NO STREET-DRINKING ZONES IN HACKNEY - PART 1

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

Sounds from the Perimeter Fence

‘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

FUCK THE OLYMPICS

Video by PAKITV

TOSSERS WANT US TO CELEBRATE IT, SO LET´S

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.

"CONCERNS" OVER HUMAN RIGHTS

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.

THEY WISH BAZ WEREN'T THERE

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

UP Yr ASBO

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.

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

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!

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!!!!

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

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

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)

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.

SPORT