A Civil Partnership

I am honoured to be able to use this sentence and mean it:

The bride rocked an American apparel lace catsuit. Her g-string and breasts clearly and gorgeously visible. A wrestling belt bisected her torso. Her Mohawk quivered gently as she shivered, teeth chattering in the brisk morning air of Bow.

Her groom stood tall in gold hi-tops, silver spandex legs topped with a white tux. A peach tutu swung about her as she turned to and fro, eyes sparkling at her guests. The sky - a perfect blue-bird blue - had dressed for the occasion. Even the sun had his hat on.

The wedding party made their rag-taggle way towards the registry office. A collection of gender-bending friends (their chosen families) and a confused pet - each carrying a single flower - whooped up Bromley High Street and onto Bow Road.

The staff at the Registry Office smirked.

We filed in to the serious room designed only for waiting, and decorated the stern furniture. The wedding attendant looked slightly nervous. The security guard merely laughed. It did look farcical but actually wasn’t. A universal feeling gripped the room.

Laughter bubbled up into each gullet, threatened to spill from each grinning mouth. The unanimous feeling was reflected on every face: wedding-happy grins smothered us all. Lucky – the ring-bearer and only sausage dog in the room – skipped happily from guest to guest as we awaited the call and we admired each others finery. ‘Nice wig!’ ‘Nice boa!’ ‘Nice tits!’

Periodically Lucky would grow frustrated, snapping at the pink bag attached to his back. The bag contained the ‘rings’ (or lockets, hastily purchased the day before at Spitalfields Market the bride confessed.) Each contained a lock of the others’ hair.

None of us could quite believe we were here.

The wedding attendant stepped finally into the waiting room and opened the double doors. “Will the guests please be seated.” Much guffawing and last-minute introductions, (“Hi hi, yes, I’m with the bride, nice to meet you too!”) and the party cleaved to people the chairs each side of the aisle.

Then, signalling time, the first bars of the wedding song chimed forth and everyone shut the hell up. Warren G’s ‘Regulate’ filled the room. We giggled and nodded our hip hop heads in approval.

“It was a clear black night, a clear white moon Warren G was on the streets, trying to consume…” and, on cue, the gaggle of chosen grooms-men, best men and maids of honour hotstepped smugly up the aisle.

The groom was waiting with tears in her eyes. Then in strutted the bride, bouquet in hand, Mohawk still quivering.

Vows were exchanged. Lockets were exchanged. Tears were shed. Photos snapped. The groom, laryngitis or party husky, said “I will.’ The bride acquiesced also. We cheered. Lucky howled, pleased as punch that his mistress had been made an honest woman.

A poem was read about wings carrying two souls and then we followed the bride into the garden where, grinning further still, she shivered under the perfect blue-bird sky and said, “Let’s go to the pub.”

The Bow Bells was the venue for the wedding breakfast: here platters of chips and two bottles of vintage cava were shared. Pool was played. Jokes were cracked. Arrangements were made for this party and many more. We had to bang on the door to get them to open up for us. “We’ve just got married!” the newly-weds gaily declare. “Happy new… I mean congratulations!” the barman said, wiping sleep from his eyes.

The past was a mirage we’d left far behind. And now they were married, joined together forever.

A Winter's Tale

Go together,
You precious winners all; your exultation
Partake to every one. I, an old turtle,
Will wing me to some wither'd bough and there
My mate, that's never to be found again,
Lament till I am lost.

This Is It

Chewing over the spoils of the last 3 days, and indeed the last 3 years in the best living room in the world. The shake up, or metaphysical fuck up which culminated this weekend, also included the power to the kitchen getting fatally blown, the boiler fucking up and the washing machine giving up the ghost against a backdrop of a warehouse full of people who cared not, having been on a 48 hour party tour of Bow, the very last one. So, utter destruction all around, badminton and pool played feverishly, a continual stream of the same questions: 'When are you moving out? Where are you gonna go? Do you need a hand?' and I finally feel as if we have put the old place to bed. The people who have made the family what it is, and the bonds that have been forged in these walls, will live on forever.

This is it.

One story ends, another begins.

On Not Leaving

To whom it may concern,

We are residents at *****************, ******************* and ***************

We came to know these buildings in the capacity of London Caretakers. The original premise, our function, was to protect them from any intruders and potential squatters - a role which we have endeavoured to uphold. Since moving in 2 and a half years ago, our community and professions have developed in ways we never imagined possible. Living in such a space has facilitated a progression for us all. The plentitude of space combined with an incredibly close-knit community of artists and creatives has led to great things.

It is amazing just how many projects and initiatives have been launched from this community. We have set builders from many of the most prominent UK festivals in our fold, a Friends of The Earth events officer lives here, as do the events team from the Youth Sports Trust, a member of the Bow Arts Trust. Others are writers, editors, musicians, producers, artists, designers, jewellers, film-makers and performance artists. This area is a hub, our HQ. Without it, yes our art would have continued, but with it - it has exploded. We have made a success of the way we live and what we do.

The news that we have to move out imminently has come as a massive blow. Not only is this our home but many of us use it as our place of work. We have made the best practical use of the buildings possible; picking up where the previous owners left off. We have developed the workshop, beefed up the recording studio, built a jewellery workshop and craft corner. We have housed exhibitions, poetry nights, lectures, tournaments. We would like to invite you to come and see for yourselves. We are not merely security guards, employees of London caretakers, we are upstanding members of the Bow community and the East London artists corner.

We are fully aware that our primary role is one of security. We understand that we live here fore-mostly as caretakers. And this position has been - and is - important to us all. We take this role seriously and it is one which we can be trusted to maintain. We all want to stress that the moment the owners want to develop the building we will leave. But we appeal to you now to let us remain in our creative hub, our home, until that time comes.

Come and visit and see what we are all about.

Yours, with thanks,

The Sugar House Gang.

2009

Has been the 'best year of my life'.

It has brought me many new friends, many inspirational, wonderful friends who are now as close to me as family. We have rough-hewed a London family from those who wondered into the fold with a familiar glint in their eye, added them to our collection of gypsies and ragamuffins, and now the love keeps us all warm.

We began the year dressed as chavs in a warehouse in Bow. We see it out in a similar vein. 2009 has brought us all closer the Bow residents, in a way that only living so intimately can. Having an urban community has been wonderful - a luxury. Being able to 'call on' your friends who live only metres away is a rarity. And now the news has come that we may be out. If this is the case, then so be it. It's been the best year of my life.

Thanks to you all for making it so.

In Love Again

Just officially arrived back from Glastonbury

Got back in body on Tuesday at 4am. My mind stayed there far longer...

Asbos

Fuck fuck ouch.

Spent Sunday blissfully ignoring the looming Monday rolling in the grass dressed as a leopard at a party in the grounds of a mansion in Dorset.

Unfortunately our driver only stopped drinking at about 3pm. Every time we questioned him about his sobriety he said: 'Right, I won't drink anything from now on'.

We sent him to get his head down for 2 hours and when the time came to find him his car was mysteriously empty.

He'd crawled into someone else's empty tent to lie there, not sleeping.

Made a slight mishap by offering a guy I met on the 'floor a lift back to London. When it came to the crunch there was no room and we had to drop him at a train station. Poor guy. Lesson learned about allowing my twisted sensibilities to rule and offering things I can't deliver.