I'm in London, and I'm not sure what I'm doing. I've got a video camera and I'm filming nothing in particular, as is proved when I stop for a cup of coffee and look at the footage I've shot so far. It's just buildings, streets, people. It's exactly what I've seen. The trouble is that what I think I'm seeing bears little relation to what I'm actually seeing. Fascinated by a brief mention of Piranesi in Peter Ackroyd's 'The House of Doctor Dee', I boarded the train to London seeking an imaginary prison, a labyrinth of half-hidden treasures, thronged with mysteries and illuminated by an invisible lace of past events. I've got my worn copy of the A-Z and a guidebook to London published in 1911, a notebook filled with mostly monosyllabic words transcribed (with some difficulty) from the tags that decorate the city, and I've got this fucking video camera. The camera is the problem, and it takes me a day to realise it. It's not reality that I'm looking for. It goes back in my bag, and I stand at the edge of Ludgate Circus, staring at the vehicles dancing on the yellow diamonds painted on the wet tarmac. Since I started drawing little weeping minotaurs I've been trying to find the maze. Hours of study and several journeys to famous mazes have ultimately led me here; to London. London is the labyrinth, the miz-maze, the original troy town. My 1911 guidebook takes me all over the city, seeking markers and signifiers. I'm briefly elated to find the London Stone, embedded not in a church any longer, but in the wall of a shop selling trainers. A tourist bus glides past, a phalanx of cameras recording my confusion at being surprised on my knees on the pavement, apparently worshipping the foundations of the sports shop. This isn't the last time that my secret discoveries turn out to be items on the tourist itinerary. London has been exhaustively mapped and documented many times before. I'm trying to make work that will decribe the Radiohead record that will eventually be called 'Amnesiac'. The figure of the weeping minotaur, a cursed monster condemned to live and die in a subterranean labyrinth, is my guide. I want to make the walls of the maze, to daub and scratch the frustrations of the monster in the cage. My plotless, aimless perambulations in the city are decided by subconscious decisions; left, left, straight ahead, right... Everywhere now I'm finding traces of the minotaur's path, from Smithfield, where the bulls were herded from Bartholemew's Fair, along Giltspur Street, past the Old Bailey, down Fleet Street, up Cornhill... The tags of grafitti writers echo in my head as I stare out at the Thames from Cousin Lane. And I've overdone it all, as usual. I've read a lot of what's been written about London, from the history of economic systems that support the wealthy to the rumours of man-eating pigs roaming the sewers. But this time I've tried to stay out of the culture warehouses, the museums and galleries. The difficulty of working in the way I tend to is that the various fictions and theories I absorb solidify into a sort of cognitive concrete inside my skull, and after a while I can't distinguish fact from invention. They sacrifice children to stop the bridges from falling down. St Paul's stands on an ancient Druidic site. There are Underground stations far below the ones we know to service a subterranean train system in the event of nuclear war. All I want to do is make representations of the walls that imprisoned the minotaur, the child of Queen Pasiphaë and the white bull, gift of Poseidon. Also a film. I'm going to make a film of a man running through London, possessed by the spirit of the minotaur, chased by his own imagination from Smithfield to the waves lapping the tiny shore at Cousin Lane... What I don't know now is that this film will be made (one freezing winter day in the City), that I and the hastily-assembled crew will almost be arrested by the City of London's private police force (having been surveilled by CCTV since we began filming) and that the film will later be utterly lost, never to resurface. The paintings also get made, and despite a quirky existence (transported by rickshaw; exhibited briefly in a derelict warehouse; stored for a few years in a corner of a factory in a remote industrial estate) are eventually, via a brief stay in my haunted dancehall of a studio, displayed on this website and in Spain, a country well-known for bull-fighting.