Where can it be?? It’s lilac, and she got me up this morning to see some people off to Nowhere Festival. That’s in Spain. It’s like Burning Man. They were driving an old VW van. Adeel Akhtar was driving. Mere moments after sleeping and then I’m chatting with Faisal from Four Lions. The day is heating up but it’s still cool… This is about 5 past 7.
Later on, in the Lordship Recreation Ground, I pot a strawberry plant with Adelia and tell her how to look after it. Just earlier, I receive a message from Ms O to say that she’s lost her passport. She needs it to get to Nowhere. Another message, this one slung mid-riff across the internet and it’s telling me to visit the Bureau of Erotic Discourse – http://www.bureauoferoticdiscourse.org. Do I suppose they have a message for me? Immediately then, I conjure a requisite image of an office, 4 floors up in a hot and airless 1960s university building in London. There are other people queueing and I don’t know what I’m doing here. I am not at Burning Man. I’m sitting still on the cool of the leather sofa in a waiting area. This being the Bureau of Erotic Discourse, situated in 2010, I still don’t feel that I can ask the others, bored and restless as I am – what they are doing here… They might feel embarrassed.
Later on, it’s dark now, and I’m trying to get into the back of the Chapel of St Barnabas. This is a charitable pop-up members lounge in the heart of Soho. It’s a silly gig. Mike XXXX XXXX from Vice’s B’day Bash. I thought they were being uppity on the door. But it turns out that I was trying to get in from the wrong entrance. The wrong door. I actually tried the door to the Chapel of St Barnabas. It’s a rare piece of 19th century Oxford Movement. The whole thing is a private and privatised do. Me old mucker Calvin Harris spotted but not yet met – SoHo, too early and I’m already bored and sober. Deary Me. Things heat up and Missy O and me sit in an emptying canteen in China town, talking about border controls and Schengen and her passport. It’s Mikey XXXX XXXX’s birthday and all of sudden, the night pricks up pacey and we’re heading out with strides along Brewer Street and then suddenly it’s Mikey and he’s ushering us quick quick hush hush through a serious looking iron gate, back into to a dark courtyard and a converted stables, just in SoHo. Who would have thought it??
Turns out its just one of the executive offices of Morton Jankel Zander. Fucking Hell…
What you see, here below, 3 lion heads from awards from Cannes. Looking back, I get a truly horrendous feel in the pit of my stomach, because I think I know what I was doing there… I think I know why I was in that bad company
To laugh and plunder and pillage. And take ice cool beer out of the fridge, because it’s been paid for by an advertising agency. Because rather than politburo or priesthood or municapal officialdom I seem to get the connection of my kicks from the private sector. Dynamic private capital.