From the Pabs Archives (7)

October 8, 2010

A Forest

(Bolo 07.04.2006)

After getting your degree in Graphics and Web Design from Nottingham Trent University you decide to move to London. You pick up a copy of Loot and red ring a four bed loft conv in Clerkenwell looking for ‘media savvy young pros not afraid to shoot from the hip.’

You ring the bell, a dark skinned new Zealander introduces himself as the landlord. “I’m Zane and I’m a Radio One DJ, don’t look me directly in the eye and generally try and stay the fuck out of my way, ok hombre? A grand up front and they rest when I tell you, capiche?”

You think the guys a bit intense, but hey, he’s a radio dj which may well mean by-proxy social status, vicarious high rolling and a chance of some snatch somewhere down the line. The other flatmates seem cool, two of them work as vox popists / talking heads on tv compilation programmes, and the flats got plasma and an old skool pin ball machine. It could be worse, you think, a lot worse.

The first few weeks are a dizzying blur. Dinner time is like good saturday morning TV; one night Rob Da Bank comes round and smokes all your weed; you get invited to MTV offshoot parties where you meet Simon Anstell; the flat gets a new fridge with an original Banksy depicting Saddam Hussein as Oscar the Grouch with an Uzi, and one night you get blown by one of the runners from the T-Mobile advert that your flatmate gave you tickets for; you get some work designing flyers for a tanning salon, and sometimes Zane speaks to you when he needs to borrow your duvet for a friend, or when he wants money, or if he’s drunk your beers. “This is London” you think. “I’m home.”

Then late one night, with the heating off because Zane’s out, and the incessant chattering of your teeth keeping you wake, you cautiously sneak into Zane’s room to get your duvet back. As the door creaks open you sense a presence in the half light. There in front of the emperor mirror is Zane dressed only in a camouflage ku klux klan head dress, quietly rehearsing his emphatic off-the-cuff street lingo patter, his hands dancing furiously in the manner of a ninja.

‘This new joint from the Arctics is coming like a samurai sword to the synapses of major label medioc…”

Zane freezes, sensing an intruder. Your eyes are suddenly drawn to the retro chrome microphone protruding from zanes arsehole; his sphincter tightens and the mic drops to the floor with a thud. You stand motionless, paralysed. The mic’s gentle reverb fills the pregnant silence like a heart beat. Zane turns to you, his black eyes like a burning oil slick, hands poised like a ninjas dagger.

“Plug me in man!!!!! PLUG ME THE FUCK BACK IN!!!!”

That shit would give you nightmares.


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