's an easy distinction to miss. Don't worry about it, said Potato Covered In Toothpicks.

Stretching as far as he could, he eyed the blank faces behind the fogged up glass.

—Indeed, said Potato, pointing with twenty-five toothpicks, dotted along this street you'll find other bus stops just like this one. I am told other root vegetables will be there just as I am here. We're part of a grassroots movement against the Borg-like carpetbagging of the local urban landscape.

Both Rusty Razor Blade and Condom Tied in a Knot agreed that Potato Covered in Toothpicks was the best thing to happen to the bus stop in months.

Box of Soggy Chips was taken away by a magpie over a series of days, Pair of Nikes was still missing and everyone had secretly given up hope on Out Of Date Band Flyer ever regaining consciousness. Potato Covered in Toothpicks brought news from the Down Below, and in the following weeks, word spread across the borough and Detritus from as far as Brick Lane took pilgrimage to the Shoreditch Church Bus Stop.

Potato Covered in Toothpicks gave audience, and with the help of Rusty Razor Blade and Condom Tied in a Knot met with the lost and tired, the discarded and not wanted.

On the morning of the fourth Wednesday since his arrival, Potato Covered in Toothpicks was going through the day's agenda with Condom Tied in a Knot, who had, since Potato's arrival, shown a talent for personal organization and time management. They had just arrived at Any Other Business when a group of female art students from Central St Martin's tore down through the sky screaming their banshee yells; their ironically chosen 80's fashions, backlit by the morning sun, now throwing morose patterns of fluorescent modernity across the pavement as they landed. The smell was overpowering.

—Oh fuck... said Rusty Razor Blade.

—Everybody be cool. Let's see how this plays out, said Potato.

Skinny jeans and trilbies are no match for leggings and lip-gloss. Local boys became intoxicated with their presence and came shuffling from scruffy office blocks and warehouse conversions up to 3 streets away.

Out from her I'm-Not-A-Plastic-Bag the smallest dragon carefully retrieved her latest copy of Lice Magazine. At the site of this, the others began to bleat and stamp wildly. Around them the air began to ripple and warp. The little one began to read in an unfamiliar tongue.

He allowed a passing breeze to move him gently closer to the edge of the bus stop roof.

Stepping back from the others, the alpha dragon removed a purse of silver sequined sparkles hanging from her oversized Kate Moss disc belt. On the side Condom could read the words "Degree Show".

Reaching into the purse, she removed a dripping crimson mass, handled it tenderly, and launched it into the air.

Condom Tied in a Knot reared back, but there was no wind to move him out of the way. Down on top of the young apprentice landed a splodge of putrid red: a bouquet of sodden cotton fingers, tied together in a bow above the flowering folly.

In a fury of flashes from their camera phones, the dragons took to the sky and were gone just as suddenly as they had arrived.

Mister Smith holds most college degrees with a level of contempt. Chewed up and out by life, he bites back with his food blog Caff Tea. He wasn't born in London, but he got there as fast as he could. The editor of SWELL owed him a big favour, something neither will mention again, and is the only reason he finds himself published. He plans on crawling back under the rock of obscurity with the rest of the lemmings after the cast and crew party.