Gangs of teenagers trembling and smoking and spitting in a world that just isn't fair and it won't let them tattoo their faces. The psychic gunk of control freaks and paranoids . Tit-for-tat mind gamers. Garrulous harpies. Shriveled bohemian fops feast on your soul. The starched grimaces of urine-retentive right-wingers. Job placement pending masonic handshake. The inside job. The pulling of strings. The business roundtable. The old boys.

Noise control. All sound equipment seized. All parties shut down. All venues shut down. All joy snuffed out. Working class teenagers brawl in the Octagon - kicking, pulling, shrieking, grunting, scratching, biting, pulling, stretching, slamming, wrestling. Pink-faced employers fiddle with pus encrusted nipples. Dunedin masonic money-families sup cheap champagne and giggle at the homo-erotic display in the Octagon.

Oh the Octagon, gathering place for the in-betweeners --too old for kids stuff - too young to quit school, too young to get a job, too young to claim welfare. The frustration. There they stand, fringes flapping in the sou-westerly wind, ink blotted bags loose on their shoulders, standing in circles, waiting for the guy with the pouch.