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Seeing the photograph made me smile and reminded me that I wanted to say thanks to everyone who reads the site but especially to those who have been with us for a long time and have shown great patience with us while we honed our skills on the job. I'm not here to throw shade at our own early years: our learning curve was incredibly steep and within months of us cooking that meal we were throwing out world standard articles (every now and then) way before we had an office, or equipment or even a pay packet. I can't remember exactly why we held the meal but I'm guessing we were trying to enthuse people about the Quietus project, which was little more than an inexpertly assembled digital fanzine put together by people whose enthusiasm and need for the project outstripped their ability. Despite being sober, my reputation was still so low that three separate people assumed that the Maldon smoked sea salt I'd left on the table was actually a communal bowl of MDMA crystals. I actually remember it being a bit of a nightmare pouring away very tempting looking half drunk bottles of wine and cans of lager later after everyone had stumbled out into the night. I'd only just given up drinking a few months earlier and it was my first social event since taking the pledge. The food was prepared for about 50 people all in all – probably about a quarter of the people worldwide who had actually heard of our website! The people packed into my kitchen were our small team of London-based writers – most of them, like Luke and I, unpaid – some people we knew from our local pub the Mucky Pup, the future lead singer of Turbo Negro and all of Teeth Of The Sea. (A vat of chipotle and dark chocolate chilli, kedgeree-style baked rice, fresh guacamole, salsa, patatas bravas and ceviche if you must know.) Luke and I had pooled our meagre resources to cook for everyone we knew who was in the periphery of fledgling independent website the Quietus. I'm in front of a table overladen with food. I'm in full-on long hair, berserker beard and Slayer T-shirt mode brandishing a ladle in one hand, and throwing the then ubiquitous doom claw with the other. I'm sitting at the head of a table in the kitchen of a North London house share. Recently the remorselessly nostalgic Memory feature on Facebook presented me with a photograph from November 2008.