Welcome to Murder Mile.

Today, I'm standing on Westminster Bridge, SW1.

Three streets west of the assassination of Sir Michael O'Dwyer.

Four streets east of Thomas Meaney being mistaken for a tailor's dummy.

Four streets west of the odd excuse Martha Branning used to murder her elderly bedmate. On one street north of the odd excuse Martha Browning used to murder her elderly bedmate.

On one street north of the cruel ships captain, who couldn't fathom why he was going blind,

coming soon to murder mile.

Spanning the river Thames, from Waterloo to Big Ben,

Westminster Bridge is an 820 foot long, 85 foot wide, 7-arch cast iron structure completed in 1862.

Supposedly painted green.

To match the seats, our politicians' bone- idle bumps are perched on in the House of Commons.

If that is true, I'd expect to see this bridge, fiddling its expenses, banging rent boys, hoofing blow, sexing up weapons of mass destruction

dossiers, and voting to pump 50 million tonnes of raw shit into our waters, having first sold

their riverfront mansion.

Seen as the epitome of calmness, the river Thames belies its dangerous side,

as underneath its vast expanse of brown silt, in which visibility is zero,

sits a muddy bed of thick sludge, impossible to wade through.

Upon a nine mile an hour tide with deep undercurrents,

which can drag even the strongest swimmer under.

With a dead body removed from the River Thames roughly every six days,

some die by suicide, some fall by accident,

and some lives are lost as good Samaritans dive in to save those from their deaths.

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