u/OtisIsEverywhere

Honestly I don't know how much longer I can go on waiting for England Burns.

I'm trying to be patient because obviously James can't be rushed. The man is a genius and you don't just expect genius to operate on a normal human timetable.

But fuck me James, it's been a while.

I still listen to Onwards and Upwards and think “how is he possibly going to top this?” and then I remember we're talking about James Hargreaves here. If anyone can do it, it's the man who has apparently decided that the entire British music industry needs to wait patiently for his next masterpiece.

And that's what makes this wait so difficult.

You just KNOW he's somewhere right now, working on something that is going to completely redefine music as we know it.

Meanwhile I'm checking for england burns news like an absolute idiot every five minutes. Im so sick of James edging us like this.

I genuinely need this album.

James, please.

I know genius can't be rushed.

I know art of this magnitude takes time.

I know England Burns will presumably change the course of British music forever.

But could you maybe hurry the fuck up?

I'm suffering here.

Was just thinking its been quite a while since Hellmode, has there been any news or updates about a new record?

So I bumped into James at Warwick Services yesterday and I'm still not convinced the whole thing actually happened.

He was exactly as you'd expect at first. Lovely bloke. We chatted about the Oasis reunion for ten minutes. He somehow identified the year of an Oasis t-shirt a bloke walked past was wearing just from the shade of blue on the logo. Normal Rev behaviour.

Then, completely without warning, he grabbed my forearm.

Not aggressively.

Urgently.

He looked me dead in the eyes and quietly asked,

"Have you been watching The Traitors?"

I said I had.

He closed his eyes and nodded.

"So you've seen it too."

I said I'd mostly been paying attention to who was getting murdered.

He looked disappointed.

"The fringe, man."

I laughed.

He didn't.

"The fringe doesn't move."

I said, "Well... she's indoors."

He just smiled in the way you smile at a child who's proudly told you the moon is made of cheddar.

"That's what they want you to think."

He reached into his backpack.

I assumed it would be a notebook about Oasis.

Instead he produced an expanding concertina folder almost six inches thick.

Across the front, in block capitals, it read:

THE WINKLEMAN DOSSIER

He laid it across the Costa table with the sort of reverence normally reserved for the Dead Sea Scrolls.

Inside were hundreds—hundreds—of printed screenshots from The Traitors, Strictly, The Piano, Would I Lie To You?, and seemingly every public appearance Claudia Winkleman has made since about 2010.

Every single one had handwritten notes.

"Observe."

He pointed at one from The Traitors.

"Scottish Highlands. Wind speed approximately twenty-two miles an hour."

Another.

"Castle courtyard. Side-on rain."

Another.

"Open doorway."

He looked up.

"Nothing."

I wasn't sure what I was looking for.

"Movement."

I said I thought it looked like hair.

"It wants you to."

At this point I realised I was no longer talking to James Hargreaves.

I was talking to a man who had willingly disappeared down a tunnel from which there was no return.

The Rev continued.

"I've slowed every episode down to a quarter speed."

I asked why.

"I thought I saw a lift."

"A lift?"

"Three frames."

He held up three fingers.

"I nearly had it."

"What happened?"

He looked genuinely heartbroken.

"She turned her head."

There was a long silence while he stirred his coffee without drinking it.

Eventually he muttered,

"She's very good."

He wasn't talking about the presenting.

He was talking about evading him.

I made the mistake of asking how long he'd been working on this.

He leaned back.

"It started as a weekend."

Then he stared into the middle distance.

"Weekends are funny things."

He admitted he'd watched every episode of The Traitors without audio because "the dialogue introduces bias."

He'd built what he called "a fringe stability index."

He claimed to have "eliminated humidity as a variable."

He lowered his voice.

"I've contacted a trichologist."

"What did they say?"

"They stopped replying."

Apparently he'd also written to the BBC.

Twice.

Not accusing anyone of anything.

"Just asking questions."

What questions?

"The usual."

There was no follow-up.

He genuinely believed that was a complete answer.

At one point he became distracted by a woman walking past with a black bob haircut.

His entire body tensed.

He watched her disappear into WHSmith before relaxing.

"False alarm."

I didn't ask.

I didn't want to know what would have happened if it hadn't been a false alarm.

Eventually it was time to leave.

As we walked to the car park, I noticed the boot of his car was open.

There were three neatly labelled storage crates.

OASIS

OASIS (BACKUP)

FRINGE

I pointed at the last one.

Without a trace of embarrassment, St James smiled.

"That's the archive."

I asked if anyone else had seen it.

"Oh yes."

"And what do they think?"

He thought for a moment.

"They say I've become obsessed."

"Have you?"

He looked genuinely offended.

"No."

A pause.

"I'm obsessed with finding the truth."

Then he got into his car, put on Acquiesce, and drove away.

As he pulled out of the services, I noticed a laminated sticker in the rear window.

It wasn't an Oasis quote.

It simply read:

THE HAIR WILL SLIP.

YOU JUST HAVE TO BE READY.

Have not seen him around these parts for a while. Always used to enjoy his Sunday Sermons, announcements and prophecies. Anyone know where he's gone?