Skwot

SKWOT

I'm gawping at the bar but all they're selling is Strongbow which is ok in the warmer months when we take this shit out into the ambience of the summer countryside but in the chilly confines of this warehouse it will quench my thirst in a similar way to a bad batch of West Country piss. Strongbow's too chemically sweet, and when you're conscious that you're brain, innards, and most likely nose are rotting, the last realisation you want is that your teeth are rotting too. They did have Stella but that's all sold out, bought in bulk by those veteran party-goers wise enough to appreciate when to invest in a good thing. Naturally there are a few cartons of Ribena gathering dust on the table but no one wants them except the kids who have fucked up and gulp it crazily so the Vitamin C aids their come down. I'm not drinking that because I'm here on a mission, and that mission does not involve imbibing in the same drinks that I enjoyed when I dismissed illegal drugs as morally bad. God, I'd kill for a Stella. Bit of wife-beater trickling down my throat. It's not my beer of choice, but free parties don't cater for those among us who understand the value of a fine selection of chilled international lagers. It still makes me laugh the way that young men with anxieties of machismo worship a Belgian lager which in reality is one of the most uninspiring alcoholic taste sensations available. Instead of an educated opinion, it's all about advertising, and peer pressure, and the pride of saying "Pint of Stella with the belief that it is interpreted as, "I am the embodiment of masculinity.
There are a couple sat by the rig and they must be about 17. They're smacked up to the eyeballs, hoods up for refuge, and sleeves tugged down to cover their hands as they grasp each other in an elongated cuddle. They've been there all night; each seems too fucked and scared to tear themselves away from the other. I can't work out if it's the methylyndioxymethamphetamine, but to my eyes they look like their shaking. Thinking about it they're probably shivering. It is damn cold tonight. I'm wearing four tops as it is, but I'm so wired that variables like temperature don't even figure. This couple are both good looking in an unhealthy, ruined sort of way. She's stick-thin, wearing huge skating trainers which suggest that her feet are out of proportion with her meagre height and frame. I'd do her. She wouldn't need smack if she was smashed in a bit by the right fella. Such a shame to see her in this ugly state of indignity, they've clearly got carried away in the early glee of arrival, and fucked themselves up proper. I've seen the bloke at parties before, with a selection of different girls. They're always pretty nice looking so I should ask him what his secret is. Rohypnol, probably. Wouldn't be surprised, judging by the state of his companion tonight. Every now and again her eyes flicker open, responding to a bash from a passer-by, but all you can see is her whites. Its not nice, that sort of shit scares me. My memory is crammed full of such images and I don't need any more. I'll look away.
Those fucking evil scrote site kids are scurrying round in the shadows, preying on those too mashed up to look after themselves. It's disgusting, and I would gladly wring each of their necks but for the fact that their Daddies are fucking hard cunts, who are best off as friends rather than enemies. I feel weak and foolish but the unfortunate fact is that I am but one isolated individual and with pikeys, if you take on one, you take on the whole fucking inbred clan of them. I'd be hunted down like a damn fox, and mauled to pieces. In all fairness, the Daddies and other males who instigate so much of the work that goes into putting these shindigs on, are not a bad bunch as a whole. Understandably they're as scary as Hell, but generally fairly easy to interact with on some basic level, once your hearing has been fine-tuned to their dodgy accents. These kids though, God, they make me shudder just to look at them. Black eyed, soulless, animalistic parasites - I wouldn't give a shit but for the fact that they're teenagers and they're the scariest fucking people here: there is something scarily apocalyptic about such a situation. I sometimes wonder how the British public would cope with the prospect of home-grown evil so explicitly personified in these youthful figures. But then again, that's why you only get to see them if you scour the depths of London, and observe as these sewer rats are coughed up from God knows where. Thankfully squat parties aren't completely devoid of recognisable morals and values: there are three immense Polish fuckers on the door who I swear I've seen before in some cheap formulaic Hollywood thriller, and they're doing a bit of searching and a bit of surveillance. In a way it's reassuring because if you get mugged and you're in a fit state to communicate verbally, you can tell them and they'll find the culprits and retrieve your stuff. However, they cannot help if the robbers have just taken advantage of you as you lie vegetablised in a corner from too much Ketamine, and remain there for twelve hours before you notice that your pockets are feeling light. Some people whinge about getting searched on entry but they're twats who can't see the wood for the trees. Sven, Sven and Roman aren't looking to ruin anyone's night by nicking their sweeties, they just check for weapons, a wise idea as far as I'm concerned. Back in the day, there were no precautionary measures - I must have seen a dozen people get stabbed up, or shot to shit. Fucking hell Man, I come here to dance, not hide. If we can do anything to prevent that sort of bullshit then it's all good. God almighty, some of the revellers here are proper young, they don't need to be exposed to that sort of craziness.
I am glancing back at that smack couple quickly and he's stirring a bit, itching deep at his limbs as the dirty brown stuff begins to lose effect. He's looking real uncomfortable and I feel bad staring down at him as he strips himself of his self-respect by scratching and tearing at his scabbed-up skin. She's still dozing, probably not as far gone a smack head as he is. Probably will be by the first signs of daylight though. I like it when the sun comes up and the rays fracture through the building, quivering over the ghostly figures who shy away from the beams like vampires. I enjoy the feeling of rebirth, a return to reality and the confirmation that I've survived the night. It's nice. A lot of the freshers don't like it 'cause they're usually too far fucked, and the sunlight has bad connotations for them with the messy journey home and the inevitable confrontation with their parental unit. They like the darkness, which is ironic because that's where they're most at risk.
There's one such kid sitting in a shadowy corner of this room, which probably originally served as an office judging by the combusting filing cabinet which I'm hypnotised by as it illuminates the place in an eerie, hellish sort of way. This kid doesn't seem to care about the ominously small distance between himself and the flames, but I think that's because he seems to be too busy trying to construct a joint out of a piece of denim which hangs exhausted off the bottom of his filthy wet jeans. I've got to intervene; he's not going to get anywhere at this rate. As I first approach he flinches, and looks scared so I smile sincerely. Initially I feel like laughing because it seems silly that he's alarmed by a chubby insurance salesman, when there's a burning mass only a few metres away. I pull him to his feet after offering if he wants to join me for a joint, and a Strongbow 'cause all the transient brick dust is making my throat and tongue uncomfortably dry. We walk out to the stairs, but there are no burning cabinets out here so its bitch black everywhere and we're feeling our way cautiously with our toes and fingers. At least I am; he seems to be involved in a bombastic stumble instead. All the muggings take place on the staircases, hidden in the folds of the night's cloak. Here also, thick European accents promote their products like market traders, and make the walk further disorientating. As they call at me now, and I scan the blindness I'm faced with, I perceive them as a single being comprised of a number of writhing, vocal organisms, but that could be the drugs. As we reach the bottom and some light from the main room spills onto us, I glance at a couple of mans jacking some petrified teenager for his wallet. I'm not racist: some of my best mates are black. However there are black people, and then there are mans, in the same way that there are Germans, and then there are Nazis. There is no time to stand and stare, voyeurism is not encouraged at these dos, so I wonk off with this fella into the main room.
So we're having a joint but there's so much dust in my lungs that it's feeling real tickly on my bronchi, and he's asking me my fucking name every time I begin a bit of speech, which is starting to drive me crazy. I'm considering sacrificing the joint I've just made, to walk off and have a stomp in peace, but then the messy bastard pulls a baggy full of techno smack from his pocket and all of a sudden I'm grinning at the cunt like he's my best friend. He racks up a couple of fat lines and as soon as I can feel the rush of it hit the back of my throat, I wish I hadn't bothered. Regretamine. My left eyes fucking streaming, can't see a damn thing, everything's blurry and fluid like a piece of modern art. My nose feels like a banger just went off inside it. And now my balance is wavering, I'm leaning my shoulder onto the wall for support but still swaying, as if on a pivot. If I don't sort it out I'm going to end up sea-sick. Suddenly I am intrigued by the state of my companion so I concentrate on being upright and crane my neck to peer round the speaker in the direction that he crawled off to. Lo and behold I locate him, standing on both legs but with his spine arched backward like a limbo dancer, and he seems to be attempting to scale the wall in this manner, although personally I can't envisage it working for him. He's got the dead look on his face, with his eyes rolled back, probably checking that his brain's still there. Might as well leave him be for now, I'll repay him for his generosity later.
I'm trying to walk, but it's hard because the rig that I'm stood next to is huge, and the damn floorboards are vibrating violently. This is the drum 'n' bass room; there are a lot of lurkers in here, both young and old, and the atmosphere is opaque with dry ice and crack smoke. Crack smoke has a distinctive, chemically-industrial smell to it, which even at a distance feels dense and intoxicating. I am tempted to find some kids and loom over them till they pass their pipe my way, but unless you're into aggressive intense highs and violent crime, it's not about crack at all. Damn, it smells so sweet though. I'm still feeling hideously crooked but it's ok because nothing is required of me but to gently place my feet on the floor and transfer my weight between them as I move into the next room. The techno in the main room becomes a sensual siren which beckons me through the party lovingly. I drift over to the rig: these are my boys so I give them the thumbs up, before having a little stomp alongside my fellow techno-lovers as we therapeutically exorcise 'the routine' of our weekday lives. There's a little lull in the tune so I'm standing with my arms folded, tapping the old right foot accordingly, and this bloke's come up to the rig and he's falling all over the shop, shouting about getting on the decks. He's throwing his damn arms around and spilling beer over the turntables. Angered, I'm moving towards the decks to restrain the fucked bastard, but in all fairness I'm still mashed so its taking a few seconds, and then suddenly two stumpy gypsies with shaved heads and minimal teeth march past me, being led by a couple of pit bulls. With a feeling of bewilderment, I watch as the squat dogs are set on the messy bloke. Violence kills me, so I have to turn on my heel and walk away, silently hoping that the poor fucker does something similar whilst he still has the use of both his legs. I hate those dogs, like the Hounds of Hell or those three-headed beasts that guard Hades, they are trained to fight and maul, and very little else. Saying that, I was at a party last month, up at the old picture house in Elephant & Castle, standing by the rig chatting to some smack granny, when this fucking squat dog started sort of looking ill, whining and rolling around by the speakers. Next thing, the damn animal goes into labour in front of all us ravers, God almighty, there was all this blood, and the owners were laughing their heads off like it was the funniest damn thing ever. Well, this old girl who I was chatting to used to be a dog breeder and she was totally unimpressed, ordered the music be silenced and the space cleared so that the dog could bring new life into the world in a bit of peace. Needless to say, it was totally surreal, and probably one of the most sobering things that I've ever seen.
Now I'm walking towards the entrance, and I can see the daylight just slicing through the dark. There's lots of shouting out here, rowdiness as gangs summon those members who have become detached from the group. As one posse pushes past me, they reveal a young boy juggling to the side of the room. He is skinny, dark skinned, and vacant. If this was another era, he would be a chimney sweep, maybe with the opportunity to become a water baby and live a little. But this child is a beggar, and he will stand there juggling until his father, who is standing next to him with beady eyes, and a thoroughly cruel look about him, decides that enough money has been gathered. Then the poor urchin will probably be sent off on the scout for a few retrievable wallets. When I first started coming to these guerrilla gigs, the presence of children was the element which really chilled me. Even now they provide a sort of reality check for me, and I feel a responsibility for their safety much more than my own. Once I remember some bloke with one eye, and a load of black crack rot between his teeth, trying to flog some newborn that he'd found by a rig. I fucking grabbed the poor little mite off him, and spent the next four hours hunting down its mum. She turned out to be a baby herself. Thought that she'd left the tot at home with a babysitter, or so she said, but there was a look of disappointment on her face as I handed her kid over. I've seen that girl a few times since, no sign of the baby though.
So far tonight, aside from the little lad juggling, there's also been a young girl doing some card tricks at the bottom of the stairwell, but as the nights gone on she's obviously been fed more and more chemies and her tricks have suffered for it. She got carried out the front door a while ago, can't have been more than eleven. It's sick but in the same way there's some girl of a similar age stomping like crazy in front of the bass bins in the gabba room, living the high life on ecstasy pills and having a damn good time doing so. At parties, boundaries and morals become blurred and challenged. You witness stuff that in the 'real world' is totally unacceptable but in the murkiness of our depths is inevitable and very much part-and-parcel of the culture. The sight of kids is something that you just get used to, but the sight of a child bawling with every joule of energy that it can muster, forcing itself to the point of exhaustive collapse in an effort to be heard and noticed, as just about every passing being steps over it, that is truly saddening. If the child continues to be ignored, eventually it either blacks out or has to stop and just recharge itself briefly, in order to begin again. I remember one time, I'd been sold a gram of powdered glass instead of MDMA and a gluttonous line in my ignorance rendered me truly disgusting and demented on the floor. Admittedly I thought that I was going to die, but I was so damn fucked that all I could do was roll around, a wad of tissue held tightly against my agonising face, as if to keep my nose in place. Anyway, I could hear this little fella who was sat on the opposite side of the room to me, practically parallel, but my eyes were gushing and closed, and my body uncooperative so all I could do was listen. In all honesty the sound he was emitting was doing my headache no favours and the devil in me was cursing that kid, but I decided that as soon as he paused for one of the reasons that I have given, I would drag myself over to help. A break in the sound came, and I opened my eyes in order to get my bearings. The strobe light from on top of the Itsy Bitsy sound system provided a repetitive dose of white light for me to work with, and I wiped my whole face with the handful of bloody paper. As my sight adjusted I saw an innocent face grotesquely mutated with fear, staring straight back into mine. His eyes were nothing but stark whites and blank blacks, and there was dribble trailing from the bottom lip of a mouth which was clearly frozen and unable to close. All his limbs were totally rigid and I swear that poor little chap thought that he was face to face with death itself. As I attempted to push my torso up off the floor, he gasped loudly and scurried off into God knows where. It made me think, maybe the lost kids cry so violently because it's less scary to blackout, than to stay awake and see.
Fucking Hell, I have been spooning out for ages. Just come to and there's a huge joint in my hand and some pretty young thing next to me. She's talking but I'm not listening. I'm thinking how much better looking she'd be if she didn't have her jaw stuck out a mile from too much uppers, and she could keep her eyes from veering off in different directions. All of a sudden she's leaning forward toward me and saying "So, are we on then? Go and tell Ricky that you're gonna have me. I'm just like, "WHAT? "Give him the money. I'll wait here. "WHAT THE FUCK? I make my apologies, trying to smile and avoid making the situation too awkward. She's fucking furious, grabs the joint off me, slams me in the chest with her palm so I topple over, and anxiously moves on. I need some more drugs so I'm heading back to the ominous stairway, to listen for the Italian intonations: "Treeps, Eks-tar-see, Ket-a-meen. Obviously there's a fairly high chance of getting sold something that's less than glatt, but that's unavoidable. Some fat wop sorts me out, getting sweat all over me at the same time, but he's got a wide, hearty smile so I trust him. It's light outside now so everyone in here can be viewed in their full glory. Dirty, greasy hair, filthy, volatile skin, tell-tale white powder around the nostrils, purple circles at the eye sockets as if everyone's been punched. None of it's very pleasant. So I'm bopping back toward the dance floor, which is now empty, thinking I'll just stay for one more tinny and a bit of a stomp, and there's a fella marching towards me looking rather mean. Isn't that the girl with the jaw and the joint walking with him? Why are they walking so close to me?
"This'll teach you. Trying to not pay.
Bam! And all of a sudden, there's no possibility of another dance for me. The small blade has been inserted just below my rib cage. I'm thinking the liver area. A river of blood. I'm on my knees. My assailants are long gone. The fat Italian is behind me but he's speaking Southern dialect and my mind is on other things than simultaneous translation. I'm on my back now, grasping my midriff. I thought it would hurt more than this. Somehow the knife has become dislodged and fallen out so I feel like I'm holding restraining my innards. A group of lurky adolescents who resemble rats due to malnourishment and inbreeding, have gathered and they're staring at me with evil, smiling eyes. Seems like the whole damn party's around me now. I'm slipping away. No more meeting underneath the clock at Waterloo of a Saturday night for me: next time it will chime without me. Here are the Police, God they look so fucking respectable. I'm feeling cocky in my madness:
"Good to see you boys. Take you're time, why not? And not one of them can look me in the eye because I can see that they're scared to fucking death.