The Angel Highbury (Ignis)

[Alan Moore]
Freed by remembering them, Highbury's ghosts teem from its boulevards, a multitude of voices.

And everyone’s forgiven! Jack the Hat is dancing with the liberated suffragettes, their blouse fronts stiff with vomit. Chang and Eng light fireworks.

Oscar Wilde helps burn down St John's Priory, while Coleridge does the chemist's. Everybody’s singing!

And Highbury's on fire with resurrection! PoNaNa's becomes Epona's, where the goddess blasts up from the earth upon her graveyard mare to ride the glorious avenues.

The Arsenal side of 1925 gulp down their courage pills and organise a friendly with a team of Pepper's phantoms. Joe Meek kisses Namatar the Man-Frog, who turns into Heinz, as Telstar passes overhead!

A pantomime finish, with Dick Whittington. While Leotard the acrobat performs, Crowley conducts the chorus!

And up above them all, the Angel Highbury stands a thousand feet tall, with her pinions fanned from Hampstead to Stoke Newington. Her robe is stitched together from the tattered cover fronts of pulp science fiction magazines, erupting from the Fantasy Book Centre in Holloway Road. Her hair is woven from the blazing priory, long curls of flame caught in the wind that writhes about her face, a beacon fire against the sharp November dark. She towers above the cinemas and chip shops, lights them from above with white sparks dripping from her wings. Crushingly beautiful, and there because we say she is. She rises, lifts into the galaxy like the last notes of "Telstar", all of Highbury's ghosts saved at her breast. Exultant, shining, she ascends at last to take her place amongst the faultless constellations.

[Whispering voices]
Constellations x10