It gives me a specific thrill going to the Bush Theatre; the previous nook above that glaring, transient superpub bedizened with logos and shamrocks in the froth, where I once bought Stewart Lee a half of stout and was pretty certain he was going to weep at any point during the interview; and now the shining old library of building, a scrubbed-clean water-tight municipal treasure. But, I confess, this frisson is not solely derived from visiting the home-from-home of new writing, it is partly due to those streets in Shepherd’s Bush being the self-same ones I would tread as a boy filing toward the corrugated old temple of shouting and beer half a mile North East of Loftus Road, home to the most mighty and shambolic, overachieving and underachieving football club in the world QPR.

Now don’t fret your cultchahd selves, this isn’t going to be a post about football – much more interestingly, I’m sure you’ll agree, this is a post about – well – signage.

In recent years my two favourite W12 establishments have undergone a “rebrand”. For Rangers it came with the money of an egomaniacal Italian multi-millionaire, the club crest being re-wrought from interlaced lettering persistent from the 1980s, itself having replaced a rather dashing 1970s Bauhaus posy, into some kind of disneyfied medieval folly – part and parcel of the nouveau riche “boutique” experience promised by the new owners. What was once some kind of heraldic appropriation for us, the people of the people’s game, now became a literal testimony to the neo-feudalism of the superrich. For its part The Bush has a sign pretty much indistinguishable from that of an estate agents.

Estate agents aren’t anyone’s favourite people. The moral equivalent of a banker with a hangover. Talking with Stewart Lee about the landscape of London, the first thing, he admitted, that he’d be rid of are “those Foxtons cars, with their ridiculous punk livery. If I had access I would happily would roll over each one in a tank.” That most persistent critic of the profession Iain Sinclair once memorably referred to “a Dunsinane of estate agent placards”, capturing rather neatly the kind of softly crenellated urban militarism of private sales; the madness and craven ambition that estate agents take as their job to represent. You can understand the decision behind the Bush’s unfortunate design, it fits a 21st century high street, it brings the old Victorian library into the contemporary environs of Zone 2 with its 24hr phoneshops and KFCs. But is this the right kind of fitting-in?.

I’ve been thinking about logos because as you may have noticed to the right of these words, Exeunt has been busy accruing partners. Logos are the vast visual conspiracy of the 1990s. Even the men who invent them don’t like them; as instanced in Confessions of an Advertising Man in which the founder of Ogilvy and Mather cockily slathers a self-mortifying vision of a proto-set of culturejammers running through public space spraypainting them – the twist, it turns out, is that he’d be at their helm in a hoody and kefyeh, presumably borrowed from his chauffeur’s daughter’s boyfriend. As Naomi Klein fans of old know, the logo is something like this – the perverted word that moves deterritorialising and bludgeoning across public space; the neatest stamp of ideology that somehow amply covers the relations of global production. It is the expression of the belief that corporations have souls to go along with their legal personhood.

I’ve recently been designing a logo for the artist Laura Jane Dean, and the challenge has been trying to find something to express the work –   which I find a courageous, luminous mirror in which deep dark mental distress is thrown onto the exterior brightness of every day life. (Highly recommended.)  –  and integrate it into a wider aesthetic.  And some kind of authentic community of logos is what we’re looking for at Exeunt. That these markers don’t obscure, but make clear who it is we love. Because in a more proper way than a bloated corporate behemoth Exeunt does have a soul, and so does Ganzfeld, and Stoke Newington International Airport, and all the other places who are represented in visual shorthand on our masthead. Exeunt is a subjective networked entity, that tweets politics, and criticism, and the occasional piece of hallucinatory poetry. Kenneth Tynan once wrote to his London accountant wondering whether, for tax purposes, it might be better to become a corporation. That was in the days when he could cull fifty grand from The New Yorker for a series of profiles. Exeunt doesn’t actually have an accountant, at the cashpoint the screen speaks in aphorisms to protect our dignity “you have no birds in the hand and roughly 0.00 in the bush.” Which is fine if it means we get to keep our soul, in the same way that, despite its gauche neon blandishments does the Bush.