Freedom News

London squatting opportunity of the week – a piss-drenched terrace in Whitehall

To commemorate 10 years since the criminalisation of squatting in residential buildings and the ongoing collapse of the UK’s government and economy under the Tories, George F ecstatically presents housing opportunities and alternatives for those who would wish to take them by expropriating the style and concept of a much more successful Vice column.

What is it? Suddenly available after it’s previous occupant spontaneously combusted leaving only a pair of ruby slippers and the stench of burning housing insulation, this property in Whitehall is admittedly a fixer-upper. Full disclosure: in recent years tenants had to be forcibly removed for rowdy parties and anti-social behaviour, and the place positively reeks of piss and chardonnay, but the building itself has previously a long and esteemed history as a fuck-palace of the elite.

That’s right – for generations, power-hungry maggots (PM for short) have used this innocuous looking pied-de-terre for their traditional coup-de-ass. After a long and drawn-out ‘no nut’ campaign, prospective tenants are chosen by group vote to live in the building, and on the night of their election, they retire to the upstairs room, and close the door, to prepare for their ultimate fuck.

This property would suit persons for whom power is the consummate aphrodisiac, and must be willing to endure a long and drawn out selection process, but with the chance of dropping your pyjamas in the same room where generations of PMs blew their load on erection night. You too could cast your salty ballot in the room where Margaret Thatcher commanded Denis to “fill in her pit, battle her beanfield, and break her like a union strike”, where Tony Blair sang ‘Things Can Only Get Better’ whilst smashing gnashers with Cherie, where David Cameron made Samantha don a pig-snout and oink like a little povvo piggy as he porked her, where Boris Johnson fucked literally everyone in the UK, and where Liz Truss cry-wanked her way through weeks of waking wet-nightmares after accidentally killing the Queen.

Where is it? Whitehall, where the majority of the buildings around are infested with parasitic zombies who live only for the suffering of millions of innocents. They toy with them like wildcats who have maimed a baby deer to lure in the rest of the herd, pawing the broken bambi occasionally to let it’s squeals alert and torment the adults nearby, bullying the crippled fawn like Jacob Rees-Mogg bullied MPs into the voting lobby. Allegedly.

What is there to do locally? It’s a little known fact that every other building on Downing Street is in fact a cardboard film set prop, set up by the local crackheads who camp behind them. They each take turns to dress up like a cat and pose for the BBC journalists each morning, who bring them cans of food with no label on them so they don’t get mugged on their way in. Once a week they rent a big red bus and drive around the city collecting the corpses of old people, children, the mentally ill and such that are now piling up on our streets. They bury them in shallow graves around Westminster, or if they can’t be arsed stack them in up in some of the empty mansions that are lying around, gathering dust. On voting days they string them up, weekend at Bernie’s style, and sneak into the Houses of Parliament to jeer at each other. You can do that if you’re not busy scavenging for fuel to burn over the long winter ahead, anticipated to be the worst for 30 years. New girl Liz can show you the ropes. At least people like cats. And crack. And weekends at Bernie’s.

Or new tenants can run a country, if they like. Or not. Nobody seems that bothered really. You can turn up and just knock on the door and give it a whirl, if you fancy, but then kinda bail out after a bit because it’s a hassle, really, innit? The country in question recently was downgraded from the fifth-richest economy in the world 12 years ago to a brand-new category, termed an ‘absurd-world state’, so you know, the stakes aren’t that high. Here’s some statistics, quoted by the Big Issue, who in a sweet irony if anything only profit of the situation:

Around 14.5 million people are living in poverty in the UK, according to the Joseph Rowntree Foundation’s UK Poverty Profile 2022. That’s more than one in every five people. Of these, 8.1 million are working-age adults, 4.3 million are children and 2.1 million are pensioners.

Analysis by the Resolution Foundation predicts that 1.3 million more people will be plunged into absolute poverty by 2023, including 500,000 children. The Legatum Institute has recently gone further, estimating that even if the energy price cap was held at its summer rate of £1,971, another 1.3 million people would slide below the poverty line this winter.”

I mean, government is all just people walking into rooms and saying things, isn’t it? How hard could it really be? A bit of shouting, a bit of intrigue. Mostly it seems people make it up as they go along anyway. What happened to that nice jam-making man who looked like a bushbaby that was furious at being forcibly shaved? He was a chuckle. I sometimes see him tap-dancing for change outside Angel station in his funny little hat. They say he performed at Glastonbury one year. Mad as a bag of squirrels. Wanted to make the UK ‘the Cuba of Europe’ or something – everyone drinking rum and salsa dancing. They nearly gave him a go at running the circus one time, you know, for a joke, but everyone kept laughing so much they just had to shuffle him on. He was replaced by that walking grey-space who now wants a big sleazy vote-orgy to decide who gets to be the next big Power-Maggot.

How do we get in? Patchwork-video quiltmaker and dulcet-tone producer Adam Curtis has recently been comparing the collapse of the Soviet Union with the state of the UK today, and asserts that “we know that they know that we know that they don’t know what they are doing”. So – scribble an economic plan on the pack of a fag packet whilst you are a bit drunk and bury it under a tree somewhere in the Forest of Dean and someone will get back to you in six to eight weeks. I fancy your chances actually.

George F

By Sergeant Tom Robinson RLC published under the OGL (Open Government License)

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