You remember that afternoon in the foundry? Warm rain, schizoid weather, everyone locked in for the afternoon. And we were in that corner, faces magenta in the neon. It was Bank holiday, no one giving a fuck about anything but getting wrecked, one of those mad afternoon sessions where everyone’s running round the boozer like it’s their own private party, threshold between thinking and acting dissolving in the mayhem.On the pints, looking hectically better with each one, some kid playing Cabaret Voltaire records, scratchy and distorted, boot sale treasure, voices resurrected from an attic burial. Rain eases off, soft vapour rises from the streets, a battered transit, 2000 DS graffitied on the side ,skids off the roundabout and onto the pavement in front of the pub. A crew of anarcho deviants bundle out the back. Straight over to the decks, post punk kid thrown back into the crowd as they commandeer with an unholy clash of Flux of Pink Indians and demented clown tech. Our neon corner is colonised by the crew, who have the military fatigues and shaven heads of Spiral Tribe. This lot are hardcore. You know any of that crew?Where you lot from? North Acton. Some of the streets down there right, they aint even on the map, they aint even got names, all them little streets running through the estates, terra incognita. Pallet citadels, avenues of portakabins, transient architecture emerging, unfolding and wrapping up again, no one even knows it’s there, and that’s how we like it.