But have the seedier elements really left the Parade for good and, if so, where did they go? One possible answer seemed to lie in rumours of a ‘F**ck Parade’, held by the city’s disaffected to coincide with the ‘sell-out’ even. The Planet dispatched 2 of Wapping’s most distinguished reporters, Tammi and Dominic, to investigate the last event. It didn’t take them long to sniff out the rumours’ source at a derelict community center in East Berlin, where the city’s subversives converge. Now, in a Planet TM exclusive, we reveal the truth of the drugs, drink and paranoia that are fuelling the rise of the Love Parade's darker and distinctly un-loving twin...

"The building was not easy to miss, the first 20 feet of it having been blown away by a bomb in the Second World War. We were informed of this fact later by the squat’s current occupants who, far being put off by the condition of the building, seemed to regard it as a 'find' which they proceeded to claim for themselves. The homeless residents of 'The Kopi' (their name for the squat) live there in poverty which forces them to leave the site in a dangerously DIY state of disrepair. Indeed, the building’s war-torn facade seems only to enhance its appeal to the 40-odd inheritors of Berlin's politically turbulent legacy we discovered within.

"Despite the squat's foreboding appearance, my colleague and I ventured past the row of caravans blocking its gate and into the front yard. Off of one gloomy corners of the yard was a room - this was the makeshift bar where beer and wine were sold. We ordered one of each, after quickly deducing that there was no Pimm's & lemonade to be had. As we took our drinks back out to the yard the barman began locking up for the evening, despite it being only 9:00 pm. When we asked why, we learned that it had been open since the previous evening, for a pre-'F**k Parade' party. Bingo!

"We attempted to question the few scruffy-looking youths dotted around the yard, but they clearly didn't speak English because they gave no reply, not even when we showed them our Planet press cards. Eventually we made a contact in the form of a lone American man, who'd come outside looking for beer. After telling him that we wanted to 'skin up' - the street slang for making a cannabis cigarette - he was quick to invite us up into the squat. We were shown to a roof terrace, which passed as their living room, where we joined two other squatters drinking beer on furniture that had seen better days. Dom took a seat next to a homemade greenhouse full of marijuana plants and I noticed him eyeing it warily - or was it hungrily? As joint after joint of the illegal weed was rolled and passed around, Dom and I coaxed the squatters into a discussion about their scene's beliefs.


"We were bombarded with music recalling the worst excesses of the punk era as they detailed a so-called 'recycling conspiracy' involving America, the Indian subcontinent and several top ranking government officials. They also revealed that they collected bottles after festivals ('like the Love Parade' they sneered) and then returned them to the shops for money. That this meant they were taking part in the ‘recycling conspiracy’ themselves did not appear to faze the squatters. As for the “fuck parade” organized by their fellow inmates at the squat, they claimed there was no point in going as there ‘weren't enough empty bottles to be had’. They also cited its 2:00 pm start as a problem for being 'too early'.

"Although his leather jacket was noticeably shiny and un-scuffed, my colleague Dominic quickly won the squatters' trust, and when they began talking at length about a local bar called the Red Rose he offered to buy them a drink there, sensing another good lead. Not only did they enthusiastically accept our offer, but a tray was then produced with lines of speed (amphetamine sulphate) neatly laid out on it. The squatters urged our reporter to partake and paused to watch as he did - some sort of bizarre initiation rite, surely. I only narrowly avoided a similar fate by feigning rhinitis.

"Now sufficiently intoxicated to brave the walk to the pub, the squatters led us down a creaky stairwell and through a door marked 'NOT AN EXIT!' in what was clearly a cynical attempt to foil trespassers. As we passed through the front courtyard Dominic and I dodged rats skulking in the shadows.
'We just throw bricks at them,' the American squatter confided.

“He strode brashly ahead of us, staking out his position at the head of the group. His voice had been rising incrementally ever since the last line of speed and the others seemed awe-struck by his words, allowing him free reign over the conversation. During the course of the walk, he varied the pitch of his voice theatrically, almost as though his various personalities were conversing amongst themselves. The others laughed casually at this performance; apparently, an all-too routine event.

“Could this be the phenomenon known as 'amphetamine psychosis' we were witnessing? Whatever it was, I became increasingly nervous about my colleague’s mental state as he started giggling along with them. However, the sign of the Red Rose was already looming up ahead. Was it here that we would find out where the drugs were coming from? Was the Red Rose the last bastion of Eastern German Communism? Whatever lay in the bar ahead of us, it was now too late to turn back.

"To say the Red Rose had character would be a gross understatement. It was a dimly lit L-shaped affair, hosted by an amiable, if somewhat simple Turkish landlord. Dominic and I had both met some eccentric characters during our long years of investigative journalism, but the Red Rose clientele really took the biscuit! Mostly looking as if they had either been pensioned off or were about to be, they seemed to be a combination of 'alternative' gay men, transvestites and other types, which, in the UK, would have been politely known as being 'in the care of the community'.

"As Dominic sized up the bar he became, to his embarrassment, the object of much attention of a somewhat unsavoury nature from these characters. Ever the professional, he attempted to engage them in something resembling normal conversation, in as much as this was possible with his pre-GCSE German and their even less qualified English. Meanwhile, the squatters and I had become cosily ensconced in one of the American diner-style booths at the back, cheerily toasting one another like the old friends I hoped they had accepted me for.

"Quite far from disliking these ruffians, I was beginning to find the one nearest to me almost attractive. I discovered the reason why when he put his arm around me and whispered, "I put an E in your drink," before nibbling my ear.The fact that the Kopi version of pillow talk left a lot to be desired did nothing to alter my good mood. In fact, my state of inebriation was such that I found myself wanting to spend the night with the urchin, whom Dom and I had nicknamed 'Plasticman' thanks to his thick-rimmed glasses and shaven head. Meanwhile, my fellow reporter was being harangued by the freeform-psychobabble-spouting American and his mates, all of whom were cadging one fag/drink after another off him. What with the mixture of drugs, alcohol and anarchy it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain our cover, but we felt little fear in our chemically-numbed state.

"It wasn’t long before all our euros were spent and any question of returning to our 5 star hotel evaporated; we didn't even have enough for the cab fare. We left the bar with our contacts and didn't ask any questions as they steered us back the same way we'd come. The hospitality extended to us by the squatters seemed entirely innocent as we once again passed beneath the building's shell-shocked façade, but this too proved to be a drug-fuelled illusion which didn't take long to crumble, once inside.

"On my way from the loo to the terrace, I found my compatriot sprawled unconscious on the sole indoor sofa, oblivious to the mice running over him. I sank down next to Plasticman on one of the terrace couches, anticipating some further 'research' into ecstasy's legendary aphrodisiac qualities - but the American had other plans for us yet!

"He must still have been high, because I felt his beady eyes on us as he threw himself down on the couch opposite ours. Without warning, his game-show host-style voice erupted from the dark, jolting me out of my beau’s embrace.
'So, tell us a little bit more about yourself!' it barked. I politely declined, feigning tiredness, but he carried on. His questions about 'who I was', 'why I was there' and 'how I'd found the place' at first sounded like misplaced chitchat, but they quickly became more interrogative. I deflected most of this unwanted attention by humouring the cretin, but he hung on tenaciously. His fevered ramblings gradually became more menacing and I began to fear he might be onto our real reasons for being here.

"As if to confirm this, he ranted, 'You’ve just been sitting here, observing us all night! You think we’re just another tourist attraction, like the Love Parade, don’t you! Well, we're not!!' I tried to laugh off this suggestion but he was having none of it.
'Stop evading the issue!' he shrieked.
Then, leaning unsteadily over one of the couch's wobbly arms, he snarled, 'what is it going to take for me to get the truth out of you?'
'You don’t have to be like that!' I burst out, alarmed. 'I’ve got nothing to hide!'
'Well, if you didn’t come to Berlin for the Love Parade then why did you come here, hm?' You think you’ve fooled us, but you haven’t! You're just a couple of…. tourists!'
Realizing with relief that he was on entirely the wrong track, I decided to play along with this.
'Er, yes, we're tourists - we just came here for the Love Parade like, er, everyone else. Um, is there something wrong with that?"

"Instead of cooling off, the American’s enraged features contorted further still. For a moment I didn’t understand why, but slowly it dawned on me. Not only had Dominic and I partaken in a massive, consumerist, mindless event like Love Parade, but I was shamelessly admitting to having done so. The homicidal look spreading across his face clearly expressed the extent of his feelings about the capitalist system, which we, and Love Parade, represented.

"The American began gesturing wildly, foaming at the mouth. This seemingly trendy young rebel had reverted to a loony of epic proportions before my very eyes. I had inadvertently come face-to-face with one of the genuine, drug-crazed revolutionaries we’d been searching for - a victim of his own paranoid politics – but I couldn’t even get my camera because Dominic was using it as a pillow. And it would have made such a great close up...

'You, you’re the enemy!' the American was muttering feverishly, his eyes fixed on me as he felt blindly about himself for something to ward me off with. I looked to Plasticman imploringly as he withdrew his arm but he feigned sleep. Then I noticed the American was taking aim with a brick and, seeing as sex was definitely off the menu, it seemed a good time to leave.

"Just then, my colleague awoke with a start to a roof full of tension he could have cut with a knife.
'I say, I could murder a cup of tea!' he yawned in a particularly plummy accent. This was the final straw for the American.
'GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!' he exploded.
'Temper, temper,' Dominic chided, dodging the brick. Flicking V-signs, we both dashed to the stairs as our hidden camera crew jumped up from behind the marijuana plants to follow suit.

Running along the remains of the Berlin Wall with our pens and recording equipment clattering in our pockets, I wondered if we shouldn’t somehow feel a little ashamed of ourselves for being such sneaky, sensationalist hacks?
We at the Planet TM prefer to let you, the reader, be the judge of that.

By Alexia and Dave