Wednesday, 5 March 2008


I've recently heard that the warehouse in which I lived for two years has been demolished. We all expected it, but didn't know when it would face it's inevitable demise. Leaving there was less emotional than I anticipated. Which surprised me. That place had drawn it's share of tears and roars of laughter - mine being amongst the most copious and loudest.
It felt like there was no time for cheery reflection as we were onset with the devastating prospect of a $10k bill for unpaid business rates. This, all of us faced with the determination and grim realisation that there was no way out. However one clown, and clown is the word - for this boy was a fool, an oaf in surfers clothing, who abused his position and his privileges - thought he could do away with the significant portion he owed. Month followed month, and as most of us were forking up preposterous amounts of money to keep the venom'd tongue of the council off our backs, Mr Dan Lindsell kept a monkish silence up in Northamptonshire, in between jobs, a pikey toss pot living with his mum. Once or twice we had ventured to let him know his position, that time was wearing thin. Silence. There is nothing worse than sending a messenger pigeon out to never hear it's wings beat on the homeward passage. Whether it's that phone call you've been promised, that letter or even a fucking text. Silence. Immutable as law.
Then, late as you like, late late late in the day when we had a mere wedge of Franlin$ to hand over; though enough to constitute a months wage from hard graft : this pikey dickhead has the unmitigated audacity to send us an email saying he won't pay his way because he's filing for bankruptcy! What's more he wangles out of the stranglehold by saying he wasn't on the tenancy agreement. Jesus wept.
So, it followed that after many angry words we had to hatch a plan to get the money together. We wanted to take legal action against the bastard, but eventually realised the extra time and money was going to work against us. So the bastard leaped.
You paid cheap rent for a place that would define you for years to come and would offer you the sweetest, craziest memories of hedonism and collective energy, the brilliant art, the videos, the table with a thousand tea cup stains - that housed meetings with Reactor, Ayling & Conroy, Franko B (!), AAS, Springhill Institute; the warehouse parties which attracted throngs of 300+ people each and every time; bands like SHIT, Greg now going on to greener pastures with Battle for Prague; whereas your pastures are brown for all the shit you've spoken, spilling from your mouth, surrounding you.

Disbelief at someone who could so flagrantly eschew his responsibility at the last hurdle, has overtaken my anger. Now it's a tried and tested lesson of be careful of who you choose to live with. We made a mistake in trusting this idiot. Whereas we lost Franklin$ over the affair, Dan lost his friends and much more besides. That should remain his lesson.

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