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Saturday, 6 February 2010

Trellick Tower's been calling, I know she'll leave me in the morning.

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'Women raped in elevators, children attacked by heroin addicts in the basement, and homeless squatters setting fire to flats were among the more lurid. So bad was the Tower's reputation that one urban myth told how the architect, wracked with guilt at creating this monstrosity, threw himself from the roof.'

With that lovely description, me and my flatmate thought it would be a brilliant idea to chuck ourselves in at the deep end and head out there. Walking through the lovely Maida Vale, past the British Broadcasting Centre's studios and many a house you'd be more than happy living in for the rest of your life, we were wondering if we were in the right place.
After finding the canal, it was in our vision. Huge and monstrous with its arm, the TV mast flying high above the 30Th floor we knew it was the one we'd read about. In the courtyard to get round into the building we found shit and socks, and all we could smell was piss. So we snuck in through the entrance, with the first thing to come to vision being a man, who can only be described as the modern spit of Happy Monday's Bez almost barging into us, with the backing track of the receptionists Reggae music.
The rubbish shoots were all blocked and the noise of the lift sounded like a cross between the stings in an orchestral soundtrack and what i would put my finger on as the noise a spaceship would make. The corridors had been painted bright yellow, to cheer up the place?
Despite all this, the building is grade two listed, as it was designed in the Brutalist style by architect Ernő Goldfinger (whom was also the architect of the Barbican.) Love it or hate it that is the question? After returning home and seeing the refurbs of the top floors, I'm still not sure if I could be swayed to desire to live there or not.

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