Saturday night, the 19th day of May in the year of our Lord 2001…

I had been awoken from a pleasant afternoon slumber by the undulating rhythms of some reggae music gently drifting across the verdant plains of London Fields.

Donning my finest silk cravat, plumed feather hat and a number of other ‘glad rags’ I made my way out of my home and into the growing throng of people who were gathered near a ‘sound system’ which had been established to bring merryment to the good people of Hackney.

‘Ah’, I thought to myself as I looked upon the veritable cornucopia of collected humanity, ‘’tis truly a wander to live in such a place with its myriad cultures and faces’. I noticed that quite a number of the collected audience had several piercings about their person but who am I to judge another solely on their appearance.

Girating to the sounds of the ‘Mic Controller’ and his ‘wicked, bad arse bass’ I had built up quite a thirst. I made my excuses and travelled thence to the fine ale house known to the local populace as the Pub on the Park. ‘Bring me fine ale wench’ I declared to a sultry bar-maid. ‘Get stuffed you unreformed 17th century sexist!’ she hissed.

Moments later I had made several apologies and declared I would never engage in such a demeaning way ever again and thereupon she agreed to serve me a pint of the finest Stella. I also had to destroy my ostrich feather hat as part of the bargain as it ‘brought unnecessary suffering to other animal species’.

Supping from my ale I stepped outside once more and was joined by a number of fellow Hackney residents and we began singing and making merry while conversing on the inherently destructive nature of modern global capitalism. Excellent.

As the evening progressed the claims grew ever more bold and a strong sense of collective well-being had been firmly established - the revolution would happen it was just a matter of timing.

I was greatly impressed to discover that a pub had been named after me: ‘The Samuel Pepys’. I was then saddened to discover that the very same pub - serving good ale to a strong and proud section of the politically active community, and some other people too - was to be shut down. ‘No, this cannot be’ I protested. ‘Yes’, said many people, ‘they are going to build some poxy yuppy style café in its place - it’s part of Hackney Council’s corrupt attempt at gentrification’. There was a sense of ill-ease in the midnight sky as we made our way down to the aforementioned establishment.

Why, a better pub in all my years I have never found. Inside the alcohol emporium, which was serving up a number of spirits and other intoxicating beverages, there was verily a carnival atmosphere. A band had occupied central stage and were playing all manner of joyous music: the crowd was now congo-ing in a mad sequence of illogical patterns, there was much shouting, the bar had been drunk dry - many people were brought to tears by the whole event.

The crowd then made its way into the collective space immediately located in front of the imposing Hackney Town Hall where many of us continued to frolic and play. There was much amusement as the crowd chanted: ‘Who, who, who … who let the pigs out!’ pointing at the night-watchmen employed to keep a vigilant eye on the intoxicated crowd.

All flush with the excitement I took some rest on the steps of the local authority HQ. Suddenly someone appeared in front of me and shouted: ‘Let’s occupy the bureaucratic offices of the community-destroying Hackney Council which has shown itself to be morally, spiritually and financially bankcrupt in every way’. Or something like that.

My eyes lit up in excitement as a crowd of righteous people began to congregate. I was immediately filled with a sense of abandon and climbed the front of the building with the dexterity of a Daddy Long-Legs. Upon sighting the balcony I climbed upon it and looked down upon a crowd who cheered me - I thought of a thousand speeches I had always wanted to make addressing the range of ills that affect the good people of this cruel dominated world but only slur came forth. I was joined by a comrade on the balcony and we decided on collective action: to bare our backsides to the unmanned camera focused upon the Town Hall facade. There was another roar from the crowd.

I then climbed down the building which was under siege by a jubilant mob who successfully managed to force open the mighty doors which protects the building from local residents. The crowd spilled into the building and people began singing, dancing and making noises in general.

Night watchmen with large hard wooden batons soon arrived and were seemingly incapable of, or unwilling to, engage in any kind of unarmed negotiation. A number of people were beaten and an aerosol liquid being called ‘CS gas’ was sprayed into people’s faces. Ghastly affair.

Two days later, sipping the finest Earl Grey tea, I found an article about the evening’s carry-on in a copy of the Evening Standard. Describing itself as a ‘newspaper’ I had hoped to find some news but merely read that “an impromptu late-night street party turned ugly” as written by ‘journalist’ Kunbi Jegede.

Turning red with rage I was further angered by the facts that had been excluded from the article: the fact that the popular local public house, the Samuel Pepys, was being shut to make way for a gentrified ‘bar’ and that the good people of Hackney had stormed the building in order to highlight the myriad abuses of the community by the council.

I was then told of a ‘website’ which exists to allow local peoples from around the globe to highlight the issues affecting their communities. ‘Now’, I thought to myself, ‘that sounds like the place for a London diarist to let off a little steam’.