Amsterdam Tails

1.00am. People crammed onto the train home in true rush hour style. Replace suits for party goers and I'm sure you understand the mayhem. I started talking to some groovy cats who were headed to a techno party. We bonded over our love of acid and the next thing you know, I said goodbye to my day friends and hello to my new ones. Jumping off at the next stop, we waited for our private transport to a kicking party.

Said transport was a small van, parked around the corner, so the police wouldn't see us pile into the back. Why is the inside of the van covered in heavy plastic (which would be perfect no mess solution for killing someone in)? Oh, that's just so no-one can see inside. It also means no-one can see out. I could see the news story now. Naïve Australian found in bathtub missing kidneys, after he piled into the back of a van with strangers. Said kidneys were sold on eBay to a Russian collector.

15 minutes later we clambered out to see where we had been taken. I dearly hoped it wasn't the lair of kidney thieves, or a youth hostel managed by Eli Roth. To my relief, it was neither (or both – I wasn't sure). We had reached what my pals affectionally called a 'squat'.

The Ghost who walks

Now, when I think of squatters, I think of smelly junkies who break into a house, leave used condoms on the floor, fill a room with rubbish and throw rocks at Current Affairs reporters. To think this was the company of people I'd be trashing on with didn't really thrill me.

Thankfully, squatters in Europe are basically just Metal Reggae Punks Who Listen To Electronica (what a stereotype that is). A fire out the back was surrounded people and a haze of ganja. Inside, a DJ pumped frighteningly fast techno out into the crowd of zombies. Said zombies don't really dance, they merely jolt on the spot as if they are being electrocuted. We weaved our way through, before they pointed to a scary dark stairwell, 'Lets go down there.' they suggested.

With a deep breath I followed them, to be greeted with another scene of electric zombies and the brain-washing fit-inducing strobe. Down a corridor, there was a chill-out room - which really was squatsville. Graffiti covered every inch of the walls, there was a shopping trolley in the corner filled with aluminium cans, and people sat around on ripped pieces of foam. The people were the same friendly MRPWLTE's that I'd met outside. I struck up a conversation with a few and they seemed impressed that I hardly knew anyone, could speak no Dutch, but had find my way to this rocking hovel. I merely nodded with the satisfaction that if there is a party to be found, this hound would sniff it out.

I spoke to the van driver who turned out to be one of the organisers of the party. After kindly giving me some great K, we space-walked around as he told me the mantra of 'Free Techno'. An underground movement, it existed merely to bring people together, for the music, and for fun. You kind of thing could not exit in a club. The moment money was involved, the vibe and essence of 'Free Techno' was forfeit. In this greedy, blood sucking corporate world, such free-thinking was so refreshing. So Support Free Techno bitches!

Long after the sun had risen, I made the trek home. People were still partying, and I had a feeling they would be for another day straight. With a smile I walked into the distance. Three hours, a sheep, a 2D man and a ladybug later, I fell asleep. To any onlooker, I would have been the definition of an electrified zombie.

I wonder why.