Since my squatting experience back in the 1980s, the practice has gone somewhat out of fashion. Squatting laws in the UK have become much stricter, and eviction by police and landlords is easier. Spanish squatters have it relatively good at the moment, with criminal gangs targeting second homes in Spain, claiming to be homeless and using their young children to make eviction far more difficult.
I recall my time squatting in a large, ramshackle terraced house in Surrey Docks, south London, when I first moved to London from Yorkshire. I was in my early twenties, claiming benefits, doing political activism, with no bank account or savings and I urgently needed somewhere to live.
The squat had been advertised in the window of the radical bookstore in Brixton. ‘Lesbian? Feminist? No boy children? Need a place to live? Low income? Vegetarian/vegan? A room in a large, comfortable squat with other like-minded women is available. Pets welcome.’
I went for an interview, and reassured them that I was vegetarian and that I didn’t have noisy, drunken parties. I also agreed to the rules of no male visitors. I explained that the male members of my family lived in the North-East and that I had no male friends to speak of. In reality, I would have been deeply ashamed for my brothers or father to come anywhere near the place. We used paraffin lamps, there were mice and for electricity we had to plug into the nearest lamppost. My bedroom was freezing, the window didn’t lock and I soon started looking for somewhere else.
I had also lied about not liking raucous evenings of drink and debauchery: my girlfriend would come round after work with cans of Heineken and a couple of bags of chips.
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