(#4) Great Windmill Street: Dr. William Hunter On my way to a screening, I find myself enveloped by anatomy. Not simply the anatomy of the city - the taut sinews of side streets, armpit cul-de-sacs and clumps of matted green in the centre of Soho Square – but pure physicality. I purchase albums by Los Campesinos! and Nurse With Wound. The former sports a bloody knee on the cover, and NWW reflect their name in jagged, sometimes violent soundscapes. The latter is a compilation CD anyway: phantom limbs transplanted onto a new nervous system and sold for a wry 99p. As I hit Soho proper, crossing Shaftesbury Avenue despite the best efforts of Black Cab drivers to run red lights, I pass the Lyric Theatre, at the back of which is a plaque: ‘This was the home and museum of Dr. William Hunter. Anatomist. 1718-1783’ Hunter was born in Scotland, but he came to London in order to study at St. George’s Hospital, and later became the ‘Physician Extraordinary’ to Queen Charlotte, wife of King George III (and, for later note, patroness of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, J.C. Bach and Joseph Haydn). He became a respected anatomist and obstetrician in his lifetime, and both lectured widely and published such treatises as On the uncertainty of the signs of murder, in the case of bastard children. Hunter’s collections are now held at the Hunterian Museum, University of Glasgow, and are just as valuable for literary historians, as they are for anatomical scholars, with a library consisting of 10,000 printed books from the 18th century or earlier. Interestingly, London’s Hunterian Museum, housed at the Royal College of Surgeons, is a similar collection, but instead it is that of his younger brother, the arguably better regarded anatomist John Hunter (1728-1793), whose bust stands in Leicester Square. I’m not one to pick sides, but the younger Hunter’s museum houses the skeleton of Charles Byrne, the ‘Irish Giant’, who stood at an imposing 2.3 metres in height. I think that anyone would be impressed by that anatomy specimen. There’s a quirky humour in the juxtaposition. Hunter’s plaque lies on the edge of a London area almost defined by its anatomy in some eyes – legs, breasts, cocks – and, indeed, the Lyric Theatre is currently running a musical based on the work of Michael Jackson, a performer for whom his anatomy was, towards the end, more fascinating to most than his music. I attend a screening on Soho Square, at Twentieth Century House. The film is Crazy Heart, but thanks to an unfortunately placed embargo, I cannot attest to its anatomical properties. Instead, I’ll defer to Los Campesinos!, who know a little about hearts – be they beating, bruised, bleeding or broken. I’m leaving my body to science; not medical but physics. Drag my corpse through the airport and lay me limp on the left wing. Drop me a the highest point and trace a line around the dent I leave in the ground: that’ll be the initial of the one you will marry now I’m not around. That is from ‘In Medias Res’, the opening track from their new album Romance Is Boring. I bought my copy from Sister Ray Records, Berwick Street, but the album is also available elsewhere. Click for high-res photo

(#4) Great Windmill Street: Dr. William Hunter

On my way to a screening, I find myself enveloped by anatomy. Not simply the anatomy of the city - the taut sinews of side streets, armpit cul-de-sacs and clumps of matted green in the centre of Soho Square – but pure physicality. I purchase albums by Los Campesinos! and Nurse With Wound. The former sports a bloody knee on the cover, and NWW reflect their name in jagged, sometimes violent soundscapes. The latter is a compilation CD anyway: phantom limbs transplanted onto a new nervous system and sold for a wry 99p.

As I hit Soho proper, crossing Shaftesbury Avenue despite the best efforts of Black Cab drivers to run red lights, I pass the Lyric Theatre, at the back of which is a plaque:

‘This was the home and museum of Dr. William Hunter. Anatomist. 1718-1783’

Hunter was born in Scotland, but he came to London in order to study at St. George’s Hospital, and later became the ‘Physician Extraordinary’ to Queen Charlotte, wife of King George III (and, for later note, patroness of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, J.C. Bach and Joseph Haydn).

He became a respected anatomist and obstetrician in his lifetime, and both lectured widely and published such treatises as On the uncertainty of the signs of murder, in the case of bastard children. Hunter’s collections are now held at the Hunterian Museum, University of Glasgow, and are just as valuable for literary historians, as they are for anatomical scholars, with a library consisting of 10,000 printed books from the 18th century or earlier.

Interestingly, London’s Hunterian Museum, housed at the Royal College of Surgeons, is a similar collection, but instead it is that of his younger brother, the arguably better regarded anatomist John Hunter (1728-1793), whose bust stands in Leicester Square. I’m not one to pick sides, but the younger Hunter’s museum houses the skeleton of Charles Byrne, the ‘Irish Giant’, who stood at an imposing 2.3 metres in height. I think that anyone would be impressed by that anatomy specimen.

There’s a quirky humour in the juxtaposition. Hunter’s plaque lies on the edge of a London area almost defined by its anatomy in some eyes – legs, breasts, cocks – and, indeed, the Lyric Theatre is currently running a musical based on the work of Michael Jackson, a performer for whom his anatomy was, towards the end, more fascinating to most than his music.

I attend a screening on Soho Square, at Twentieth Century House. The film is Crazy Heart, but thanks to an unfortunately placed embargo, I cannot attest to its anatomical properties. Instead, I’ll defer to Los Campesinos!, who know a little about hearts – be they beating, bruised, bleeding or broken.

I’m leaving my body to science; not medical but physics. Drag my corpse through the airport and lay me limp on the left wing. Drop me a the highest point and trace a line around the dent I leave in the ground: that’ll be the initial of the one you will marry now I’m not around.

That is from ‘In Medias Res’, the opening track from their new album Romance Is Boring. I bought my copy from Sister Ray Records, Berwick Street, but the album is also available elsewhere.