Modern art

In a short time they approached Wormer, a small town 13 km north west of Amsterdam where after much back seat driving and a few wrong turns they arrived at Villa Zuid, a squat inhabited by a number of bands, artists and wannebes of both persuasions which tonight was celebrating its 8th year anniversary. It was an amazing white timbered house which though neglected and marooned amongst dereliction still retained a haughty grandeur. It was the former manager’s house of the Van Gelder paper factory and had an interesting history being amongst other things a site of workers resistance to Nazi occupation during World War 2. It was eventually shut down due to unsafe working conditions and outdated machinery caused by neglect and corporate exploitation after a buy out. Prior to demolition it had been squatted and via art, music and agitprop activity saved if not for the nation then for its artistic and politically motivated youth. The Y were friendly with one of the bands who resided there and always called in for organised or impromptu gigs whenever they were in Europe.
Despite this they still had an uneasy relationship with some of the occupants of Villa Zuid. On their last visit Matt, their late, not lamented, driver had raised eyebrows with his loud and unashamed reverence for Margaret Thatcher and, in his view, her laudable attempts to eradicate the old British working class with all its drab certainties and replace it with an aspirational  property owning nouveau riche. Some of his arguments though delivered in his usual non PC manner pointed to uncomfortable truths that certain elements in the squat preferred not to face. In Matts view (and quietly agreed by some of the band) socialism was all very well but in his experience there was very little dignity in labour and most working class people he knew were desperate to escape from their lives of toil and boredom. This did not sit well with the philosophical outlooks of some of Villa Zuids anarchistic gentry. Like most arguments both edges of the polemic were too extreme and in the middle sat a slightly unsatisfying compromise. Certainly in the Villa Zuid there were the genuine and committed and also a number of cynical hangers on. Matt’s rough edges offended the hidden middle class values of some of the inhabitants who preferred their working class to be less caustic and more like the ones nobly outlined in books or distant history.
There was however a different reason for the tension they found on arrival which was that intelligence indicated that their anniversary was to be disrupted by a skinhead attack.
A house meeting was in progress when they arrived and after some back slapping beer passing and cursory catch ups the meeting continued. It had been agreed that everyone would split up into pairs and form a protective barrier around the Villa Zuid. Knowing the cowardly nature of such gangs it was agreed that the lack of surprise and the signs of resistance would be enough to deter entry.
“They see this big man they how you say ‘run home to mummy’” a goatee bearded man in a tie dye top said pointing at Walter
It was suggested to the band that they did not have to be involved but despite their great fear they felt obliged to provide solidarity. Walters size and Little legs experience meant neither were particularly fazed and they happily paired off. It was agreed that people could protect themselves but no weapons were to be used though if passing objects were utilised in extremis this was acceptable.
“Wood not metal!”
 No one wanted to give the authorities any reason to close the place down.
Mo was paired off with a very large sculptor from Nijmegan and they set off for the edge of the back garden both holding a large piece of broken fencing. Walter and Little legs positioned themselves right in the front line and drew some admiring and reassured looks from other Villa Zuid residents. It wasn’t long before a  smash of glass behind them and some simian type shrieking and grunting alerted them to the beginning of the “attack” A particularly large skinhead with a tattoed face lumbered through the gates and was shocked to find himself hurled backwards into three of his compatriots who tumbled like DM’ed skittles. Stunned but undeterred he roared forwards again and was picked up by Walter and carried past his incredulous mates and placed headfirst in a oildrum filled with water. The king of the skinheads was vanquished and as predicted the attack fizzled out quickly in a feeble display of missiles and half hearted oaths.