London squat opportunity of the week – store will eat itself – Freedom News

In the second installment of Freedom’s lamentable rip-off of a much more successful column, to commemorate 10 years since squatting in apartment buildings was criminalized, George F casually presents housing opportunities for those who would like to take them.

What is that? Do you remember eating? Do you remember those countless hours you spent frolicking between the shelves laden with delicacies, frolicking with the merry nymphs that frequented the checkouts there, the endless feasts and delights? How did the hum of refrigeration units soothe your weary soul as you queued in sleepwalking bliss for the 30 minutes allotted to you to fill your food hole with the spreadsheet factory? Or did you maybe join the 6 p.m. queue, breathless with anticipation, your panties drenched in excitement as you struggled with the other raggamuffin hustlers to try and intercept a steamy pink bag of freshly sarnies trashed before they are ripped out by zealous garbage collectors?

Then in 2020 it was declared that we will eat no more. They were gobbled up by Pret a Manger, and their latest tweet from the bowels of this biggest beast exploded: “After 24 years of creating, making and serving real food, it’s time for us to say goodbye. Thank you to all of our wonderful guests – we loved every minute of our trip.

Do you sometimes hover outside the now eerily empty stores, your nose pressed against the glass, staring into the dark tomb of capitalism, still taunted by the command that insists you gorge yourself, when the shelves are now bare?


Now all the shelves are empty, but the ordering continues, and you force imaginary chopsticks into your mechanically snapping maw, chew on air muffins, and scoop up fictional memories of food from your all-too-real, hungry belly. Where once the hum of coolers soothed, now your stomach screams and gurgles like a backed-up drain as you strain to take that first bite with your eyes.

And there, in the glass, both between and beyond your own reflection, smeared through the grease and mist your breath and saliva have shared on the silica, an epigram:

While the abolitionists denounced the tyrannical power of the slaveholder, another group of reformers denounced the magnetic control of the hypnotist over his somnambulist subject as a form of psychological slavery.

The anti-slavery unconscious: mesmerism, voodoo and “equality”

Where is he?

Tantalizingly, the TO EAT the nearest to Buckingham Palace remains only temporarily closed, and every day as you battle rabid pelicans and confused tourists in the gardens of Green Park, you can rush there, across the city, from work in a convulsive migration that baffles your colleagues as you return to your post later and later, wilder and ravenous. Wondering if Andrew ever came, without a sweat, and lunched in these hallowed halls like he once did at the Pizza Express in Woking? Has the Big Lizzie ever donned a cape and beanie and walked the aisles in a Kappa tracksuit to rummage through the shelves for the latest sarnies? Did Bucky P’s butlers and serfs gather there to curse the royal face and feed on the lush bread contained within?

You know it’s inevitable. If you can longer EAT in EAT, then you must lock yourself inside and fast behind the dusty counters, in tribute and in memory, keeping the shelves empty waiting for the tasty bites to return. Your long watch begins, in potentially 75 locations across London. Others will join you, now resolved that if they cannot TO EATthen they must be starving.

What to do locally? Why aren’t all towns and thoroughfares adorned with such commands, in the style of They Live, the streets are filled with overly long fight sequences between wrestlers and aliens? Imperative one-word imperatives to every action – toilet under Mono Sans SHIT. The existential terror underlined by the word SCREAM written above each bridge. FEEL above each mirror. TO EXIST on each dial.

How do we get in? TALK, friend, and you will enter. The doors are just glass, and the euro locks, now gone from Brexit and become a dark obsolescence.

WONDER, friend, how one single word can compel, and about 550 others at last count do so little. Such is the mesmerism of capitalism. TO EATat the empty shop. SLEEPon immortal concrete. DREAMto wake up another. SPITand together we drown the bastards.

Wank, bollocks and doggerel, dear readerif you’ve ventured this far, then maybe you’ve grasped the shitty style of our hyped illusion. VICE talks about the rental nightmare, yet organizes Proud Boys and appropriates our mansion seizures in its relentless cooptation.

EAT, order the empty shop. SUBMIT, pressure vice. DESTROY, forces death-reality.

George F crouches down and writes.

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