SQUATTERS' WRONGS

Police evicted hundreds of squatters in Hackney last week.

Phillip Swarbrick tells his own story FOR anarchists, squatting is part of their ideology. To young Sloane Rangers about to embark on their 'break-away period', squatting is the way to slum it in style. For the bona fide homeless, those who squat, not as an alternative, but because they have no alternative, there is no romantic slum aesthetic.

Jobless, with rent arrears mounting and a well thumbed copy of a 1983 Alternative London under my arm I headed off to- wards the squatters' headquarters in the Old Kent Road, in Southwark. There, outside a large Edwardian ambulance sta- tion daubed with anarchist slogans, I waited for five minutes after pressing the doorbell. I was ushered in by a young man sporting a bright red Mohican. I followed him down a grimy dimly lit corridor that led to a large hall. A large poster of Bakunin adorned a graffiti-covered wall. As the sickly sweet smell of stale cannabis smoke reached my nostrils, I noticed a Rasputinesque character in a large leather coat, warming himself by a fire. 'He'll help yer find a place, comrade,' said my escort as he nodded in Rasputin's direction.

The first squat he took me to was a 'short let' as the occupants had already been served with an eviction order. I was intro- duced to two well scrubbed youths who showed me the available room I could occupy.

'Any hot water?' I asked gingerly.

`Nah,' replied one "Ave yer got a fiver, mate?' asked a taller blond fellow with short hair. I paid up. 'Just fag money,' he said. 'We're a bit short like.' 'Don't believe 'im,' giggled the smaller lad, "E's gonna spend it on smack.' `How do you keep clean?' I asked.

'We go up the Piccadilly Circus,' replied the taller lad. 'Y'know, 'otels, an' dirty old men wiv lotsa money. Sort of dirty innit? But still it keeps us in smack.'

`You bath in the hotels then?' I asked, trying to hide my embarrassment.

`Barfs an' all,' they replied cheekily.

I spent the night beside a fire fuelled by bannister railings and floorboards. The following morning I woke up to find a large man clad in a bomber jacket and black trousers warming himself beside the em- bers.

`Cor, frosty old morning out there. All right for some though, ain't it?' he said as he curved a grim smile towards me.

I heard a sudden violent scuffle upstairs.

'You found him then?' shouted my intruder as he strode out into the passage.

'He ain't 'arf putting up a struggle, sir,' yelled somebody from the upper floor.

"Ang on then!' bellowed the large man as he clambered upstairs followed by two uniformed policemen who had been lurk- ing in the passage.

'Have you got a warrant?' I asked as the policemen dragged the well scrubbed ones downstairs.

`This is our warrant,' said a policeman as he tugged on the lead of a large growling German shepherd. "E likes 'is bit of arm and leg for breakfast.'

'I should vacate these premises if I were you,' shouted the large man over his shoulder as he frogmarched the youths outside, towards a waiting police van. 'I've 'ad word them council bailiffs are due 'ere this afternoon.'

Later that morning I was back at the Old Kent Road squat to find Rasputin engaged in a serious conversation with two elderly Scottish gentlemen. It appeared they were also seeking accommodation. Within mi- nutes of our introduction we set off as a threesome to visit a potential squat in Railton Road, Brixton. Arriving at our destination we pushed open the lockless door of a large dilapidated Victorian build- ing. Scrawled on the walls inside were anti-establishment graffiti. Slogans such as `Eat the rich, bury the Queen,' and 'Anar- chy is absolute,' punctuated by much anti- Thatcheresque imagery, did not appeal to the conservative patriotic sentiment of my elderly Scottish companions. 'Och noo! We canna live here,' exclaimed Andy, the shorter of the two.

'Aye, noo! Nivver!' replied Jock, who resembled a portly version of the Incredi- ble Hulk.

Tucked under Andy's arm was a copy of the squatters' handbook. It was evident that we had to open a squat ourselves.

`Dinna ye worry,' said Andy reassuring- ly, 'I saw service in the Royal Marines.'

`Aye and I wis in the Argylls,' added Jock.

Having reassured ourselves that we were adequately qualified for the task, we purchased a hacksaw, barrel-lock, crowbar and chisel from a nearby DIY shop. We then proceeded to seek out a suitable unoccupied building.

An Edwardian house with boarded up bay windows at the end of Railton Road seemed perfect. A hefty kick from Jock opened the door. Within minutes we began to change the lock. The squatters' hand- book proved an invaluable reference, and in under 20 minutes a new barrel-lock had been fitted. As it was approaching evening we flicked the switch on the fuse box and to our relief we had light. It was perhaps two hours after entering the premises and while we were cleaning it up that Jock noticed a white Jaguar draw up outside. A short dapper gentleman climbed out and began to inspect our front door. Having satisfied himself the house had been occupied (the lights were on), he left.

Within half an hour he returned with an escort of two police cars and a police van. Having turned the lights off, we crouched silently in the upper storey, listening to the crackle of police radios and yelping dogs. There was a sudden sharp rap on the door. 'Can you open this door please!' shouted a policeman impatiently. "Er . . . read this oot tae him,' said Andy as he handed the squatters' hand- book to me. He struck a match and I read out Section 6 of the Criminal Law Act, which forbids anybody harassing or evict- ing the occupants of a building without a court order or warrant. After trying the door the police, ignoring the vehement protest of the property owner, climbed into their vehicles and drove off. . . perhaps to find something more exciting. Shortly af- ter, the enraged owner drove off.

`He'll be back wi' a van load o' Paddies,' whispered Jock cryptically. In less than an hour the owner arrived accompanied by a donkey-jacketed entourage complete with pickaxe handles. 'Whit did I tell ye?'

wailed Jock as he heaved his large frame through an open back window. With asto- nishing agility for a man of his size and age he scaled the backyard wall. Andy and I followed suit. Soon we were running down a back street. Andy was shaking his head and muttering incoherently. 'Och, he's starting his blabbering,' said Jock. 'He aye does this when he needs a drink.' We stopped at an off licence to let him stock up with some cans of Tennent's Ex- port.

To compound our misery it started to drizzle.

`You wan' some hash?' whis- pered a voice from a shadowy doorway. A tall negro dressed in a long kaftan coat, accompanied by a scrawny German shepherd, strode out confidently in front, of us. 'W' happen?' he asked. 'You all seem vexed.'

`We have just arrived,' I re- plied, 'and we need a place to spend the night.' `Oh you is all Irishmaan eh?' `Whit! Did he call us Irish?' said Andy sharply. As Jock tried to silence an angry Andy, I asked for direc- tions to find empty buildings. `Dung Shakespeare Road aan de left 'an' side dem a latta empty bildins dere. Take care den 'ow you go,' he warned before dis- appearing up the darkened street. Within minutes of our arrival in Shakespeare Road we were wandering around the damp over- grown back garden of a deserted Victorian house, while trying to find a way in. Soaked to the skin and exhausted, I noticed an open window above a projecting laundry. Jock heaved me on to the roof. Making my way across the slippery tiles, I attempted to climb inside. Encouraged by a possible warm and dry place to sleep, I was joined by Andy who helped me plunge head first through the open window into a dark interior that resembled a toilet. Striking matches as I went I soon found myself in the sitting-room. I heard a sudden thud followed by hideous profanities. `Ye could 'a warned me there wis a bloody toilet below thae windae, I've lost ma shoe!' howled Andy. `Are ye going tae let me in then?' shouted Jock as he thumped the laundry door. I felt my way downstairs and man- aged to unbolt it. 'Whit kept ye?' he whinged as he trudged clumsily into the darkness. 'Where's the bloody lights?' `I think Andy's trying to find a fuse box upstairs,' I replied. Having run out of matches we felt our way towards the staircase. A light seemed to flicker from the upper landing and Jock heaved himself up the stairs.

`Good God!' he exclaimed on reaching the second floor. 'Whit's this? The Holy Pentecost?' I followed him into the sitting- room. It appeared as if the room was illuminated by four incandescent flames suspended in mid-air. Seated in a tatty armchair in a corner of the room Andy admired his handiwork. He grinned eerily in the half light.

`Thae gas mantles are guid, aren't they?' `How did you do it?' I enquired.

`I put 50 pence in the meter and lit them,' replied replied Andy. Jock was less enthral- led with the idea.

`Turn thae bloody flame-throwers doon, ye daft mutt,' yelled Jock, 'afore we get incinerated.' He then staggered out of the room. There followed much thumping and crashing from one of the other rooms.

`What the hell are you doing?' I yelled.

`I'm having a wee piss,' replied Jock, `I've just discovered the toilet.'

`Och noo noo!' yelled Andy as he raced out of the sitting-room. 'Ye great Glaswe- gian prat! Yer pissin' all ower ma shoe.' `Whit's yer bloody shoe daen doon the loo in the first place?' retorted Jock. This was my introduction to the opening lines of many great rows to follow which reverber- ated noisily around this once peaceful residence.

When dawn mercifully came we disco- vered a fuse box downstairs. So, for some time at least, we had electricity on the ground floor. Shortly after our arrival we heard rumours that raids were due on occupants who failed to register with the London Electricity Board. We swiftly reg- istered. Within days we were woken at six o'clock in the morning by staccato thuds on our front door. When I opened it an LEB man accompanied by three policemen pushed past me. Jock emerged from his room. 'Whit's all the fuss?' he asked, rubbing his eyes.

`Just come to remove your meter, sir,' snapped a policeman.

`Och this is inconvenient so early in the morning.'

`We wanted to avoid the necessity of gaining entry while you were at work,' answered the policeman.

`This is a gentlemen's resi- dence. We doon't work,' said Jock.

`Oh in that case I sincerely regret any inconvenience caused to your eminent personage. You may resume your morning lan- guor following our departure,' said a sergeant.

`We have registered with the LEB,' I protested as a man in a boiler suit removed our meter.

`Ah! But you must take that up with your manservant, sir, he's obviously not bothering to pay your bills,' replied a constable. Having removed our meter they requested our company as they reconnoitred the house.

`Could you kindly produce your television licence?' asked the sergeant as he noticed Jock's newly acquired television stand- ing in a corner.

`It doesna work,' replied Jock defensively as he thumped the top of it in the hope of loosening a valve.

`But it's plugged in!' interjected the sergeant.

`Aye, but ye canna' expect it to work when thae electricity mannie has taken oor meter oot,' answered Jock hope- fully.

After a full English breakfast we were released from Brixton police station with- out being charged. On our return to the squat we prepared to face the wintry onslaught without electricity. Soon icicles replaced the water droplets from our leak- ing taps. Snow began to accumulate on the upper landing as yet another record winter was heralded in. It seemed like a scene from Dr Zhivago as I watched from a frosty upper floor window while Jock and Andy turned to take one last look at our iced-up house, before trudging off through the snow to find the nearest spike. I followed shortly after. With a feeling of resignation I headed in the direction of the nearest job centre.