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I was at university during the first gulf war, and naturally the more politically-minded members of the students union organised a protest against it when it happened. Literally dozens of the sort of self-righteous teenage git who would be greatly improved by just going out and getting some action paraded up and down Oxford Road in Manchester waving placards, chanting slogans and generally making a public nuisance of themselves. Eventually they all sat down outside the main building and my friends and I wandered out onto the terrace with our drinks to watch. They made speeches through a megaphone and then pulled out a Union Jack which they set alight.
I turned to my friends. “Let’s go and get a fire extinguisher” , I said.
As so it was I first got involved in the heady world of political protest.
It’s actually been a while since I got involved in any sort of protest; the last one I went to was the Freedom of speech demo in Trafalgar Square back in 2006, where about forty people showed up to listen to Peter Tatchell using his right of freedom of speech to tell us how ace he is; it wasn’t really what I’d been hoping for so I left after about half an hour. After that I began to retreat from political engagement, so I hadn’t really been planning to attend the Rally against Debt over the weekend. Whilst I agreed with the sentiment, I didn’t think I could be fagged to go – right up until I heard the organisers had actually received death threats at which point I changed my mind. Disagreeing with people is one thing but offering to harm them for disagreeing with you is quite another, so on Saturday I sproinked out of bed like a spring lamb and headed down to Westminster to join the protest.
As a trip, it reminded me why I don’t go to central London all that much. The streets around the Palace of Westminster were thronged with either tourists who seem to think that stopping suddenly directly in front of you is funny, or gangs of protesters from a wide variety of causes who seemed to think that waving placards and handing out badly photocopied fliers might actually change things. I wasn’t certain which I felt more sorry for. As I sauntered past the anti-war protesters on Parliament Square I was accosted by a man who was very keen that I should know the Queen is the head of the Freemasons and regularly has people murdered. I checked and he wasn’t Mohammed Al-fayed and so I nodded and smiled, but really with conspiracy theories like that what can you do? If this fellow was wrong then there’s no point worrying, and if he was right then there’s precisely nothing I can do about it. In fact, trying to do something about it would probably only attract the attention of Her Majesty’s death squads so best not to get too worked up, even though being bumped off by a bunch of ninjas in Union-Jack themed jimjams strikes me as a heck of a way to go.
The protest itself, when I got there, was quite small. The BBC says 350 went, the police say 500, and the organisers say 1500, so using the AV methodology I’d estimate that just shy of two million people were rallying in sympathy to the cause. As I arrived it struck me how bizarre it is that since I started rabbiting on about debt in 2005, public borrowing has increased almost twentyfold and is still growing daily; if you begin to feel an intense and crushing feeling of economic terror at the concept, don't be alarmed. That indicates only that you are still sane.
Still, I thought, as I looked at the meagre turnout – at least more people are here than were at the freedom of speech demo, but it’s debatable to say the least whether it’s a good thing that fewer people are in favour of freedom of speech than this. I wandered round, listening to the sort of people you get a fringe demos: vocal and usually good natured but intense fruitcakes with an axe to grind. For example, I briefly found myself chatting to the lady standing next to me who was campaigning for a complete change to the monetary system which would outlaw the issuing of promissory notes. It’s odd that just when you think you couldn’t find anyone worse at running an economy that Gordon Brown you find yourself standing next to one at a rally where in theory you’re on the same page, but there you are. It takes all sorts I suppose.
Anyway, after a while of this, listening to the murmur of the crowd and waiting for something to happen or one of the organisers to pop up and make some sort of announcement regarding what was going to happen, I got bored and buggered off to get some lunch and then spent the rest of Saturday afternoon in the office. I figured I’d gone along and registered my support, but if that’s the level of organisation amongst the supporters of fiscal rectitude in this country then I’m better off sat behind a desk working to better myself. If you want my opinion, you probably are too. Just saying.
As a last thought, I was tempted to write this entry in a pastiche of that Penny Red hyperbole-littered immediate reportage style. You know, something like:
I’m caught by the wave of anger as it sweeps through the crowd; I’ve never known anything like this visceral power of people almost brought to their knees by selfishness. Anger at the thought of children coming into the world already burdened by thousands – tens of thousands – in debt. Anger that the next generation will be born into indentured servitude just so we can pay for the lifestyle demands of a vocal minority now. Where was their vote? When was their chance to reject the burden we’re placing on them? Who is trying to speak for them save us few surrounded by police on the street outside what should be a Parliament which works for rather than against the people?
Something raw sweeps through the people. A primal anger which comes from nowhere and transforms itself into a shout that ripples from one side of the throng to the other. “Whose streets!?” It’s not a question; it’s a demand, a statement, an affirmation. “Whose streets!? UK Treasury Bondholders’ streets!”
There it is, the truth laid bare, ripped from the throats of people who care but are ignored by the thundering juggernaut of malaise and apathy which passes for our society and bulldozes anyone who dreams of a better world. The streets aren’t ours, they belong to the people who own our debt - and they always will until it’s paid. The crowd mills and swirls, and it’s beyond my control as I’m swept past a shouting, red-faced man. “Fascist bastard!” he screams at me, and then is gone. I have a fleeting moment of imagination that his vanishing is in some way symbolic but...(cont’d P.94)
After thrashing a lot more than that out in my head, I changed my mind. You see, writing that sort of thing is easy and quite good fun, but it changes nothing.
So instead, I’ll leave you with a cheery thought: UK treasury debt: You tolerated this, and your children will be next. Have fun explaining that one to them.
I turned to my friends. “Let’s go and get a fire extinguisher” , I said.
As so it was I first got involved in the heady world of political protest.
It’s actually been a while since I got involved in any sort of protest; the last one I went to was the Freedom of speech demo in Trafalgar Square back in 2006, where about forty people showed up to listen to Peter Tatchell using his right of freedom of speech to tell us how ace he is; it wasn’t really what I’d been hoping for so I left after about half an hour. After that I began to retreat from political engagement, so I hadn’t really been planning to attend the Rally against Debt over the weekend. Whilst I agreed with the sentiment, I didn’t think I could be fagged to go – right up until I heard the organisers had actually received death threats at which point I changed my mind. Disagreeing with people is one thing but offering to harm them for disagreeing with you is quite another, so on Saturday I sproinked out of bed like a spring lamb and headed down to Westminster to join the protest.
As a trip, it reminded me why I don’t go to central London all that much. The streets around the Palace of Westminster were thronged with either tourists who seem to think that stopping suddenly directly in front of you is funny, or gangs of protesters from a wide variety of causes who seemed to think that waving placards and handing out badly photocopied fliers might actually change things. I wasn’t certain which I felt more sorry for. As I sauntered past the anti-war protesters on Parliament Square I was accosted by a man who was very keen that I should know the Queen is the head of the Freemasons and regularly has people murdered. I checked and he wasn’t Mohammed Al-fayed and so I nodded and smiled, but really with conspiracy theories like that what can you do? If this fellow was wrong then there’s no point worrying, and if he was right then there’s precisely nothing I can do about it. In fact, trying to do something about it would probably only attract the attention of Her Majesty’s death squads so best not to get too worked up, even though being bumped off by a bunch of ninjas in Union-Jack themed jimjams strikes me as a heck of a way to go.
The protest itself, when I got there, was quite small. The BBC says 350 went, the police say 500, and the organisers say 1500, so using the AV methodology I’d estimate that just shy of two million people were rallying in sympathy to the cause. As I arrived it struck me how bizarre it is that since I started rabbiting on about debt in 2005, public borrowing has increased almost twentyfold and is still growing daily; if you begin to feel an intense and crushing feeling of economic terror at the concept, don't be alarmed. That indicates only that you are still sane.
Still, I thought, as I looked at the meagre turnout – at least more people are here than were at the freedom of speech demo, but it’s debatable to say the least whether it’s a good thing that fewer people are in favour of freedom of speech than this. I wandered round, listening to the sort of people you get a fringe demos: vocal and usually good natured but intense fruitcakes with an axe to grind. For example, I briefly found myself chatting to the lady standing next to me who was campaigning for a complete change to the monetary system which would outlaw the issuing of promissory notes. It’s odd that just when you think you couldn’t find anyone worse at running an economy that Gordon Brown you find yourself standing next to one at a rally where in theory you’re on the same page, but there you are. It takes all sorts I suppose.
Anyway, after a while of this, listening to the murmur of the crowd and waiting for something to happen or one of the organisers to pop up and make some sort of announcement regarding what was going to happen, I got bored and buggered off to get some lunch and then spent the rest of Saturday afternoon in the office. I figured I’d gone along and registered my support, but if that’s the level of organisation amongst the supporters of fiscal rectitude in this country then I’m better off sat behind a desk working to better myself. If you want my opinion, you probably are too. Just saying.
As a last thought, I was tempted to write this entry in a pastiche of that Penny Red hyperbole-littered immediate reportage style. You know, something like:
I’m caught by the wave of anger as it sweeps through the crowd; I’ve never known anything like this visceral power of people almost brought to their knees by selfishness. Anger at the thought of children coming into the world already burdened by thousands – tens of thousands – in debt. Anger that the next generation will be born into indentured servitude just so we can pay for the lifestyle demands of a vocal minority now. Where was their vote? When was their chance to reject the burden we’re placing on them? Who is trying to speak for them save us few surrounded by police on the street outside what should be a Parliament which works for rather than against the people?
Something raw sweeps through the people. A primal anger which comes from nowhere and transforms itself into a shout that ripples from one side of the throng to the other. “Whose streets!?” It’s not a question; it’s a demand, a statement, an affirmation. “Whose streets!? UK Treasury Bondholders’ streets!”
There it is, the truth laid bare, ripped from the throats of people who care but are ignored by the thundering juggernaut of malaise and apathy which passes for our society and bulldozes anyone who dreams of a better world. The streets aren’t ours, they belong to the people who own our debt - and they always will until it’s paid. The crowd mills and swirls, and it’s beyond my control as I’m swept past a shouting, red-faced man. “Fascist bastard!” he screams at me, and then is gone. I have a fleeting moment of imagination that his vanishing is in some way symbolic but...(cont’d P.94)
After thrashing a lot more than that out in my head, I changed my mind. You see, writing that sort of thing is easy and quite good fun, but it changes nothing.
So instead, I’ll leave you with a cheery thought: UK treasury debt: You tolerated this, and your children will be next. Have fun explaining that one to them.
