Tuesday, 29 March 2011


1981/ 1990/ 1999/ 2011

 Green eyeshadow , red lipstick , enveloped in the hi nrg  exaltations of Bronski Beat, I’m in a good mood, wanting the mayhem, willing it to happen. Strutting down Clerkenwell in emerald stilettos, desire  swarming  right on the surface, it’s giving me a rush just being on the street.

We’re massing outside the Three kings  and it’s getting a bit tense. I feel weird on arrival but after a couple of jars I’m ok. Then I’m glancing around haphazardly and he’s there. Shock jolts of electricity surge through me.
We’re observing the gangs of Kurdish communists and SWP hacks. I’m dreaming of the teeming multitudes, the black flags and the proper kicking up, hordes of brutal skinheads booting fuck out of banks and rich bastards. I go to the garage for cigarettes and get followed by two old bill.

Then it’s cinematic as we drift from one enchanted interior to another through a labyrinth of narrow streets and sloping valleys. We wander through the  shifting topographies of Lovecraft and Escher , the old rookeries of Saffron hill.

The viaduct was built in the 1860s, the rookery was destroyed and thousands evicted. Slums were considered a threat, dangerous hives of insurrectionary impulse .  The destruction of the rookeries did not erase the poor but dispersed them. Thousands of little rookeries cropped up all over in unexpected places. The attempt to eradicate leads to an uncanny rupturing.