Deptford 1992 Rudimentary Peni.
the Venue, New Cross.
Dark and messy, doing the stall, Peni
not looking quite right in football shirts and trscksuits. Blincoe’s disturbed tonal range seems somehow rendered part of the common world in this humdrum space. The vinyl caught his disembodied ghoulishness, you could almost believe that he didn’t exist.

Spiral tribe party going off somewhere in West London, a convoy outside ready to go, we follow on in the converted ambulance. Fuck knows where we’re going, Peckham, Camberwell, over Vauxhall bridge, Park lane, marble Arch, Edgware road and onto the Westway. Past the Scrubs and off at Western Avenue. North Acton. It’s dark and the convoy pulls up in this industrial estate. There’s this fucking loud gabba emanating from a warehouse, really loud head drilling techno, everyone on the fucking K. The party spills outside, it’s July, it’s really hot and there’s bonfires and dusty office furniture on the forecourt. When the morning comes we’re lying on a concrete floor wondering where the we are and how in god’s name we’re gonna get home. Streatham must be quite far from here? We don’t know, me and Esther only just moved to London. We don’t know how we get back to those rows of post war semis, those forlorn regimented streets, all the broken dreams of suburban living collapsed with the mattresses and broken tv’s on every corner.

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