As you can see I’ve dressed meself in me finest royal outfit. This ‘ere is me Royal Crown ‘anded down to me be me father, King Longpointyfurryface the Seventh.

A right royal rodent

This ‘ere is me Royal Trident wot ‘e once used to poke out the evil eye of the fearsome black-’earted ginger menace of the lower garden shed region.

Riiiiiiiiight turn!

And this ‘ere is me Royal Cloak red from the blood of the thaaaarsand violent vixens that me great grandfather Spindlytail the Mighty slayed in the Great Fox Wars of the Cheeseless Famine Era.

Aboooooooooooout face!

Front and centah, where I can see ya, boys! I’m not going aht there with just any old raggedy bunch!

Preseeeeeeeeeeeent arms!

Not bad. Not bad…

Take that smirk off your face, soldier! I aven’t done wiv yer yet. ‘ow abaht yer shoes, lads? Can I see me face in ‘em? You ain’t a real man’s man if yer walkin’ boots ain’t up to scratch, fellas. Look at mine! Ya could eat ya elevenses off that shiny surface.

Preseeeeeeent shoes!

Me dear old mum would be prahd (Cheesus rest her soul after she was taken from us in that ‘orrible incident with the ‘oover).

Very nice, boys. Very nice. What woman could resist us, eh, eh? She’ll melt like Camembert in me paws!

Aaaaaaaaaaat ease!

Now where’s that bleedin’ four-eyed owl oos been teachin’ me ‘ow to talk to ladies? Drosselmeyer! Drosselmeyer! Get your tatty tailfeathers out ‘ere!

Hoot!

No need to look so shocked, blunt beak. This is my wooing ahhhhtfit. Ain’t you ever seen a royal rodent in ‘is finery before? And as for you where are your trousers and what’s that on your back? Are you wearing some kind of truss? What the flippin’ ‘ell ‘ave you got on?!

Not regulation uniform

Well it’s too bloody late to change now. It’ll ‘ave to do. But for next time, you woolly wombat, you’d better ‘ave some bleedin’ pants on!

Right! Into the coach with you all. Drosselmeyer get yer talons out of me robe! Watch where you’re stickin’ that spear! Ooos tail is that? It poked me right in my Royal Eyeball!

The Royal transportation is rather cramped and smells of sandwiches

There she is, lads. There she is. Brace yerselves for the wooin’. Boys, you distract ‘er with a bit of gentle stabbin’ wiv yer spears. I’m goin’ fer ‘er ‘ead.

Poink! Poink! Poink!

Prang! Prang! Prang!

That’s it, boys! I’m nearly at ‘er ‘ead… I’m there! I’m there! Let the wooin’ begin!

Errrrrr…

‘allo luv…

Bugger...

Drosselmeyer! Drosselmeyer! I can’t remember a bleedin’ word you told me? Wot was that abaht a summer’s day? Oi! Where ‘is ee?! Drosselmeyer, you twit-twooin’ twerp!?

Hoo?

Umm…

Well…

…’wotcha, darlin’. Do ya like cheese? I like cheese. Maybe me and you could go and get some cheese. One evenin’. I know a nice little place that does melted gorgonzola on-

Oh. I see. You’re ‘lactose intolerant’, are ya? Can’t eat dairy. CAN’T EAT DAIRY!?!?

The wooing

Terrible shame that. Terrible shame…

Is that the time? Blaaaaahdy ‘ell! I’ve got The State Opening of Parmesan in at ‘alf two! ‘ave to be going. Lovely to chat. Sorry abaht the footprints up yer back and that hank of hair I pulled aht on the way up your scalp and that…

Can someone help me down from ‘ere? Boys? Boys? Bleedin’ ‘eck, this is one crowded lady. And I think I pulled a tail muscle climbing up ‘er calf.

After the romance has gone...

It never would ‘ave worked aht. Wot with ‘er being 100 times the size of me an all that. Still laaaaahvley pair ov legs on ‘er though. Went on fer miles..

Moving on

Allo! I wonder if that Sugarplum Fairy is seein’ anyone. I like red eyes in a girl’s ‘ead. Makes ‘er look classy.”

For less shouting and less mousing but more Nutcracker Knitmare Before Christmas see Knit the City’s Stitched Symphony.

My rodent rescuers

It has been a long time since I fell asleep on the London Underground and fought the dreaded Tube Sanitiser for my life, only managing to escape due to the tiny fluffballs of fearlessness that are the London tube mice.

When I do return to the underground I keep my eyes open and my double-pointed needles nearby.

I am well aware how wrong things could have gone down there had I lost my battle.

Far below London where you can wander through the endless tunnels for eternity seeking an exit sign you never reach, pressing an ‘assistance’ button that spits back sinister static giggles, running wildly up an escalator that only ever descends, swimming through swathes of hollow-eyed commuters who stand in perpetual wrongness on the left, and surviving on discarded KFC bones and the dregs of cans of Special Brew you find in empty carriages.

Each time I descend into London’s belly I prepare for a fight. Call me a paranoid purler. I call myself prepared.

Lucky for this sneaky stitcher I was right to be watchful.

The final tube home, I travelled under London and through midnight into All Hallow’s Eve on my work-weary way home. The carriage was empty save for me and the clicking of my needles as I knit knit knit. I was wide awake and wary. The soft surge of the Knitblast hung behind my eyes and at my fingertips. I felt its covert crackle and it reassured me.

Abandon hope all who alight here

The train arrived at the station and the doors hissed open. I stepped onto the platform. Alone. As the doors slid shut and the tube train thundered away I froze. This was not the my station. It was barely a station at all. It was Aldwych – abandoned station of the terrifying Tubeline Trolls and I was standing on its platform with no way to escape but the yawning darkness of the tunnels behind me.

A low chant began from the platform’s only exit door, a buzzing hum that echoed around the walls and surrounded me “Minnnnndagap! Minnnnndagap! Minnnnndagap!” it droned. I recognised it as their hunting cry. I readied my circular needles in either hand, the cord snapped tight, and turned towards the noise.

And so they came. The terrifying Tubeline Trolls.

Northern Nasty – he's...well, he's nasty

The nefarious Northern Nasty with his glowing blood-red eyes that stare into your soul and pick out the tasty bits for later.

Districircle of Hell – he may take ages to get anywhere but you don't want to be there when he comes around

The dastardly Districircle of Hell, a hulking green-yellow menace with a gaze that will turn your guts to cold custard and your gizzard to lumpy lime jelly.

Vicmetrohammerscity – he has poky bits on his head. That can't be good.

The vile and violent Vicmetrohammerscity, its antlers of atrocity glinting sharply in the gloom, ready to poke out your eyes and serve them in a cocktail like olives or those tiny pickled onions you only ever see at Christmas.

Jubileevil - he will unleash the jazz paws of doom

The jeering Jubileevil, in the guise of a sickly swollen silver mouse he mocked the respectable rodents I owed my life to, like a bag of mouldy brie squelched into a mouse’s skin he oozed and oogled and squeaked and squelched.

Centralzeebub – he won't move down the carriage even if there is space

And lastly, sweating scariness and sorrow, stalked Centralzeebub, his yellow pinholes of eyes beams of damnation and dubious deeds as his gaze met mine across the cold platform concrete.

The five Tubeline Trolls advanced and there was nowhere for me to go. I could smell their underground stench of commuter body odour and stale bits of takeaway dropped down the side of seat cushions.

Centralzeebub cracked his red knuckles and led the advance. They shuffled towards me.

“This commuter terminates…here.” he announced darkly as they advanced to the steady beat of Jubileevil’s unsettling giggle and the scrape of Vicmetrohammerscity’s antlers against the curved ceiling above.

Then suddenly the distant thunder of an approaching tube train stirred the air, prompting the Tubeline Trolls to break into a horrifyingly fast rush towards me.

Troll eyes in the dark. Erk!

Not knowing what else to do I did what any sane London commuter has been warned not to do a thousands times over. As the train swept into the station I stepped across the yellow line, wilfully not minding the gap. Then I unrolled the centre-wind ball of yarn-venom in the Deadly Knitshade part of my soul and I hit the now-baying tribe with a Knitblast that knocked me clear off my feet, just as the beeeeeepbeeeeeeep heralded the carriage doors opening.

I fell backwards into the train and landed with a thump on the carriage floor.

Outside the train the five horrors leapt for the closing doors spitting and swearing and covered in knitblast yarn. They were all claws and eyes and elbows, like rush-hour in the City but with less Blackberries and copies of the Financial Times. The doors drove shut as five bloated Troll bodies lunged for me and five rancid wriggling torsos were caught in the door.

“I said STAND CLEAR OF THE DOORS!” huffed the invisible driver over the intercom. Oblivious to the fact that demon Trolls from beneath the city were scraping and squeezing to get into the train and eat my soul like a post-pub kebab.

The beeeeeepbeeeeeeepbeeeeeep that signalled another attempt at door opening and closing sounded. In moments they would be free and I would be foodstuff. I leapt to my feet and threw myself towards the writhing woolly mass of Troll turmoil. With five swift strokes I pulled my circular needles garrotte-style around each Troll neck, avoiding snapping teeth and slicing claws, and one by one I lopped off their heads and stepped aside as they bounced to the carriage floor.

Where's a tube sanitiser when you need one?

Centralzeebub roared in troll-horror and exhaled a breath of ancient cigarette ends, rat droppings and Evening Standard ink as his head came away from his wriggling body, and the doors slid open and reclosed dropping five headless Troll bodies into the endless gap.

I sat in the carriage covered in troll-blood. Five knitblasted troll heads rolled about me like yarn-covered grapefruits. I picked them up, placed them in my knitting bag and took them home.

The next day, Halloween, I revisited the abandoned station entrance with my Knit the City fellow yarnstormers. Together we yarnstormed a warning to the city. I hung the heads up as a wool-covered warning. Their eyes still shone.

Northern Nasty no more

Districircle of Hell done for

Vicmetrohammerscity vanquished

Jubileevil justly beheaded

Centralzeebub cancelled

There are many more tube lines beneath the city and there is a Tubeline Troll for every one. Under London there lurks an evil that only knitting can save you from.

Don't say we didn't warn you

Learn to stitch. I promise you, when the Tubeline Troll Apocalypse rises up to take over London you will need every stitching skill you can muster to keep you alive…

For the full Knit the City tale see Yarnstorm the Seventh: Gate of Ghouls

Knit the City took on the Oranges and Lemons Odyssey with a six-pronged attack. Six London Churches from an old nursery rhyme. Six graffiti knitters. One full day of yarnstorming fun.

For the Deadly Knitshade prong of it I was handed the holy stones of St Sepulchre-without-Newgate for the line:

“When will you pay me?” said the Bells of Old Bailey”

A question in wool and wire

A soaring four-pointed church on the corner of Holborn Viaduct and Giltspur Street, St Sepulchre has been strutting its sacred stuff since 1450. It suffered a bit of scorching in the Great Fire of 1666 but has generally stood up to a whole lot of London history ever since.

It used to stand opposite the City’s nefarious Newgate Prison. From 1606 every night before an execution the bellman of the church would trudge through a dark tunnel between the prison and the church. At the prison he would ring on his handbell 12 times and recite:

“All you that in the condemned hold do lie,
Prepare you, for tomorrow you shall die;
Watch all and pray, the hour is drawing near
That you before the Almighty must appear;
Examine well yourselves, in time repent,
That you may not to eternal flames be sent:
And when St. Sepulchre’s bell tomorrow tolls,
The Lord above have mercy on your souls.
Past twelve o’clock!”

A journey of fruity justice was in order…

Caught: Bitter Burglar Lemon and Policeman Peeler Orange

Considered: Beady-eyed Barrister Orange and Heartless Hangman Lemon

Condemned: All-is-Forgiven Angelic Orange and Dastardly Devilled Lemon

The Plaintive: The Bells want their money back

Throw them all together and I formed an unlikely crew. The Flying Fruits of Justice we ready to take to the air. Stand back.

Witness the Flying Fruits of Justice

The citrus criminals and their chasers took the air in the shadow of St Sepulchre. They bobbed quietly in the London wind and reminded passing Londoners of a little bit of history.

Floating fruity fellows

A hanging history

Another fine knitblast in honour of my lovely London. I disappeared back into my stitching shadows imagining the ghosts of condemned Newgate prisoners gazing out of the windows of a phantom prison upon a church bedecked with dancing fancy-dress fruit. They probably would have killed for a bit of citrus fruit right then. Which is possibly what got them in there in the first place…

Confession is good for the soul

We all suffer moments of graffiti knitting mourning, when the lamp post you adorned is bare once more, when the railing you wrapped is dull and knitless.

It is in these moments that you wonder why. You wonder why and you wonder where. Is Mothra living under a bridge spending his nights as a hobo’s pillow? Do the dust mites lurk beneath the bed of a burglar? Will the dragonfly become part of a passing light-fingered fisherman’s careful plans to catch the one-eyed pike that has always eluded him?

A dark wondering place blossoms in your heart.

And out of this dark and wondering place your horror takes form…

And a Ghostmouse is born.

He's alive I tell you!

My Ghostmouse was melancholy and sorrowful and sullen from being kept in a special chamber for the safety of society.

Quid pro quo, Clarice

He liked his cheese bitter and blue. Yet he had such skinny ribs.

Heartless

He never ever said a word. He simply stared and stared.

Oh god...I think he sees us...

He was nothing like his brother, the grey mouse.

Evil twin

He took his place in the Memorial of Melancholy in small yet stony silence.

Ghostmouse memorialised

Who knows what he is pondering...

He is out there now. Somewhere in the city. Free to scuttle where his skelebones please.

The Ghostmouse doesn’t like you.

A hard Ghostmouse stare

Steal him if you dare.

Please note: Deadly Knitshade is not legally responsible for any damages the Ghostmouse will cause resulting in financial troubles, mental or physical trauma or loss of life. This does not affect your statutory rights.

So when the rest of the Knit the City Yarn Corps and I sat down to bring to life (and all kinds of death) our Web of Woe, I knew very well that sacrifices had to be made to the hungry stitched Spider.

I set about knitting my offerings…

The faintly disturbing Mothra

A freaked out dragonfly

Some Totoro tribute dust sprites

Amongst these offerings I made a mouse. He was a mouse of skinny arms, of beady eyes, of flappy feet and pink ears. He was trusting, he was soft and pudgy, he had no idea what fate awaited him.

A small and unsuspecting mouse

To make sure there was no escape I tangled them all in woolly web for the big day. They began to suspect something was not right…

A set of sacrifices

The day of Yarnstorm the Fourth arrived. The six members of the Knit the City Yarn Corps gathered. We approached the target. We yarnstormed Waterloo’s Leake Street tunnel with our Web of Woe.

The woolly Web of Woe

Mothra bewebbed

Flightless dragonfly

The dust sprites find a friend before the end

The mouse peered up with his shiny trusting eyes as I drew him from the bag of knitblast. I hardened my heart, tied him in place and I walked away.

Don't leave me!

Walking away from beasts you have nurtured on your needles is akin to stabbing out bits of your heart with a sharpened DPN. Walk away I did though. Leaving my woolly victims to the felt fangs of their captor. Deadly Knitshade is a heartless yarnstormer to be sometimes…

Returning to the scene of our sneaky stitching that evening the Yarn Corps were horrified to catch knit graffiti theives in the act of stealing! They held, in their grubby yarn stealing paws, not only our spider but my horrified and lately abandoned mouse. Indignant I snatched him back from his abductors. The mouse was saved. He trembled quietly in my hand as I ferried him back to the web.

Return to the web

I looked at my mouse. He looked up at me with his beady eyes.

The spider did without his rodent-flavoured pudding. My mouse and I went to the pub. There he recounted his tale and we made amends over beer and a packet of Mini Cheddars. Perhaps the heart of Deadly Knitshade is not so dark after all.

Forgiveness

The Web of Woe has (I am told) now disappeared from the Leake Street tunnel, not 24 hours after it was weaved.

My mouse, sole survivor of the Web, has been relocated until it is time for his testimony to be heard. He lives under an assumed name. Last I heard he was sailing down the Thames aboard a fine floating vessel.

I wish him all the best.

Read the full Knit the City Web of Woe tale here.

Four iconic London sights.

Four chances to knitblast four iconic London sights.

While Nelson isn't looking

Stop four. The final stop. Trafalgar Square under the watchful gaze of Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson and his four lions.

South-East Lion: Gawd blimey I wish these bleedin’ tourists would stop clambering about on me ‘ead. I sit ‘ere all day guardin’ the Vice Admiral and what thanks do I get, ay? Day in, day aht bleedin’ tourists drippin’ ice cream on me barnet. ‘ang about! Woss goin’ on over there? Oi, you! Girlie!

Deadly Knitshade: Umm. Me?

*quickly stands in front of knitblast*

South-East Lion: You know very well I mean you, sunshine. What the bloody ‘ell do you think you’re playin’ at with that pink and blue thing?

Deadly Knitshade: It’s knitting. I’m… errrr… decorating.

*steps out of the way and waves hands at knitblast in hopefully enticing manner*

South-East Lion: Decorrrrating, she says! With a bit of knitting? Would you Adam and Eve it? This is Trafalgar Square, young lady. Not your ‘ouse!

Punk purling going underground

Deadly Knitshade: But it’s Worldwide Knit in Public Day…

*looks at feet*

South-East Lion: I don’t care if it’s Worldwide Pull the Wool Over the bloomin’ Queen Muvver (gawd rest ‘er soul) Day. You get that pink and blue two and eight orf there! That’s the Charring Cross tube station entrance, you toerag!

*Deadly Knitshade looks up with a slightly evil glint in eyes*

Deadly Knitshade: Make me.

South-East Lion: You cheeky bugger!

Deadly Knitshade: *blows raspberry*

South-East Lion: If I wasn’t currently covered in over-excited Japanese tourists makin’ peace signs at the camera I’d bite yer ‘ead off!

Deadly Knitshade: Happy Worldwide Knit in Public Day!

*runs away*

South-East Lion: Oi! Get back ‘ere! *sighs* Bloomin’ graffiti knitters. Back in my day knittin’ stayed in the ‘ome. Admiral Nelson’s gonna ‘ave me guts for garters…

Angry background lion

(A little help for those who don’t speak English English)

Four iconic London sights.

Four chances to knitblast four iconic London sights.

The London Eye will look out for you...

Stop Three. The London Eye and the Millenium Bridge.

Pink Furry Knitting: So we’re going sightseeing, eh? Yay! How exciting! In Central London, you say?

Deadly Knitshade: Yup. Central London. I’ll take you to see the London Eye if you like.

Pink Furry Knitting: Really? The London Eye? Wow!

Deadly Knitshade: And Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. The government lives there, you know.

Pink Furry Knitting: The government! Big Ben! Woo hoo! Maybe I’ll get to hear him chime! Like on the news at New Year.

Deadly Knitshade: You might. And if you’re really good I’ll take you to the Millenium Bridge to look at the River Thames too.

Pink Furry Knitting: Gosh! That’s ever so nice of you.

Deadly Knitshade: Ah, don’t mention it.

Pink Furry Knitting: And…you won’t leave me there will you?

Deadly Knitshade: What do you mean?

Pink Furry Knitting: Well, I sort of noticed that when you’ve taken some of my woolly siblings out. Well…

Deadly Knitshade: Go on…

Pink Furry Knitting: Well, they… *lowers voice* …haven’t come home.

Deadly Knitshade: I told you where they were. Didn’t I?

Pink Furry Knitting: *mumbling* You said they got stolen by pigeons.

Deadly Knitshade: What was that? Speak up. What did I tell you?

Pink Furry Knitting: They got stolen by pigeons.

Deadly Knitshade: Exactly. But you don’t have to worry. I spent hours making you. I wouldn’t just abandon you and let a pigeon steal you. Now would I? Hmm? *tickles knitting under chin* Hmm?

Pink Furry Knitting: *giggling* Hee hee. No. Of course not. Silly, silly me…

Hello? Hello...?

*sound of pigeon wings flapping and clawed feet landing on the railing of Millenium Bridge*

*darkness*

Four iconic London sights.

Four chances to knitblast four iconic London sights.

A crochet flower by any other name would smell like wool...

Stop two. The cool echoey artiness of the Tate Modern Turbine Hall.

Deadly Knitshade: I need to crochet a flower.

Bluestocking Stitcher: Ok.

Deadly Knitshade: I have no idea how to crochet.

Bluestocking Stitcher: Oh…I could show you.

Deadly Knitshade: Yay! Thanks.

(times passes)

Deadly Knitshade: I put the hook where now?

Bluestocking Stitcher: Through this part.

Deadly Knitshade: Oh.

(times passes)

Deadly Knitshade: So the hook goes…

Bluestocking Stitcher: There. Where I showed you last time.

Deadly Knitshade: Oh.

(time passes)

Deadly Knitshade: Can I just ask…

Bluestocking Stitcher: Would you like me to finish it for you?

Deadly Knitshade: *beams* I owe you cake.

Four iconic London sights.

Four chances to knitblast four iconic London sights.

That's which Bridge?

Stop one. Tower Bridge. Not London Bridge. Tower Bridge.

Tourist: “Excuse me. We’re looking for the London Bridge. Is that the London Bridge?”

Londoner: “No, that’s Tower Bridge. London Bridge is that way.”

*points in direction of London Bridge*

Tourist: “And that building over there? Is that the London Tower? It doesn’t look like a tower. It’s kind of small.”

Londoner: “That’s the Tower of London. The crown jewels live there. And some ravens. If the ravens leave then the White Tower, the monarchy, and the entire kingdom will fall. They’re holding up a whole lot of things, those ravens.”

Tourist: “So this is the Tower of London Bridge?”

Londoner: “No, it’s Tower Bridge. London Bridge is still that way.”

*points in direction of London Bridge*

Londoner: “But the original London Bridge is in Arizona.”

*points in direction of Arizona*

Tourist: “You guys sure do drink a lot of tea.”

Londoner: “You’ll have to excuse me. I feel I’m going to involuntarily wrap something in knitting now.”

*runs away*

This week I think we outdid ourselves. The police-swarmed environs of Parliament Square held no fear for us. Well, okay, that’s a lie. There was fear, but it was good fear. The kind of fear you get when you yarnstorm a phonebox in one of the most patrolled and CCTVed areas of London.

One very yarnstormed phonebox and Big Ben

Not even the local constabulary are willing to stand in the way of wrapping something in the most inoffensive of street artforms. You could almost see memories of grannies, shortbread biscuits, knee-length ‘trousers’, and the clicking of needles by the fireside in their eyes.

I live and knitblast in a city that is made for turning a blind eye so its citizens can colour stuff a little kooky.

I utterly love London.