We Are Bad

2010-03-09T13:28:00.004Z

_____________SEARCHING___________SEARCHING________________

___________SEARCHING FOR _______SEARCHING FOR A___________

_________SEARCHING FOR A PSY___SEARCHING FOR A PSY________

________SEARCHING FOR A PSYCHOMETRIC LOV_______SEAR_______

_______SEARCHING FOR A PSYCHOMETRIC LOV_________SEAR______

______SEARCHING FOR A PSYCHOMETRIC LOVERSE_______SEAR_____

______SEARCHING FOR A PSYCHOMETRIC LOVERSEARCH______S_____

_____SEARCHING FOR A PSYCHOMETRIC LOVERSEARCHING __SEA____

_____SEARCHING FOR A PSYCHOMETRIC LOVERSEARCHING FOR_S____

_____SEARCHING FOR A PSYCHOMETRIC LOVERSEARCHING FOR A____

_____SEARCHING FOR A PSYCHOMETRIC LOVERSEARCHING FOR A____

______SEARCHING FOR A PSYCHOMETRIC LOVERSEARCHING FOR_____

_______SEARCHING FOR A PSYCHOMETRIC LOVERSEARCHING F______

_________SEARCHING FOR A PSYCHOMETRIC LOVERSEARCHIN_______

___________SEARCHING FOR A PSYCHOMETRIC LOVERSEA__________

______________SEARCHING FOR A PSYCHOMETRIC LO_____________

_________________SEARCHING FOR A PSYCHOMET________________

___________________SEARCHING FOR A PSYC___________________

______________________SEARCHING FOR_______________________

_________________________SEARCHING________________________

__________________________SEARC___________________________

____________________________SE____________________________

____________________

SE^RCING FOR A P$YCHOMETRIC LOVER ?

{

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Take part by completing the online form at PsychometricLove.com

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WALK, 30/11/09

2009-11-09T15:46:00.002Z

MEET OUTSIDE SHOREDITCH CHURCH 7:00PM. BRING BOOZE. WE SHALL CONSIDER WHAT MAY HAVE LED TO THIS ODIOUS REGULATION BEING ENACTED NOW -
THE EVENING WILL CULMINATE IN A PERFORMANCE

ELEGAIC WALK FOR THE STREET-DRINKERS

2009-11-09T01:42:00.002Z

MONDAY 30 OF OCTOBER, TRACING THE BOUNDARIES OF HACKNEY COUNCILS' NEW DESIGNATION ZONES.

ON MONDAY 30 OCTOBER, A WALK- WITH BOOZE, OF COURSE - AROUND THE BOUNDARIES OF THE NEW NO STREET-DRINKING ZONES - WE SHALL NOTE THE PATH OF THE NEW EAST LONDON LINE AND ANY (PURELY COINCIDENTAL) CONGRUENCES BETWEEN NEW STATIONS AND PROLIFERATING YUPPIEDROMES. LIBATIONS SHALL BE POURED IN PRE-EMPTIVE MEMORIAL TO THOSE WHO SHALL VANISH. THE EVENING WILL CONCLUDE WITH A RITUAL.

TIMES/ROUTES TO BE CONFIRMED ASAP.

NO STREET-DRINKING ZONES IN HACKNEY - PART 1

2009-11-09T00:50:00.003Z

LAST CALL FOR THE RETCHING SLURRING BEATIFIC BODY. AN ELEGAIC LAST HURRAH FOR THE STUMBLING CARNIVAL; THE PAVEMENT TALKERS, BUS STOP PREACHERS AND THOSE WHO HOWL AT TRAFFIC.

MEAT WAGONS AT 8:00 AM NO SIRENS NO PACK DRILL JUST DULL THUD OF CARCASSES AND THE SLOW TRICKLE OF AUTHORISED POISONS RECENTLY UNAUTHORISED, POURED AWAY. PLEASE LEAVE THE AREA IN AN ORDERLY FASHION.

SLEEP EASY – YOUR INVESTMENTS ARE SAFE. NO RESIDENTS WILL BE HARMED BY THIS ACTION. IF YOU ARE HARMED, YOU ARE NO LONGER A RESIDENT.

DO NOT PANIC – THIS ORDER IS NOT FOR YOU

View CLASS CLEANSING DRINKING MAP in a larger map

2009-11-04T12:19:00.000Z

2009-10-28T18:33:00.001Z

SATURDAY APRIL 11TH, LONDON: SAVAGE MESSIAH WALK AROUND THE CITY AND ISSUE 11 ZINE LAUNCH.

2009-04-06T16:38:00.005+01:00

SATURDAY APRIL 11TH, LONDON: SAVAGE MESSIAH WALK AROUND THE CITY AND ISSUE 11 ZINE LAUNCH.
Walk. We will be walking around the city of London and drifting towards Housmans where we will be having drinks and showing films to launch the ‘zine. Meet at Dirty Dicks Public House, Liverpool Street 3pm.
Launch.
Housmans Bookshop, Caledonian Road N1, from 7pm.
Issue 11 is a drift around the Olympic zone and focuses on a particular moment in the build up to the June the 18th Carnival Against Capitalism riots in the City of London. The riots happened in 1999 and were a protest against the ludicrousness of the global financial system. The zine was written after a day of walking around the perimeter fence of the Olympic zone In March 2009 and is a direct response to the mass destruction of the Lower Lea Valley.
“I found the pub soon after that. From the outside it looked ordinary, an estate pub from the late 60s, early 70s, something of a bunker with fortress windows at the front, plastic hanging baskets and St George flags all over it. I thought at first the old man must have got the wrong place but then I could hear the thudding of the sound system inside, the frantic bpm and chaotic vocoder yelps. As I got closer I saw all these skinhead types outside wearing tie dyed t shirts and temple of psychic youth symbols tattooed on their arms. There were groups staggering about lighting fires and breaking palettes. This party was the continuation of a Saturday all nighter at one of the massive abandoned factories on Carpenters road. They were all off it, topping up on psilosibin after a big weekend of acid and flyagaricks.”
Laura Oldfield Ford Savage Messiah Issue 11. March 2009

More info to follow.

“The lessons drawn from dérives enable us to draft the first surveys of the psychogeographical articulations of a modern city. Beyond the discovery of unities of ambience, of their main components and their spatial localization, one comes to perceive their principal axes of passage, their exits and their defenses. One arrives at the central hypothesis of the existence of psychogeographical pivotal points. One measures the distances that actually separate two regions of a city, distances that may have little relation with the physical distance between them. With the aid of old maps, aerial photographs and experimental dérives, one can draw up hitherto lacking maps of influences, maps whose inevitable imprecision at this early stage is no worse than that of the earliest navigational charts. The only difference is that it is no longer a matter of precisely delineating stable continents, but of changing architecture and urbanism.” Guy Debord

SUPPORT VISTEON FACTORY OCCUPATION.

2009-04-03T08:17:00.001+01:00

Support Visteon Factory Occupation in London, Enfield

Short Report, 2nd of April 2009 from Mute magazine

After car parts manufacturer Visteon announced job cuts workers occupied plants in Belfast, Basildon and Enfield. In Enfield about 70 workers - men and women from all kinds of backgrounds - are still inside the plant and on the roof. Last Tuesday the management called for a general assembly and told people that they would have to leave their workplace immediately. They were told to fetch their personal belongings the next day at 10 am. When people turned up the factory was already closed. Workers entered through an unlocked side entrance and occupied the plant.

The security guards won't let people go inside, they also blocked the fire exists with padlocks - which is clearly illegal. Last night, Thursday 1st of April, two bailiffs entered the plant. They issued an eviction order, supported by five cops. The eviction order was flawed, e.g. it was not signed and it had the wrong address on it. Workers expect a proper eviction order for tomorrow, Friday, 3rd of April. In case of eviction workers plan to picket the plant. they also plan to go to Ford Dagenham for a solidarity picket.

The plant manufactured parts for various car companies, for example Land Rover, Jaguar, Madzda, Renault, Ford. In 1991 there were still 1,100 people employed, this number came down to 250. Workers guess that Ford Southampton, the main 'client', piled up stock lasting several weeks - Ford Southampton announced redundancies and will eventually shift production of the Transit to Turkey. Links of solidarity between Enfield and Southampton is the most pressing.

People have the most basic stuff inside, sleeping backs, some food etc., contributions are welcome, ex-Visteon workers and neighbours from Enfield drop by with food. Unfortunately the G20 hype has pushed the occupation into the public back-ground. The occupations are the first 'offensive' collective reactions to the crisis, we should support them - particularly given the pending threat of eviction. So spread the word and come up to Enfield:

Meeting point: Friday, 3rd of April and Saturday, 4th of April at 10 am at Ponders End Railway Station
(the plant is 5 in walk, cross the foot-bridge, walk down main road towards Central London, the next street to the left is Morson Road, the factory situated at the end)

Bring along: friends, banners, food, music...

Mobile Phone inside the plant: 07799896466

Anarchitect

2009-04-01T12:47:00.001+01:00

Sounds from the Perimeter Fence

2009-03-18T13:14:00.000Z

2009-03-13T21:28:00.003Z

‘LONDON 2013’ CLOSING PARTY AND SAVAGE MESSIAH 11 ZINE LAUNCH.

March 14th, 4-6pm Hales Gallery . ‘London 2013:Drifitng through the ruins’
Issue 11 is a drift around the Olympic zone and focuses on a particular moment in the build up to the June the 18th Carnival Against Capitalism riots in the City of London. The riots happened in 1999 and were a protest against the ludicrousness of the global financial system. The zine was written after a day of walking around the perimeter fence of the Olympic zone In March 2009 and is a direct response to the mass destruction of the Lower Lea Valley.
The launch will be followed by a trip to the Blade Bone public house ( now Noodle King) on Bethnal Green road and a pub crawl round the East End.

“I found the pub soon after that. From the outside it looked ordinary, an estate pub from the late 60s, early 70s, something of a bunker with fortress windows at the front, plastic hanging baskets and St George flags all over it. I thought at first the old man must have got the wrong place but then I could hear the thudding of the sound system inside, the frantic bpm and chaotic vocoder yelps. As I got closer I saw all these skinhead types outside wearing tie dyed t shirts and temple of psychic youth symbols tattooed on their arms. There were groups staggering about lighting fires and breaking palettes. This party was the continuation of a Saturday all nighter at one of the massive abandoned factories on Carpenters road. They were all off it, topping up on psilosibin after a big weekend of acid and flyagaricks.” Savage Messiah March 2009

BIG YELLOW

2009-03-08T15:23:00.001Z

Anarchitectural Monument. No 1

2009-03-05T17:46:00.003Z

WE'RE CLOSING IN

2009-03-03T19:01:00.002Z

Baz is back< Round 2.

2009-03-03T13:14:00.006Z

Just to let you know, cos yeah, its been a long time, but Baz is back.
Baz has been, let's say, away for a while., South of the river if you really want to know. But now he's back on his manor, not chastened by his experience or humbled, but angrier and madder than ever.
Baz is now living back on Queensbridge road near the Holly Street estate, this is a freindly warning to all those thinking of buying flats in them new blocks at the Dalston end, DON"T BOTHER. I said it before and i'll say it again, YUPPIES OUT OF HACKNEY!!!!
Some people think it aint ok for Baz to act like a thug, to swear and shout and headbutt fences, they think he should be a noble and dignified member of the working class, a neighbour they can boast about being friends with at their dinner parties. They don't like it when people stand outside pubs shouting, huddle outside bookies smoking fags or have barbeques on the balcony with old rave classics blasting out from inside....they dont like it and think everyone should subscribe to their dull values and turn the whole East End into Crouch End, well it aint happening! And i'm sorry to disappoint our middle class readers who would rather all depictions of the working class were flattering and nice, but I AINT NICE and never will be. So you better fuck off cos i aint goin nowhere!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
One more thing, Baz has been getting letters off people asking if he is a Nazi or fascist or in some way related to the BNP. The answer to all you lot is FUCK OFF, if i catch any of them Bigots. Nonces. Perverts round here i will stamp em out personally. I did have a look at that list when i was inside and i can tell you now there's none of them weirdos still living in the E8 area now, but obviously i wouldn't have had nothing to do with that what with me bein otherwise indisposed and all that. Right, laters.

OI, SMITH!

2009-03-01T15:15:00.004Z

"We know the powerful deterrent effect of interventions like ASBOs, ABCs and Parenting Orders on an individual’s behaviour. As the National Audit Office has found, two-thirds [65%] of people stop after one intervention – and all but 7% clean up their act after a second and third intervention.

That’s still too many. And what’s more, that’s the 7% who commit the majority of all anti-social offences.

In Chorlton Park in Manchester last summer, the council and police worked with dozens of separate agencies to crack down on all aspects of ASB. I now want the Action Squad to co-ordinate a new drive against the hard core of ‘hard nut’ cases.

That car of theirs – is the tax up to date? Is it insured? Let’s find out
And have they a TV licence for their plasma screen? As the advert says, “it’s all on the database.”
As for their council tax, it shouldn’t be difficult to see if that’s been paid
And what about benefit fraud? Can we run a check?

If persistent offenders know they’re able to get away with it, then they will – by definition – persistently offend. They will try it on again and again.

We need to send them a strong message that we’re not having it – that there’s no room for that sort of behaviour in our communities, and that there are tough sanctions for it."

We think that in this case it's very hard to disagree.

WHO IS THE ENEMY?

2009-02-27T19:08:00.003Z

SPACE & LIGHT & ORDER

2009-02-26T13:28:00.004Z

"Space and light and order. Those are the things that men need just as much as they need bread or a place to sleep." (le corbusier)

i'll settle on the sleeping bread, thanks. dysfunction autodidact. machine housing is gaunt edwardian, fat went to the town hall, beaux-arts; it's swelling cupola bulks over the belt of road. panacea to urban discharge, conjured by industry. institutional tiled staircase, reminder of the spike. however intended, three generations per unit.

air got cleaner, though canal remained a poisoned sump. Conduit for stormwater, sewage overspill. victorian romanesque arches dripped, soot blackened rivulets of corrosive rain. The viaduct was an aqueduct with rails. It strode across the poorest parts of town, between each brick footprint a small workshop. Light but dirty industry, cash transaction. Small empires rose and fell beneath the skeletal gasworks
Empire dwindled, and with it, decoration. The post war settlement yielded prefab units, to ward off revolution.

whilst boomtime bubble spec bred lamped fanlighted boxes, raw orderly cul-de-sacs, the entablatures of workshops were restored. Obsolescent meant “period”. wood floors, for those who could afford to heat. Warehouses of taste, sprung from the beige interior of sweden. No corners moulder, storage everywhere. The offer of a sleek mastery, at a reasonable price. To have money, now, meant to have nothing on display.

Frontiers rolled back. The west gestures, floats on a raft of laminate flooring. Waves it’s shirt at it’s own rescue ship (and finds itself the first to rescue). beech effect. No more to suffer the entrenched inefficiency of the public sector. Labyrinths of paper. A bright future, flatpacked.

Drift through the ruins

2009-02-19T09:55:00.000Z

Laura Oldfield Ford, We Are bad, London Psychogeographical Association and West Essex Inqalab will be facilitating a ‘derive’(drift) or psychogeographic walk around the area of East London currently being redeveloped for the 2012 olympics. The tactic of psychogeography will be employed to expose the repressed desires of the city and uncover the histories the Olympic delivery authority have attempted to erase. We will plot sites of social antagonism where the demolished and displaced will return to haunt the developers, and obsolete maps will be used to chart the public space barred to us in the 2012 corporate land grab.

Meet: 1pm, Saturday 21st February, outside Hales Gallery - Tea Building
7 Bethnal Green Road, London E1 6LA.

Collective Amnesia and The Gaza Ghetto

2009-01-08T19:02:00.001Z

With much of the media joining in the creation of a collective amnesia by blaming Hamas rockets for the brutal assault on the Palestinian people its easy to forget that the land, which used to be southern Palestine, that the rockets have falling upon is the same land many of the people now forced to live in Gaza where ethnically cleansed from when Israel was established in 1948. - Its easy to forget the mass dispossession of a whole people, the destruction of property, the creation of refugee camps, the multiple Israeli violations of UN security council resolutions and the Geneva conventions, the continued land clearances and occupations, the routine assassinations, the holding of political prisoners, the creation of walls and the enforced starvation; in effect the creation of the Gaza Ghetto.

Will it also be so easy to forget the total extinction of an indigenous people – the Israeli final solution to the Palestinian problem.

This member of WAB will be donning my keffiyeh and getting stuck in down the Israeli embassy on Saturday (10/1/2009).

FRAGMENT FROM FRIDAY NIGHT - TATE TO MI6 (more to come when I've edited it)

2009-01-05T16:26:00.001Z

SOMEONE GOT PAID A LOT OF MONEY FOR THIS ...AND IT WAS WORTH IT

2008-12-10T23:36:00.004Z

Is there anything that sums up the new labour project better than this? No doubt it took tens of thousands, but some copywriter got it in one. "Community Payback" is perfect.
We've got the rounded vowels of "Community" - that soft "U" standing in for the social worker, or someone else sounding oxbridge and professional. Also, who is going to disagree with "Community"? Sounds better than "group of people in the same place and time who have to share the same amenities". This fits in with the eco-friendly, cary-shary ethos of the 90's(the wall has gone, and everything else, so let's make the best of it). Specifically 1997.

The point is, some cunt telling us that we're a "community", therefore we should love that label pasted on us from on high. They're doing it for us! This is not the state imposing unpaid labour on the miscreant (interesting that they didn't ditch the "labour" bit from their name)

This is done in our name. If you happen to live somewhere, apparently your views and aspirations are the same as the property owning classes who live next door. That is new labour community.

Anyway, the word "payback" is fantastic. To whom? At what rate? We are not referring to errant bankers here. Those hard consonants contrast beaufully with "community". there is an assonance between the more open "pay", and the sharpness of "back" ( the clawing back of that which is 0wed). The closing of the palate and concommitant bearing of teeth. So in terms of vowel sounds, we have the openness of "community" which is contradicted by "payback". Just say it, it is the phonic equivalent of New Labour.

THAT'S THE WAY TO DO IT!

2008-12-10T23:19:00.003Z

Our comrades in Athens seem to have been busy.

LET'S ASSIST THE IWF IN THEIR VALUABLE WORK

2008-12-10T11:40:00.001Z

A lot of you have probably read about this by now. More on the story here, and here.It seems as if the IWF have some sort of clout, even though they only have a few members of staff. Apparently, they only have four full time "researchers" who asess the URLs sent in by the public -sniffing out obscenity. This is really a crying shame, just think of how much stuff they must miss. But it does mean that should we, the internet public, took our responsibilities seriously and reported all that we should for the protection of others, they simply don't have the manpower to cope. This is scandalous.

So I recommend that if you should see anything -anything- that could, even possibly be thought to maybe deprave and corrupt, please report it to them. If you see anything else, report it too. It's our duty.

incidentally, my views on child porn are here.

Why Be You - This Christmas

2008-12-05T20:58:00.004Z

You are invited to the Launch of buymyfingerprints.com the new business that offers beautiful designer solutions for your identity needs.

What better present to give at Christmas that a new designer Identity? Its the perfect gift for one of your foreign friends or an oversees relative.

Our ‘Why Be You’ range offers fingerprint casts made in fine silver and package in an exquisite luxury velvet lined chrome case. Each silver fingerprint cast comes with instructions which makes use of the research carried out by the cryptographer Tsutomu Matsumoto to demonstrate how fingerprint scanners can be fooled using gelatine fingerprints. Our casts are procured totally legally, from terminally ill patients, and by the time of purchase free for you to use for your own Identity needs.

Join us for a live demonstration of gelatine fingerprint making and the launch of buymyfingerprints.com at : –

6pm – 8pm,
13th of December
Donlon Books
210 Cambridge Heath Road

FUCK THE OLYMPICS

2008-11-27T11:43:00.002Z

Video by PAKITV

CONDUIT

2008-09-07T13:50:00.001+01:00

My room is scattered with empty cans. Fragments of conduit. Each one is a segment of a pipeline that I am building, to tap and channel the subterranean currents beneath the pavements. I take my part from the current; part is expelled as breath, thought, writing, sex – clouds of alcohol breath and smoke – the remainder pours back into the subterranean rivers, through porcelain, then earthenware, finally into brick lined catacombs. The city is an economy of liquids. Talk drips, describes liquidation of capital, flows of traffic and people, of capital crystallised into buildings tapping other credit streams. The cornucopia is filled, not with fruit, but the decayed ferment of it.

Liquid reflects; this is how we recognise ourselves in it, gazing back at us. The recognition acknowledges that we can see ourselves where we are not, but this is not what is recognised. It shows us that there is a place within us, too, where we are not.

The Law of the Circle

2008-07-25T15:57:00.004+01:00

The Law of the Circle

The world had descended into a cycle of trauma, feeling the need to return to the site of its wound. Trapped in a loop of return, revisit, relive, it had established cyclic time based on the Law of the Circle. It located its wound, not within in its people, but within its architecture. It constantly replayed the Image of its trauma as though it may uncover something new, discover something it had missed, find the missing fragment it required to re-construct itself.

We also felt the need to return to the site of a trauma. Our trauma. It wasn’t great in the spectacular way, but similarly located itself within architecture. The architecture of the bridge. Without knowing the exact location, all bridges became significant and the Albert Bridge became our surrogate. We felt the need to return to this place. To interact with it. To travel back through time, exploring the palimpsest, in the hope of locating a key. The key that would allow us to break free of the cyclic pattern that had been established by the Law of the Circle.

.rupture.

TOSSERS WANT US TO CELEBRATE IT, SO LET´S

2008-07-22T14:17:00.002+01:00

We heartily reccomend all readers apply for this - short notice, unfortunately. They want a "cultural" and "inclusive" (a multitdude of sins under that rubric) rubberstamp for their spectacle, it´s only fair that we should get to provide our suggestions. They might even accept some...(more fool them)...
They want cheerleaders, let´s give them a cheer.

Calling all Hackney WAB activists and supporters.

2008-07-18T12:37:00.004+01:00

Hackney Council is tying to raise money by selling off its land from the borough’s council estates: they call this Estates Plus. Right now they have been trying to convince the residents of Frampton Park estate (just off Mare st) that the sale of five sites on the estate will lead to improvements and help with overcrowding. This includes green space, play areas and garages used by the residents. The land will be sold to housing associations, who will build and then sell and rent the flats they build.

Although there will be more low rent housing, which is much needed, it will be achieved by cramming more people into an overcrowded area.

Most of the residents don’t want the development; they don’t want to lose their green space and play grounds, when there aren’t enough places for kids to play already. One of the proposed buildings will be just yards from older peoples flats, on a piece of land kids use for football. The pensioners living in the flats would like to see a garden there, but instead they will have a multistory block towering over them.

Meanwhile across Hackney the council has sold off land that was and could be good alternative places for this social housing to be built. On Dalston Lane for instance, a row of Georgian houses with shop fronts were sold five years ago by the council to an off shore developer. They are protected and so could not be developed unless they were damaged and derelict. Since then the houses have been damaged by a series of fires, and some have been demolished. Those houses could be muti bedroom accommodation for Hackney’s overcrowded tenants and homeless families. Instead Hackney will let those buildings rot till they are developed into yuppie flats, while off the main streets the council estates are over developed.

This is making working class people bear the brunt of the housing crisis, and taking facilities away from those who need it most.

DEMONSTRATE at Hackney Town Hall! Say NO to selling off our land!

6-7pm Wednesday 23 July 2008

dataPHILE

2008-06-20T17:58:00.001+01:00

.rupture.

More irresponsible behaviour in Kings Cross.

2008-06-20T17:33:00.000+01:00

CAUTION! THIS IS NOT A GUIDED TOUR!!!!!
Saturday 21st June-----Housman’s Bookshop, Caledonian Road, Kings Cross N1.
SAVAGE MESSIAH/ WE ARE BAD COLLECTIVE
NIGHT DRIFT: TRACING THE PATH OF THE RIVER FLEET….
Meet at the bookshop 7pm, will embark on drift approx 10pm.

Lubetkin estates Bevin^Lenin court/ proto coppers offed at the Calthorpe/ gastro pub vandalism/ Kurdish communists/ Chartist insurrection/ St Bartholomew’s fair /rioting mobs/ Wat Tyler/ Smithfield all night cafs and pubs that open at 6/ Blackfriars/ Bologna bombings/ Rimbaud and Verlaine.

BRING… old maps, booze, lighter fuel, ropes, chalk, codeine.
www.housmans.com/events/index.htm
www.wearebad.net
www.savagemessiahzine.com

!!!VIVA SAVAGE MESSIAH!!! DEATH TO THE GODS OF MOUNT OLYMPUS!!!!!!

Obscured under buildings, the threads and tributaries of the Fleet are easily lost. Multiple channels are dissolved, currents disappear and reemerge simultaneously, apertures are kicked open and the Fleet is glimpsed again. Traces of the Fleet can be found in the architecture, signs and topography of the city.

Prowling around Smithfield in the first shimmering moments of a June day, I stumble into the post clubbing delirium of the Hope. Licensing laws are turned on their head. There’s a scramble for more drugs while pint pots smash and high voltage shrieking ensues in the shadow of the meat market.
Offal,congealed blood and viscera are smeared across the cobbled floor.It’s been one of those seamless days , episodic, hundreds of adventures, a massive cast, no surprise in turning a corner and facing another lost acquaintance. It was almost as if, for one moment the city broke free of its alienation.

I’m assailed by the raucous strains of punk rock the moment I’m shoved into the seedy red glow of the Merlins cave. It’s a tableau of mirrored alcoves, tiled walls, distorted acoustics and a population of déclassé deviants on smack. I’m sent reeling onto the dance floor by a load of crew off the estate.

We climb the squatted turrets of the crumbling old market, a dusty red brick assemblage with eruptions of tenacious ferns. Gaffer tape Anarchy signs are still visible in the upper portholes of those chambers.
The Fleet river ran red from here, a pestilential stream, attempts were made to sanitise it as the canal and Holborn viaduct was built. You could call this a form of denial, the blood and filth is hidden beneath the surface, the poor dispersed and hidden from view. But the blood flows everywhere and riots erupt, the endless performance of a ritual without consciousness.

We’re observing the gangs of Turkish 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.

The viaduct was built in the 1860s, the rookery was destroyed and thousands of the poor were evicted from slums perceived as dangerous, their poverty made them likelier to rebel & riot. 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 repress leads to uncanny rupturing, the accursed share, nothing divided neatly but always a remainder, always something that can’t be erased. Once you lose the sacrificial altar the whole world becomes an altar.

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 .I climb under the bridge where the Fleet disgorges into Thames. Spaces, voices and ideas dissolve into a pleromatic realm. This is the dissolution of everything, the channeling into the collective unconscious. This is the unraveling of the two month bender, everything dissolving into an undifferentiated mess. I stand and look out across the Thames. Water is the universal solvent. A perpetual shifting. I consider the frail promise of the Thames barrier, the Fleet bursts its banks.

Savage Messiah issue 6.

“Love affairs And endless strategies.
I don't believe in a word they said.
City limits . No more information.
Go follow navigation in your head.”
Japan . Suburban Berlin.

our comrades in athens

2008-05-28T22:29:00.009+01:00

The above was sent by our cell in athens, just prior to the general strike. Apparently, they are based somewhere near a LIDL supermarket which enables them to take advantage of the cheap offers on artillery (see the well street branch for more details).

unfortunately, they didn't have the wit to do more than print out the whole page from mute magazine, rather than download and print it as a poster, but what the fuck; your solidarity is appreciated.

Robin Bale invoking Dionysos

2008-05-23T11:23:00.004+01:00

Robbo invoking Dionysos at the start of Red Wine Traces,

after the SAVAGE MESSIAH ISSUE 9 ZINE LAUNCH.

SAVAGE MESSIAH ZINE LAUNCH

2008-05-09T06:50:00.003+01:00

SAVAGE MESSIAH ISSUE 9 ZINE LAUNCH
SAVAGE MESSIAH-----CULT JOURNAL OF LONDON PSYCHOGEOGRAPHY…by Laura Oldfield Ford………..
SATURDAY MAY 17TH 5PM-9PM HOUSMANS BOOKSHOP, CALEDONIAN ROAD, KINGS CROSS N1.
………………………>>>>>>>>The WE ARE BAD collective calls on all psychogeographers, miscreants and deviants to join them for a drink at Housmans to mark the launch of Issue 9 ‘HEATHROW-the psychogeography of paranoia’----Sipson, Three Magpies, Climate camp, treaty centre and more!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!…………………………………..,,,,,,,,followed by a……………………….
NIGHT DRIFT……. KINGS X TO HACKNEY WICK----LUBETKIN ESTATES, CANALSIDE YUPPIEDROMES, HIDDEN ARCHITECTURES, OBSOLETE O-S NAVIAGTION,
…………………………………
“The Metropolitan Police issued a statement today warning residents of new residential developments in North and East London to be on their guard against a hardline militant group operating under the name ‘Savage Messiah.’ The group who are said to number several hundred in the greater metropolitan area are known for their hostility against middle class homeowners and property developers. Concern is mounting about the growing popularity of this group who police say are composed of activists well known to them who have been involved in serious disorder in the past. The group have made threats against certain gated developments the nature of which cannot be outlined here for legal reasons but police say they are sufficiently serious to urge vigilance and caution. Residents of new build gated developments,(referred to by the group as’yuppiedromes’) should look out for suspicious behaviour in individuals in the vicinity. Suspicious behaviour in this case might include wandering, climbing fences, taking photographs, drawing and drinking/walking in large groups. Parents are being warned to be vigilant and should they find literature relating to the group amongst their youngsters possessions should not hesitate to speak in confidence to the police where the matter will be treated with sensitivity.”
Reuters May 6th 2008

JOHN WILD : Psychogeographer of dataspace will be facilitating a night drift from KINGS X///////
“””””’ Taking De Quincey, Rimbaud and Verlaine as his spiritual guides, John Wild will facilitate a drift from Housman’s Bookshop Kings cross towards Hackney. You are invited to come along, armed with red wine, to drink, walk and drift. The drift is not a guided tour, rather a psychogeographic wander, an invitation to become lost and experience London in a haze of intoxication. As we immerse ourselves in the sensory experience of the drift, location data created by John Wilds mobile phone will be collated and archived. This location data reduces living places to a series of annotated grid references creating a secondary layer of space, a Cartesian grid of dataSPACE, which is overlaid onto the City and is suggestive of rationality, order, logic, Surveillance and control. This data will stand in stark contrast to the blurred recollections of our night of drinking and wandering.
Over the following weeks this data will literally be set in stone as it is converted into a series of metal and concrete plaques that will be placed back at the locations indicated by the data, creating both a physical representation of dataspace and a memorial to the lived experience of the drift. The plaques represent data as a trace of experience in an attempt to reconcile the Cartesian with the phenomenological.””””””””””John Wild
http://www.rupture.co.uk/
! VIVA SAVAGE MESSIAH !
SAVAGE MESSIAH DEMANDS THE ABOLITION OF ALL ZONES!! DESTROY CARTESIAN RHETORIC, SMASH THE VILLE RADIEUSE, SAVAGE MESSIAH IS CALLING FOR A MASS RETURN TO THE LABYRINTH!!!

Chtcheglov said of Le Corbusier, “His cretinizing influence is immense. A Le Corbusier model is the only image that arouses in me the idea of immediate suicide. He is destroying the last remnants of joy. And of love, passion, freedom”

ROBIN BALE -expect tourettes outbursts, incantations and poetic ranting.

BRADFORD BAHAMAS-noise from broken computers, circuit boards, discarded electronic gadgetry in skips…….

First 50 copies of Savage Messiah will be accompanied by a free limited edition film by Majed A “ Kings Cross to Hackney Wick”.

www.savagemessiahzine.com/
www.wearebad.net/
www.myspace.com/bradfordbahamas
johnwild.info

2008-04-17T16:12:00.003+01:00

Thank you to Mr D Pockets of Hastings for sending this one in. Great to see such activities thriving.

2008-04-16T18:43:00.001+01:00

http://www. antisystemic. org/mp3/wearebad. mp3

NEGATIVE EQUITY

2008-04-14T11:50:00.000+01:00

"CONCERNS" OVER HUMAN RIGHTS

2008-04-07T19:46:00.003+01:00

I'm as much a fan of archaic and picturesque theocracies as the next person. (After all, we prefer our favoured causes happen to be brown(ish),to be at least "spiritual"; and certainly non-violent...it's more dignified, i'm sure). But perhaps these tibet/torch protests are missing the point (except,of course,for the Tibetans).

So Jacques Rogge, president of the IOC, states today:
"I'm very concerned with the international situation and what's happening in Tibet...
The torch relay has been targeted. The International Olympic Committee has expressed its serious concern and calls for a rapid peaceful resolution in Tibet," he said.
He said that violence "for whatever reason" was "not compatible with the values of the torch relay or the Olympic games".

"Whatever reason" eh? Whose values? Some sort of empyrean beyond the squalid necessities of everyday politics.

Apparently, the Olympics present us with a vision of universality transcending the factional world in which lives are actually lived. There is some world beyond, where the difficulties of housing, food, education (and certainly for the bhuddist god botherers) expressing one's religion or using ones' language, are elided in simply running fast or jumping far.

I, for one, believe that this is an ideal worth fighting for; though, naturally, without violence.

"We need the unity of the Olympic movement to help us overcome the difficulties. Our major responsibility is for offering good games to the athletes who deserve them," he said.

The deserving, then. The Olympics is a festival for the atheletes who take part in them. Cities, and the "world community" are respectively razed (note that knightsbridge would never have
been a serious contender for the site of the Prize Pedigree Kennel) or conscripted as either cheerleaders or taxpayers to pay obesience to the specimens of supermen/women who are going to act out our deepest desires. That is, running fast, jumping far etc. They will enact a collectivity for us- "ENGLAND...(which? Whose?) HAS WON GOLD...BRONZE...GOLD AGAIN..."
What about the rasberries, or the terminally uncharismatic, or the winos? What about those who just wouldn't fucking want to compete? That's scarcely picturesque.

Naturally, having conquered the barriers of class, sex, race...whatever, with a simple statement of intent, Capital can now present us with a level playing field - proudly labelled "MERITOCRACY", over the starting line. The lanes, barriers, are already layed out; we agreed on it - after all, why would western democracies allow their streets to be used for this carnival?
The finish line has been decided on.

WE ARE BAD

2008-04-06T15:08:00.001+01:00

NOTES ON BRAN THE BLESSED

2008-04-06T14:44:00.005+01:00

SCENE: side of a reservoir, outskirts of city, before the city is there. DATE:then, now; always.

BRAN appears staggering over horizon, materialising out of light, as silhouette. Stumbles down EMBANKMENT. Falls down reclining on it.

Gets buried up to neck in sand. Pissed on. Drowned? (by the Thames’ advancing tide). Then there are the subterranian rivers, lost rivers. A buried current of language. Bran’s head spouting, literally. A river from his mouth, to be lost in the soil or sand he is buried in.

BRAN stumbles down earth embankment carefully holding can of SUPER (not too carefully- he’s pissed), spills beer down front of one of one of THREE LOITERERS. They take can off him, drink, he can’t get it back. They pass it between them and spit some at him. Comic, clowning almost.They knock him into a shallow pit previously unnoticed. He stumbles back into it, he falls face up, head slightly pillowed on the earth at it’s edge. Three figures and Bran’s head, just projecting above ground. They kick the earth that is piled round pit onto him, he’s too pissed to object.
CLOSER bran’s head lolling drooling slightly, and spitting out earth when it goes in his mouth, legs kicking the earth flicker into his view now and then. They pour his beer on him. One of them pisses on him. He vomits and screams at the same time.

If liquid is poured on you, do you grow? If so, do you put down roots, and where?

So they knock him down, bury him, water him (to make him grow?) with beer and piss. John Barleycorn. Beer and piss, transubstantiation.

He throws up, violently, liquid spouting from mouth, running down stubbled chin and then running over ground (which is loose earth here) . CLOSER -liquid running over dark ground.

And his language, slurred with vomit and drunks' rage- just scraps, tatters, fragments. A current of words dividing into tributaries or a tree, the trunk multiplying, subdividing into branches. Watered by piss and beer.

Buried up to his neck in shit, pissed on -you could say fertilised…it’s where it all comes from, fertility- from the piss and shit. Some wino buried up to his neck in it. He doesn’t take it lying down, you wouldn’t would you.

We Are Bad – Bronze Graffiti

2008-04-02T17:13:00.006+01:00

Recognising the high art status of graffiti the We Are Bad Collective have had the letters cut from their stencils cast in Bronze. These Bronze Graffiti plaques reading, “WE ARE BAD – PLEASE KEEP AN EYE ON US”, have been cast with polished text on a green Patina background.

A spokesperson from the We Are Bad Collective said, “Given the recuperation of Graffiti into a fine art category, and in recognition of its roll as public art, we thought it only fitting that graffiti artists should start using materials that reflect its new found status”.

On the 2nd April 2008 30 Bronze Graffiti plaques where attached to CCTV camera posts in various London locations.

eBayers and Treasure hunters be warned the WAB Collectives love of the drift means we have placed these plaques in some of the most obscure London locations, (non in Shordich).

Take a drift through the hinterlands!!!! Happy Hunting…..

Wearebad.net

NEO-GEORGIAN BY THE RESERVOIR

2008-03-31T18:40:00.002+01:00

The light runs out here; the wind-filled spaces muscle in and push the buildings aside, then sit howling in the vacancies they have made. Plastic bags rattle down the street. It's still busy in the 24 hour sandwich factory, bhangra and qwalli alternate, the vacuum seal machine providing hissing counterpoint to their call and response.

THE NIGHT BUS CREW

2008-03-31T17:50:00.000+01:00

LEYTON: DEATH TO THE GODS OF MOUNT OLYMPUS

2008-03-30T09:11:00.003+01:00

LEYTON: DEATH TO THE GODS OF MOUNT OLYMPUS
A desultory step down from that linear conduit ,the Lea Bridge Road, veering away from its straightness onto the labyrinthine terrain vague of the marshes, little tracks hidden under briars weave and spiral into the nexus of a lost London.

"I give you the end of the golden string
Only wind it into a ball,
It will lead you in at Heaven's gate
Built in Jerusalem's wall.
William Blake Jerusalem

Leyton. Softly you smother me. What lies beneath that sweet patina, the swirling yellow and grey mists of your residues. To reassemble you would be a sleight of hand, a conjuring trick. You lurk behind me now, holding something back, always. And yet there, in the torn and tattered veneers, the peeling hoardings and crumbling stucco I sense an elegiac emblem, a marker. I am pulled into the fray, tugged into a channel I cannot fathom. Wherever the locus of your broken heart lies, splintered and in pieces, I shall come to it now.

Lea Bridge, just your name conjures up so many repressed desires, the abandonment of reason on the marshes, violent rituals, face ground down in the dirt on muddy football pitches, the brutal and unforgiving sex of confusion and scarring. The dreams of another epoch, the heady scent of hawthorn blossom beneath the pylons.
I conjure up scenes, erotically charged and complicated , a tableaux of curious, senseless topographies. Under the shadow of the power station, a biting scratching kind of fuck, tearing into the scorched ground by the breakers yard, Genet and Lovecraft become my companions.

Along the railway sidings on Lammas Road. Acid house year zero. This became the darkside , the Black e zone, factories left empty from the recession in knots of burnt out blocks. The Intercity firm, " congratulations you have just met the ICF" :warehouse party mayhem, protection rackets, thugs with machetes, corruption and ultraviolence on a grand scale. WHAT IS THIS HORROR ZONE?
Unit 13 , next to that grisly meat packing factory, internal organs melting in fear and paranoia. A Synthetic Circus party, all these ketamine entities in Halloween garb standing shivering as a woman lies haemorrhaging under an awning of relentless drilling gabba. Within a year a gruesome repeat, another pointless death. He watched her frothing at the mouth, eyes rolling back into her head, bastards selling bad gear, and sound systems too scared to stop.
Lammas, the old pagan festival of Lugnasadh ,funeral feast of the God of light, a time of sacrifice, judgement and reckoning..
Where did it all go wrong ? Mousetraps in back pockets to spring the pickpockets, wraps of Ajax to poison the thieves, men hanging around toilets to rape K'd up women and all that with security firms standing by watching, making a fucking killing. A shattered dream. Once there was this perverse hope that these desolate stretches would rise again, the Phoenix of East London rising from the ashes. In the halcyon days of the late 80's it all seemed possible, but then something started to claw it back, this malevolent twitching beneath the flyovers and electricity cables. A brooding cruelty, you couldn't have hoped to get away with it.
A cross quarter fire festival, bonfires to add strength to the powers of the waning sun. Staffa Road, industrial estate becomes inferno as Britart burns, the tokens of Cool Britannia and New Labour hypocrisy razed to the ground in 600 degree flashover. Bataille's accursed share, proposed Olympic site as sacrificial zone.
The Dungeons. Dank, claustrophobic vaults reach out beneath the Lea Bridge Road, a shadow world sealed, gruesome chambers harbouring guilt and shame .Deranged Hell's Angels wanting a cut of the drug money suddenly leaching into the marshes, all these fucking firms, criminal gangs, they were in there straight away. The Greyhound, that was just a front, a sham pub, a veneer of respectibilty, the Dungeons was where it was really going on. Some Merlin automoton serving Red Stripe, moving so slow, and those other bastards trying to put the fear in with tales of torture, electrocuted genitalia, a screaming, paranoid darkness. Headfuck and Uglyfunk are there, five rooms five soundsystems, Crossbones room, Sick n twisted Vs pitchless room, Darkside, The Lurker, Face Hoover, Rave Enforcer, Necro and Anoianoid, the iconography of horror, 80's slasher movies resurrected in this god forsaken territory. Ketamine casualties lurch zombified through the wastelands with no fears of noise abatement orders. Red stripe goes up, R and B crews move in, a shooting outside and in this, it's final incarnation ,the Dungeons becomes the last outpost of Murder Mile.

HEATHROW:THE PSYCHOGEOGRAPHY OF PARANOIA.

2008-03-26T07:36:00.007Z

“In every case, the state of exception marks a threshold at which logic and praxis blur with each other and a pure violence without logos claims to realize an enunciation without any real reference" Giorgio Agamben.

"Of many shifts , blandly cunning, a robber, a cattle driver, a bringer of dreams, a watcher by night, a thief at the gates, one who was soon to show forth wonderful deeds among the deathless gods." Chalked on the roadside were words lifted from a Homeric hymn to Hermes.

Heathrow is a tangle of paranoia, to traverse the perimeter is to dodge clusters of armed coppers. We edge beneath the razor wire of a forlorn camp , a guarded non space mutating into a contemporary locus of struggle. Middle England just this side of the fence, clinging to heritage and hanging baskets,, no site clothes/work boots, no third runway daubed on George cross banners, who do yOU align yourself with? Immigration removal centres, privatised prisons, they're not keen, they don't want them coming in, and they don’t like unhealthy proles holidaying in Spain much either.
Terrorism, a word almost drained of its psychotic cravings by the anodyne platitudes mouthed on ABC lurks in the infrastructure. Does anyone really believe in it? Conspiracy theories abound, there’s a retreat into the escapism of fantasy lands, the irrational.

The three magpies, relic of the 70’s, nothing really changed, a saccharine rendition of’silent night’ on the juke box, it’s August. We’re ignored for a long time and when I get my tea it’s lukewarm and the little cup only half full, its like tea you get from a flask. Its Monday afternoon so there’s just us and a couple of baggage handlers. We leave the faux heritage of this Edwardian tudor and head for the patio bar which is actually some tables and a fence and a car park then the airport. It’s an out of time zone, where people come to have clandestine encounters, a few drinks before a dash to the Renaissance hotel. Its a place of undertable powder slipping and hawkers peddling stuff off the luggage truck. You get it now, or its on its way to the auction house in Tooting love. Julie’s had everything in here, mainly perfume and stuff, specially since the ban on hand luggage and liquids, some nice stuff, expensive, all sorts really. Julie grew up in Bradford, she used to be married to a biker, she had tattoos and loved the allegiance of belonging to a tribe. Then there was feuding and he got nasty and she swapped her council house in Bradford for a flat in Hounslow, it was a clean break,a fresh start..,here in this transit zone everyone was just passing through, she could just disappear. It was her and the Polish and the Somalians and Sikhs and everyone, loads of Polish everywhere, all the pubs and shops turning Polish now. Used to be that a lot of the pubs closed and turned into boring stuff like burglar alarm fitting businesses cos the Asians didn’t really use them so much but now the Poles are bringing them back to life.
The three magpies is alright, she’s been working there three years. Strangely, for a transit zone you get your regulars, blokes from the airport. Then there’s lads from nearby up on a weekend, mainly for the karaoke and late licence, airport meant it was easy to get one, funny hours people work and us with no neighbours to annoy. Outside this strictly controlled zone we had this little pocket that was almost operating outside the law. We had all sorts going on, a lot of young ones off their heads but the old bill never looking in.

savagemessiahzine.com

BAZ IS BACK!!!!!!!!!!!!

2008-03-25T17:12:00.003Z

Alright fans, sorry about this, it aint like yer old mate Baz to fuck off for this long but FUCKING HELL you wouldn’t believe whats been goin on round ere!!!
Right, so just to set the scene, me , Sean and a few of the old crew are sittin in the Acorn avin a few afternoon ones, i’m supposed to be takin sean round me mate Kennys to stop for a few days til we can lose that orrible screw Brenda, its all just kicked off in Working links doleite boot camp so we’ve gone for a few pints....right and then this bird walks in who sean suddenly goes ga ga over...with me now? alright..

......so this bird is just sitting at the bar supping this blue alco pop shite and she’s looking over at Sean and me an’ all, both of us i suppose but its hard to tell, what wiv her avin such weird eyes an that... so Seans lookin back at her all excited, an i’;m blamin this on bein banged up for so bleedin long, Sean seems to have lost it completely when it comes to women. I mean this one, she looks off it proper, dead stringy and spaced out. The hair is the kind of streaks you used to get in the 80’s, and the gear, short skirt and bare legs sort of like a Shacklewell Lane slapper , you get the idea.. i don’t mind that meself, i mean she’s alright i think, quite fit, its just the eyes that worry me, really twitchy and anxious then laughing..fucking hell...
so i’m tryin to look at the TV, Deal or No Deal some wingnut eared cunt just won 1p, right cocky little bastard he was, turned down 20 grand without a blink, righT fuckig MUG,i’m ready for the question Noel when Sean hauls himself out of his chair and lunges over to the bar, alright darlin i hear him say to the bird, want me to get you another one o them drinks?
She’s laughing and smiling and making herself all small and giggling and next things Seans getting a round in and looking over at me like he’s just hit the bleedin jackpot! I aint jokin you’d have thought he’d just won the bleedin lottery.
Oh god i’m thinkin, not another load of bleedin trouble, then he’s bringing me another pint of Stella and beckoning the bird over to our table. Shall we sit out the front, i want a fag he says. So we all go out the front of the boozer, there aint no tables outside as such, more a draughty door way with a couple of stools next to the motorised spac carts. This is Lisa Sean says all smiles introducing me to the bird, she’s just laughing and taking the piss out of Seans tattoos, the one with the skull with the mohican, she says she’s been living down some doss house in Stepney, what you doin up this way then love? She’s goin on about the hostel and this knobhead who she was seein and how he’s hassling her following her every time she leaves the hostel , she went to sign on today and he was hanging about outside, this was down Whitechapel, so she slipped out the back and started walking the wrong way home and just kept goin and that was it, just wandering on and on til she got lost, saw this boozer and stopped for a rest. You stick wiv us love, we’ll look after you Seans saying all laughs and smiles, i’m thinking fucking hell as if we aint got enough to worry about.
Look mate, i says to him when she’s pissed off to the bog, we’re staying at kenny’s tonight and that bird aint comin wiv us. Sean stands up straight and turns on me, i said i’ll look after her an i will, she AINT GOT NO ONE!! Alright Sean, fuckin ell cool it mate, bleedin ell, i’m only tryin me best top sort us all out mate, it aint easy i’m telling you..Jesus specially with you kicking off every ten minutes.
Alright well where then? if not Kennys where? This is Sean looking at me completely aggro, i’m doin my best but sometimes you can’t please him. I’m pissed off cos i was looking forward to just staggering out the boozer, round the corner to kennys flat and settlin down for a curry and a few cans.. i don’t know do i Baz, YOU’RE THE FUCKING BOSS!!. I hate it when he gets all sarcastic and mean, thats him after a few stellas but i can handle him, alright Sean i say, I got other places, let me make a few calls.
Then the stringy bird, Lisa, appears again and Seans all smiles the big soft fucking galoot...
to be continued..and i promise i won’t make you wait so long for the next installment...
laters Baz .

Burn Down the Corporate Image Factory

2008-03-12T12:15:00.001Z

The next installment...

2008-03-08T08:19:00.003Z

Alright so i grabs hold of Sean, an i says look pal, yuo've made yuor point and we get the fuck out of there. Gaynors shoutin and makin threats and lookin cosy with the knobhead security they got on there, she'll be quite happy to be giving them all the fucking names, date of birth an all that stuff, cos she's one o them aint she, aFUCKING SCREW!!!!
but they don't try to nick him, you can see he's acting like a proper psycho..they let us go, thinking yeah we'll go round in the van and pick em up later when they're watching Countdown with a can of special brew. well fuck that. We're weaving through the estates of haggerston, by the canal and then into that little maze of flats on Whiston road. that whole estate is fucked, they got the orange sitex up all over the windows that Hackney council slap up over everything until they can sell it off to private developers.
i got a few boltholes round here, most of em i aint even told Sean about cos he seemed to be telling that horrible Gaynor the lot at one point. C'mon mate i say and we nip into the Acorn for a swift one. Some of you might know the Acorn on the junction of Whiston road and Queensbridge, its a bit of a shithole but me mate Kenny drinks in there sometimes and some of the lads from the old Charlie Wrights days so i go in now and again. the old boys on them motorised spac carts moaning all the time do my head in a bit but still its an alright boozer, they aint got much time for the old bill in there.
Kennys bird Linda used to live in a tower block over the road which is now a massive yuppie complex. I'm thinking fucking hell don't get Sean started on that cos i'm just tryin to get him calmed down. Anyway Kenny says we can doss at his for one night but thats it but after that he says he's got a mate out in Leyton who'll put us up for a day or two. There's also me brother in stratford , he's got a big house near Maryland overground station and the lock up where i do me painting so we've got loads of options, i don't feel so bad as i'm supping me Stella.
That cunt Edmonds comes on the tv, deal or no deal,waht a righT load of Wank!!i'm on me third pint and i'm in the mood to smash the tv but i got to think of sean and he's lookin a bit happier, bit less aggro, can't have him kickin off if we're goin back to Kenny's.
So i'm happy, mocking that cunt Edmunds on tv, supping me pint, lookin forward to curry and a few tins round at kennys when this bird walks in..i've seen her before at the Dolphin, this stringy blonde with out of focus eyes, it looks abit like the thing gaynor brought out wiv her one night so i do a sharp double take but it aint her. No this one has a familar look but only in the way them smackhead birds all look abit alike with the too fast walking and face a bit stretched. But anyway i glance over at Sean an he's suddenly come to life, sitting up straight and staring right over at this bird. i'm thinkin, well she werent that bad, i might have had a go meself, but Sean well its always a dilemma aint it...it might send him round the bend or it might take his mind off Gaynor...god knows..but she's sitting at the bar now drinking some blue fizzy shit looking over.
to be continued.............

2008-03-06T11:39:00.000Z

A massive rubber plant got smashed into the wall.

2008-03-05T15:01:00.003Z

Anyway, on with the story about working links. Yeah the whole thing started out pretty huliliating for Sean, he looked, well the only word i can come up with is 'humble' and that just aint Sean, i mean Sean with the fight knocked out of him just aint Sean, he's just this sad looking middle aged geezer lookin sort of broken, you know, like he'd given up. So aside from being fucking angry i was actually quite upset i don't mind tellin you. Gaynor the hard faced fucking screw was goin on at him about training and opportunities. I just laughed in her fucking face, you want him driving his old mates from Belmarsh round in a bleedin Serco van yuo dopey tart i said. But no she was bleating on about how he could easy get a job as a security guard or some such shit.
Sean are yuo gonna take this, are you gonna let her push you around like a little kid i says to him. Sean just shrugs like it don't matter.
So off we go, down the Kingsland road to this poncey new office where they got all these happy pictures on the windows of people on the phone talking to each other, yuo aint never seen such wank. We get to sit down on these nice orange corner settees, its a bleedin joke.
Anyway this geezer strides over, some big bald bastard with a smug grin and i'm thinking yuo might think your a big shot in here sunshine but wait til you get outside. The smug git says oh Mr Hanlon, good to see you here early for yuor interview, we've got coffee over here and the papers here. Gaynors smiling and Sean just sits there. The dole sent the letter about getting sent down here and Sean chucked it in the bin, Gaynor got it out again and she said if he didn't come down here that was the end of them. Sean pal, what are you playin at?
So he sits there drinking this plastic coffee shit from the machine and reads last weeks hackney gazette until the ugly bald prick comes swaggering over and syas 'ok Mr Hanlon, come with me please'. Its all open plan in there and you can see and hear everything the smarmy fucker has to say. He's going on and on about retraining, new skills, how Sean could improve his chances if he changes his attitude. i'm thinking any minute now i'm gonna lose it, i can feel the rage boiling up, and then i hear this almighty crash and its the chair Seans been sitting on go flying across the room, then i stand up and i sees him picking up this bin ready to hurl it at that disgusting smarmy nonce. But then this security guard is there, they always have em lurking at the back and he's trying to work out wether to grab Sean or not cos he knows Seans fucking massive and completely mental. And so he hangs back while Sean picks up this giant rubber plant and throws it against the wall. I think Good on yer son, thats the sean i know! Gaynors shrieking and tries to restrian him, i get old of her and i syas fuck off you, leave him the fuck alone. Come on Sean. I want to get him out before the old bill get here, c'mon Sean i say, we gotta get out of here pronto, c'mon mate........to be continued.
...............find out what happens when Baz and Sean hide out in the matrix of backstreet boozers between Shoreditch and Dalston.

2008-03-05T11:45:00.002Z

Prince Harry is like holding a dick upside down to make it look erect. Send the ginner back!

....just so you know...........

2008-03-04T14:45:00.001Z

i aint jokin

Life in Poplar.

2008-03-04T14:18:00.003Z

You might think being booted out of my gaff was bad enough, but yuo should have seen where they tried to rehouse me. They showed me some shithole estste in poplar that even the Homeless families unit rejected on the grounds that it was unfit for human habitation. I refused it, there's no fucking way yuo'd get me living in a dump like that.
So you lot out there who prefer hackney to be a yard full of braying toffs with wooden bikes and organic bread, BE WARNED, BAZ IS STILL AROUND. So now i've got me new gaff i'm gonna be back on here more often I"M TELLIN YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2008-03-03T11:29:00.005Z

The above circuit should be suitable for the construction of the device you where enquiring about.

For more information see my research.

.rupture.

smooth space

2008-02-26T10:59:00.005Z

James had lived along the perimeter his whole life. As a child he would climb up into the attic, using the slightly rickety pull down ladder, to gaze through the small skylight window, in order to snatch a better view of the terminal building. An arched glass structure that seemed to cut the sky like the blade of the scythe his father kept in a special locked trunk in the garden shed. The panes of glass of the terminal building would catch the sun, sending beams of light like lasers shooting across the no mans land that separated the terminal building from James’s suburban semi as though they had been aimed directly into the small attic. Some times the flashes of light would appear to have some sort of meaning, a regular pulse then a gap, another flash, then a long wait followed by an intense beam. James felt that these patterns of light were forming an undecipherable message, one that was beckoning to him over the fence that ran further than he had walked to both the east and west.

As James sat looking through the fence, coiled wire, car parks and long track of shimmering grey runway that marked the perimeter, he would sometimes dream of being one of the dark suit clad figures he occasionally glimpsed boarding the aircraft. It had been fifteen years now since the Green Party had taken power, two years before James was born, and the emergency powers restricting all long distance travel for all but the wealthy and the political elite had been imposed

…………………… TO BE CONTINUED………………MAYBE………………..

.rupture.

Homage to Catalonia

2008-02-25T11:35:00.007Z

WAB’s have been appearing through out the villages and towns of the Catalunya countryside.

These images where sent in by our Catalan Comrades with the following communiqué :
…………………………………………………..

TERMINE la política de la culpabilidad.
TERMINE la política de la culpa individual.
Los problemas colectivos exigen soluciones colectivas.
Los problemas systemic exigen el cambio systemic.

DESTRUYA EL CAPITALISMO GLOBAL

…………………………………………………..

Fucking Hell, we were just pissed off about our annual cheep flight to Magaluf been blamed for the destruction of the planat.

Tracing the path of the River Fleet.

2008-02-24T07:38:00.004Z

We drift in circles around each other. Threads untangle in the memory flashes of an uncanny landscape.
One night in a pub on Rosslyn Hill, I witnessed three skirmishes, three explosive grasps at ultra violence. We ended up in a cab to Camden, shifting over the path of the Fleet, and I felt London cascading, cinematic and charged. When we got to Inverness street there was a carnivalesque loopiness , it was a feverish Summer night and there were hordes of screechers and brawlers, a real demented din. We weaved through a maelstrom of dodgy loiterers and onion fryers , delighting in the thrill and degeneracy of the fairground.

The slow arduousness of that coach trip ,the impossible yearning, stranded up North, I saw our first encounter played out in such vivid clarity, the frantic kisses, it was the most alive sequence, I just watched it unfold, didn’t have to focus or even try, all that plotting and dreaming, eyes pressed to the window to see the first ragged boundaries of Edgware. Drill holes in rock, ravines gouged out in the cliff face, envelopes of blocks opening one on top of another.
In Wooley Edge services I yearned for the baroque whorls and curlicues of the labyrinth, smearing red lipstick in the fluorescent glare of the mirror.

The coach stops at Golders green station, a limp nexus, then there’s an ecstatic bundling rush with a hip flask of rum to the heath. London sprawls under a canopy of ruptures and livid blooms. I’m so tuned in to the desire you wouldn’t believe it, it scuttles all over me, little shivers of pleasure, bursts of erratic joy from shoulders to finger tips.

The ancient pathways are hazy with smoke as I drop down to the glowing windows of the Vale of Health. I search in the November dark for the traveller site behind corrugated iron, briars and hawthorn. A big crew of skinheads smash up cars defying the dead time of the Barrat estate. Caravans and trailers are reconfigured as mobile architecture. .
To desire placelessnesss is to defy authority.

Bouts of extreme violence activate my desire.

Michael Foot campaigned against that traveller site when he lived up there, called them vermin.

The covert symbols of chance encounters are visible on the heath. The city becomes cinema, signs oscillating and shimmering. I find scattered rice and hearts chalked on stone. London is a character in flux, vivid and psychoactive .

Jack Straws castle. I run through the back to blush up face and backcomb hair. Stop for a pint and conjure up images of Wat Tyler on his way to invade London with an enraged mob, smashing open prisons, beheading judges and lawyers. The Jack Straws castle is now a weather boarded simulacrum dating from 1964, you can sit in the ‘turret bar’ and survey the ‘spectacular views of the heath’

Surveying London from Parliament hill I think about De Certeau’s writings on the city. He says the aerial perspective that offers an overview of the city in it’s entirety ”transforms the bewitching world by which one was ‘possessed’ into a text that lies before one’s eyes” but denies knowledge of the city in it’s rawest sense. I look down imagining all the knots of disorder and crave my place in it.

TO BE CONTINUED..........................

SPECIAL DOUBLE EPISODE!!!!!BAZ is BACK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2008-02-24T07:05:00.002Z

Sean gets dragged to Working Links by that orrible bird of his, GAYNOR.

I'm fucking sick of it mate i tell you.
Seans here, still. he aint goin nowhere, him an that orrible Gaynor or whatever she's called. Anyway, she comes over sometimes late, about three in the morning, sometimes dead early, just waltzes in ere, that daft barstard minted her a key, whaT a fucking mug.She walks in, puts the bleedin tv on to watch that cunt Kyle or whatever other miserable kangaroo court/freakshow they've got on ITV1, sits there with a nescafe, from MY JAR and smokes a lambert and butler and acts like its her GAFF!!!!
Where's Sean she said once just strolling in while i was sitting havin me breakfast readin the paper. In bed probably i said, it's 8 o clock in the mornin you know he aint an early riser. So she marches into his room, pulls the covers off him, i hear all this shoutin and commotion and then he's standin there all bleary eyed with his hair all over the place. make him a coffee Barry please she says. Whatcho doin to im? I demand to know cos thats my mate Sean she's makin a right mug of. He's starting his training today, at Working Links, i want him there at 9 on the dot looking smart.
You see Sean, what did i bleedin tell you?????!!!!!!!!!!!
to be continued.............

I LOSE IT WITH GAYNOR BIG TIME BUT SEAN STILL GETS DRAGGED OFF TO WORKING LINKS!!

Right so Gaynor's round our gaff, that fucking screw, she's just hauled Sean out of his blow up mattress, screamed all these commands and frogmarched him into the kitchen looking like a righHT MUG!!! So she says he's got an appointment at working links.... Now i'm tellin you, i got some experience of those cunts, the whole things a boot camp, American workfare shit, ie work for fuck all but the seats are in nice 'funky' colours so yuo don't get upset about it! Now i've done some daft things in me time, Sean an' all, but neither of us are completely fucking stupid. I used to like the dole office better when it was them sour faced bastards behind metal grilles, you knew where you stood with them, you hated them, they hated you, something like the way it was with Thatcher. In comes Blair an its all 'yeah i'm gonna be a right nasty cunt but i still want you to like me...'all pleading and wheedling and suddenly all the dole offices are in these open plan offices done out like estate agents with these orrible chairs covered in orange and turqoise material. Its to make you think they're alright, so you don't kick off ..
It has been brought to my attention that sean might actually benefit from this humilaition, i say come round ere mate and meet im yourself and tell me what good all this workfare nonsense is gonna do him, for a start when would he have time do run is businesses etc?
So anyway, this Gaynor is insisting Sean goes on this fucking course an i just kick off. DON"T COME IN MY FUCKING HOUSE LAYING THE FUCKING LAW DOWN!!!!!!!!!!!!!! she looks at me with these orrible cold fish eyes and says, don't make an enemy of me Barry, i'm warning you.
So i just stares at her,by now my face feels like its gonna explode and and she's got old of Sean an she's marching him out the gaff. this is fucking unbelievable. So there's nothing else for it, i grab me coat and go after em....

find out what happens in the new Kingsland road branch of Working Links in the next episode.

2008-02-21T17:31:00.001Z

WE WILL MAKE YOU BETTER (PART 2)

2008-02-18T17:23:00.001Z

I always look in skips. There are a lot of them around here. The Victorian terraces are being reconverted, gutted, as owner/occupiers move in. New plaster getting slapped on, walls repointed. The cheap shit of the ‘70’s and ‘80’s that furnished peoples’ needs when these places were all divided into bedsits and flats ends up dumped. No one has carpets these days either.

You can find furniture, clothes, electrical goods. I used to have a mate who would just go around picking out the copper wire. He’d spend hours stripping the insulation off it, and then take it down to the scrap and weigh it in for a few quid. It was a living, of sorts.

It was half hidden by a board, and some shreds of grim wallpaper – stripes in pink and lilac, with convoluted flowers. It looked like a strange glove in pale yellowish leather. One that was designed to look like a hand, but with holes where the fingernails would be. I thought it was pretty unusual, so I grabbed it; but the board was on top so I had to lift that enough so I could pull it out from underneath. I saw that the glove was a long one, over elbow length. Holding up the board with one hand, I pulled the whole thing out with the other. The glove came out. It wasn’t a glove. There was the glove part that turned into a tube, and the rest of whatever it was wadded into a mass, screwed up, squashed, and covered in plaster dust. I tried shaking the dust off it, then took some of the wallpaper and laid that down in the road next to the skip. I smoothed it out on that, starting at the glove end. The material very fine; wrinkled, but not brittle. I thought that it was some weird sort of garment, and was really impressed at how there was no visible stitching. The glove turned into a tube that seemed to be made to go over the shoulder, but it seemed to have been in a fire. It was charred at the top of the shoulder and across, from under the armpit, leaving a just a circular flap. The edges were brittle, and burnt black, brown scorch marks went across. I was thinking it must have been some sort of expensive fetish wear, being made so well; like an upmarket version of the glove vets put on when they stick their hands up cow’s arses. I was also thinking of the scenario that led to this expensive sex apparel getting burned. Then I stopped. It had a nipple. A scorch mark ran across it, but it was there. Pale tan, with the small nub of flesh in the middle (this had been dried by the fire so it had the translucency and the texture of a dog chew). I looked again, the thing had pores. The “glove” part had lines on the palm, life line, love line.

It lay there in the gutter, against the lurid wallpaper, like a used condom, or a discarded sock, or any of the other things that usually littered the pavements around there. I left it. Someone else could find it, or call the police, or whatever they wanted to do. I left it there and went home to wash my hands until they were sore.

I’ve seen a few others since then. Screwed up, and left against walls with dead leaves and empty crisp packets. Drooping from yellow skips amongst old doors and floorboards, and those shitty white laminate wardrobes with the gold plastic handles that used to be everywhere, as the old houses around get their shiny new facelift. No one has called the police.

TO BE CONTINUED...

2008-02-15T18:05:00.002Z

Grassed up, spat on, watched.
ten quid for a fucking smoking lisence, are they havin a laugh or what????????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

YOU

2008-02-15T13:51:00.005Z

TO ADDRESS YOU AT ALL, I MUST HAVE AT LEAST SOME SUSPICION THAT WE SHARE SOME FORM OF LANGUAGE, OR AT LEAST THE POSSIBILITY OF ONE.

TO UNDERSTAND THAT YOU ARE YOU AT ALL, WE CANNOT SHARE A LANGUAGE BEYOND A CERTAIN EXTENT. TOO PERFECT A CONGRUENCE MIGHT LEAD ME TO THINK THAT YOU ARE, IN FACT, ME.

TO RECOGNISE THAT YOU ARE NOT ME, THERE MUST BE SOMETHING ILL-FITTED; MISUNDERSTANDINGS/TRANSLATIONS; A SEPARATION.

BUT SHOULD THERE BE NO POINT OF CONTACT AT ALL, NOTHING TO MISCONSTRUE, LEAVING ONLY DUMB INCOMPREHENSION, THEN YOU WOULD BE INVISIBLE; IN FACT, INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM ME.

WE WILL MAKE YOU BETTER

2008-02-15T13:18:00.003Z

Video: available on rotten.com

(the camera is high up, as if a security camera on a wall, looking down into a bare room, grey carpet tiles on the floor. White or cream walls. One door slightly ajar on the right hand of the screen, through which a pinkish light is visible. Another door is on the left, this is closed. There is a power socket three quarters of the way along the skirting)

A naked man, of middle age, stands directly below the camera. He looks directly up at it. The distortion of the lens makes his body seem a flaccid afterthought to his face, his good teeth and carefully groomed hair. He speaks as if giving a well-rehearsed pitch, there is something of the salesman, and something of the confiding friend about him.

“I want to show you something- you may not believe this, but don’t just believe your eyes…believe what your feelings tell you too. You will see this, and your feelings, your gut will tell you this is possible. We all spend too much of our lives saying to ourselves “I can’t do this”…we train ourselves into thinking that so much is impossible for us. “it can’t happen, not for me”…….well, I am going to show you something, and believe me; it can happen even for you. There is no trick here, and there is nothing special about me – I don’t come from a good family, I didn’t go to a special school, I had no particular advantages. But I changed all that.

“Look at your life – look at it…don’t you feel that you have something in you that is aching to get out? Don’t you know that you have something inside that you know you want to share with the world? But you can’t-

“O,K. I was like you; and I know how it feels. That thing you can feel there, it has a name – it’s called potential, and that is what is truly you. You might have people around you, people who are holding you back. And they might say that they know you – they might even say that they know what is best for you; and because of that, they will say, kindly, with the best of intentions: oh, that’s not him, or her; and he, or she, can’t do that. But they are lying. They might not know it, but they lie. They don’t know the real you, that one that you can feel, that’s right inside here.” (at this point, a clenched fist is banged against the chest, above the heart).

“They don’t know your – and here’s that word again – potential. You might well find that they don’t like the true you, and try to stop it from emerging. When you show the world your true face, you will find that you don’t need these people. But once you have made up your mind, once you have made up your mind to something; remember this – you cannot be stopped. There is a way to release that, and show the world your true face. This is what I am going to show you”

the man stays still, looking up at the camera. It seems as if his face creases, he frowns. Then the frown lines grow deeper and darker. He relaxes, but the lines stay. He makes a grimace - like smile, exposing his perfect teeth. This adds another web of wrinkles, crosshatching his face. He relaxes his features again, his face seems to sag. He nods his head, then flexes his shoulders, nods his head again. Suddenly he looks older. His lower lip is dangles loosely, almost touching his chin. Dark crescents are expanding beneath his eyes as the lower eyelids droop away from the underlying muscle. Then his brows follow, softly slipping down to cover his eyes. The man’s face is peeling away and downwards from a tear that follows his hairline. The flesh coming into view is pale pink, with white, reddish patches of small blood vessels; moist, like the flesh beneath a freshly peeled scab. His eyes stay fixed on the camera throughout. The man holds out his arms, and his hands seem to have a second pair dangling beneath them, he rolls his shoulders again and his chest falls away. The skin of his upper body is now hanging in empty folds from his waist, the new flesh gleams with spots of lymph and specks of blood. With a ghastly smile and still holding his arms out, hands palm upwards, he speaks again. His teeth glow like bone in a wound.

“I have done this before. As you can see, I’m in no pain, aside from a mild stinging sensation. Savlon, or some other mild antiseptic can take care of that. You too can bring out what’s inside…Start a new life today…Ring the number below for details and brochures on my seminars and special mentoring scheme. Do it for yourself, for who you really are.”

He holds his pose for another twenty seconds or so, staring into the camera, then leaves through the door on the right. His skin left discarded on the carpet like a pile of old clothes. After a while it seems to start twitching; small, almost unnoticable movements.

The camera keeps running. The sound of running water, perhaps a shower, can be heard faintly in the background. Then the skin starts to roll. It turns over itself, looks as if it’s turning itself inside out and back again. It makes no sound, there is just the sound of the shower in the background as if in another room. The skin keeps rolling around itself, around the floor on the grey carpet tiles. Then suddenly it stands up. It shakes itself slightly, maybe to remove creases. It almost looks like it is patting itself, brushing itself down. It looks like the man it has just been stripped from, but flatter. The jaw is slack and the eyes are holes. It moves in a way that suggests dead leaves being blown along rather than something inhabited by will or volition. It exits the room through the other door.

Video ends.

TO BE CONTINUED...

2008-02-12T18:41:00.000Z

Just in case any of my loyal fans out there are wondering where i am, i'm happy to let you know that i aint been banged up, infact i've been down Stratford in me brothers lock up doin a bit off the old painting! Painting as in Art i'll ave you know not bleedin decoratin! It was Sean an is carryin on with that hatchet faced screw that drove me out of the gaff, an when i wanna bit of peace and quiet i go and do a bit of the old painting, calms me nerves right down. That's how it started as it goes, when i was inside, started the class just to drag out association time really, i mean i always liked drawing and that but i never thought i was gonna make money bein an artist..so i starts this class and fuck me i really loved it! I start doin these classes once a week an i start painting, this is about 11 years ago an it went on from there, now i'm workin on these massive fuck off canvases. I've put a picture here of one of me HQ paintings. if you like it you can commision me to do soem more but i aint jokin you better have a fucking fat wallet.
More on the Sean saga very soon, it aint nice i'm telling yer....
tell yuo what else i'm fucking sick of, these moaning old bastards on the estate complaining about me fucking Minder records, i wouldn't mind but that bastard drives me fucking mental playing all that weird experimental shit all the time that sounds like out of time drumming and weird clanks and squawks.
as i told yer before i got me own page on myspace so you can check me out on there, if you don't like it fair enough but there's soem good West Ham stuff and a nice comment form that cunt Jeremy Kyle.
laters,
Baz

HARD WORKERS ARE TAKING OVER

2008-02-12T13:13:00.002Z

.rupture.

ASBO Barry.

2008-02-12T13:01:00.000Z

Have ad anoughth a that Barry fucking Squiggins. Friday Night, right, I have to crash out early to be on market for 6.30am to set up fruit an veg stall. Any way abart 2am I hears all this shouting. Its Barry and his Mate and some lasses they’ve pick up, coming back from boozer. Sharting at someone all way darn street till they get on estate.

Am just nodding of again an music starts. Am abart 4 floors darn from barry but theres a concreat beem that runs streght darn block bringing all noise wi it. A try to egnor it cos a now its Friday night an its only unlucky sods like me who’s got t be up early on a Saturday morning. But on and on it went. - Final straw came at 4.30am when he stuck that fucking Denis Waterman track, ‘I Should Be So Good To You’, on full blast, and tha could hear him singing it t’ lasses head brought hom.

So a went up there an politely ask em to turn it darn a bit. You cunt believe abuse a got. Lasses were werst. ‘Why dunt you just fack off’.

Any way av ad enough and am writing to you nice people at We Are Bad to help me get an ASBO out on Barry. If you can all print off the ASBO log av attached keep a log of what barry gets upto and send it to HackneyHomes, and maybe we can put a stop to this Anti Social Thug.

Ta,

Local Resident

WE ARE EVERYWHERE

2008-02-11T07:02:00.000Z

It seems the We Are Bad retard head has been spotted all the way from Dagenham to Barnes. Thank you for to the hundreds of you out there who have been sending us your photos, keep them coming in! There will be a special prize awarded to the person who finds a wearebad head in the most unlikely place.

THE POST BELOW

2008-02-09T16:44:00.000Z

is an animation, but as far as i've worked out you've got to click on it to view

2008-02-09T16:34:00.000Z

2008-02-08T23:08:00.000Z

The corollary to "Key Worker" (note the "Worker") is "Unworthy Poor." This translates as "You Are Of No Apparent Use To Me".

Let's give these authoritarian motherfuckers the benefit of the doubt: let's imagine that they are interested in addressing poverty, or "inequality of opportunity" as they like to put it. Whose version of a polity are they promoting?

"She also wants to explore how to encourage shared equity schemes as a way of helping those in social housing to find a way into home ownership. "

Ah yes, the paradise of owner/occupation. A gibbet and an Ikea on every street corner. Responsible consumption. Affordable minimalism, hard work, storage space, public execution, law'n'order etc.

Calasso on Marx and the Lumpen: "The working class needed holy image: the Cause would stand as guarantor of proper feeling, of ordered and hardworking lives devoted primarily to self-denial, in preparation for the struggles and conflicts with the Enemy."

"Ruin of Kasch" Roberto Calasso

"(Marx found it) much more important...to ally oneself with the process of capital in its murderous hostility to the unproductive powers, who nevertheless embody the immeasurable: sacrament, pleasure, sovereignty...Whether the Lumpen then present themselves as paupers, dandies or poets makes little difference. They are, in any case, beings without dignity (if anything, they have majesty). What deprives them of dignity (for example the dignity of labour#) is precisely their contact with something extrasocial and self-sufficient...pleasure, the invisible, the gratuitiousness of art. (The writer belongs to the Lumpen as soon as he speaks of...art for art's sake. It is his insolent retort, in a cracked falsetto, to the power that has stripped him of his authority. Since he no longer has a function and has been banished from court, he spurns every function.)"

"Ruin of Kasch" Roberto Calasso

Yes, Flint: one bites the hand that used to feed; but one bites the hand that throws grudging morsels even more.
OOOOTHEFACKAREYOUTERSAYWENEEDTERPASSSOMESORTOFFAKKINTESTTEROCCUPYGRAAANDWEALREADYOWN?

London drift: Victoria to Bethnal Green.

2008-02-08T09:26:00.000Z

Robbo came to meet me after work yesterday. We were wandering through some peabody estates behind Victoria station when we encountered the work of some of our acolytes; the We are Bad retard head was chalked all over the courtyards and alleyways of SW1!
We decided to follow the trail. It took us on a convoluted route through Westminster, along the embankment, through the maze of side streets on Ludgate Hill, on past the Barbican and through Smithfield. At Smithfield we stopped for a cup of tea at the 24 hour caf then returned to the search.
The graffitied pavements led us on through the Golden lane estate, Whitecross street and Bunhill fields. We found a proliferation of glyphs round the Foundry on great eastern street. From here the symbols were accompanied by increasingly aggressive text culminating with the particularly brutal defacement of a bollard in Horatio street, E2.
From here the trail could not be followed.

THEY WISH BAZ WEREN'T THERE

2008-02-06T21:38:00.000Z

06 Feb 2008 Oioi!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
Alright, today i've been thinkin alot about the fuckin olympics, i'm not happy mate i tell yer. Anyway started writin stuff down, a few poems an that, don't fuckin laugh, its summink i started the second time i was inside, it was part of my parole terms, i had to do this daft fucking anger management and all this therapy shit and part of it was writing everyrhing down what you're feeling ,could be angry, pissed off, livid, whatever yuo happen to be feelin that day an just write it, maybe a poem, maybe a story or just like a diary, you know, just to GET IT ART O YER HEAD..... so today, well waht wiv facin eviction an all that an facin havin to leave my lovely Hackney manor and ship out to some dump in Dagenham i started writing this poem, its called THEY WISH BAZ WERE'NT THERE.  

THEY WISH BAZ WEREN'T THERE THEY DON'T EVEN CARE, THAT I LIVED ROUND ERE BEFORE THEY AD EVER EVEN EARD OF HACK-NEY, THEY THINK THAT THEIR PROPERTY WILL FALL IN PRICE, COS THEY DON'T THINK BAZ IS THAT NICE. THEY CAME ROUND ERE FOR A LOOK ROUND, THEY SAID THOSE PROPERTIES LOOK REALLY SOUND, BUT I DON'T LIKE THE LOOK OF THEM LOW LIFE SCUM, SO WE'LL SEND EM PACKIN TO DAG-EN-UM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
Brilliant eh? Fuckin ell i felt so fuckin great after i wrote that, yes i did, made me feel less AGGRO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  More on the story of sean and that pervert security guard later, all the best mate, Baz

A Drift through the ruins of Post Modernism

2008-02-06T12:05:00.002Z

We have traced the ruins of Post Modernism along the flight paths radiating from the Genius Loci of the Airport.

The Airport has shifted from the once ultimate post-modern experience, a non-space in which all sense of time and place was suspended, to a locus of struggle and Conflict in which all the anesthetising tenants of postmodernism have been shattered.

Al Qaeda as they sat suspended in the placeless and timeless ambiance of the departure lounge understood in an instance that they where the first truly post-modern fighters, decentered and Deterritorialised, detouring the ultimate symbols of modernity, the airplane and the Skyscraper, in order to puncture simulacra so deep that the momentary stench of the rotting flesh of the real was revealed. A stench so strong that only a new paradigm could mask the scent. A paradigm that would lay waste to post-modernism and aim for our own ideological mobalisation in its support.

The Airport has become the flashpoint of contestation from climate change, terrorism, surveillance technologies, immigration and the transfiguration of the future body.

The We Are Bad Collective are engaged in experimental research exploring the lines of flight connecting the Airport to the ruins of Post Modernism.

waking up

2008-02-05T11:40:00.000Z

rattling, crushing, coughing engines, sirens, drills. Diamond hard sunlight bleeding around the edges of the blind and slicing through the gap at its bottom like a molten blade. It hurt my eyes. Sick, the noise of it all breeding with the nausea lodged in the pit of my stomach to begin crawling up my throat to end in my mouth, but as much in my head like a tidemark. I would throw up cacophony, ropes of it braided into my own heaving. I would throw up the city, with its chunks of buildings and pavements, fragments of glass, handrails of buses, slurred and lurching pavement conversations - all that I had tried to swallow the night before, that had left me shipwrecked on this mattress amongst the din of awakening.

Sean gets off with a screw, it aint funny.

2008-02-04T21:47:00.000Z

Pretty bad aint it when you get driven out yer own gaff, yeah well that's what happened to me. Well Sean's one thing,I mean i invited him round, he's a mate inne so it don't feel like so much of an imposition; you can still eat pot noodles, belch and scratch in yer underpants when yer mates round but when ther's a bleedin bird there, well, it aint the same is it?
Right so Sean arranges to see this grotesque megaton security guard, this one that was groping him in a group4 van a few years back, one he never forgot..right, yeah yeah, i'll get on with it.
So he arranges to see her in the Dolphin, now i thought it was just me an him goin down there for old times sake, to talk about the old days and see if lovely Brenda the barmaid was still there, i didn't really think it'd be me, Sean and some horrible screw called Gaynor. So we gets there and its earlyish and there;s a few scruffy student types and a few of these ponces who think they're Russell Brand wearing pipecleaner jeans or whatever they're called and they're hair all up and backcombed like a 60's tart. its a fuckin disgrace Sean says ruefully as we settle with our pissy pints of stella, this place used to be a proper boozer.And i mean in a lot of ways it still is, if you look at the decor and the daft hours it keeps an all that, its just that the geezers and the vietnamese and the moody paddys playin pool and all them punk lot seem to have been driven out by these little ponces who reckon to be artists or some such shit. What these birds fall for nowadays is beyond me.
So we sits down at a little table by the window and Sean starts saying this stuff to one of these little wankers about how he;s elbowed his way onto our table and then , instead of backind down and giving Sean some respect he starts arguing the toss in this orrible nasal whining little voice, well i aint jokin i sees Seans face going through that weird trnasformation from pink to red to bright purple, his eyes have narrowed into thin slits and his skins gone all waxy. i'm thinking, o my god, any minute now an that cunt is goona have that stupid sneering face smashed across the bar and daubed ACROSS THE CEILING!!!!!!!!!!!And just as Sean's about to snap in walks Gaynor, all 6 foor one inches of her decked head to toe in sequins and glittery eyeshadow like shes been at some christmas office party circa 1986, i aint jokin, she's a disgusting mess, you know like when some kid nicks its mums make up and smears it all over its face, that was what gaynor looked like, she;d made a real special effort for Sean.So Sean gets to his feet, pushes the posh cunt out of the way and jumps to the bar offering to buy her a drink, but then i notice something really orrible, she aint alone, she's with this stringy blonde bird called Angie, oh no i think, i'm bein lined up with soem weirdo smackhead whose eyes won't focus, or worse still, another screw! But then in a flash i think about it, and yeah a jumps a jump, or should i say a screws a screw!!HA HA HA HA HA HA HA AH AHHHHHHHHAAAAHHHAH!!!!!!!!!!!!! Anyway i think, could be worse you know, better sink a few more pints......... oh god, me stomachs playin up, eugghchha, sorry, eughd, urgh god, its me ulcer, sorry, right more later when i've been to the bog.......

UP Yr ASBO

2008-02-04T13:36:00.000Z

Ayup you lot at We Are Bad am just writing in to let off some fucking steam.

A got home t’night to find a letter stuffed through mi letterbox from that useless bunch of corrupt cunts, HackneyHomes. The letter asks us to spy on kids who play out on Estate.

They’ve sent us an Anti-social Behaviour Log Book and are asking us to keep a log a what the kids are up to, so they can get an ASBO on em to stop em from playing on the estate. Since when wor our kids playing out and doing normal kid stuff like riding bikes, running around, and playing footy, Anti-Social!

Its orreight for middle class parents on streets round ere who’s got money to send their kids to kapoeira or paying for a tennis coach and all that, but when our kids kick a footy abart its anti-fucking social! Fucking Ollimpics will chang nowt. Posh kids wi loads a cash who’s daddies taxi em abart in gret 4X4s will get to use the expensive Olympic sports centres whilst our kids get ASBO’D.

Thing is right, that a lot of the oldies who live in tower block are scared a kids, and it’s a real shame. They read all this shit in paper about hoodies and gangs and then when they see a bunch a kids running round playing IT, they barricade themselves in with big iron security gates. Thing is wot nobdy sees it that having the kids out meks the estate safer for every one. A remember when kids where too yung t’play out on their own, the estate was a much more threatening place, all quiet wi nobdy abart. One night one a oldies got mugged right outside our kitchen window and nobdy saw ouwt, another time one a oldies had their pension robed on way back from post office. There ant being a mugging on estate since the kids got old enough to hang out. All them eyes running abart is the best sort a neighbourood watch.

Thing is, if they get the ASBO it’ll force the kids to stay in flats, and am telling your most violence is in the home, and aving kids under feet all night will be murder for everyone.

And you know what, aving kids having t’stay indoor playing playstation and watchin telly all night will mek em Hyperactive. Then some knowit-all shrink from’t school will give em some fucking label like HDAH and force Ritalin down their necks.

A think that ASBOs are an attack on our kids as a result of the prejudices that come from people who carefully network their kid through expensive after school clubs so they don’t have to mix wi our kids and supported by the irrational fears of the elderly who have already had their freedom stole by the self imposed incarceration promoted by a hysterical media.

To be fair though, if any of you DO have some thing to report you can do so by calling Joy Ukaegbu at HackneyHomes on 0208 356 7804.

See thi all later,

Local Resident.

One of our HQ's

2008-02-03T20:14:00.000Z

Our HQ, or at least one of them, this one is near Wick Lane, we have others in secret locations all over London from White City to leytonstone.

2008-02-03T19:45:00.000Z

Oh yeah.

YEAH WELL I HAVE T SAY I"M FEELIN A BIT BETTER NOW..........

2008-02-03T19:15:00.000Z

Yeah well i have to say i'm feelin a bit better now, stopped pukin about an hour ago, it was that whiskey what done it, well that an' that diluted aftershave Saen got me to drink, disgusting that is puking up perfume, anyway.....
so yuo might be wonderin where all the rest of these cunts in this firm are, yuo're startin to think its a bit of a one man show, well me too mate, me too. I saw one of the bastards last night down Ellingfort road sitting on the kerb drinking special brew, wher you off to mate i asked him but he just flicked the v's at me an told me to fuck off, nice one i thought..so that's him out wanderin around somewhere in aright fuckinstate and as for the rest of em, saw a load of em in Bermonsey Friday night causing havoc down the bookies. Robbo lent me this book by Zizek, i had to use it to smash some geezer in the jaw, it weren't funny, maybe i told you that already....
anyway, if you're bored of me tell them wankers to stop causing aggro down millwall and get back up here to the proper fuckin territory!
Right so where was i with this story, oh yeah, so Seans lyin there looking up at this golem in a securicor uniform and i'm thinking oh my god this is gonna be a fuckin disaster , and i'm thinking oh no this is lookin bad,looks like he's fallin in love, love at first bleedin sight, but then, get this, she says, Sean, is that yuo? And i'm thinkin eh? How the fuck does she know his name but then it turns out she used to do handjobs in the back of the van for him, he reckoned there was a time when he was getting shifted between Full Sutton up in Yorkshire over to Strangeways in Manchester and somewhere on the M62 she started havin a fiddle darn his keks. I mean bloody hell, you wouldn't think it to look at her, i would've thought she wouldn't be bothered about geezers, specially nasty lookin brutes like sean but there it is, someone out there for everyone they say. So he syas to her , what time do yo knock off? And they arrange to meet in the Dolphin at 8. Oh god i think, thats the end, AINT YOU SICK OF SCREWS SEAN YOU FUCKING KNOBHEAD? Seans gone all starry eyed lookin all dreamy and delerious, that was Brenda he says, i loved her.
I'll tell yuo the rest of the tale ina little while i just need the bog..sorry.......

www.myspace.com/barrysquiggins

Barry's here! Right fuckin pissed, eatin a curry, sean downstairs on blow up mattress, next installment of fucking saga.

2008-02-03T01:24:00.000Z

Oh my god, i aint jokin i'm fuckin pissed as a cunt, what a fucking night. Yeah, i know, it was a bad move lettin him stay here, but what could i do, seans a mate, one of the old crew, you can't turn yer back on yer mates. Anyway, so we're out, walking round the Wick, so I says to him, listen Sean, there aint too many of the old boozers left but yer favourites still there, which i can't name here , for legal reasons an all that but lets just say its on hackney road and its been goin a good few years an it feels like yer on a ferry when yer in there on account of not havin no windows and loads of fruit machines and you start to feel abit sick after you've had a couple..right, so yeah, Sean wants to go there cos its been 9 years and he's hopin brenda's still behind the bar and i says to himyeah she is mate but i don ;t think your gonna wanna get involved there mate i can tell yer. Right so we;re on our way there to this place what for the time bein will remain nameless and i direct Sean along the canal with the intention of walking down through Dace road that way and out over the footbridge and through vicky park. But as we;re headin out Sean sees the blue fence blocking the road and i aint jokin he just went ballistic mate, FUCKIN BALLISTIC. Now i've seen Sean in some states, i mean you do dontcha after 36 years or whatever it is now since we've been knockin about togetehr but fuckin hell tonight he went beyond it all, really, except maybe the night he got nicked the last time, anyway less said about that the better. So he sees the fence and starts going mad hurling himself at it and screaming and headbutting it and stuff, oh yeah i think i told you that, anyway after a struggle i gets Saen away but this team of security cunts, don't know who they were, group4 securicor all the fuckin smae now aint they , anyway those cunts are suddenly there, van in the street gettin out, you alright there sir to me and comin over gettin all cocky and all i wanna do is smash the fuckers head in but you know ,gotta think of Sean innit cos i aint havin him sent back down, not for this daft pantomime anyway. So i goes, to the geezer ,look mate, its all under control, me mate here's just had one too many, his 40th you see, don't know whether its Christmas or Easter, i'll get him home. The geezer backs off, so i think alright, we can get goin, i really need a fuckin pint in me local. And then, suddenly, this horrible loomin lunk of a woman appears out the other side of the van, i aint jokin she;s like a bleedin cross between some screw off prisoner cell block h and some russian athlete, one of them they had to do medical examinations on to work out what bleedin sex it was, fuckin orrible. So she's standin over us, askin all this shit like what medication is sean on an all that, an Sean, instead of goin beserk and smashin stuff up goes all gooey and gaga an looks up at this monstrosity with eyes all dewy and loved up. Oh no, i think, oh fuckin hell no. And then Sean sort of picks himself up off the floor, raises himself up on his grazed elbows and stares at her and says, hello darlin...you're beautiful.....and oh my god, the rest of it, well i'll ahve to tell you tomorrow when i;ve sobered up cos its so disgusting i'm makin myself feel sick just thinkin about it, fuckin orrib;le..................................................

by the way, i've got myspace page now, load o wank yeah but i might meet some birds. But yeah if you've got a myspace page come and look me up cos i feel a right cunt with 0 friends.
www.myspace.com/barrysquiggins

Sean went MENTAL!

2008-02-01T08:18:00.000Z

Fuckin hell, what a night, i aint jokin, Sean went MENTAL! He was headbutting fences and smashin stuff up and i had to grab him and wrestle him down and say look Sean, focus mate, its all about focus! ha ha ha. Anyway, i didn't want him dragged straight back to the nick after tasting freedom for about an hour an a half so i says look Sean, lets go an have a couple of jars, there's still one or two of the old haunts left, so we go to the top o the mornin and i get him a couple of jars and we start plotting. Seans up for a bit of aggro, so am i but i say look Sean we need to get the crew together, do it PROPER! Sean starts laughing and lighting matches in the pub with that manic gleam in his eye, he's fucking livid he can't smoke a fucking b and h with his pint.
Anyway, he's up for a campaign rather than a one night wrecking spree, which is good cos Sean seething and pacing in Belmarsh just aint good for his nerves.
Anyway so he calms down a bit and we get some of the old crew down there and Sean draws all these maps on beermats and starts doodling this weird head and then opens a plastic bag with loads of tins of spray paint and he's off round his old manor taking back his territory and promising revenge and i think good on yer son, it takes guts to fight back like that.
Anyway this morning we had our first proper meeting of the old crew in the mapps caf,Sean fuckin loved his first greasy fry up for 9 years, and i tell you, those cunts Jowell and Coe are gonna wish they'd never fuckin set foot round here, I"M TELLIN YEER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

stay tuned in for the next installment, amidst the chaos of trying to destroy the blue fence Sean tries in desperation to pull a female scurity guard and succeeds.........

Sean's back! Told you, Friday, he's comin back to the Wick to reclaim his territory so all you yuppie wankers start barricadin your horrible gaffs!!!!

2008-01-31T21:20:00.000Z

After a long wait hanging about in that miserable shithole Thamesmead i get to pick up Sean at Belamarsh. he aint happy when i get there cos they released him early and i weren't there but i hardly think that was my fault. So sean starts giving me aggro on the way back here and i just say listen Sean, don't fucking start yuo're forgettin what we're really here for mate and we get out of the motor and have a walk round hackney wick what was, at one time, our real fucking stomping ground. and i say you won't fuckin believe this Sean mate , wait til you see this lot.
So we have a stroll round and Sean's acting a bit hyper, a bit breathless like an asthmatic on a marathon and he's asking me where all the fridge mountains and sacrapyards and cafs in caravans have gone. And i say, ask them pointing up at all these fucking yuppiedromes that have sprung up everywhere like mushrooms in a fucking shit heap.
I see Seans face and i don't like it, its black as thunder and i know he aint happy, and when he gets like that well, thats what put him in Belmasrsh in the first place aint it. So then he goes quiet and then suddenly he makes me jump out of me fucking skin cos he's screamin top of his fucking lungs.....I AINT HAVIN IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

so yeah, sean's back, so keep tuned in if you wanna know what he's getting up to now he's OUT

A day glo explosion of glitter balls, balloons and killer klowns from outer space.

2008-01-30T19:59:00.000Z

As soon as I spy The Stag on the corner of Fleet road I’ve crossed an imperceptible boundary that takes me beyond the grasp of affluent Hampstead and into a realm of inebriation and spontaneity. I pass the council yard on Cressy road where a multitude of sweepers are setting out to know every contour of the Fleet valley. The subterranean river asserts iself in street signs.

I pause to call on a lost acquaintance in Polgrave house and push through amusement arcade kitsch, tainted nets and falling dreylon. There’s a cat in the communal launderette dozing between geraniums pots.

This place is a nest of junkies, the dank pain of boredom spans the threshold.
I haven’t been here for 9 years but everything’s the same, even the scorched teaspoon on the gas fire is still there.

I drift out of those flats with that dislocated feeling you get when you emerge from a matinee, and suddenly feel a deep nostalgia for those film noir treble bills at the Everyman. In 1960 a film called Peeping Tom came out by Michael Powell,it was about voyeurism,the ubiquitous eye and covert surveillance. The main character was a TV studio serial killer who prowled around Hampstead secretly filming people.

I pass the hysterical darkness of Party party, a day glo explosion of glitter balls, balloons and Killer Clowns from outer space.
The Gospel Oak estate is a nexus of brutalism. There’s a warped Cartesian logic at work ,an attempt to eradicate the erratic flare ups of the street. Got to keep moving to escape the striations of control. Taking photographs risks being hauled in for enforced DNA swabs.

Listen to the Towers of Babel

2008-01-29T15:03:00.001Z

.rupture.

2008-01-28T19:09:00.000Z

Whassup whassup whassup? Re-UP!!!!!!!!!!

That was me talking like you black folk. A lot of you round Stratford way are black aren't you? And if not racially handicapped then poor. Well anyway you'd better listen good. I'm bringing the Olympic games round your hood and you had better behave yourselves. You might be thinking that a load of tourists getting lost round Stratford offers you some good mugging opportunities but I'm here to tell you no. I'm providing you with opportunities. Imagine how much better your lives could be if you left your rotting council flats and did a little exercise.
Look at me there with the medal and look at you sitting at home with a limp dick. Thats right, you're a fucking limp dick and I've got a cock harder than Chinese algebra.

So just remember don't knock the Olympics, they might just be the one chance you miserable people get of making your lives better.

Lord Coe

2008-01-28T18:51:00.000Z

AMERICA WORKS, INC.

RIGHT, LISTEN UP ALL YOU DOLE SCROUNGING SPASTICS! WE’VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOUR PATHETIC BLEATING! IF YOU THOUGHT JOBSEEKERS ALLOWANCE WAS BAD NEWS YOU’RE GONNA WISH YOU AINT NEVER BEEN BORN!
Yes we’re comin for you, each and everyone of you useless welfare sponging scum.
We’re gonna change your attitiude, we’re gonna make you JOBREADY,we’re gonna make you love your low pay mind numbing job!!!
Oh and before you dismiss what I say, you ought to know America Works Inc is comin here, right to your poor, blighted shores.
And we aint goin nowhere til we got every single one of you pathetic retards working out there for $8 an hour , I guess that’s about four quid here, now get out of my sight til I say you can come back in .,,,
………….,,,,,,,,,,,,oh my god, oh I’m sorry, oh dear, I’m not really feeling well, Irene could you bring me some coffee, and an aspirin maybe? Yes sorry about that, what I meant to say, was…..
..........hi,my names Pete and we’re here to help, we’re gonna give you all the instructions you’ll ever need so you’ll never have to bear the burden of thinking for yourself. Yes getting up at three a.m to do a cleaning job in the city is good for the soul, it constitutes moral fibre, it’s what you need to get yourself back on track and we’re just the people to help you with that. See you soon in an employment zone near you.
Peter Cove, founder, America Works Inc.

OI COVE!! FUCK OFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

THEY ARE AMONGST US!

2008-01-28T13:51:00.001Z

.rupture.

2008-01-26T19:48:00.000Z

MESSAGE FROM BELMARSH BY MY MATE SEAN.
Sean has been writing and I’m putting it up here in case some yuppie wankers are reading then they’ll know what’s fucking coming….ha ha ha, love Baz.

Alright Barry my old son, how;s it goin?
Well, looks like I’m comin out Friday.
Thank you for letting me know whats been happening, I aint happy I’ll tell you that, it aint on.
Anyway when I saw all the smoke the other week making the sky all black it gladdened my heart Barry I’m telling you cos I thought yeah, some fuckers doin something, some fuckers AINT TAKIN THIS LYING DOWN!! And I thought, well done Baz cos I was sure it must have someming to do with you, but then it turned out to be some empty factory on fire and not them bloody yuppie flats at all so what I’m saying to you Baz is lets get it sorted, lets meet and have a walk round when I get back AND SEE WHAT IS TO BE DONE.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

SMILE! WE'RE A MERITOCRACY (sport #2)

2008-01-25T21:36:00.001Z

sport is good for you, apparently. It provides valuable exercise, also a moral ethos - good clean fun, fair competition, self-discipline, setting and meeting goals etc. Just the sort of thing that our young people need.

Drugs and match fixing aside -incidentally, why has the Olympic comittee or FA or whoever not been considered simply permitting all drugs in sport ? If everyone could take whichever performance enhancing substances they chose, it would remove any unfair advantage from those who use them when others don't, and the quantities ingested would simply be another test of competitors' endurance, stamina and single-mindedness. I'd actually prefer to see that, a whole load of fuckers necking as many pills, jacking up whatever until they had no veins, until they collapse into a frothing coma or run off, barking, at traffic. Come to think of it, I have often seen that...and yes, I did prefer it.

Anyway, to return to my point: sport likes to present itself as a meritocracy. The fact that Man U, Arsenal or chelsea can afford the best players that money can buy, then pamper, does not seem to dent their reputations - they still win

Sport, as has often been observed, creates an abstract field in which other conflicts can be played out. Being abstract, it deals with these conflicts within a closed system - the game. The level playing field, which is in itself a convenient fantasy may, or may not,be achievable within the game. Insofar as it is, that is precisely because the game excludes all context. If all context is abolished in the case of a society we are left with the ultimate particle that our society is based on, the single voting and consuming subject; the beneficiary of all the government initiatives about "choice" (a defining quality of the individual, though naturally only excercised within the options offered by authority). Rules, naturally, are agreed by common consent, or at least those that are inherited are accepted. Teams or players playing according to different sets of rules would make a nonsense of the whole thing. Who told us the rules and why is our consent assumed?

The result is all; the best team, or the best player, won. This gets measured by the particular currency of the game, whether goals or lap times. Of course, this system is validated when a team from an impoverished African nation does well in the world cup for example. Purpose built training grounds and carefully managed diets and medical care matter not at all, we are expected to believe this. Except when they do. This will not be considered in the final score anyway. Individualistic sports, say atheletics, extol the virtues of private striving on a level playing field. Team games -despite the fact that individual players become lionised- show the importance of taking one's allotted place in an endeavour for the common good, slimming or giving up smoking for the sake of not draining the NHS anyone?

Our fondest myths about ourselves are enshrined in sport, at any rate the myths that we are encouraged to believe. It is not surprising that sportswear, the uniform of meritocracy, is everywhere. In the absence of any other values being abstracted away in the name of the level playing field, all-other-things-being-equal, what is left is running shoes (for taking part in a lifelong marathon that was fixed from the start, all-other-things-being-far-from-equal), the baseball cap, perhaps to keep the sun from obscuring that ever receding goal and of course, the hoody- a post training garment that becomes de rigeur when neither the training nor the fucking event comes into view. But we're ready for it, innit.

To declare an institution or nation a meritocracy is a magical act, it instantly abolishes any inequalities or barriers to the individual's fullest development (eg. getting their own faces in the collective trough). If everyone that has, deserved to have; the corollary is that if you don't have, you never deserved it -you didn't try hard enough.

OI, THIS IS SLANDER I AINT HAVIN IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2008-01-25T17:02:00.000Z

OI, THIS IS SLANDER, I AINT HAVIN IT!!!! The name's Barry, yeah, i admit that, other similarities purely coincidental.

Baz is on his fourth when that fuckin puff George Micheal comes on the bleedin juke box. Oi,! He grabs Janet as she bumps past with a Bacardi breezer, I said OI! You better not hav put this SHIT on with MY FUCKING MONEY! Oh shut up you daft bastard she says, arms wrapping round his shoulders, Baz aint havin any of it and he pushes her right off sending her reeling back colliding with some ol;d cunt with a tray of drinks. Alright Barry my old son, fuckin cool it alright, this is miserable fucker John the landlord saying all this leaning across the bar all conspiratorial like. Don’t take the money if you don’t like people getting lairy Baz thinks but he don’t say it cos he wants another one. I just ,don’t ,like ,that, fuckin ,puff, on ,in ,my PUB!
Next thing they’re bundling home, Janet pissed and holdin his hand, wobbling and screeching outside Mecca Bingo. He aint been with her long, biding his time really til something else comes along, but there don’t seem to be much doin so he hangs around, aint letting her move in though, FUCKIN LETHAL that is when you let em move in. Oi get a move on she shouts weaving across the pedestrian crossing making a black cab brake and catapult its passenger into the plexiglass. He aint in no hurry, the mood’s gone now, he looks at her and thinks, you scrawny old smackhead I’d rather have a kebab. I’m goin down Acropolis, you comin?
A slow stagger through the chicken bones of the High road and they’re stuck side by side on the bench in the kebab house, Baz stands up and starts pacing, it don’t do to act DOCILE in these situations, I mean let’s face it they’re all the same piss taking foreign bastards. There’s some dodgy nightclub down the stairs, he went there once with one of his mates on a mission to pick up some gear from some Russian bird. There’s whole gangs of them Russians in there, tooled up, it don’t seem right them taking over, even in the fucking kebab house.
Janets sighing with her eyes shut moaning about wanting to go home, sometimes he just wants to SLAP her ABOUT. I wish you’d just give it a rest once in a while he says sparking up a B and H. Gis one of them she says holding her hand out, he’s never liked a bird that begged, everyday she reminds him more and more of some horrible whore from Commercial Street, he throws the cigarette at her and carries on pacing.
Whatyou got the hump about?
THEM CHIPS READY OR WHAT PAL?
Baz’s tone alerts the blokes hanging about at the back, Alright alright no need for the fuckin heavy mob mate is there I was just asking when me chips are ready.

SPORT

2008-01-25T11:19:00.000Z

Sculpture For Airports

2008-01-23T13:07:00.002Z

Sculpture for Airports proposes a democratisation of the security at airports by rerouting the naked images of travellers produced by the Rapiscan Secure 1000 scanner, to the portrait mounted flat screen TVs used for plane timetables. This will result in an interactive artwork that both references classical art history and the early experiments in photography carried out by Edward Muybridge, whilst allowing travellers the opportunity to take responsibility for their own security by keeping a lookout for concealed suspect devices.

.rupture.

2008-01-22T17:40:00.000Z

TWILIGHT OF THE IDOLS
DEATH TO THE GODS OF MOUNT OLYMPUS
ZEUS OVER OUR DEAD BODIES

The lower Lea valley and its peripheral enclaves are an embarrassment to the moguls and ministers of Whitehall. Leyton is the embodiment of Foster and partners worst nightmares, they peer at it and fail to see themselves reflected back.
If it ever seemed possible that middle class fools with no imagination could make a sanitised sweep across the whole city look to Leyton for a last shred of hope. Leyton defies it, even if the Beaumont Estate and its three majestic towers lie in dusty heaps Leyton will never become the gleaming sanitised vision of their boring neo liberal plans. Look at Temple Mills, millennial mediocrity, ubiquitous corrugated curves over post modern hangars, already it is being drawn irresistably back into the dirt, back into the sucking bogs and greedy marshes.
The landscaping has become a tangle of coke cans and trolleys, saplings are snapped in random acts of vicious boredom and buddleia punctures the dusty tarmac.
London 2012, who the fuck wants it except middle England pricks in their executive homes, WPC’s with names like Sally and Gaynor and a raft of deluded idiots who don’t realise local opportunities means shit jobs in the service industry. The Golden Arches loom large over this grotesque scheme, another gateway, another fucking Gulag.
Leyton will resist because there is an undercurrent of psychick viciousness. The vistas of pylons and motorway flyovers cannot be as easily eradicated here as they were on the planners board.
From Hitchcock to the savagery of Zulu’s bar, the violence is always simmering under the surface.

2008-01-22T13:05:00.000Z

WE ARE BAD

You are bad too. Our bodies are on the verge of being paced under a new order. A new battleground is emerging and the front lines are your subcutaneous fat and mucous membranes. We will be cyborgs, machines of loving grace, able to boot up and download every wish. Making bliss states our normal waking consciousness, becoming the bionic angel.

Donna Harraway urges a new sense of realization about our cyborg condition, recognizing the new daily sphere of human-machine interface not only as a product of power relations but also as a potential site for contesting and redefining those relations. She proposes cyborgization as an imaginative myth and resource for women who are socialized away from technology and yet are most often the principal victims of it.

But we must be aware, haven’t they always wanted what’s best for us?
What is being promised to us are the limitless dreams of technology, the ultimate fulfilment of our desires. But while access to our virtual desires have already been halted with the entrance fee of Linden dollars, military progress has developed a fully integrated second order cyborg.

The unstoppable rise of elective plastic surgery is breaking down the psychological boundaries of our bodies, and once we open up ourselves, arch our backs and thrust our sagging flesh further towards the knife there will be no going back. Capitalism will invade and take control over our flesh, our synapses, our optic nerve, our auditory senses, our pancreas, our rectum and our pituitary.

The body is on the verge of being placed under new management, and like all exterior
cultural phenomenon,it will be made to function instrumentally so that it may better fulfill the imperatives of pancapitalism (production, consumption, and order). Currently, pancapitalist power vectors’ attempts to inscribe these imperatives directly onto the code of the flesh are initiating a new wave of eugenics. Under this new bio-regime, physical perfection will be defined by an individual’s ability to separate he/rself from nonrational motivation and emergent desires, thus increasing he/r potential devotion to varieties of political-economic service to perpetuate the pancapitalist dynasty.

We will become post-human but not as we meant it. We are Bad, and they are currently making us better.

YOUR DECADENT SINS WILL REAP DISCIPLINE

2008-01-22T08:36:00.000Z

underground man

2008-01-21T20:12:00.000Z

"The Sultan has set his cause on nothing but himself; he is to himself all in all, he is to himself the only one, and tolerates nobody who would dare not to be one of "his people."... If God, if mankind, as you affirm, have substance enough in themselves to be all in all to themselves, then I feel that I shall still less lack that, and that I shall have no complaint to make of my "emptiness." I am not nothing in the sense of emptiness, but I am the creative nothing..."
Max Stirner "The Ego and Its Own"

"But how does one use life? In using it up, like the candle, which one uses in burning it up. One uses life, and consequently himself the living one, in consuming it and himself. Enjoyment of life is using life up...I have myself and do with myself as one does with any other property -- I enjoy myself at my pleasure. I am no longer afraid for my life, but "squander" it."
Max Stirner "The Ego and Its Own"

Life can certainly not be saved or invested, it can only be spent. Governmental and ruling class puritanism that requires us to drink in moderation, give up smoking and chain ourselves to gym treadmills like the inmates of a victorian prison, is all to help us "achieve our potential". To work on yourself as if you are a project, or perhaps a property that must be modernised to be resold at a profit, is to make yourself your own slave.
It is also worth considering what these exhortations and legislation say about our relationship to our own bodies. Whose property is it if the state can intervene between ourselves and it, and on whose behalf?

"Stirner's premise is that the process of secularization is unable to consume or extinguish the sacred, as it claims to do. It merely shifts it. And the power that it assumes is all the more devastating and uncontrollable since it no longer has a name, and cannot be recognised for what it is."
from "The Ruin of Kasch", Roberto Calasso, Harvard Uni. Press, 1994

In the absence of a heaven to aim for, we are encouraged, or latterly coerced, to make ourselves fitter (for what?) There is no doubt that paradise, previously postponed to the hereafter, is available to us now. Except that it is nowhere to be seen - the answer to this is simple; it is because we have not earned it, being too fat or drunk or unruly. Haven't we had the best care lavished on us? Aren't we offered more choices than our grandparents could dream about? We have apparently found ourselves in the land of Cockaigne that has been lovingly provided for us, but ungratefully bridle at its one restriction: moderation in all things. What are we, heaven being long gone, meant to be saving ourselves for? The answer would be, i suppose, the good life that can be achieved if we only stretch our lardy arms (putting down our pints and fags first of course) to embrace it.

Calasso on Stirner: "In order for Stirner to be born, the Big City must exist...the St Petersburg underground...the belly of Paris...the mountains of garbage in London...the death ships that swallow their passengers without documents and without names in the port of Antwerp. It's (the ghost of Stirner) place with with a certain type of disorderly crowd: feverish autodidacts, slave labourers of the pen, rootless men ready for anything, discredited bourgeois, dispossessed aristocrats, the damned of the earth...(who) stand under the marble ceilings of the Polytechnics...the swelling crowd of those whose most profound knowledge is of public humiliation and private exultation." Again from "The Ruin of Kasch", Harvard Uni. Press, 1994

2008-01-21T13:41:00.000Z

WE ARE BAD.

The WE ARE BAD collective has made it’s first incursion into the Olympic zone. The blue perimeter fence has been lacerated with a howl of denial.
We refuse to feel guilt, we deny everything from the nations ailing health to the ruination of the planet.
London has always been known for its rowdiness, rioting and boozing. Bataille talks about an economy not of conservation but of waste and expenditure. These are the counter narratives of the city, the Rabelaisian splurging, drug taking, blowing a weeks wages in one night. All historical attempts to eradicate it have failed.
In the 1860s thousands of the poor were evicted from slums perceived as dangerous, their poverty made them likelier to rebel and riot. 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 repress leads to uncanny rupturing, the accursed share, nothing divided neatly but always a remainder, something that can’t be rubbed out.

There is a new puritanical regime in place.
Yuppies in Surrey squander energy heating huge homes, driving four by fours, buying new consumer goods and taking city breaks but it is the working class whose lifestyles are being legislated against. ASBO’s, responsible drinking campaigns, sanitized football terraces and smoking bans are all an outright attack on working class culture. Since when has middle class people laughing at the poor and using derogative terms like chav been acceptable? The new puritans despise the working class and use a strategy of guilt to bring us into line. Ever get the feeling we’ve been here before?

“Licentiousness and debauchery, sex as ritual and visceral thrill, feel it played out here, the Saturday night bacchinelean revels, unruliness and binge drinking, all those ancient rites so detested by our leaders, legislated against in anti social behaviour orders. But the paths are well worn, these ancient tracks are ours, the impulse is etched deep, atavistic. These New Labour gestures are flimsy, superficial, they slide off the register like the jokes you get in Christmas crackers, read out once to the bafflement and grim bemusement of an assortment of guests and cleared away and cast out when the meal is over.” Savage Messiah zine issue 4.

WEAREBAD.NET

2008-01-16T11:05:00.000Z