We strolled over to trendy pub ‘The Foundry’ in Old St. this week, only to find it wasn’t there anymore. Or rather, it was there, though only really in spirit. Apparently a posh hotel had bought the building, which the local arty kids didn’t like the idea of very much, so they squatted it. We grabbed some tinnies and joined the party.
Now some of us (me) hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so the urns of hippie food on offer for free seemed too good to turn down. The only catch? You had to wash your own plate. Fine by me, i thought. The weird bean curry thing and rice was pretty good.
I didn’t wash my plate though.
A big sound system attached to a bike then appeared outside. Some old school rave was played and we danced like it was the early nineties. So did most of the street.
The bike started to move (it was being pushed, obviously). We followed the music.
There was probably 40 of us at this point. Pleased that our numbers had already swelled, we continued down the road to the sounds of what could well have been The Prodigy. We had no idea where we were going, but judging by the queue of traffic we’d already caused, it was probably going to be the Police station.
We began to notice that as we were walking, more people were joining the crowd and the party monster was growing. It was like that old horror film, The Blob. Anyway, next thing we knew there was about 1000 of us marching down Brick Lane chanting ‘Who’s Streets? OUR STREETS!’.
In hindsight the chanting may have undermined our street party cred.
The mild police interest soon turned into the crowd being penned in by about 20 riot vans, so we thought it was probably time to make a move. Like the true rebels we are, we went straight home to bed.
Via a strip club and a Somerfield toilet.
