Iain Sinclair has been called East London’s recording angel. Hackney’s Pepys. A literary mud-larker and tip-picker. A Travelodge tramp. A toxicologist of the 21st-century landscape. A historian of countercultures and occulted pasts. A psychogeographer. He’s all of these things, and more, but above all he’s the only contemporary British writer whose work is grounded in experimental literary practices who has been wholeheartedly embraced by the literary establishment. Acceptance was a long time coming, but after twenty years in the underground, Sinclair has now spent two decades more blinking in the sunlight of commercial success.