Babel Point was erected in the mid 1960s and unlike several other infamous blocks it was never able to completely rid itself of problem tenants, its bad reputation lingering long into the eighties until it, and a number of neighbouring high rises, were razed to the ground by a triumphant council – a glittering multiplex now stands on the spot. The 'Terror Tower' was never to enjoy the fortunes of those blocks that survived into the 21st century, blocks that, over the years, have become something of a des res among the young elite, admittedly by being the handiwork of some noted Brutalist architect of the day (Babel Point was a cheap system build), but mainly because in the glib affluence of a post modern era, moneyed homosexuals feel unquestioningly content paying exorbitant rates if it permits them to bask in a place with such a deliciously villainous past.
    Flushed with rejuvenation, Stig strode up to the block's main door in piss-filled Pampers, alleviated not only by the outdoor emptying of his bladder, but also the undeniable naughtiness inherent in such an act. He'd wet his nappy like a baby, and was surprised he didn't feel more embarrassed. Giving the car park one last glance, he wondered where those youths had got to, misanthropically conjecturing that they were probably in the act of stoning some hapless stray dog. He breathed a sigh of relief and stepped into the building.