Sing Your Stupid Head Off To The One's Who Are Not Listening

The displacement of one’s true self after your home has been removed, or destroyed, is an odd, light feeling.

I packed up my life, kicked the struts out from under it, and it collapsed as i ran away with my hands over my ears. The pieces floated to earth, were blown far and wide. The force of the blast also scattered the family at the beating heart of Bow. And now we are cast adrift in a sea of doubt and uncertainty.

Tonight I return to the scene of my former life to sift through the debris. We plan our attack at 2200 hours. Tomorrow we hand over the keys. On Thursday we return, with backup.

Wish Us Luck.

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.

No Fate But What We Make

There has been a seismic shift somewhere. A pebble has become dislodged, throwing huge rock faces into freefall. Tectonic plates are grinding, groaning as they move towards new destinies. The way the dice will fall is completely uncertain.

After lots of talk, most of it typed and hurriedly read between getting on with our real lives, we have been told that the leaving date still stands. 'Proceed' is the message from the top. Get out. So this leaves us in a bit of a jam. We have a factory full of stuff, a gleaming factory i might add, and 9 people with no where to go. And that's just our place. Including the other warehouses there is a total of 23 people being displaced. All with mountains of stuff strewn across the massive spaces we have gotten so used to calling home.

We have 15 days until that date. And in between now and then we have a small matter of Glastonbury festival to contend with. Some of us are building and running venues. Others are project managing areas. All of us are going. And working on many other projects in between. It's masochistic in its ridiculousness. No one is making steps to move just yet - as we have nowhere to go. It's almost hilarious. Except that it's not.

I am frozen by the immensity of all we have to do. I should set to and start packing, except that I can't. The urgency still isn't there. Why? Maybe it will take a gang of shadowy, suited figures to be looming. There remains a small part of me that suspects it will come to nothing. Will it even seem real when we are lifting boxes? Will it take glimpsing another security firm wandering around the yard, sitting on our decks-chairs, to fully absorb the loss of our home of three years?

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.

Birthdays are Brilliant

29. 29. It's only the beginning says my mum.

The Lord Napier

Rainwater to flush the toilets. Two generators but still no lights. Flooding. No running water.

Must be a party at the Lord Napier.

A darkened, powerless pub. Virtual abandon, Hackney grime and a queue which stretches round the corner. We have been given the opportunity to throw a party - another one - at this astonishing venue. It is pouring, and i mean POURING with rain. Which, it transpires, is fortunate because there is no running water and we have to fill up bins on the roof with rainwater to flush the toilets.

There are two generators, semi-working variously, which means the lights and music rarely work in union. Pitch black fumbling to growling bass, or able to watch your footing on the unsteady, sodden floor with a backdrop of chatter about what's going on with the tunes. The front room and the back room seem to switch allegiance to the silence. The back room is where the filth is at.

This makes for a party not for the FAINT HEARTED. Try your best, ruin your shoes, jostle your way round the dank rooms, feel your way along the corridor, hold your hands out in front of you to realise there is some shadowy figure right up in your face.

Dance motherfuckers. Dance.

Moving Forward But Still Looking Back

Is there anything more depressing than retreading old ground?

This analogy was thrust into my face this morning when my (not actually mine) expensive motorbike lock fell off my pannier on the ride to work. I noticed a mile from my destination - having covered four. A quick bit of mental arithmatic, weighing the cost of the bike lock over the effort of turning back, the look on the face of my friend when i told him it was missing over the possibility of me not finding it and cycling another possible eight miles.

And slowly turned back and coasted down the gentle slope to the sounds of Heart Skipped A Beat by The xx. My mentality immmediately changed. Instead of pedalling furiously with my head down, I relaxed. I was late anyway - so may as well enjoy it.

A happy mile later, i rounded a bend to see the lock, coiled and glinting like a snake. Lesson learned: take care of other people's shit. Don't carry my bike lock slung casually over my pannier. Pay attention! Riding onwards to work I felt stronger, happier and a bit smugger.

But the analogy stands: taking backward steps feels futile, but maybe you have to retread worn ground to learn new lessons - or absorb old ones.