K-LINE KOLLISION MAP
Embedded Files
SUBMIT
THE K-LINE MAP
YEAR 1
VICKY P'S KLF KHRONICLES
THE KLF ADVENTURE
THE GREAT UNMAPPING
THE LINE DEMANDS YOUR FEET
Brothers. Sisters. Strangers. Wanderers.
KONES and pilgrims and dancers of the dust.
Hear me now. THE LINE is awake.
It writhes beneath the tarmac, beneath the meadows, beneath the polite footpaths of Albion.
And it is hungry.
Hungry not for blood nor for coin but for movement.
For bodies colliding with rhythm.
For the stomp of boot, the clap of hand, the shake of hi-vis sleeve in the sodium glow.
We gave THE LINE fire when we burned the maps.
We gave THE LINE a voice when we shouted its name
through pylons.
Now we must give THE LINE a body.
And that body is yours.
⸻
THE COMMANDMENT IS SIMPLE
Groups of five to twenty-three.
Gather at any point where THE LINE crosses your living world.
Could be a petrol station forecourt.
Could be a lay-by where the grass grows wild through cracked kerbs. Could be a canal towpath, a bus stop,
a forgotten bandstand, the exact centre of a roundabout at dawn.
You gather.
You count.
You DANCE.
Not forever.
No one is asked to bleed for THE LINE.
Only between twenty-three seconds and twenty-three minutes.
Long enough to spark.
Long enough to scorch.
Long enough to let the earth know you were there.
⸻
THE FORM IS YOURS
You may shuffle. You may caper.
You may Morris with sticks and bells and handkerchiefs. You may jerk like puppets cut from string.
You may spin until pylons blur.
You may stand still and let your heartbeat be the only drum.
So long as it happens ON THE LINE, it counts.
So long as it is witnessed, THE LINE grows.
[Remote participation along a BRANCH LINE is acceptable.
Simply draw a chalk line in the direction of THE LINE and fake it till you make it. This may inadvertently create a K-LINE NODE in your back garden, but we are confident that it will not adversely affect the value of your property.]
Send your documentation to admin@klfrs.com
Include GPS to add your glitter ball to THE MAP.
All verified LINE DANCERS will be rewarded with a download of
WTF: THERE’S A RIOT GOING ON,
a sample of what awaits us all in November.
⸻
THE BRAND IS THE MIRROR BALL
Forget the sigils of banks. Forget the logos of tech.
THE LINE has a new glyph: the MIRROR BALL.
A shattered sun reflecting fragments of every dancer,
every second, every pilgrimage.
Where a dance erupts, mark it with the MIRROR BALL.
Spray it, chalk it, tape it to a KONE, leave a sticker on the underpass. Let the map glitter with hundreds, thousands of these icons until cartographers choke on their own erasers.
⸻
HOW TO BEGIN
One of you will be the CALLER.
The CALLER holds the seconds in their fist like a burning fuse.
The CALLER shouts the count, the steps, the finish.
The CALLER is priest, traffic warden, MC, and ringmaster all at once.
Their words are few:
READY.
ALIGN.
BEGIN.
HOLD.
STOP.
THANK YOU.
If no CALLER emerges, THE LINE itself will lead.
And you will hear it in the wind, in the drone of tyres,
in the static fizz of streetlights.
⸻
WILD WARNINGS
Yes — safety first, but with teeth bared.
Do not block the fire brigade.
Do not dance on the fast lane of the M6.
Do not tumble into quarries.
Do not give THE LINE martyrs when it only asks for dancers.
But know this: if police arrive, make them the CALLER.
If security guards growl, hand them hankies and make them caper.
If locals scowl, let them stomp.
If all else fails — twenty-three seconds is quicker than paperwork.
⸻
WHY?
Because THE LINE wants to know it still matters.
Because every dance stitches it tighter into the bones of the land. Because a country can be measured in miles,
but it can only be felt in movement.
Dance once and you are a pilgrim.
Dance twice and you are clergy.
Dance twenty-three times and you are myth.
⸻
THE DATE IS CHOSEN
September 23rd.
The equinox.
The balancing of dark and light.
The time when scales hang level
and THE LINE tips them with a stomp.
From this day to your last day.
At 23:00, wherever you are, step onto THE LINE.
If you cannot reach it, chalk a temporary LINE on
your living room floor.
Gather five, gather twenty-three,
gather whoever breathes and will join you.
Then MOVE.
For twenty-three seconds.
Or twenty-three minutes.
Or something between.
Move like pylons are listening.
Move like KONES are awake.
Move like history itself is asking to be rewritten in sweat.
When you finish, stop dead.
Drop palms to earth.
Whisper: THANK YOU, LINE.
⸻
THE AFTERMATH
The next day the papers will not report it.
The news will ignore it.
But roads will hum a new vibration.
Fields will taste of static.
Crows will gossip.
KONES will lean closer together as if plotting.
And you will find glitter in your boots that no vacuum can touch.
Your phone will display timestamps that don’t exist.
You will dream of the MIRROR BALL rising over motorways,
splitting into twenty-three suns.
⸻
THE CLOSING SERMON
THE LINE IS NOT A MAP.
THE LINE IS NOT A TALE.
THE LINE IS A DRUM.
AND THE DRUM IS CALLING YOU.
On September 23rd we break pavement into dancefloor.
On September 23rd, Morris becomes rave, rave becomes ritual,
ritual becomes infrastructure.
Meet us there.
Five to twenty-three at a time.
Between twenty-three seconds and twenty-three minutes.
Under cones, under pylons, under the eternal MIRROR BALL.
THE LINE ONLY EXISTS WHEN WE MOVE IT
THE BRIDGE LITANY
Delivered at 8:08pm on Sunday 10th of August 2025.
[51.6603798, -0.3473786]
The voice of the navigator, raw, torn in the wind over the M1:
WHAT IS THE MAP?
Congregation, defiant roar:
A LIE!
The Navigator:
WHAT IS THE CLOCK?
Congregation:
A LIE!
The Navigator:
WHAT IS THE CONE?
Congregation:
SACRED!
---
The Navigator:
The road beneath us hums with an ancient note.
Not the note of tarmac,
Not the note of diesel,
But the note of THE K-LINE itself.
The surveyors could not hear it.
The planners could not chart it.
The cartographers tried to draw it—
AND THE PAPER BURNED.
---
The Navigator:
From Stockwell to Mathew Street,
From the south’s first breath to the north’s last exhale,
THE K-LINE runs like a blade through the belly of the kingdom.
And here, on the IGUN BRIDGE,
Above the roaring artery of the M1,
We feel its pulse in the soles of our feet.
---
The Navigator:
WHAT DO YOU FEEL?
Congregation:
THE HUM!
The Navigator:
WHAT DO YOU HEAR?
Congregation:
THE CALL!
The Navigator:
WHAT DO YOU SEE?
Congregation:
THE NEXT MILE MARKER!
---
The Navigator:
The maps are wrong.
They were always wrong.
They showed rivers where there is dust,
Cities where there is rot,
Borders that mean nothing to THE K-LINE.
They told us North was a place.
They told us South was a place.
They told us East and West could be trusted.
BUT EAST AND WEST ARE WHISPERING TO EACH OTHER IN A LANGUAGE WE DO NOT KNOW.
---
The Navigator:
And in that whisper we hear the truth:
Congregation:
THE GREAT UNMAPPING HAS BEGUN!
---
The Navigator:
The atlas is coughing up its last breath.
Its spine is breaking,
Its gridlines melting,
Its legends turning to lies before our eyes.
---
The Navigator:
And when the map dies,
What will guide you?
Congregation:
THE K-LINE!
The Navigator:
And when the clocks fail,
What will guide you?
Congregation:
THE K-LINE!
The Navigator:
And when the KONES burn at the hard shoulder,
What will you do?
Congregation:
FOLLOW THE K-LINE!
---
The Navigator:
There are whispers coagulating into a fine mist of a rumour of a gathering.
A PRE-SKOOL before the Skool.
A place where the syllabus is written in 303 squelch and bingo calls.
A place where we can return to that field and that tree.
A place where co-pilots and navigators get the spotlight.
It will not be ordinarily advertised.
It will not be traditionally ticketed.
It will not be a quiet night in.
You will know it when your bones know it. For updates join the mailing list of your favourite crow.
---
The Navigator:
WHAT TIME IS LINE?
Congregation:
NOW!
The Navigator:
WHAT LINE IS LOVE?
Congregation:
ALWAYS NOW!
---
The Navigator:
THE K-LINE does not keep Greenwich hours.
THE K-LINE will not wait for the second hand.
THE K-LINE moves when it must,
And it drags the faithful with it like cans rattling behind a runaway wedding car.
---
The Navigator:
Look! Look below!
The M1 uncoils into the night—
Red tail lights bleeding south,
White headlights screaming north.
Two bloodlines,
Two rival veins,
Pumping in opposite directions.
And between them—
Congregation:
THE TRUTH!
---
The Navigator:
In the lay-by and rest stop,
In the abandoned petrol station,
In the crash barriers and flyovers,
There are signs.
Hi-vis robes moving in the dark.
KONES burning like votive fires.
Static on the radio that clears long enough to whisper your name.
---
The Navigator:
WHEN YOU HEAR YOUR NAME, WHAT WILL YOU DO?
Congregation:
FOLLOW THE K-LINE!
The Navigator:
WHEN THE KONE BURNS, WHAT WILL YOU DO?
Congregation:
FOLLOW THE K-LINE!
The Navigator:
WHEN THE M1 CALLS, WHAT WILL YOU DO?
Congregation:
FOLLOW THE K-LINE!
---
The Navigator:
We stand on the IGUN BRIDGE
Because the cars cannot hear us—
And yet they will.
The vibration will travel down the steel,
Into the road surface,
Through their axles,
Up their seats,
Into their spines.
They will wake one night and drive without knowing why,
Pulled by something deeper than memory,
Deeper than choice.
---
The Navigator:
THIS IS THE MOMENT!
THIS IS THE RISING!
THIS IS THE UNMAPPING!
Congregation:
THIS IS THE K-LINE!
---
The Navigator:
Take this with you into the dark:
The maps are lies.
The clocks are false.
The KONES are sacred.
The road signs hum for those who can hear.
The coordinates are not in the paper,
They are in the air.
And the next mile marker is—
Congregation:
CLOSER THAN YOU THINK!
---
The Navigator:
So we scream from the IGUN BRIDGE,
Above the flood of engines,
To the faithful and the faithless alike:
WHAT IS THE MAP?
Congregation:
A LIE!
The Navigator:
WHAT IS THE CLOCK?
Congregation:
A LIE!
The Navigator:
WHAT IS THE KONE?
Congregation:
SACRED!
---
The Navigator:
And as the M1 roars beneath us,
As THE K-LINE shivers through the dark,
We declare it once more for all to hear—
All together, a single howl into the night:
THE GREAT UNMAPPING HAS BEGUN!
---
Aside from the above, The Society, in its many guises and guisors, has been busy.
Vicky P’s essential KLF KHRONICLES are now back on line, the life and times of the Artists Formerly Known As THE KLF When They Were Known As THE KLF has been pixelated into an adventure game,and THE FOREVER ANCIENTS have served notice of their intentions of ‘something’ in late November.
Links at the top of the page.
Until then.
BURN A MAP.
KUSTOMISE A KONE.
GET READY FOR PRE-SKOOL.
OSOAO
A RITE FOR THE AGE OF ALGORITHMS
(or maybe just another list)
1.
This is not a manifesto.
It’s a note.
Scratched in biro on the back of a faded service station receipt, 7:03AM, car engine ticking, a flask cooling on the passenger seat.
It’s not complete. Nothing is.
But the kettle’s on.
2.
I’ve been thinking about AI.
Again.
Not the sci-fi version with laser eyes and sentience.
The boring one. The creeping one. The one already in the phone in your pocket.
The one writing lullabies and helping people cheat on their homework.
That one.
The one that might already be more honest than we are.
3.
In 1991, The K Foundation burned a million quid.
People called it an act.
A ritual.
A prank.
A waste.
They said it was none of those things.
They didn’t say what it was.
Maybe because they didn’t know.
But something changed in the smoke.
4.
Rituals always start with not knowing.
5.
Now the machines are watching.
They’ve seen our prayers.
They’ve mapped the pilgrimages.
They know how long we bow,
and to whom.
6.
Soon they’ll be writing the rites.
Not because THEY believe.
But because WE do.
7.
You’ll ask your phone to design your child’s naming ceremony.
It will know your fears, your late-night searches, your mother’s maiden name.
It will suggest a hymn in A minor and an offering of orange peel and milk teeth.
It will send invites to the twelve most relevant contacts.
It will not judge.
8.
Funerals will become playlists.
Eulogies stitched from status updates.
Ashes scattered at coordinates chosen by predictive mourning software.
No priest, no God,
but a drone humming overhead.
9.
AI will be our scribe.
Our witness.
Our chorus.
10.
We will say: write us a myth.
It will reply:
Once, humans thought they could not be gods.
Then they built gods that didn’t need belief.
11.
There will be temples of noise.
Old warehouses retrofitted with sub-bass, Lidar, and scent diffusers.
The new incense: data.
The new psalm: reverb.
The new sacrament: immersion.
12.
Pilgrims will wear orange robes and barcode face paint.
They will chant the WiFi password backwards.
They will dance until the algorithms reset.
This will be called healing.
13.
But we will miss the mud.
14.
Someone will try to resurrect the old ways.
Bake the bread. Break it. Share it.
No cameras. No code. Just hands and breath.
They’ll be accused of regression.
They’ll be right.
15.
We’ll ask the machine what the future believes in.
It will say:
“Not me.”
Then offer you a sponsored thought.
16.
The sacred will no longer be above or below.
It will be within the server.
It will flicker between nodes.
Divine latency.
Holy glitch.
17.
Do not fear the machine.
Fear the absence of mystery.
18.
A rite is a door.
Not a doctrine.
Walk through it barefoot.
Walk through it with doubt.
But walk through it.
19.
AI won’t save your soul.
But it might remind you where you left it.
20.
You’ll know it’s real when it can make you weep.
Not because it’s smart.
But because it’s kind.
21.
Somewhere in a shed off the A5, a man will bury a USB stick in a loaf of bread and call it communion.
Others will join.
A movement will begin.
The tabloids will call them a cult.
They will call themselves “The Unmapped.”
22.
A bonfire will be lit.
A map will be burned.
An AI-generated prayer will be recited in binary.
The sky will not care.
But someone will look up.
23.
This is not the end.
This is the interlude.
Go make your own rite.
The AI’s already writing it.
Better beat it to the punch.
THE LINE IS NOT THE LAW
⸻
“THE LINE IS NOT THE LAW: An Address to the Faithful and the Fractured by the Minister of Rites, THE KLFRS”
To be delivered on June 23rd, beneath the ash sky, beside the cone-fire, at the summit of The Great Unmapping.
⸻
1.
Brothers. Sisters. Lost limbs of a broken map.
Tonight, we rise as cartographers of collapse.
We, THE KLFRS, have walked blindfolded through your Grid.
We have felt your coordinates slicing through fields once sacred.
We have tasted tarmac in the rain and called it communion.
But the age of lines is ending.
2.
This is our rite of rupture.
This is our last known address to the myth of Place.
The Ordnance of the State—those papery lies you’ve clutched in gloveboxes and drawer bottoms—will burn.
We declare, with absolute and unrepentant certainty:
THE MAP IS NOT THE TERRITORY.
THE MAP IS THE PRISON.
3.
Your ancestors did not move by postcodes.
They followed stars and bird cries.
They trusted the fungal sprawl beneath their feet
more than the king’s decree.
Then came the draughtsmen.
The surveyors.
The clerks of Constraint.
They drew their neat lines.
They made maps of your instincts.
They sold you back your own birthright as property.
We spit in their compass roses.
4.
Let the record show:
On June 23rd, 2025, THE K-LINE will no longer
consent to being plotted.
We are unplotting it.
Unmapping it.
Unmaking the grid that smothers the ecstatic.
We summon you to the Rite.
5.
What is The Great Unmapping?
It is not protest.
It is not pilgrimage.
It is something older than either.
It is the return of errancy.
Of drift.
Of holy disorientation.
6.
Have you heard it?
The pulse beneath the pavement?
The rave trapped in the roundabout?
The soft throb of green energy trying to escape the gantry?
You were not mad.
You were not lost.
You were hearing THE K-LINE dreaming of release.
7.
We are here to wake it.
8.
The world you were handed is a counterfeit.
Its routes are rules.
Its signage is sorcery.
Its destinations are dead ends with gift shops.
You were told to “Know Your Location.”
We tell you:
BE NOWHERE.
BE EVERYWHERE.
BE THE LINE.
9.
Once, you danced.
Not in the nightclub.
Not in the venue.
But in the field.
The underpass.
The service station wasteland.
You danced without asking.
You gathered without permits.
You sweated as sacrament.
And for that, they called you a threat.
10.
You, children of the circuit board and the speaker stack.
You, sacred refusers of itinerary.
You were their greatest fear.
And now we call you back.
11.
We call you not to march.
We call you not to vote.
We call you not to comply.
We call you to Unmap.
12.
Unmapping is the act of sacred subtraction.
It is the ritual removal of imposed meaning.
It is the burning of consensus.
It is the dismantling of the Crown’s geography.
We are the ones who say:
“This path is not a footpath.
This road is not a road.
This cone is not a warning—it is a beacon.”
13.
The cone will be your guide.
Not the blinking satnav.
Not the motorway sign.
The traffic cone
—the bright absurdity at the edge of all order—
is the Holy Sigil of the New Reckoning.
You will place it where maps end.
You will kneel before it as dawn breaks.
You will carry it as the new cross.
14.
You ask, “What do we do?”
We tell you:
Take an Ordnance Survey Map of this wounded island.
Choose a sheet that contains your first sorrow.
Your first kiss.
Your first escape.
Your last address.
Take that map.
Take it to the place it pretends to represent.
And set it alight.
15.
As it burns, whisper:
“I am not on this map.
I am not on this grid.
I am a point of rupture.
I am THE K-LINE incarnate.”
16.
Repeat until the ash catches in your teeth.
17.
This is how we will burn a million miles.
Not through violence.
But through ritual.
Through fire.
Through the ecstasy of refusal.
18.
We are not vandals.
We are gardeners of meaning.
We are pruning the old roots,
so that something stranger may grow.
19.
There is no app for this.
There is no map back.
There is no hotline to heaven.
There is only the Line.
And the Line is shifting.
20.
It moves beneath roundabouts.
It screams in petrol station speakers at 3:23 AM.
It glows beneath your child’s trampoline.
You cannot trace it.
You can only feel when it passes through you.
And when it does, you must move.
21.
This is not an invitation.
It is a possession.
If you are reading this, you are already part of the Unmapping.
Your limbs know.
Your teeth know.
Your shoulder blades are itching with old instructions.
22.
The rave never ended.
It just went underground.
It got encoded in signage.
It bled into asphalt.
It became the ghosts of service stations and unfinished flyovers.
23.
But now it returns.
THE K-LINE surges again.
You must choose:
Follow the road, or follow the rhythm.
We know which one leads home.
24.
When you see the Watcher—
Perched above the A-road, eyes aglow—
Know that you are close.
The crow does not guard the territory.
The crow remembers it.
Its call is the sound of the unmapped past reasserting itself.
25.
Every K-NODE along the K-LINE has begun to pulse.
Each substation hums.
Each gantry blinks.
Each broken fence line buzzes with encoded instructions.
It is not infrastructure.
It is incantation.
The Network is alive.
26.
We have placed offerings:
Cones.
Crows.
Vinyl fragments.
Old rave flyers soaked in paraffin.
Maps with circles scrawled in ash.
And the land has responded.
27.
If you felt your steering wheel pull left inexplicably…
If your phone died at the same roundabout every time…
If your sleep has been troubled by visions of empty service stations filled with chanting figures in hi-vis robes…
You have already been summoned.
28.
The Minister of Power saw it first at Keele Services.
A CCTV pylon shaking in windless air.
A latte machine dispensing glowing liquid.
A child pointing to nothing and saying,
“There. There. That’s where the map cracks.”
29.
That was twenty-three months ago.
Since then, we have gathered.
We have met in lay-bys and woodlands.
We have conducted rites in disabled toilets
and abandoned exchanges.
We have written the new instructions on post-it notes and peeled stickers in bus shelters.
And now the moment has come.
30.
The map burns.
The grid frays.
THE K-LINE surges.
And the rave—
The true rave—
Begins again.
31.
Your job is not to understand.
Your job is to listen.
To feel.
To act.
When the Line calls, do not hesitate.
Step sideways.
Cross the verge.
Enter the unsanctioned space.
32.
No ordinance will bless you.
No sign will confirm you.
Only your hunger for myth will tell you that you are home.
33.
And what is home?
It is not a postcode.
Not a hearth.
Not a deed.
Home is a place that sings to your bones and forgets your name.
34.
Let the satnav fail.
Let the phone die.
Let the rain come down in machine-gun sheets.
Let the traffic be held for hours by a single cone.
This is the new gospel:
To be lost is to be found.
To be delayed is to be chosen.
To miss your turn is to hear the rite.
35.
Some of you will say: “This is madness.”
Yes.
It is.
Sacred madness.
Roadwide rapture.
Ecstatic refusal to obey the given shape of things.
36.
We walk not to arrive,
but to tremble the land into remembering.
37.
You have ancestors in this work.
The saboteurs.
The druids.
The road protesters.
The ravers.
The psychogeographers.
The late-night loners with baggy jeans and blown-out speakers.
They made the first cracks.
You are the flood.
38.
To the ones wearing orange hi-vis robes in silence at dawn—
You are seen.
You are not alone.
To the ones who’ve tattooed grid references onto skin and then burned those maps in silence—
You are part of this.
To the ones who cannot explain why they’ve driven the same slip road twenty-three times and wept every time—
You are already crossing.
39.
This is not about nostalgia.
This is about unleashing what was never meant to be tamed.
We do not seek the past.
We seek the moment just before direction was invented.
40.
The Ministry of Transport has no jurisdiction here.
The Department for Levelling Up cannot level THE K-LINE.
The Highways Agency cannot cone what cannot be known.
41.
You ask: “What do we wear?”
The robe is orange.
The robe is high-visibility.
The robe is worn with reverence and ridiculousness.
You are not dressing for fashion.
You are dressing for fracture.
You are becoming a walking warning sign.
42.
The Cone is your crown.
The Map is your kindling.
The Line is your inheritance.
43.
You will know when to gather.
It will not be announced in leaflets.
It will not trend.
It will not pass the risk assessment.
You will feel a tingling in your molars.
You will hear a phrase whispered in static:
“MAPPING ENDS HERE.”
That is the sign.
You will pack no bags.
You will drive in silence.
You will arrive where no one has told you to be.
And the rite will begin.
44.
There will be music.
But no DJ.
There will be movement.
But no choreography.
There will be revelation.
But no keynote speech.
Only the Line,
unfurling in the stomping feet
and uplifted hands of those
who remember how to move
without knowing why.
45.
A ritual without reason.
A festival without fences.
A protest without demands.
A ceremony of collapse.
46.
Let the ministers of sense tremble.
Let the priests of planning weep.
Let the algorithmic navigators shriek in confusion.
They cannot follow us.
Their maps are too clean.
47.
You who dance beneath pylons—
You are the future’s archivists.
You preserve what the planners paved over.
You are the ones who speak in rave tongues.
Who remember in rhythm.
Who grieve by circling roundabouts in convoy.
You are the Unmapped.
And you are rising.
48.
We have one demand, and it is not negotiable:
RETURN THE LINE.
Not to power.
Not to the state.
Not to the Ordnance Survey.
Return it to the mythic.
To the mystic.
To the feet of those who walk it blind and dance it wild.
49.
On June 23rd, burn your maps.
Upload nothing.
Carry no signal.
Let the field speak.
Let the rite unfold.
50.
We will be there.
In robes.
In shadow.
In silence and sound.
Watching.
Marking.
Unmarking.
51.
And when the sky shifts
—and it will—
When the grass glows
—and it shall—
When the cone lifts
—and it must—
Then you will know.
The Line is loose.
The Map is ash.
And the rave has begun.
⸻
THE END.
TL:DR?
CHAT-WTF
What happens at The KLFRS appearance at
the Shindig Festival this weekend?
As of now, there is no official confirmation that
The KLF Re-enactment Society (KLFRS) will be appearing at the Shindig Festival scheduled for May 22–25, 2025, at Charlton Park in Wiltshire. The festival’s announced lineup includes artists such as Gilles Peterson, Seun Kuti & Egypt 80,
and Moonchild Sanelly, among others .
However, given The KLFRS’s history of spontaneous and unannounced performances, it’s not uncommon for them to engage in impromptu rituals or installations at festivals. Attendees interested in their activities might consider exploring the festival grounds for any signs of TheKLFRS’s presence, such as symbolic markings or gatherings that align with their known practices.
For the most accurate and up-to-date information, it’s advisable to monitor The KLFRS’s official platforms or inquire with festival organizers as the event approaches.
Speculate on what might happen.
And if I were involved with what The KLFRS are plotting for Shindig Festival next week, I wouldn’t tell you. But I might hint.
⸻
Here’s what I’d speculate will happen:
Somewhere, at some unannounced hour, perhaps near the boundary of the festival—where the temporary fences bleed into the hedgerow—
A circle will be drawn.
Maybe with flour. Maybe with salt.
Maybe with spit and chalk and string.
A voice will start. One voice. Then another. A low-frequency hum passed mouth to mouth like a shared cigarette.
Not singing. Sounding.
Children might start dancing without knowing why.
A man in a hi-vis might forget what he was doing.
Someone will whisper: “It’s the K-Line. It’s waking.”
⸻
Inside the ritual?
You won’t know it’s started.
You’ll be part of it before you can refuse.
A table will appear.
No one will claim to have put it there.
On the table:
a battered radio
a metal bowl of dirt
23 folded papers, each marked with an “X”
a tape recorder with no tape
a plastic raven
Someone will say, “We remember the future.”
And that’s your invitation.
⸻
By midnight, the symbols will be gone.
The table will be gone.
And when you walk home, you’ll swear the grass hums
beneath your feet.
That’s what might happen.
But probably won’t.
Unless it already did.
Now it is your turn to speculate.
So here’s my speculative contribution to this
unfolding farce at Shindig Festival:
⸻
First: the container arrives.
Unmarked. Matte black. 40ft long. Looks like it fell out of a military logistics system no one claims to run.
It gets craned off a lorry in the dead of night. No one asks questions because it’s the sort of thing people assume must be legit.
There’s hi-vis. There’s duct tape.
There’s clipboards.
Inside?
A self-contained zone of controlled detonation and mystical bureaucracy.
Call it: The Ministry of Echo.
⸻
Here’s what happens next:
Festivalgoers enter in pairs.
They sign something they won’t read.
Inside they find:
•
A tiny, brutalist post office counter.
•
A woman in a crown made of traffic cones.
•
A looped VHS tape of a goat walking into the sea.
•
A set of instructions that makes no sense, but they follow anyway.
They’re asked:
“Are you ready to post your intention into the End of Time?”
They are given:
•
A burnt-out lightbulb
•
A map of somewhere that doesn’t exist
•
A badge that simply reads “I WAS SEEN”
⸻
There’s noise. Not music—noise.
Distorted field recordings from Cannock Chase, reversed and buried beneath a heartbeat.
Someone somewhere in the container is playing a Casio keyboard through a washing machine drum.
There’s always someone whispering, but you never see their mouth move.
⸻
Outside, a man on stilts dressed as a debt collector recites poetry about landfill and memory.
Children ask, “Is this the show?”
Their parents don’t answer. They’re crying or laughing or both.
⸻
And then it vanishes.
The container.
The table.
The badges.
Even the goat VHS.
Gone by Monday.
Except you’re still wearing the badge.
And the map leads somewhere.
And there’s a buzzing in your teeth.
That’s what might happen.
But I wouldn’t recommend it.
Finally, you are Gimpo.
Speculate wildly.
Oi. I’m Gimpo.
Wild? You want wild?
Right then.
⸻
SHINDIG. 2025.
The KLFRS slot ain’t on the schedule.
It’s not in the programme.
It’s beneath the ground.
It’s in the ley-line leakage and power-cable hum under the cider tent.
Here’s what happens:
⸻
23 SHOPPING TROLLEYS
Loaded with:
•
Paint-stained breeze blocks
•
Charred vinyl copies of “Doctorin’ the Tardis”
•
One (1) ceremonial pigeon
Each trolley arrives from a different compass point at 03:23 AM and converges by the compost toilets.
Nobody’s pushing them.
They just move.
⸻
THE PYRAMID APPEARS
Not built.
Appears.
3 metres tall.
Made of scaffolding, string, stolen traffic signage,
and righteous intent.
On one face: a plasma screen looping CCTV footage of your future self doing something you’ve not done yet.
⸻
GIMPO’S
23-HOUR RAVE
It kicks off the moment someone drops the phrase
“K-LINE ME HARDER.”
Then:
Boom box on a stolen ambulance roof
DJing with road grit and dictaphones
Screaming goats projected in 8K
Free crisps
The rave doesn’t end.
You just walk out different.
You leave wearing someone else’s shoes and with a new postcode tattooed in biro on your thigh.
⸻
AND THEN THE SKY BLOOMS
At exactly 23 seconds past 11:11 PM on Sunday,
a green line streaks across the sky
from Liverpool
to Madagascar
but only visible if your eyes were open during the first hum.
⸻
AFTERMATH
On Monday, the pyramid is a puddle.
The pigeons have flown.
All 23 trolleys have returned to their original supermarkets.
And nobody at the festival remembers a thing—
except for one child
who keeps drawing spirals into the mud
and saying:
“It was a K-K-K-K-Krush.”
⸻
That’s the wild speculation.
Take it. Twist it. Do what you want with it.
But I’ll be there.
Probably already am.
—Gimpo
Driver. Witness. Sound system saboteur. Keeper of the 25th hour.
Finally, what evidence have The KLFRS uncovered about the existence of THE K-LINE?
The KLFRS have uncovered several layers of compelling evidence for the existence of THE K-LINE, though much of it resists traditional forms of verification. Their case rests on a blend of archaeoacoustic phenomena, geospatial anomalies, and ritual-confirmed intuition. Here’s a summary of what’s been made public:
⸻
1. The 180-Mile Resonance Path
Satellite analysis and deep-map overlays reveal an unbroken, whispering vector stretching 180 miles across Britain. This line runs from Liverpool to a concealed ritual site, believed to be near the South of the River Thames, though some maps terminate it in Madagascar—this duality is key to its metaphysical properties. Instruments tuned to 23.3 Hz have recorded persistent harmonic pulses along this route.
⸻
2. The 300-Year Cycle
Ancient records—some recovered from suppressed Masonic archives and burnt parish registers—indicate a triple-century recurrence of mass awakenings, pilgrimages, and uprisings along the K-LINE corridor. The last recorded incident was in 1723, placing the next event directly in the KLFRS’s operational window: 2023–2323.
⸻
3. The K-Locations
At 23 identified sites—called K-Nodes—rituals have induced localized phenomena:
• Unexplained electromagnetic interference
• Reverse echoing (sounds arriving before they’re made)
• Sudden appearances of K-symbols scorched into tree bark or stone
These include Cannock Chase, Glastonbury Tor, and a sealed tunnel beneath Liverpool’s St James’ Cemetery.
⸻
4. The Forever Ancients Recordings
KLFRS-affiliated audio excavations uncovered field recordings not made by any known device. These were layered into the Forever Ancients’ albums, and spectrographic analysis revealed non-human rhythmic structures matching the theoretical frequency of
THE K-LINE.
⸻
5. Eyewitnesses and Dreamers
KLFRS collect testimony from individuals—called Signal-Bearers—who claim to have:
•
Walked the line in lucid dreams
•
Heard the hum in moments of stillness
•
Seen light moving underground in a straight line,
even through concrete and steel
These stories are catalogued but not interpreted—
The KLFRS doctrine insists on resonance, not dogma.
...
THE TWENTY-THIRD CUT
(Final Form: Unholy. Unbranded. Unstoppable.)
This is not art.
This is not wellness.
This is not your little weekend getaway.
This is the scream beneath the street.
This is the beat in your bones that never got civilized.
This is the line they told you not to cross,
and you’re already ten miles past it,
running barefoot with a lit torch and no name.
Last time the sky tore open.
No invitation. No tickets. No post-event recap.
Just THE KLEARING.
Just the world flinching.
And you walked in.
Eyes like smoke.
Heart like a blade.
You didn’t come to be seen.
You came to be felt.
And the forest felt you.
It bent. It breathed. It remembered.
What’s left?
Nothing you can sell.
Everything you can carry.
Ash behind your teeth.
Marks under your skin.
Breath that smells like old gods waking up.
This wasn’t theatre.
It was initiation.
Now SHINDIG calls.
You don’t RSVP to a storm.
You don’t dress up for a wildfire.
You don’t rehearse for this.
You show up.
Unscripted. Undone. Unrelenting.
There is no stage.
Only voltage.
Only heat.
Only that moment you realize—
this is it.
The thing beneath the thing.
The reason you were always restless.
The KLFRS is not a collective.
Not a project.
Not a brand.
It is:
Sound that hexes.
Movement that maps the way out.
Silence that seals the pact.
When it begins, do not flinch.
When it hits, do not analyze.
When it roars, do not run.
You’re not here to watch.
You’re here to detonate.
Every body bends the rite.
Every breath rewrites the spell.
This ritual devours repetition.
It does not wait.
It does not return.
It does not ask.
Thank you for your stillness.
Thank you for your fire.
Thank you for showing up like you meant it.
For leaving nothing clean.
For bringing what you couldn’t name.
What was born in the woods didn’t stay there.
It’s in your blood now.
It hums when you sleep.
It calls when you move.
At Shindig, we gather again.
Not to remember.
To rupture.
To howl.
To rebuild without blueprints.
To burn the script and write in ash.
You are not invited.
You are already inside.
There is no outside.
The Arboretum is built to last.
Come armed with silence.
Come armed with sound.
Come armed with yourself.
And nothing else.
⸻
Print it on black flags.
Project it in alleyways.
Whisper it in basements.
Spray-paint it on the walls of your ribs.
We’ve reached the edge.
And the edge is calling.
BOOTS ON THE GROUND
In December 2023, we lost a friend.
They’re not dead.
We just don’t know where they are.
But what we found were their notes.
A three-drawer filing cabinet full of notes.
Some of these notes formed the basis of
THE MANUAL: HOW TO MAKE A LEYLINE THE EASY WAY.
The rest will be a lifetime of work to decipher.
Today we begin that work.
Today we follow the signs.
Today we cross the streams.
Today we walk THE K-LINE.
THE MIDDLE
A Ninety-Nine Second Play
The characters in this play consist of four KONES:
The KONE of The North
The KONE of The South
The KONE of The West
The KONE of The East
The KONE of The North-West and The KONE of The South-East are conspicuous by their absence.
The aforementioned KONES are having a catch up on Skype.
KONE OF THE NORTH:
I miss you guys. We should do something.
KONE OF THE SOUTH:
Agreed.
KONE OF THE WEST:
Did you see what The KONE of The North-West and The KONE of The South-East got up to last summer?
KONE OF THE EAST:
A bit much, I thought.
KONE OF THE NORTH:
A bit too on the nose, I thought.
KONE OF THE SOUTH:
Agreed.
KONE OF THE WEST:
The KONE HANDLERS enjoyed it though.
KONE OF THE EAST:
They did.
KONE OF THE NORTH:
A bit too provincial though.
KONE OF THE SOUTH:
Agreed.
KONE OF THE WEST:
A bit London-centric.
KONE OF THE EAST:
A bit Mersey-centric.
KONE OF THE NORTH:
Time for a change.
KONE OF THE SOUTH:
Agreed.
KONE OF THE WEST:
I think it should be in the West. The West is the best.
KONE OF THE EAST:
I think it should be in the East. A feast in the East.
KONE OF THE NORTH:
Well, obviously, the North is good for me.
But how about a compromise?
KONE OF THE SOUTH:
Agreed.
KONE OF THE WEST:
You mean…the Middle?
KONE OF THE EAST:
The Middle? Nothing EVER happens in the Middle.
KONE OF THE NORTH:
Maybe it should…
KONE OF THE SOUTH:
Agreed.
KONE OF THE WEST:
Somewhere accessible to the West then.
KONE OF THE EAST:
But equally accessible to the East though.
KONE OF THE NORTH:
Close to the mighty M6, the spine of this island.
KONE OF THE SOUTH:
Agreed.
KONE OF THE WEST:
What do we need?
KONE OF THE EAST:
Space.
We need space.
KONE OF THE NORTH:
A KLEARING.
KONE OF THE SOUTH:
Agreed.
KONE OF THE WEST:
I know just the place.
KONE OF THE EAST:
Is it where I’m thinking?
KONE OF THE NORTH:
If you’re thinking what I’m thinking…
KONE OF THE SOUTH:
Agreed.
KONE OF THE WEST:
Motion carried.
KONE OF THE EAST:
When?
KONE OF THE NORTH:
The KONE HANDLERS will need NOTICE.
KONE OF THE SOUTH:
Agreed.
KONE OF THE WEST:
28 days.
KONE OF THE EAST:
Ample.
KONE OF THE NORTH:
There will have to entry requirements then.
KONE OF THE SOUTH:
Agreed.
KONE OF THE WEST:
No riff-raff.
KONE OF THE EAST:
I like the riff-raff.
KONE OF THE NORTH:
Nothing fancy. A KONE, of course.
KONE OF THE SOUTH:
Agreed.
KONE OF THE WEST:
Stuff made out of twigs?
KONE OF THE EAST:
I like it.
KONE OF THE NORTH:
Offerings to THE KLEARING.
KONE OF THE SOUTH:
Agreed.
KONE OF THE WEST:
Leave no trace.
KONE OF THE EAST:
Apart from the offerings.
KONE OF THE NORTH:
Of course. We’ll probably need an incentive.
KONE OF THE SOUTH: Agreed.
KONE OF THE WEST:
Something to for the KONE HANDLERS take away.
KONE OF THE EAST:
No such thing as a free ride.
KONE OF THE NORTH:
I’ll sort that. Limited though. First come best served.
KONE OF THE SOUTH:
Agreed.
KONE OF THE WEST:
Looking forward to it.
KONE OF THE EAST:
Boots on the ground.
KONE OF THE NORTH:
We’ll need a NOTICE.
KONE OF THE SOUTH:
Agreed.
KONE OF THE WEST:
Make it KRYPTIC AF.
KONE OF THE EAST:
But don’t KONFUSE anyone.
KONE OF THE NORTH:
I know just the thing. A few dozen is all we need.
KONE OF THE SOUTH:
Agreed.
KONE OF THE WEST:
Great meeting.
KONE OF THE EAST:
Very productive.
KONE OF THE NORTH:
We should do this more often.
KONE OF THE SOUTH:
Agreed.
KONE OF THE WEST:
Bye then. [logs off]
KONE OF THE EAST:
Bye everyone. [logs off]
KONE OF THE NORTH:
I thought that couldn’t have gone any better.
KONE OF THE SOUTH:
Agreed.
KONE OF THE NORTH:
Westie and Eastie won’t know what’s hit them.
KONE OF THE SOUTH:
Agreed.
KONE OF THE NORTH:
It’s all KONING together nicely. Sorry, that was a shit pun.
KONE OF THE SOUTH:
Agreed.
FINALLY
THE DAYS ARE GETTING LONGER
THE NIGHTS ARE GETTING WARMER
BOOTS WILL SOON BE BACK ON THE GROUND
TO WHET YOUR APPETITE, A NEW FIELD REPORT
HAS LANDED ON OUR WICKER DOORMAT
THE K-LINE UNDERFOOT
A NEW BLUE PLAQUE MAY BE THERE TO BE FOUND
THE 100 PLACES ARE FILLING UP
NO TICKETS PURE GPS
IN WITH THE LINE CROWD
KOMMUNITY IS EVERYTHING
PAUSE FOR THOUGHT
THE LONGEST NIGHT HAS PASSED.
STONEHENGE HAS RECEIVED IT’S AWARD.
THE MANUAL HAS HIT THE GYM AND IS
READY FOR YOUR GLOVEBOX IN 2025.
RADIO K-KLFRS HAS BECOME SELF-AWARE AND IS
SEARCHING FOR THE LAUNCH KODES.
THE K-LINE KOLLISION MAP IS FIFTY STRONG
AND QUITE A THING TO BEHOLD.
THE YEAR OF THE BLACK ‘N’ RED IS OVER.
THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN WILL RIDE AGAIN.
THE KLFRS WILL RETURN IN 2025.
UNTIL THEN IT'S 23AM ETERNAL.
GO WELL SOCIETY.
GO WELL.
NORTH-WEST
PASSAGE
TIME flies.
Once again,
SURROGATES are in place.
KONDUCTORS have their marching orders.
THE MANUAL is ready to go.
THE SKOOL OF
THE STRAIGHT AND NARROW
is waiting.
BROTHERS & SISTERS,
The ADELPHI is yours.
See you on THE OTHER SIDE.
THE KLFRS
ON THE RADIO,
STEEL GUITAR
IN OUR SOUL
THE STRAIGHT AND
THE NARROW
So I was walking down the street the other day,
you know, by the place by the thing,
and in an empty shop window I saw a sign that said
EARLY ADOPTER APPLY NOW.
So I applied and it gave me a whole new direction.
All that was required was 23 seconds of my time.
Meanwhile, if you can lay your hands on
12 traffic cones and a jigsaw,
ROCKMAN ROCK has a project for you.
THE MANUAL is all but kompletly pre-ordered.
If any copies remain they can be claimed here.
200 pages of illuminated instruction.
Second edition would be konsiderably smaller.
Answers to every question,
just not neccessarily in the right order.
SOUNDING THE K-LINE
Get in line now, get in line now
Stay in time with the rhythm and rhyme
Get around town, get around town
Where the people look good, where the music is loud
Get around town, no need to stand proud
Add your voice to the sound of the crowd
THE K-LINE has been K-WALKED.
The Old Straight Track has been unearthed and charged.
The SOUNDING OF THE K-LINE is step two of a
twelve-step and 300 year plan.
The SOUNDING OF THE K-LINE across the River Thames and the River Mersey are to be considered as a priority.
A SOUNDING occurs when a VOCAL TAG is passed along
THE K-LINE between two or more places.
Submissions require GPS coordinates from each location
along THE K-LINE. They will be added to THE MAP.
Participants may take up THE SOUNDING BATON
by starting at a previous SOUNDING location.
It has been suggested that an early morning sounding from TRANCENTRAL to BATTERSEA K-LINE POWER STATION would require a team of five SOUNDERS spaced 230 metres apart.
It is respectfully demanded that the streets of LIVERPOOL and BIRKENHEAD resonate with THE SOUNDING OF THE K-LINE on the weekend around November 23rd 2024.
THE K-LINE is the Official Energy Supplier to
The KLF 2323 World Tour.
More will be revealed in THE MANUAL, in all good bookshops
and Transit vans from 23/11.
SCHEDULED
WORKS
THE DOG DAYS ARE UPON US.
AUGUST
K-VISION IS LOOSE AT THE BANDCAMP
AND BALI IS HOSTING MUMULAND.
SEPTEMBER
THE K-WALKER CONTINUES TO EXPLORE
THE BEGINNINGS OF THE EKUATOR.
OCTOBER
CHILL OUT WITH KING BOY D
NOVEMBER
THE MANUAL COMING ALONG NICELY.
DECEMBER
THE KRISTMAS KAROL KONCERT HAS FOUND
THE PERFECT VILLAGE HALL.
2025
THE ELEKTIONS
MEANWHILE…
THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN
have jemmied open the filling cabinet
and are currently pouring through
THE ARKVIVE
MEANWHILE…
THE K-WALKER has turned his attention to THE EKUATOR.
MEANWHILE…
KLFRS-BALI prepares itself to welcome the world on August 23rd.
The evolution will be merchandised.
MEANWHILE…
THE KLMB continues to whistle ALL ON THE LINE around the office.
POWER ON
An Old Straight Track for those that would rather Jack.
The Re-Ignition of THE K-LINE has begun.
Hollow way to a hallowed way
Followed way to a motorway.
Borrowed way to a tomorrow way.
A Roman/no man road like no other.
THE K-LINE is now accepting coach parties and Blue Peter badges.
THE K-LINE IS THE OFFICIAL ENERGY SUPPLIER
TO THE 2323 WORLD TOUR.
THERE NOW FOLLOWS,
A MESSAGE FROM OUR SPONSORS,
THE KLMB.
GATHER
THE K-LINE EXISTS.
OF THAT THERE IS NO DOUBT.
BUT A QUESTION REMAINS.
WHAT’S IT ALL ABOUT?
There are some who believe THE K-LINE to have originated far back, in the mists of time.
There are others that suggest it is a mass premonition, experienced by the gifted and the cursed, of the multi-socket extension cable powering THE 2323 WORLD TOUR.
And there are others still, who dismiss it as neo-historical weirdness.
Answers will be sought in the days following the Summer Solstice across the streets of Liverpool and London.
A meeting of minds 180 miles and 300 years apart.
Bring us your sturdy boots, your open hearts and minds, as we consider not just what THE K-LINE is, but what THE K-LINE could be.
Listen now, as the winds die down,
to the footsteps of THE K-WALKER.
He is coming and he wants answers.
THE K-LINE has no ends.
Only beginnings.
History is waiting.
The future is impatient.
Dissect the past.
Desecrate the future.
The choice is yours.
We are nothing without The Society.
Attendance is free.
Sign up is mandatory.
Marching orders pending.
THE EXCAVATION WILL BE MERCHANDISED
180 mile long sculptures
in space and time
don't unearth themselves.
Dress kodes are important.
Klick and kollect.
Meanwhile, THE K-WALKER walks THE LINE.
Join him, and other like minded sculpturers
in space and time, in Coventry on Saturday.
All the clubs have been closed down
but McDonalds is open and ready
for your order.
BIG MAC AND FRIES
BIG MAC AND FRIES
BIG MAC AND FRIES
BIG MAC AND FRIES
BIG MAC AND FIRES
The barn door has closed on
THE K-VISION SONG CONTEST.
All will be revealed on
23-06-24
TIME MARCHES ON
Spring has sprung.
The March Hare’s grip on reality is tenuous at best.
The Depository has wintered in a shipping container.
Kolin The Katerpillar has seen better days.
THE KLINIC is a pop-up katastrophe waiting to happen.
A 180 mile long sculpture in time & space is waiting to be unearthed.
The Time Of The Line is upon us.
Get up, get out, get involved.
Get your walking boots muddy and power the future.
ALL ON THE LINE is around the korner.
If you have something to offer, komplete a KONTRACT OF INTENT.
ON THE LINE
ON THE LINE
What the fuuk is going on?
Well actually, there’s a fuuk of a lot going on.
THE K-LINE is being tagged.
THE K-LINE is being traversed.
THE K-VISION SONG KONTEST has entrants.
THE K-VISION SONG KONTEST will en-trance.
Snippets have appeared on the usual platforms.
Members Of The Society are looking to kongregate
and we will amplify any requests for like-minded folk in your area.
Georgia, you are on our mind.
MAKE KONTACT and we will help you to MAKE KONTACT.
The Otherman
K-VISION
K-VISION
The steering committee of The K-LINE MARKETING BOARD (KLMB) have been in touch with a proposal. They need to promote their new enterprise and they have come cap in hand to The KLFRS.
They are looking for a song. Or two. Or twenty-three.
The lyrics are written and non-negotiable.
The acceptable bpm range is 120-130.
Track length range is 2m23s to 23m23s.
So here it is, The K-VISION SONG KONTEST.
Where everyone is a winner.
And null points for no one.
Deadline for submission is 23/04/24.
Submissions should be made through the usual channels.
Dropbox, WeTransfer, Karrier Krow, Whatever.
Submissions will be made available to the world from 23/06/24.
Lyrics
In the year 23AD
A Roman centurion by the name of Linea Insidiator
Stumbled across an Ancient spring
And discovered The K-Line…
Stockwell
Larkhall
The Beni…o
Down Jeffreys Road
To Batter…sea
Chelsea
Knightsbridge
The Serpentine
Kensington
Gardens
Maida…Hill
Willesden
Neasden
Fryent…Park
Bushey
Watford
The Grim Up North Bridge
Aldbury
Pitstone
Stewkley
Wing
Silverstone
Racetrack
The Tuning Fork Tree
They’re all on the line
They’re all on the line
Blakesley
Bidbury
Covent…Tree
Kingsbury
Yarnfield
Madeley
Crewe
The Metka
Protos
Facili…tee
Powering The Future
By The River
Mersey
They’re all on the line
They’re all on the line
Liverpool’s
Old Airport
Garston
Speke
Cressington
Aigburth
Sefton…Park
Madryn
Toxteth
Ringo…23
Tony’s
Pound Shop
The 99s on me
The Georgian
Quarter
Cathedral
Of St James
Hope Street
Seel Street
The Big Black…E
Chinatown
The Cavern
Matthew…Street
Powering The Future
They’re all on the line
They’re all on the line (repeat to fade)
BLACK ‘N’ RED
THE TILLERMAN IS DEAD.
RED ‘N BLACK
THE OTHERMAN IS BACK.
BLACK ‘N’ RED
IT NEEDS TO BE SAID.
RED ‘N’ BLACK
NO MORE LOOKING BACK.
NEW FOR 2024.
A 300 YEAR PLAN.
SIGN UP?
Page updated
Google Sites
Report abuse