Everyone eagerly awaited our next event, from Sloanes and pop stars to squatters from Brixton. An estate agent sold us the keys to a massive warehouse in north London and told us that the building was about to be relet. We did the rounds of the clubs, giving VIP cards to key people and taking names for the guest list. Once you had the faces coming, everyone else followed.
Sunrise were planning a party in an equestrian centre just outside London on the same night as ours. As I’ve said, there was never any rivalry between our companies. Tony and the crew were our pals and I was glad to see them kicking ass. Tony called to wish us good luck and gave us the directions to the equestrian centre they were using for Back to the Future. His event was legal and unlikely to be stopped. If anything went wrong, I’d be heading straight down there.
We arrived at the warehouse around midday to clean the place up and prepare for the crews coming later. The venue was fantastic, with space for up to 10,000. There were offices at the far end, which backed directly on to our proposed dance floor. They would hold a couple of hundred people and we decided to use them as a VIP area. We created these sanctuaries for our friends, other promoters, DJs and celebrities. Without a VIP area, most of your buddies would get lost in the crowd and might not bump into each other all night. The sanctuary meant that our friends and the faces behind illegal parties could settle down in spacious comfort, skin up, chill out, chop up, get on one or pass out.
Wooden shipping crates littered the building. We cracked open one of the heavy crates and, to our astonishment, it contained a brand-new Honda 550cc. The king of beasts had a logbook attached to its handlebars. There was a stampede to open the other crates and each surprisingly produced something different and very expensive. Designer glass tables, leather sofas, large oil paintings, wooden tables, lanterns, ski equipment, rowing machines, exercise bikes and Persian rugs.
Of course the boys wanted to load them up and ship them out straight away. But I didn’t want to chance the owner showing up at the party to discover we’d chored his gear and crashed his warehouse. You had to think of every possible scenario and give even more thought to the solutions. In my book, being able to show the owner his stuff was still there had to be a plus, and a good starting point for further negotiations. If he was prepared to do a deal, I’d offer five grand payment in advance for one night. Waving the money under his nose, while promising to leave the building as we found it, was a sure enough way of capturing his full attention. Then the owner need only tell the officers we had his permission to be there and the law wouldn’t be able to touch us or the owner – until the law changed.
We nicked a forklift truck from the yard next door and stacked the crates at the far end of the building. The VIP area was decked out with the furniture we uncovered and the rooms looked better than some houses I’ve visited. We still had a few hours to spare before the crews turned up. Inspired by the World Cup, we started a five-a-side football match. We started to work on our dribbling skills and attacked each other’s defences in pursuit of that winning goal. But the game was interrupted by the sight of two eerie figures, a uniformed policeman and someone in a business suit, walking towards us.
‘Are you aware you’re trespassing?’ asked the suit.
‘I’m sorry, who exactly are you?’ said KP.
‘I’m the owner, this is my building and you are trespassing,’ he said.
‘I’m afraid there must be some kind of mistake: my father is in the process of leasing this property, and he asked my friends and me to help tidy the place up for him,’ said KP.
‘Ah! You must be Mr Munroe’s son,’ he said.
‘Yes, that’s right. Do you know my father?’
‘Oh no, I don’t know him personally. The letting agents handle all the paperwork. They’ve been keeping me up to date with the contract’s progress.’
‘Are you happy with this arrangement, Mr Barrett?’ asked the policeman.
‘Oh yes, it’s no problem at all. The alarm system automatically checks at police control every three hours. When the signal didn’t register at the usual time, the police got in touch with me and here we are. Everything seems to be in order, we won’t take up any more of your time. Good day to you,’ he said.
‘Have a good game, lads,’ said the policeman.
‘But what about the alarm system?’ said KP. ‘I’m not sure how it works. Would you mind showing me how to turn it off until we’re ready to leave?’
‘Follow me and I’ll show you what to do. You can keep hold of my key for now.’
The owner switched off the system and explained how it worked. They left the same way they entered. A lucky blag pulled from nowhere!
The first test was over, but our biggest obstacle would be dealing with the police later that evening. After the last event, I didn’t feel comfortable fronting the Old Bill on this occasion. My description and artist’s impression must have topped the police hit list and it wasn’t worth letting my presence jeopardise the event. It was about time everyone realised just how important my role as a negotiator was. If the blag wasn’t right and the police didn’t think you were a professional, you’d get closed down.
The sound and lighting crews couldn’t find the building so I agreed to meet them at a burger stand two minutes’ drive away. I ordered a coffee and waited for the vans to arrive. My personal phone was constantly ringing. After ten minutes, three vans came along the quiet road and I waved them down and directed them to the venue.
Everything was running smoothly. The lights, sound and special effects would be up and running by 9 p.m. It had to be done that late as we couldn’t take the chance of being discovered too soon. Things had been getting a bit warm for us lately: the police had been asking people questions about the secret locations and our true identities.
We turned the phones on at 8.30 p.m. and they rang immediately. Someone at the meeting point said thousands of people were already there. I gave her the address and told her to bring as many people as possible. I put the group on the guest list and sent someone down to the point before it got out of hand. Minutes later, loads of cars came down the road and I sent someone outside to let them know where we were. The state-of-the-art dance arena was ready. I received a message telling me the police were outside.
I left security to deal with it. There was only 40 people inside so if the blag didn’t work we were fucked. My name was being called on the walkie-talkie, but there was no way I was going outside. One of the security came looking for me and told me the chief was giving them a hard time but could be persuaded, if I dealt with it. The police had blocked all roads around the building and blocked everyone in at the meeting points. They were also stopping people from coming inside the yard’s perimeter gates. I went outside to the chief.
‘Are you the organiser?’
‘Yes, what’s the problem?’
‘You’re under arrest. Come with me,’ said the chief, grabbing my arm.
‘You can’t arrest me. What are the charges? This is a perfectly legitimate event,’ I said.
I showed him the lease, which he snatched out of my hand without looking at it. Then he handcuffed me and took me to a marked police car. The security all surrounded him, saying that he’d made a mistake: if he wanted the party stopped I was the only person who had the power to do it.
‘It’s true what they’re telling you. I’m the only person who can stop this event. If you’ll kindly remove the handcuffs, I’ll stop it right away,’ I said.
‘If you’re messing me around, I’ll arrest everyone in this building. You’re in deep trouble, and still legally under arrest. Now get in there and stop that music. Tell everyone to pack their equipment and leave immediately. When you’ve done that, return here to me. I think we need to have a long talk,’ said the chief, taking off the cuffs and pushing me towards the gates.
I went back inside and the people there gathered round to find out what was going on. I told them the situation and most of them were fuming, saying, ‘Fuc
k the Old Bill, let’s stand firm and confront the bastards.’ They were tired of being stopped, searched, harassed and deprived of something that meant so much to them. We wanted the party to continue more than anything else. The roads outside were crammed with people on foot. I knew that, if we encouraged the punters, there would be a massive tear-up. The party-revellers were pissed off and if we came out fighting they’d back us up.
But this was against everything Acid House was about. They wanted to battle it out and show the police the people wouldn’t stand for it any longer. I wasn’t having any of it, especially at one of our events. I wanted the parties to be remembered for what they stood for, not as the warehouse parties that erupted with thousands of angry people against the police. This new generation wasn’t about resorting to violence. That was a thing of the past. Our objective was to love our comrades.
I decided to end the party. I thanked them for their support, but the game was up. I changed clothes with a friend and asked a group of girls if they could help smuggle us out of the building and into their car that was parked in the yard. We jumped into the vehicle with the three girls, who drove us out of the gates and past the blockades. We gave them VIP cards for our next event.
There were thousands of people walking towards the venue: it was like a carnival. Gutted and disheartened, we waved goodbye to a chunk of money, turned off our phones, picked up one of the other motors and drove to Sunrise. Tonight, more than any night, I was going to get off my nut and have a wicked time. We put so much energy into organising and promoting the gigs that, when it came to an end like this, the energy was zapped out of you. I could have gone home and crashed out for a week but, fuck it, the best therapy was going Back to the Future.
I took two Calis for maximum headfuck. I used to cane drugs at my own parties, but had learnt to hold the buzz down. Internally, I’d be on another planet but, verbally and physically, I’d be coherent (well, I like to think I was). The mere thought of dealing with police chiefs kept the rushes mildly at bay. I’ve negotiated with officers after taking a Cali and sniffing a load of toot. Don’t ask me how I did it because I surprised myself at times. I think it could be compared to method acting: no matter how off it I became, when the police arrived I’d slip fluently into the character I was portraying. When I spoke to the officers I really felt as if I was that person and, believe me, I didn’t take any shit from them.
The chiefs took an instant dislike to us because we were giving it charlie big potatoes. We were young, not bad looking, earning more money than the whole police squad and totally arrogant with it. We were their worst kind of nightmare: rich brats who knew the law and, so we said, had the power of the world’s biggest recording companies behind us. Even so, you had to be careful verbally. The trick was not to let your internal buzz get too carried away with itself and to say just enough for them to decide you weren’t some moody, backstreet firm but that the event was a meticulously organised music-business extravaganza, with some of the industry’s most powerful people in attendance.
The chief I’d met tonight hadn’t had any intention of letting the gig take place, he didn’t even hear what I had to say. They were here to stop it, whether it was legal or not. I was lucky to walk away from that one. If I’d been nicked they’d have thrown the book at me. Things were getting really hot and we’d have to tread very carefully from here on.
We hit the motorway, singing to Robert Owens’ ‘I’ll Be Your Friend’, buzzing from the Calis. There was loads of traffic on the road and it brought a smile to my face to see the heads bopping in the cars going past. Thousands of vehicles were en route to Back to the Future. I really needed this uplifting rush. Cars pulled up alongside us, the occupants hanging out of the windows screaming ‘Aceeed!’ I opened the window and was shouting back at them. A few other cars joined our mini-convoy. We were driving at 70 miles an hour, yelling ‘Aceeed!’, and when we weren’t shouting our arms would be punching the air to the music. Before long we led a convoy of a hundred cars. Everyone was happy and there was not a miserable face in sight.
The girls who had smuggled us out of the warehouse were in one of the many cars and so were loads of other people who went to Genesis. I told them to follow us and we’d get them in free, which was the least we could do. Thousands of cars were parked for miles around the centre. Luckily they had a private car park for staff and the equipment vans. One of Tony’s security was standing guard. He let us park there and I didn’t fancy trying to park anywhere else – it was chock-a-block. We waited for the people who followed us to turn up, and then jumped the queue straight to the front. ‘Oi Oi.’: the whole reception went mad. Tony, Denzil, Charlie and Alfie were jumping around going for it. We told them what had happened before moving inside and Tony let all our guests in free.
Everyone was really excited and eager to party on. Wow! What a party. Thousands of people danced everywhere. The light show was wicked and a powerful sound system echoed through the building. We walked along a gangway looking for anyone we knew and stumbled on a whole section filled with our mates: Delski, Jack, Chris, Amber, Maggie and loads of others. The MC, Chalky, announced we were there because our party had been unfortunately stopped. The section began chanting ‘Genesis, Genesis, Genesis!’ and we felt a bit embarrassed because everyone was staring at us. They started clapping and the sound rang around the arena until the whole place joined in the chant. The DJ, Fabio, put ‘Strings Of Life’ on the deck and the dome went fucking barmy. The whole gaff went for it heart and soul.
I remember thinking then that this movement couldn’t be crushed: this was something more than drugs, this was an ideal environment to drive home the message of multicultural unification. If it had taken a mind-altering substance to trigger off this change, so be it. It has been written in many prophecies that the level of consciousness on earth will be at its highest point ever at the turn of the next millennium. What was taking shape was an act of fate. Even though most drugs were designed either to heal or to oppress certain classes, Ecstasy was completely different, provoking awareness, openness and love.
As I said, attitudes had been very negative within most communities in inner London and everyone kept themselves to themselves. But in 1988 there was a massive change and promoters provided an ideal opportunity to project this new-found faith on a mass scale. The Es did originally create the environment for such pleasures, but before long they represented only the tip of an iceberg in a global tide of good karma.
The party was at its peak, I was rushing like a goodun and there was this gorgeous chick dancing in front of me. She had a little black dress on, long tanned legs and a dreamlike figure. When you were at parties rushing off your nut, you weren’t really thinking about sex: you saved that for when you got home or to a hotel. Parties were about dancing with anyone and everyone. But she was dancing really provocatively, staring into my eyes. After ten minutes I moved in closer to her and we started moving from side to side. I put my hand on her beautifully curved breast; she suffered it and kissed me. I asked her if she wanted to go for a walk; she smiled and followed my lead.
We went over to a corner of the building, still in the arena but set back a little bit. Bales of hay stacked up about ten feet high made a great platform and we climbed on top of the hay and went at it. After a while, we returned to where our friends were originally standing, I gave her my number and she walked off. We didn’t even know each other’s name.
The rest of the night was brilliant. I hadn’t danced like that since Spectrum. I always enjoyed my own parties but most of the time I was really busy doing one thing or another. I hadn’t been on the dance floor for more than an hour at any of our events because I had to keep on top of things. That night I danced for seven hours straight and I was soaked right through: I must have lost a few pounds. We all went back to my friend Amber’s place in the Docklands and continued the party for another two days.
GANG WARS
I pulled up outside my house early one Sunday morning after
being out and on it all night. I was locking my car door when three geezers walked up to me. I recognised one of them as a nutter nicknamed Razor who wasn’t all the ticket and was known to stab or cut people at the drop of a hat. He put a big fuck-off knife to my stomach and told me that if I made the wrong move I’d get plunged. A car stopped next to mine and I was instructed to get in. I asked what I had done and where I was being taken. He whacked me on the head with the handle of the blade and then put its razor-sharp edge to my throat.
‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.
‘I’ve never seen you in my life. What have I done?’
‘My name is Razor and I’ll tell you what, mate, I’ll fucking kill you.’
‘You’re gonna kill me anyway, so what difference does it make if I get into your motor?’ I said.
‘My boss wants a word with you. I won’t do anything to you if you get into the car. If you don’t, you’re gonna wish you were never fucking born. I’m gonna say it one more time. Now get into that fucking car or I’ll stab you in the eye.’
I reluctantly climbed in, flanked by the armed guards, and we drove for over an hour before stopping outside a pub. I was ushered into the saloon, where I was confronted by a stocky fella with cropped hair.
‘All right, son,’ he said. ‘You don’t know me and my name is unimportant at this time. Let’s grab ourselves a table and sit down. I wanna have a chat with ya.’
‘But I haven’t done anything,’ I said.
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