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The Squat at The Concierge Hut Comrades, Salutations at the Dawn of the Winter Solstice. Well, Shirl and I are now in the new gaff. Unfortunately we had to make a swift exit from the seven-storey town house in Clerkenwell when Her Majesty's Minister for Farming Subsidies returned from Brussels with his good lady wife and a large team of bailiffs. It was a complete head shag. His missus just stood there screaming her head off. Anyone'd think she's never seen four lurchers, two iguanas and a Bolivian tree python before. We were like really destroyed by the brutality of it all. We'd put down some pretty deep roots after three weeks and as a result Shiri's had to have a major re-birthing. And we all know what a mess that makes of the Nepalese floor cushions. Only consolation is the place was a bloody sight more minimalist after we'd finished with it. So here we are in Stoke Newington by Candlelight, although Crazy Ron is tinkering with the utilities as we speak. The Old Lady's in her element, of course, running up Conran curtains, although be warned comrades, they've gingered up shop security and we had a close shave liberating the sweat and toil of exploited Third World workers. We legged it onto the 73 and then Shirl starts moaning that I've got the wrong colour. Ruddy Birds, eh. Big Angie and Lebanese Phil came round last night to Feng Shui the place. Shiri's got a thing about bad Chi coming from the drains. Everyone was nicely chilled until Phil doled out the elephant tranquillisers and now all the furniture's piled in one corner of the kitchen and we can't get out the door. The evening's like ... sort of... ya know... what's the word... a... yeh ... blank but I do remember Angie losing it Bigtime yet again. You know what she's like. One minute you're having a perfectly sensible conversation about Nostradamus and the next thing you know she's raving about going on some training course and getting a job. Shirl says she's not having her round again if she can't behave herself properly. You must come and crash soon. Stokey's a serious blast. Loads of skips, great gigs, plenty of People Like Us and a major wicked cemetery down the road. We've already had two very successful sacrificial evening: there. And no chance of eviction. The local council couldn't find space in an empty car park let alone me and Shirl, Apart from that life stumbles on as per last year, I'm sure, if 1 could remember it. Shiri's had more piercings, soddin alarms going off everywhere we go but she won' be told, and I've had a full scale colour map of Stonehenge tattooed on me buttocks. Big ta to everyone who helped out during Glastonbury by the way. Shiri'd never made vegan meatballs before let alone under such trying conditions. We thought the woodland burials were like ... really deeply moving. Way to go, eh? If we don't see you before then it's end of March for the Namibian Music Festival of Spiritual Light and Congress. Meet at the Juggling Tent as per usual. Shirl sends her... ummm... yeh... whatever. Up the Fascist Dogs of War. Nah... thas wrong. Del
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Sue
Heal is away, attending 'Get Down and Relate to the Streets', Hackney Council's new
consciousness-raising programme for middle class homeys. Her place this issue is taken by
new Stokey resident Derek X