A pin eyed lurch through Hackney. the night is cinematic as we drift from one enchanted interior to another through a labyrinth of narrow streets. A balmy July, images cascade, discontent simmers in the yards.

Outburst in the industrial estate, usual thing, mud slinging, high screeching, ESTATE AGENTS UP AGAINST THE SOUTH FACING WALL!! The Oval is desolate and abandoned until a clashing face-off with the Place of Victory, ad hoc African church, running up and down glass stairwells, kids carrying babies done up in Sunday best, bontempi backdrop, swaying, clapping, call and response melee.

A stagger through the detritus of Cambridge Heath Road, everything Sunday shut like it was in the 70s when you looked forward to the Antiques Roadshow and boiled eggs and ham for your tea, drop another half, pink-uns, yeller-uns, a veritable smorgasbord, quick jar in
Dolphin and a mad go on the fruity, slammin bar like there's no tomorrow, PSYCHO CASH BEAST. Ha ha ha, glittering heirophant. Bronski Beat on the jukey, spazzoid broken dancing.

Some of the streets down in Hackney Wick, right, they aint even on the map, they aint even got names, all
them little streets running through the estates, terra incognita. Pallet citadels, avenues of portakabins, transient architecture emerging, unfolding and wrapping up again, no one even knows it's there, and that's how
we like it.