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Hemmed in in what feels like a most godless space behind the Centrepoint tower, the church of St Giles-in-the-fields is where, in the fifteenth century, condemned men en route to be hanged on the gallows at Tyburn (down the far end off Oxford Street; it would make a great deal of sense to me if the site was where Primark is now) were allowed to stop by for a bowl of ale. After this run of four gigs in four days I was feeling pretty much dead on my feet myself; a warm can of lager from the off-license over the road was the best I could manage for succour though. Read the rest of this entry »