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Old Skool London photos.


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few other names for you - acid16, acrid, dizzy, earl, tence, rio2, eskimo, snatch, del, crack. i've seen the goldie train, its a dodgey photo (all grey and flash not bright enough) pic taken by drax, it looks very similar in style to the piece he did in the pit with brim and bio. nice and neat and very colourful.

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Originally posted by b0b@Aug 1 2005, 01:36 PM

It seems there isn't a decent picture of that wholetrain in existence, which is a crying shame.

 

I was talking to Cherish about that the other day. He said he had a few really good photos of it,

some with the whole train in 1 shot, but BTP nicked it on a house raid.

 

Nice pics there Say What & Moves.

Mover, hope your well. I like the way your tag is showing through that Mise chrome,

never noticed that before in other photos of that piece.

 

Hopefully i'll get round to posting up some memories of the "Croxley" days (eg Event falling in the canal after drinking to much Tennants Super). :rolleyes: Good times.

 

Few more photos for page 2, although you've probably seen them if you checked the link.

 

byrel9so.md.jpg

I was told this was a piece saying "RASTER" by Rel ACR.

 

miseorklue15tz.md.jpg

Early Mise piece sitting in Uxbridge yard.

klue22vd.md.jpg

Klue piece on the big met. Klue later became better known as Shok. Mise's younger brother.

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easy dude just realised that the tag showing thru the miser piece was done when mise done the happy birthday susan piece .. quite spooky that i put both pics up together.. was with danny when he done the klue piece as well. went out with event and mace at xmas still aint changed we got completely battered was good to catch up with him still see mace quite a bit got him painting again as well he is writing stone now

 

 

 

pitjamstone.jpg

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Originally posted by moves@Aug 4 2005, 05:53 AM

easy dude just realised that the tag showing thru the miser piece was done when mise done the happy birthday susan piece .. quite spooky that i put both pics up together.. was with danny when he done the klue piece as well. went out with event and mace at xmas still aint changed we got completely battered was good to catch up with him still see mace quite a bit got him painting again as well he is writing stone now

 

 

 

pitjamstone.jpg

 

feeling that stone piece. nice!

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another old skool kast and mise piece (probably been seen shed loads of times) was with em when they done this was piecing just to the right of the mise piece but him and kast was burning me badly so gave up and helped em fill in theres.

 

 

kastandmiseraserip.jpg

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one for all you old skool hedz short story wtitten by jano (the original one) cd.

 

I'd never really been one to stray off my own chosen train line. I chose the Metropolitan Line as my home and spent most of my time on it. The Central Line was probably the nearest train line to where I lived, but it didn't have any kind of graffiti 'scene' on it , so I didn't really wander too far from the Mets and Circle in the 'train-graff' department. Yes, the first proper train-yard bombing mission I went on , was to West Ruislip Depot on the Central Line in 1986, but this was because it was only a mile or so walk from Nice 1's house.

I had been into Uxbridge Yard on the Met before, it was one Sunday in early 1984 with a school mate of mine called 'Nozzo' (He was never, ever, a graffiti writer by the way.). While there, I sprayed 'Hip Hop Don't Stop' kinda stuff on one of the trains in metallic pea-green Dupli-Color car paint. But, because of the porous surface of the train panels, and because I was using possibly the worlds thinnest paint, in the world's worst color , the writing almost disappeared 'sponge-like' into the panel as soon as it was applied. The thing was, Nozzo and me had no intention of doing graffiti on anything that afternoon, that's not why we were in the yard. I'd bought the paint for a bicycle frame I wanted to re-spray and we were only in the yard to get a better look at the factory buildings that were due to be demolished. The said buildings were on what is now the Sainsbury's supermarket and large car park , next to the subway yard.

A schoolmate of mine had an uncle working on the site and he had told us they were demolishing the old factory , he reckoned they might be blowing some of the bigger structures up with dynamite. I was only about 14 at the time and I had to get a look at that shit ! Most of the roads near the site were cordoned off by the pigs, but it was a Sunday and it was 1984 , so Uxbridge was a fucking ghost-town anyway. So to get a better look, we slipped through the cordon and up to a school field that's was just up the road from the yard, we then jumped over it's back fence and onto the railway embankment that overlooks both the factory buildings and train sidings. This was all done with our BMX bikes in tow. We used them as a climbing aid to stand on and vault over the back fence. We now had front-row seats.

We waited for hours and fuck-all happened. Bored with the waiting around, I knocked the lid off the spray-paint tin and walked down the slope to where trains were sat in a row, I then started to do doodlin', like I do do, on a train surface. I only wrote a couple of cliché 'Electro' type things like 'Rok Box Burns' or 'Turbo' along with the brand-name of my BMX at the time 'Kuwahara', 'Redline' or whatever. The writing came out all pissy-weak so I stopped. I then calmly went and sat back down on the embankment waiting for some buildings to blow up or fall down or something. They didn't. Then, a while later, from in between the second and third trains, an LT train driver appeared and gestured for us to come over. I thought he might have seen me vandalizing earlier. Me and Nozzo got ready to do a runner, but the driver started shouted over at us in surprisingly chummy way.

"Alright lads ? You come in to get a better look at the blow-down? ".

Me and Nozzo nervously nodded in unison.

"Nah mate, it ain't 'appening today boys, fuckin' weather or summink...'Ere are you Ted's boy's ? He said youse might come down." he continued.

We 'lying-cuntingly', nodded back.

"Oh ,we'll be orf then." I replied in a similar 'cockerny' cheeky-chappy way, guessing the driver's mate Ted and his sons would have probably spoken in a similar 'council-tenant/van driver/pikey' accent.

"You wanna nand with them bikes back over the fence lads?" he offered.

"No, Mister we'll be OK." said Nozzo.

"Say 'allo to ...is it..Juney ? For us ?" said the driver as he waved us off. We nodded again. ..Prick.

So I wouldn't really class that Sunday afternoon in Uxbridge Yard as my first proper train-graff moment. I was in a yard, yes. I painted on a train, yes, but that's not why I was in there. There was defiantly no malice of forethought involved. We were in there for a good couple of hours before I had a bit of a 'doodle', and this was only out of boredom. I probably only painted for about a minute before I sat back down next to my bike and carried on watching the demolition site. Like I said the paint I had on me was for another purpose anyway I didn't wanna waste it. I know I should be making the most of a story like that. Saying stuff like,"The first time me bomb train was back in early 1984, with long forgotten, old school legend 'Nozzo', we bombed Uxbridge Yard on a Sunday, in broad daylight! We even had a fight with a driver that come out of his hut!", but fucking-hell, that's not what happened and there was shit that happened to me later on in my graff career that meant I'd never have to exaggerate too much about anything again in my life. A lot of what happened to me over the next couple of years meant I'd have a stack of kudos-giving tales, right by my hip-pocket.

Before my first proper yard trip to West Ruislip with Huz and Nice 1 in '86 and after the my soirée in Uxbridge yard in '84, I had bush-bombed the pull-in, pull-out lay-up at Northolt several times. When westbound trains terminated at Northolt, they would empty of passengers, pull out of the station and then pull into the lay-up track that's situated a couple of hundred metres up the track. It was/is situated in between the two running tracks. The train would sit on the lay-up track for about 15-20 minutes, tucked out of the way till it was time for it to journey back eastwards. After 15/20 minutes the train would then roll back onto the running track and head back to Northolt’s eastbound platform, ready to go back to Hainault or wherever. The lay-up was over-looked by an embankment on both sides . The general idea was to watch the train pull in from the trackside bushes, and when the driver made his way back through the train to the opposite end, you'd jump down from the bushes on the embankment, cross the running track and paint the train quickly before it pulled out again. This was even more risky in '85-'86 because the Central Line trains still had a 'monkey'(guard) in the back carriage operating the doors. The monkey and the driver would 'swap ends' at the Northolt 'pull-in-pull-out', so you would have to have good timing and patience to say the least. Sometimes the driver and his guard would stop and have a natter amongst themselves in the middle cars for about 5 minutes before swapping ends, that meant you could only paint the back 3 cars, quickly. If they just went straight to opposing ends you could paint the middle four carriages for a bit longer. You could never really paint the carriages that were the first three cars nearest the station platform as you could be seen by waiting passengers. There was/is a similar set-up at Amersham on the Met Line, but you didn't have the extra hassle of a guard on board, just the driver. When I was on the run from the British Transport Police in 1987 (They had a warrant for my arrest for about 3 months over the 'G' incident), I hid out in Amersham and started regular hits at the lay-up. I couldn't get to the proper yards , as it was too risky for me to travel inwards on the Met. So I was stuck in the countryside, picking my feet in Poughkeepsie.

I once looked down whilst perched on the embankment overlooking the lay-up at Amersham, and saw a driver sitting, with a porno-mag, in the back carriage, having a real 'toe-pointing' WANK, chucking his muck all over pictures of Stephanie Bews's spread-open spam butterfly. Disgusting. I mean, imagine if he 'monked' all over that seat and the next person to sit down was some tart in a micro-skirt and no panties. It explains how Banksy was born, but it's still fucking nasty. No wonder the Tube network smells like an Albanian prison in July. It's covered in pikey driver's come. And they have the cheek to say 'Keep your feet off the seats'.

So, I'd spend the lion’s share of my time on the Met, only really venturing off to other lines to steal paint and stuff, never really travelling to other areas on different train-lines specifically to do graffiti there. I was usually on the rob, but I would 'get up' because I'd usually tag everywhere I went robbing. On the odd occasion I did go on a purposeful 'graffiti blitz' in another area or train line, I did it properly, and I took the rotten piss. Nothing like the 'All-Cityness' of the likes of Chane+Grand, Rate+Event, Robbo+Doze etc, but pretty fucking up nonetheless.

On the 4th Dec 1986 Earl, Taran and myself spent all the daytime hours painting a memorial piece for a friend of Earl's, Andrew, a schoolmate of his that was killed by a hit and run driver a week or so earlier. So we painted a massive 9ft high mural at Poplar Grove 'hall of fame' reading; 'Memories' as a tribute to the poor guy. We never did finish that piece properly because of the bad winter light. It got dark at about 4:30pm and we'd also run out of black paint, so we finished up for the day and started to head back. When we got to Wembley Park station, Earl called it quits for the day and he jumped on the Baker St. bound train , making his way back to his house in White City. Me and Taran caught the train back to Harrow Met and then made our way to the McDonald's. McDonald's was where the 'Harrow Writers Bench' used to temporarily de-camp to during the winter months. This was because the usual station hang-out got too fucking cold come nightfall in the winter months.

But, as per usual when we got to McShit's all the writers were outside freezing their nuts off(or cunt lips) , because someone got fresh with one of the McWorkers or fucked off the manager by doing something cuntish. When this happened, we could only go in and sit down when we bought something to eat, not just a cup of coffee between ten of us as was the usual scam. You could never be properly banned from Harrow McDonald's for too long back then though, no matter what you did. Staff there were hired and fired on such a regular basis, so you'd never see the same McIdiot for more than a week at a time and any of the McDicks that did stay on longer term, were what were folks refer to now as 'special people'. People seem to forget the invaluable service McDonald's restaurants provide. It supplies shit food for the nation's un-educated pikey scum and it gives employment to the most useless cunts in UK society. So don't knock it.

Anyway I think everyone was standing outside on the basis of something Sir Beau had said or done, judging by the way he was pressing his cold, bare, pulled-apart ass cheeks against McDonald's window and repeatedly pointing at it, inviting all those inside the restaurant to "KISS MY BROW-EYE!"

Harrow 'bench' was more packed than usual that winter evening. As well as the usual local writers, hangers on and local freaks, there were visitors from North London. Choci ,Robbo, Doze, Drax and a couple of writers from NLA were there as well. Choci was either just down from Cambridge, or had just come back from staying in New York. Anyway, he had quite an impressive photo album with him. A great big fat foto album bound in tatty brown leatherette, featuring lots of never seen (by us anyway), recent-ish, NY subway graffiti pics. He also had a couple of pics of a recent 'Spitting-Image' style caricature that was painted of Ronald Reagan in his buildings' stairwell.

I'd never met Choci, Drax or Doze before. I'd met Robbo with Set 3 on a couple of occasions, when I was writing 'Inkz'. Robbo had come on our line to bomb several times before, with the likes of Car 138 and Amoria and his trademark 'tidal wave' 'R' throw-up, was sometimes a feature on the outside of our trains.

When I was arrested in Oct 1987 after being on the run for three months, the BTP who questioned me (Eddie Thxxxson and Steve Cxxxle), pulled out a photograph during my interview. It was a writer's photograph taken in what looked like a Northern Line train yard. It featured in the centre of the foto, the front of a parked train.

Out of the driver's cab of which, were hanging Robbo and Doze and others, brandishing baseball bats.

"Right Jano, who's THIS ? We think we know who they are, but we want YOU, to tell us !" said 'Fat' Eddie. You could see that Thxxxson and Cxxxle were fucking fuming, very serious. I looked down at the photograph on the table and saw Robbo and Doze giving it the large and I started to fucking piss myself laughing. I could see how angry the two cops were at the 'fuck-youness' of the photo and it fucking slaughtered me. The look on the pigs faces, indignancy personified. It was like the most serious thing in the world to the BTP. They couldn't handle that type of arrogance displayed in the photo. It was like they were really intimidated by it and it pissed them off big time. I had the impression that some BTP coppers had been given a good hiding somewhere along the line. What line it was I don't know, but Steve and Eddie were looking angry, frustrated and fucking stupid right at that moment.

My arrest and interview had been quite a sombre affair till the comedy photo was bought out. I couldn't take the interview seriously after that, after seeing them quite obviously rattled by the deeds of fellow graffiti writers. They wanted this kind of lawlessness nipped in the bud. After I eventually stopped laughing they repeated the question. I then answered them.

"Are they train drivers or something ? They look like big blokes in their 30s. Did they batter some graffiti kids or something ? I've never seen 'em before."

"So, why were you laughing ?" said Cxxxle, leaning over the desk in an aggressive way, like a sort of 'Happy Shopper' version of the bad cop, in a good cop/bad cop style interview.

"I thought it might be you and Thxxxson, acting like 'The Sweeny' for a laugh or something." I sarcastically replied, trying to keep a straight face.

That line of questioning about Robbo came to an abrupt end there, as they realised it made them look like a right couple of vulnerable cunts. If you try and intimidate someone and they turn round and laugh in your face, you lose any kind of authority over the situation ( Especially if they point at you as they laugh, as I did) . Never show weakness to a pack animal, even if it's cornered and on it's own. So for the rest of the interview, I fucked them right up their asses, figuratively speaking. Just being the worst kind of horrible, cocky, cheeky little cunt imaginable. Back to my normal self then.

Choci was dressed kinda oddly for a graffiti writer that December night in 1986. On his head was an acrylic Union-Jack bobble hat, which was a weird thing for a mid-'80s graffiti writer, as the British flag was then synonymous with far right political groups like the NF. Choci had on a navy blue Abercrombie (Crombie)long overcoat as well. Now writers have never really been one for long overcoats, ever. It was always puffer jackets, leather goose, ski-jackets or coats with a fur-trimmed hood with us. Crombie coats were also the chosen 'Sunday best' type coat for your discerning NAZI-SKINHEAD. The 'right-wing bully' look wasn't a writer's normal clothing style choice .This made Choci stick out a bit, that and his height. It was like everyone associated with Robbo back then, seemed to be at least 6' 3" tall. Drax, Doze, Choci, PIC and Robbo were like 'The Guild of Big Fellas' ,using various different names for themselves like TDK etc.

After about an hour standing outside McD's all the writers started to make there way up towards Harrow Met. By now there was quit a mob, Cast, Seize, Coma, Reme, Realm, Slam, Choci, Drax, Doze, Sir Beau, Acine, Sirius, Kis 42, Mak, Earl, Robbo, Reez, Car 138, Risk, Huz, Rule, Huggy Bear, Cazal (Breeze), Dsire, Raze(Not the real, 'Rase') and myself were amongst them. We made our way to the Baker St. bound train platform at the Met. As we stood mob-handed on the platform waiting for our train, Choci started 'down-rock' breakin' on the platform edge, while singing his own rendition of Spyder D's, 'Brooklyn's in da house' . A tall bloke in a Crombie coat, British-flag bobble hat and mittens, breakin' on a train platform, in the middle of winter, while singing discordantly to himself, was quite odd behaviour, even by 'Mad Met' standards.

Most of the mob, but not all, boarded the Baker St. train when it arrived. The train was quite full with revellers as there was some concert or something on at Wembley, Aha or some other shit, 1980s stalwarts.

On the train we were all fucking about and being generally rowdy as usual. Drax was sticking white adhesive 'Blick' labels on the grey seat-backs by the door wells. They had his 'Drax' tag written on them , in what looked like a chisel-tipped, flouro pink hi-lighter pen. Drax was wearing a grey tweed 'baker boy' cap with a mass of red locks stuffed up inside it, looking like undercover security for a Simply Red gig.

Choci then walked from where we were all standing by the doors, to a packed set of seats by the windows. He then politely asked the man sitting on the seat nearest the window if he could move his head forward for just a second. The man politely leant forward as asked. Choci then proceeded to tag the window with a big, fat 'Choci' using a Uni-Wide marker pen (One of the first I'd seen in the UK). After he finished, Choci thanked the man and went back to where he was standing, over by the doors with us. The guy sitting in the window seat and the other passengers on the packed train didn't really notice what had happened, because it was executed with such brazenness and politeness. I stood there quite impressed. First time I'd seen something like that.

When the Met train we were on arrived at Baker St, Dsire and Raze headed off to the Bakerloo Line to get the train home to Wealdstone (Acine, Beau,Cre8 and Sirius had already got off at Wembley Park, thinking Choci was a bit too hot to hang around with for too long.). Me, Kis 42 and Mak caught the Circle Line up to King's Cross with Robbo, Doze and the rest of the visiting North London writers. At King's Cross, Robbo and his band of 'giants' headed of to the northbound platforms of the Piccadilly Line and me, Kis 42 and Mak headed to the southbound platforms of the Northern Line. Our initial plan was to get off the train at every stop between King's Cross and Elephant and Castle, quickly tag, then jump back onto the train before the doors closed. Then once we got to Elephant , we'd tag the fuck out of the station, then catch the train back to King's Cross. Basically, cocking our legs all over another area, in a provocative way. A kind of 'Fuck you' to the Southside

Elephant and Castle station on the Northern and Bakerloo Lines was fucked back then(Probably still is, the area is far worse now). It was fucking filthy, in a typically grubby, South London way. It had a spiral stair-case exit that was painted in flaking, baby-shit green. This stairwell was covered in tags and throw-ups, from ticket-box to platform. Elephant and Castle was a writers' bench for a lot of the South London writers like 'CB'S' for a while. It also had a pretty easy to do lay-up in the tunnel. So, we tagged up all over the station while we were there. I had on me a blue 15mm Pental marker, a bottle or blue Pental Ink (Rare as fuck, and excellently excellent. Found it in a stationary shop in Sao Pedro do Sul, when I visiting my relatives back home whilst avoiding a court case back in the UK.) and a small Pilot chisel tip, that I had converted into a fat, round stud-marker . Kis 42 had a Dulux paint tester pot converted into a 40mm maker. Mak had a black Edding 850, 18mm marker pen.

We all decided it was a bit too early to go home so we thought we'd to go all the way down to Morden, doing the same as we did on the way to Elephant & Castle, tagging all the way. We would then travel back from Morden via the Charring Cross branch and tag all the stations that we'd missed when we travelled via the Bank branch. So we set to the task at hand and worked our way, all the way down and all the way up the Southside of the Northern Line, hitting every station as we went. A couple of times we didn't get back onto the train in time and had to sit and wait for another one. At one of the stops we were seen tagging in the station, so we had to run out of the station and make our way to the next one on foot, but things generally went without a hitch. We must have done quite a lot as my Pilot stud marker's nib was frayed to fuck and dry, it had to be binned. The fucking greasy filth that's on nearly every surface of that 'sewer-pipe' they call the Northern Line, didn't help the longevity of the pen either.

But at some point on our journey home, we had attracted some unwanted attention ,someone seemed to be following us from a distance. I noticed him sometime between King's Cross and Baker St, after we'd finished the carpet-bombing of the Northern Line. It was man in a brown leather jacket, 'Dennis Waterman' hair and blinding white 'Gola' type trainers. Obviously a British Transport Policeman (BTP). When our Circle Line train pulled into Baker St, the three of us were ready by the doors, waiting for them to open. As they did, we jumped out and bolted up the stairs and over to the where the Big Met platforms are located. There were three westbound Met trains waiting at the Baker St platforms, ready to head back to Harrow. These were the last trains of the night, so we'd have to get one of them back or we'd be stuck in Town. One was heading for Uxbridge, one was for Watford and one for Amersham. They all stopped at Harrow, so any of them would be fine. But, were we still being followed ? We decided to check. We all boarded the Uxbridge train on the front carriage. I stood by the door and looked slyly round the corner and surprise sur-fucking-prise, 'Minder' was getting into the back car of the Uxbridge train. I signalled to Kis and Mak and we snuck out and jumped into the front car of the Watford train. I looked out of the door of the stationary Watford-bound Met and caught the same copper trying to sneak onto the back car of our train. He was definitely following us. Kis 42 then pointed out that he'd probably not actually seen us doing anything, he was just following, waiting for us to do something. As long as we ballsed our pens out of the way, didn't tag and cleaned any ink off our hands and clothes, the copper couldn't do a thing. The train doors closed and we started to set off on the last leg of our journey. Kis cracked open a little bottle of 'Stain-Devil', a spot removing solvent like Carbona that he always carried for emergencies like this. We started to clean our hands and clothing with it, which thinking back was a really fucking stupid idea. The solvent fumes filled up the carriage with strong, marker-pen, pear-drop type fumes. We were all sat in the front car and the smell was drifting through the vents into the driver's cab. The train suddenly braked and ground to a halt at Neasden Station. Big Mets NEVER stop at Neasden.

The doors stayed shut and the driver got out and started pointing at me and Kis through the window, but not Mak though. Then up the platform swaggered the Cop who had been following us earlier, standing there with his arms crossed glowering at us from the platform, giving me and Kis a 'You're nicked' smug grin, while next to him the driver was blustering on about graffiti and fumes. The silly old shit-cunt thought the fumes from the 'Stain Devil' were ink fumes. It seemed like we were gonna be arrested for graffiti when it was the only time in about 16 hours we hadn't actually been writing on stuff. Ironic? The driver got back in his cab and the cop got in there with him. The train then started to roll off towards Wembley Park at a snails pace. This wasn't good.

We could hear the cop in the drivers cab, we heard him radio ahead to Wembley Park, telling fellow BTP officers to meet the train, telling them what carriage we were in and giving descriptions of me and Kis. I guess they thought Mak wasn't a graffiti writer because he was Chinese and looked like a junior doctor. Me, Mak and Kis thought, fuck this for a laugh, so we started to walk through the carriages towards the back carriages of the train, as far away as we could get from our last pin-pointed position. We were looking for a car with more passengers in it, we could lose ourselves amongst a crowd as the doors opened, we thought. The train was going slow to make sure we didn't throw any incriminating evidence out before we got to Wembley. So, I hid my Pental inside my shoe, underneath my foot. I don't know why I hid it there, fucking stupid idea. The pen WAS a bit too juiced-up to put next to my cock, I didn't really fancy a bright blue wang and my girlfriend loved the taste of cock, but hated the taste of Pental ink.

By now I was sweating like a rapist, and the torturously slow speed of the train was jangling my nerves to fuckree. I was waiting by the door in the forth car from the front, waiting to jump out and leg it as soon as the doors opened at Wembley . Kis and Mak were another car up from me, standing in separate door-ways. We were properly split up and spread out 'Scooby Doo style' for maximum get-awayness. The train eventually pulled into Wembley and after what seemed like days the doors finally opened. I saw Kis jump out of the train from his car and run at full-speed like a greased rat towards the station exit, closely followed by a uniformed copper. Kis was making good ground and knocking people out of his way as he went, while his pursuer was crashing and stumbling into the folks that Kis had left in his wake. I saw Mak just sidle off into the crowd and disappear like opium smoke up a whore's pipe. I started to walk at speed towards the station exit, thinking all the heat was on the Kismeister .

I noticed a man come up close to my right side. A man with a light-blue, bry-nylon shirt was walking stride for stride with me. Then the man's left arm reached round my back and he put his hand tightly (Almost gaily)on my left shoulder.

"Come with me!" he said, as he proceeded to march me up the platform. I put my head down in shameful compliance and didn't even turn round to see his face; I just let him lead me up the platform by the shoulder. He had me bang to rights.

Had he fuck! My submissive behaviour was just a ploy. When his grip on my shoulder got a little less tight, I elbowed the prick in the chest with my right arm and made a break for it. He fell back as I took off up the platform and ran up the stairs, ten steps at a time towards the exit. I jumped over the turnstiles and ran out into the road, just missing being hit by a car. Still running at full speed, I turned round to see how far ahead I was, and who it was that thought they'd pinched Dr. .Jano.

It was P.C. Fxx, he was the cunt that had nicked Coma , and he was running out of the station entrance, only about 20ft behind me. He ran out into the road after me and 'BANG!' he ran straight into the side of a fast moving van and was knocked about 20ft up the road . He was all fucked-up at the side of the road. Bringing up his rear was the BTP officer who was following us on our train, but he had to stop to help out his fallen comrade in a way that looked a bit over dramatic and homo-erotic. Ha ha, FUCKERS! I carried on running diagonally left across the road from the station and quickly turned right into Chalk Hill Rd , only to come face to face with the copper that had been chasing after Kis at the station. But he was standing in the middle of the road with his head down, his helmet on the floor and his hands on his knees, trying to breath, having what looked like a mild coronary. I just carried on running towards him, then straight past him. Even if he did catch his breath he wasn't gonna follow me and Kis into the infamous Chakhill Estate; the Dantean, criminal Petri dish that passed for local authority housing. Well, not unless he wanted to become an unwitting member of a Keith Blakelock re-enactment society. I made my way into the flats and got the lift up to an upper-floor walkway that had a view of the station area. I could see the three cops re-group. Fxxx was dusting himself down and was standing at the top of Chalkhill Rd with the pig from the train holding him up and the uniformed copper was huffing and puffing his way back towards them, looking like Roger Bannister after he'd run the four minute mile. They looked a right fucking mess. I just watched from on high, grinning to myself from the safety of my system-built, concrete citadel.’ That one's for Tilt & Coma', I said under my breath.

I then started to notice a really sharp pain coming from my right foot. Shit, I had hid my Pental under my foot. I slipped off the black suede, red-striped Puma Brooklyn high-top from my right foot and pulled out the 12cm aluminium stem of the marker. It was squashed flat and there was a puddle of ink in the bottom of the inside of the shoe. I then turned my foot over so I could see the sole. The bottom off my sock was soaked through with ink and blood.

When I had made a run for it, I had trod down hard onto the pen hidden in the bottom of my shoe, squashing it flat. The hard plastic lid and nib housing of the pen had shattered and the pressure had pushed shards of plastic up into the sole of my foot. I had to sit for most of the night on the communal benches inside the hallways of the Chakhill flats, picking bits of hard plastic out of my feet. I had to use the sock off of my left foot as a bandage. I passed out from either pain or exuastion at about 3:30am. I was woken up the next morning about 10 am buy a drug dealer's Rottweiler licking my face. I sat up and went to put my right shoe back on. I could only just squeeze it on to my foot. My foot was swollen to fuck, and walking on it was painful and uncomfortable. It felt like there was half an orange taped to my foot, filled with needles. I didn't get any kind of infection though. I put that down to the antiseptic qualities of the alcohol in the marker ink.

I had a lot of bad luck that night, but it was one of my most productive, destructive bombing runs outside the confines of the Mets and Circle. I remember it everytime I see the blue 'tattoo' lines I still have on the sole of my right foot. I suppose that's why folks say I live in the past. But at least I was there, bitch !

 

JANO, C.D.

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