‘Everyone begins wanting to shag Joely,’ Kenny had explained, sympathetically, ‘but you get over it. You realize the best thing you can do for her is dedicate yourself to the struggle. And then the second thing you realize, is that Crispin’s just this incredible dude-’

‘Yeah, yeah, get on with it.’

Kenny got on with it.

It seemed Joely and Crispin met and fell in love at the University of Leeds the winter of 1982, two young student radicals, with Che Guevara on their walls, idealism in their hearts and a mutual passion for all the creatures that fly, trot, crawl and slime across the earth. At the time, they were both active members of a great variety of far-left groups, but political in-fighting, back-stabbing and endless factionalizing soon disillusioned them as far as the fate of homo erectus was concerned. At some point they grew tired of speaking up for this species of ours who will so often organize a coup, bitch behind your back, choose another representative and throw it all back in your face. Instead they turned their attention to our mute animal friends. Joely and Crispin upgraded their vegetarianism to veganism, dropped out of college, got married and formed Fighting Animal Torture and Exploitation in 1985. Crispin’s magnetic personality and Joely’s natural charm attracted other political drifters, and soon they had become a commune of twenty-five (plus ten cats, fourteen dogs, a garden full of wild rabbits, a sheep, two pigs and a family of foxes) living and working from a Brixton bedsit which backed on to a large expanse of unused allotment. They were pioneers in many senses. Recycling before it became the fashion, making a tropical biosphere of their sweaty bathroom, and dedicating themselves to organic food production. Politically they were equally circumspect. From the very beginning their extremist credentials were impeccable, FATE being to the RSPCA what Stalinism is to the Liberal Democrats. For three years FATE conducted a terror campaign against animal testers, torturers and exploiters, sending death threats to personnel at make-up firms, breaking into labs, kidnapping technicians and chaining themselves to hospital gates. They also ruined fox-hunts, filmed battery chickens, burnt down farms, fire-bombed food outlets and smashed up circus tents. Their brief being so broad and so fanatical (any animal in any level of discomfort), they were kept seriously busy, and life for FATE members was difficult, dangerous and punctuated by frequent imprisonment. Through all of this, Joely’s and Crispin’s relationship grew stronger and served as an example to them all, a beacon in the storm, the ideal example of love between activists (‘Yada yada yada. Get on with it’). Then in 1987 Crispin went to jail for three years for his part in fire-bombing a Welsh laboratory and releasing 40 cats, 350 rabbits and 1,000 rats from their captivity. Before being taken down to Wormwood Scrubs, Crispin generously informed Joely that she had his permission to go to other FATE members if she was in need of sexual satisfaction while he was gone (‘And did she?’ asked Joshua. ‘Did she fuck,’ replied Kenny sadly).

During Crispin’s captivity, Joely devoted herself to transforming FATE from a small gang of highly strung friends to a viable underground political force. She began to put less emphasis on terror tactics and, after reading Guy Debord, grew interested in situationism as a political tactic, which she understood to mean the increased use of large banners, costumes, videos and gruesome re-enactments. By the time Crispin emerged from jail, FATE had grown four-fold, and Crispin’s legend (lover, fighter, rebel, hero) had grown with it, fuelled by Joely’s passionate interpretation of his life and works and a carefully chosen photo of him circa 1980 in which he looked a bit like Nick Drake. But though his image had been airbrushed, Crispin appeared to have lost none of his radicalism. His first act as a free citizen was to mastermind the release of several hundred voles, an event that received widespread newspaper coverage, though Crispin delegated responsibility for the actual act to Kenny, who was sent down for four months of high security (‘Greatest moment of my life’). And then last summer, ’91, Joely persuaded Crispin to go to California with her to join the other groups fighting the patent on transgenic animals. Though courtrooms weren’t Crispin’s scene (‘Crispin’s a front-line dude’), he succeeded in sufficiently disrupting proceedings to officially warrant a mistrial. The couple flew back to England, elated but with funds perilously low, to find they had been turfed out of their Brixton pad and-

Well, Joshua could take the narrative from here. He met them a week later, wandering up and down the Willesden High Road, looking for a suitable squat. They looked lost, and Joshua, emboldened by the summer vibe and Joely’s beauty, went up to talk to them. They ended up going for a pint. They drank, as everybody in Willesden drank, in the aforementioned Spotted Dog, a famous Willesden landmark, described in 1792 as ‘being a well accostomed Publick house’ (Willesden Past, by Len Snow), which became a favourite resort for mid-Victorian Londoners wishing a day out ‘in the country’, then the meeting point for the horse-buses; later still, a watering hole for local Irish builders. By 1992 it had transformed again, this time into the focal point of the huge Australian immigrant population of Willesden, who, for the last five years, had been leaving their silky beaches and emerald seas and inexplicably arriving in NW2. The afternoon Joshua walked in with Joely and Crispin, this community was in a state of high excitement. After a complaint of a terrible smell above Sister Mary’s Palm Readers on the high road, the upper flat had been raided by Health Officers and found to be sheltering sixteen squatting Aussies who had dug a huge hole in the floor and roasted a pig in there, apparently trying to re-create the effect of a South Seas underground kiln. Thrown out on the street, they were presently bemoaning their fate to the publican, a huge bearded Scotsman who had little sympathy for his Antipodean clientele (‘Is there some fuckin’ sign in fuckin’ Sydney that says come to fuckin’ Willesden?’). Overhearing the story, Joshua surmised the flat must now be empty and took Joely and Crispin to look at it, his mind already ticking over… if I can get her to live near by…

It was a beautiful, crumbling Victorian building, with a small balcony, a roof garden and a large hole in the floor. He advised them to lie low for a month and then move in. They did, and Joshua saw more and more of them. A month later he experienced a ‘conversion’ after hours of talk with Joely (hours of examining her breasts underneath those threadbare t-shirts), which felt, at the time, as if somebody had taken his little closed Chalfenist head, stuck two cartoon sticks of dynamite through each ear, and just blown a big mutherfucking hole in his consciousness. It became clear to him in a blinding flash that he loved Joely, that his parents were assholes, that he himself was an asshole, and that the largest community of earth, the animal kingdom, were oppressed, imprisoned and murdered on a daily basis with the full knowledge and support of every government in the world. How much of the last realization was predicated and reliant upon the first was difficult to say, but he had given up Chalfenism and had no interest in taking things apart to see how they fitted together. Instead he gave up all meat, ran off to Glastonbury, got a tattoo, became the kind of guy who could measure an eighth with his eyes closed (so fuck you, Millat) and generally had a ball… until finally his conscience pricked him. He revealed himself to be the son of Marcus Chalfen. This horrified Joely (and, Joshua liked to think, slightly aroused her – sleeping with the enemy and all that). Joshua was sent away, while FATE had a two-day summit meeting along the lines of: But he’s the very thing we’re… Ah, but we could use.. .