‘I can take you back to my home, it is really beautiful’ said the Squatter to the lady. Bleary eyed bafflement gives way to innate curiosity. ‘Okay, sounds like a beautiful idea’ replies the lady to the Squatter. I follow ‘Frenchy’ as he bounces through the back doors and under the bus conductor’s radar. Upstairs we fall onto the faded upholstery as the early morning sunlight radiates onto us. Dirty Trainers and scuffed heels invert to meet on the glass at the front of the Bus. 15 Minutes later and we alight on a South London high-street - my head bustling with preconceptions. I swallow the last drop of breakfast Redbull and hope that I can wash some of those preconceptions down with it. I feel like Edward Woodward as I wait outside the dilapidated Victorian house -out of my depth and a long way from home. Am I ready for these Glasto-reject types?, more to the point are they ready for an outsider? Could be just the plan - every now and then find a sacrificial lamb to offer up as a Sunday lunch alternative to the days skip run. A resident mum passes me by with kids in tow; instinctively I hang my head low. Can I really be ashamed and thrilled at the same time? My answer is a resounding yes as the warped black door swings violently open. Frenchy stands in the doorway a sparkling smile lights up his Gaelic face, his arms beckon me in - a warm welcome into the inner sanctum of a squatter’s, well squat. Dark and homely, I enter the living room first. My heels percussion the stripped back floorboards as I gaup momentarily at the wall. A huge sprawling hand painted tree engulfs the space like an Oak on Miracle Grow. From each branch intimate photos and mementoes from peoples travels or experiences map the wall interspersed by different species of birds naively painted by the owners who represent them. Two big beady yellow eyes stare out from the centre of the tree - an owl painted by the resident hard-core raver aka ‘night owl’. At the top an ugly hunch backed black crow stands by a fairy-tale heron, below which a tribal looking Gul suspends mid-air. ‘This was painted by the tattooist’
‘Oh wow, great’ I say. What I actually think is; if his illustrative skills are indicative of his tattooist skills then I pity the poor soul who gets inked by him. Frenchy looks at me inquisitively - I feel like he’s reading my mind. ‘You want a Tattoo, he can do it for free - he needs the practice’ - you don’t say. We move through the tiny kitchen whilst it is pristine, it clearly hasn’t had a refurb since Thatchers hay day. If ever she had one. I can’t help but notice a stack of pink doughnuts lying on a bed of bread in what looks like a laundry basket. Either Homer is in residence or there’s a bakery nearby who don’t bother with mark downs. Good for the Squatters, waste not want not is the real mantra of this household. Evidence of skipping, recycling, up-cycling and general crafty and inventive behaviour all make up the squatter DNA. The landscape is full of one mans junk is another squatters treasure. I haven’t come across as many dream catchers since my last visit to Camden Market. The creativity is abundant. I trip over a Rock and on closer examination it seems even this lowly chunk of Carbon has not escaped the Midas/Squatters touch. Humanised with multi-coloured features, it almost winks back at me. I’m being summoned to enter a warren of out buildings in the back yard, passing the vegetable patch I am informed of the veritable feast of which this earth (even gritty South London earth) can offer up, including Spring Onions, Portuguese Mint, Aubergine and Potatoes, lots of Potatoes. Frenchy proudly shows me the Music room which consists of Decks below a spiral staircase, a huge window floods light which gleans on the Vinyl. I have yet to encounter any other of the Eco-Intelligentsia - apparently a lot of them are on Holiday. I feel a glint of resentment; No rent, cool digs, party lifestyle. The tour is nearly over, but where is the Bathroom? My resentment cools as I approach the non- flushing toilet in the yard – that’s more like it. After the rather futile attempt at freshening one’s self up in the ‘Bathroom’ I’m invited to follow Frenchy once more as he base jumps from the Yard onto a table then a chair before he impressively bounds onto the lower Roof before finally catapulting himself with ease, onto the Roof proper. Phew -District 13 meets South London Backwater - I’m warn out just watching him. Before I can contemplate whether I have the inclination, let alone the ability – he is once again beckoning me towards him. No gallantries here, Eco-Intelligentsia are all for women’s equality don’t you know. The Chair is already wobbling under my feet, this motion pushes me to stop fannying about and get on with it. I soon realise that my 3 week Yoga obsession 3 years ago hasn’t quite had the desired lasting effect. My leg buckles, so in a desperate attempt to save my pride I use a combination of Thigh fat and Knee bone to not so eloquently raise myself onto the roof. Ha! I’ve done it!. Frenchy doesn’t so much as raise an eyebrow at my achievement, once again the Brits score nil poi. Sorry Team GB. Wait he’s lifted his head ‘Did you bring your cigarettes?’ Oh Drat! / unlady like expletive. A couple of smokes in, sitting on the rooftop of one common sanctuary, I admire the apostolic sanctuary of the steeple opposite. Eerily progressive chants descend the rafters perforating the noise pollution barrier of Bus engines, Dust carts and Sirens. As if in a dream top notes from a nearby Saxophone ring high and sweet. Frenchy interrupts the musicality for a moment to inform me that the Saxophonist is in fact his house mate. What’s happening to me? I am becoming slowly but surely seduced by this bohemian rhapsody. It could be that I’m a painter so arguably a natural born sympathiser – but there really is something special about this way of life. Perhaps it is the romantic ideal which against all odds is thriving in such a harsh system. A system in particular which sees me, a young professional still stuck at home with mum. No hope of a raise and not a hope in hell of getting a Mortgage. Perhaps there is, in light of the economic catastrophe hitting the everyman - some mental cushion that comforts me. To see with my own eyes that people can survive on nothing. So instead of white collar resentment, I feel to my surprise almost proud that at least there is a subculture which has the conviction and gumption to buck the system. They are surviving. They work together to sustain each other. Each housemate brings something to the household. Whether it is sheer enthusiasm, carpentry skills, a knack for filching or demonstrative culinary wizardry turning skip scraps into meals. There is also a strong sense of community and justice which is not all self- righteous Eco-Political Gospel. Good deeds are being done; Shelter is offered to those in need. I spotted a thank you note pinned to the back of the Kitchen door. It started ‘Dear wonderful Squatters… and ended ...thank you for letting me couch surf. I don’t know what I would have done without your help. Good deeds are sure to warm the heart, and to think that there are people out there willing to come to the aid of other people. People who might get themselves into strife without money or a roof over their heads in this day and age does seem remarkable.Before this encounter I had only seen Squatters as a 17 year old bouncing off the walls to Gabba at a Squat Party. And in the last few years I have of course seen various news items about Boujois or Commi squatters wrecking rich piles in Belgravia. I find this type of Occupation pretentious; a void and self-fulfilling Fashionista prophecy. Mind you, I can’t help but smile when such headlines hit. At the end of the day if the domicile elite paid more tax maybe they would actually live in the homes they bought. The domestic setting I find myself in has been a real eye opener, an insight beyond the media misconception. Especially in light of the Governments shake up of Section 6 of the Criminal Law Act (1977) Justice Secretary Ken Clarke has made Squatting a criminal offense in England. Already a criminal offense in Scotland, Squatters face fines of £200 and if unpaid a jail sentence. Clarke proposed in typical party fashion, rapacious reparation of up to £5000 in fines which means that the threat of overpopulating our already strained prisons is tantamount to another ill-conceived policy promise. One way to solve the 700,000 housing shortfall then - build more Prisons and let’s move in. In theory I understand the call for the law change. As a working class Gal I find the idea of strangers occupying my home whilst I sun myself abroad on a hard earned holiday abhorrent. But to put things into proportion as policy makers must do - such cases are extremely rare. So rare in fact, that when the government started the consultation process they called for public complaints to substantiate the bill. A grand total of 10 responded. Yup, 10 people. So considering there are approximately 20,000 Squatters in the UK there impact on society is in my opinion is virtually non- existent. The Squatting community is a fringe movement of like-minded people. Yes they actively seek to live on the contour of society as opposed to living in the eye of the storm, and its constricting nebulous. But I honestly don’t think that this Raison d'être should be criminalized or victim to sweeping prejudice. People are different. But the one thing that unites us whether we like it or not is that we inhabit the same planet. Even if we don’t always understand why other people choose to live so differently - be it habitation, religion or varying moral codes we should at least attempt understanding and tolerance. I’m all for respecting other peoples life choices when mutually respected.Squatting has an illustrious history in England a delightful paradox for and against the tradition of an Englishman’s home is his castle. Often a sign of the times from the post war housing crisis via the utopian ideals of 70s Frestonia, which proved free thinking and enlightened ideas can make real and progressive change for the good of the community. And who can forget the wonderment of Sade on the brink of stardom, collected from her North London Squat in a Limo sent by the BBC. My time in residence at this South London Squat may have been fleeting but the experience resonates. The following morning I met some truly charming and articulate young people. They greeted me with Breakfast (Fried Potatoes with a side of Boiled Potatoes) regardless of the menu the generosity of spirit was not lost on even this hard headed cynic. I politely refused the yoghurt and dill even though I was informed by the staunchy Lithuanian girl that this is the ‘European way’ note to self - keep an emergency sachet of ketchup in the handbag. I walked away, a belly full of starch having drawn the conclusion that this house if left to the establishment would be a shell of rot and ruin. Instead the building has been resurrected, made good as a house and furthermore this house I lay my head in was a real home. Great minds truly think alike when hearts and said minds meet. I cannot think of a more cohesive peaceful format for cohabitation. The culture may well be subversive in nature but it is sustainable. With property prices soaring, economies buckled and capitalisms crown crumbling atop its marbled head... Perhaps it’s about time we give squatters a chance. Go on! put the kettle on for your local squatter you’re guaranteed a doughnut or three in return.