Techno Party
Throw together a building without owner, opening times without curfew, people without limits, music without definition, and you have a squat party. That pair of words conjures up more images than any two in the English language. Crowded night buses. Roads to nowhere. Lorries. Dogs. Queueing and smoking. Haggling. Drinking. Snorting. All just a preamble to the main feature: the dancefloor, and all the subplots that spin out of control on it. A stage of pallets and speakers, set for a chemical cabaret. The fantastical, the fanatical, the enlightened, the dejected - a lineup of gems in the rough - all take their turns and bow out. Next up: the Old Bill. Their stony-faced dispatch enters stage right: cue first intermission break. Floodlights glare on flattened beer cans and electrified, blinking stares. Rolly smoke pirouettes in the air. Eventually they retreat, freeing the party. Regular scheduling resumes: heaving techno, sweating effuse from the walls an