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 The pieces were no advert for the local tourist board Here the ghosts of murderers & mad artists crawl the streets Septuagenarian rent boys recall the good old days & Carry On stars go to seed Clandestine fascist networks emerge & all the time there is Seabrook himself
- desperate perhaps & in danger Dark strange & immediate this is a classic work of sui generis British literature There are devils here & the reader will remember them