London’s Brixton neighbourhood, south of the river, is a super fascinating place with a rich, multicultural base. When I say rich, I don’t mean wealthy. Although beginning in the late 90’s, it netted people looking to take a chance in a dodgy part of London, where houses were less expensive than W1. Electric Avenue still hums as an Afro-English happening.
I was on my way to pull an all-nighter at the legendary O2 Brixton Academy one evening around 11:30 pm. (I will write about this place in time). Brixton would stage massive raves, where thousands would cue to rave and rage all night long. I would usually stop in at a shop to grab a few tinnies and a mini 2 ounce bottle of Jack Daniels to go with a bottle of Coke. Sometimes we would all meet at the pub for a couple of pints to soften the blow that this grim job delivered. We would build a stage continuing from the front of the stage and build towards front of house: gradually flattening out the whole of the stage and seating/standing area, so as to provide a massive flat dance floor for 5000 people. It was hard graft that lasted 12 hours.
I went to the local chicken and chip shop after grabbing liquor, and as I was about to order, scarlet red pulled my eyes to the floor. At first, I thought it was ketchup, then I realized it was blood on the floor and walls. The man behind his feeble barrier was oblivious to the blood, frantically trying to ignore what had happened to make ends meet. With the whites of his eyes screaming, he took my order and continued to ignore this. I was so hungry: it was the last stop before work, and no other food was available. I wanted to leave, but couldn’t. I grabbed my shitty chicken wings and split for work.I