Bonnie 'Prince' Billy, St George's Church Brighton, Tuesday 21st April 2009
I've seen Bonnie 'Prince' Billy before. I've been to St George's Church before. Both let me down.
Twice burnt. Twice shy.
I refrained from over-anticipating the coming together of these two forces. I was right to.
What can be better than the pure joy that sneaks in, when, with an apprehensive invite, you expect a no show? From tense caress to unbridled yielding. Oh boy.
If you are a regular reader, you will know that Will Oldham is a god amongst gods at Flat 1a. He's been worshipped home and away for the lifetime of an adolescent. On Tuesday, celebrated in the flesh - gargoyle expressions, wispy hair, paunch an' all - he stole my heart.
I arrived early. Many had arrived earlier. Outside the church, a queue of people waited for the doors to open. Grown men with beards and grown women with lines stood quietly chatting. This is a rare, rare sight in England. Queuing for bands is for the youf, with extreme haircuts and excitable temperaments. Evidently, I was not alone in the knowledge that St George's Church offers an appalling view for sixty percent of its capacity.
Seated on a typically uncomfortable church chair, and raised high by a prayer cushion, I could see Bonnie 'Prince' Billy's full figure. Score!
Legs danced without grace, adding expression to meaning, unfettered, dungaree-ed and farm-like.
Face muscles formed sounds, rapturously possessed, with eccentric brilliance and joyous passion.
Away from the microphone, a dancing figure filled the wall, a giant made possible by spotlight. Billy's silhouette darkened Jesus, but Jesus - as he bled from his cartoon feet and dangled high from his cross - didn't mind. They’d already compared bellies and quizzically frowned over who imitates who.
"I think it's okay to supplant the purpose of this structure with what we’re doing tonight," Will Oldham asserted, "I think it’s relevant." As church services go, it has to be up there.
With double bass (Josh Abrams), fiddle (Cheyenne Mize), second guitar (Emmett Kelly) and drums (Jim White), the performance took a country folk rock format.
The speed wagon rendition of 'A Minor Place' was troublesome (without hate). For the most part, I found myself forgiving and utterly enjoying the re-incarnation of the live format. The sparring between Emmett and Billy, both facial and musical, was charmingly touching.
I felt glee that the testosterone flavoured backing band of 2007 had not returned.
Highlights for me were:
No Bad News
Ain't you wealthy, ain't you wise?
64
I also enjoyed the folk that took to sitting on prayer mats, in front of the pre-planned seating. Hats off to them for rejecting the seats with no line of sight and finding a better way.
Still, just Billy and a guitar would be fabulous to behold. Next time Billy. Pretty please.
Fabpants Recommends:
Download MP3:Bonnie 'Prince' Billy - Ain't You Wealthy, Ain't You Wise (sorry, this link has died)
Download MP3: Bonnie 'Prince' Billy – No Bad News (courtesy of media.libsyn.com)
I also saw Casiotone for the Painfully Alone at The Freebutt last night. There's a new album and it's called 'Vs. Children'. The new tracks sounded rather good live. The bass guitar's death was rather unfortunate, but an enjoyable night all the same.
Download MP3: Casiotone for the Painfully Alone - White Jetta (courtesy of rocksdemilo.files.wordpress.com)
Download MP3: Casiotone for the Painfully Alone - Northfield, MN (courtesy of thetorturegarden.org)
Sunday 26 April 2009
Thursday 23 April 2009
Look a Book: A Master of American Black Absurdism
Trout Fishing in America
by Richard Brautigan
You can go 37 years of life, bereft of that certain nugget of knowledge. Then, one day, you discover it and realise that it’s been there all along. Here, there and everywhere.
Richard Brautigan is that certain nugget of knowledge.
I'm not the kind of person that laughs out loud when reading. Nor do I naturally guffaw at films or comedy shows. It takes a lot for 'entertainment' to tickle my funny bone. I've thoroughly enjoyed many books without having the foggiest that their intention was humour. Reading the 'back cover' afterwards can present a surprise or two.
'Trout Fishing in America' made me laugh, several times, audibly.
Brautigan's descriptive passages shine with such outstanding brilliance, that at times I paused in absolute awe.
I should add a spoiler alert here, but this is the kind of book that you can dip into at any point, and not ruin supper.
Here’s a wee taster for you:
TROUT FISHING ON THE BEVEL
The two graveyards were next to each other on small hills and between them flowed Graveyard Creek, a slow-moving, funeral-procession-on-a-hot-day creek with a lot of fine trout in it.
And the dead didn't mind me fishing there at all.
One graveyard had tall fir trees growing in it, and the grass was kept Peter Pan green all year round by pumping water up from the creek, and the graveyard had fine marble headstones and statues and tombs.
The other graveyard was for the poor and it had no trees and the grass turned a flat-tire brown in the summer and stayed that way until the rain, like a mechanic, began in the late autumn.
There were no fancy headstones for the poor dead. Their markers were small boards that looked like heels of stale bread:
Devoted Slob Father Of
Beloved Worked-to-Death Mother Of
On some of the graves were fruit jars and tin cans with wilted flowers in them:
Sacred
To the Memory
of John Talbot
Who at the Age of Eighteen
Had His Ass Shot Off In a Honky-Tonk
November 1, 1936
This Mayonnaise Jar
With Wilted Flowers In It
Was Left Here Six Months Ago By His Sister
Who Is In
The Crazy Place Now.
Eventually the seasons would take care of their wooden names like a sleepy short-order cook cracking eggs over a grill next to a railroad station. Whereas the well-to-do would have their names for a long time written on marble hers d'oeuvres like horses trotting up the fancy paths to the sky.
I fished Graveyard Creek in the dusk when the hatch was on and worked some good trout out of there. Only the poverty of the dead bothered me.
Once, while cleaning the trout before I went home in the almost night, I had a vision of going over to the poor graveyard and gathering up grass and fruit jars and tin cans and markers and wilted flowers and bugs and weeds and clods and going home and putting a hook in the vice and tying a fly with all that stuff and then going outside and casting it up into the sky, watching it float over clouds and then into the evening star.
Other favourite chapters are: On Paradise and The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari, Terrorists and the letters to and from Trout Fishing in America. They are all available to read online.
Only today, did I discover that in 1984, at the age of 49, Richard Brautigan shot himself in the head. His body was found six weeks later. I am not knowingly attracted to artists that commit suicide or are destined to do so, but there seems to be a running theme.
Fabpants Recommends: When I said Brautigan is everywhere, I meant it. He has already been in this blog, courtesy of this song:
Download MP3: The Lovely Eggs - Have You Ever Heard a Digital Accordion? (sorry, this link has died)
As we’re talking about authors that appear in songs, you may recall that I reviewed Ham on Rye last October. This chap had Bukowski on his mind. I love this song and have had it on my mini 'gym' MP3 player (1GB only!) for 5 years now. It doesn’t grow old.
Download MP3: The Good Life - Album of the Year (courtesy of sillypipedreams.net)
As we’re drifted from Brautigan to Bukowski, I guess I should mention that Emmy the Great references Bukowski in her new album too:
Download MP3: Emmy the Great - 24 (courtesy of awmusic.ca)
by Richard Brautigan
You can go 37 years of life, bereft of that certain nugget of knowledge. Then, one day, you discover it and realise that it’s been there all along. Here, there and everywhere.
Richard Brautigan is that certain nugget of knowledge.
I'm not the kind of person that laughs out loud when reading. Nor do I naturally guffaw at films or comedy shows. It takes a lot for 'entertainment' to tickle my funny bone. I've thoroughly enjoyed many books without having the foggiest that their intention was humour. Reading the 'back cover' afterwards can present a surprise or two.
'Trout Fishing in America' made me laugh, several times, audibly.
Brautigan's descriptive passages shine with such outstanding brilliance, that at times I paused in absolute awe.
I should add a spoiler alert here, but this is the kind of book that you can dip into at any point, and not ruin supper.
Here’s a wee taster for you:
TROUT FISHING ON THE BEVEL
The two graveyards were next to each other on small hills and between them flowed Graveyard Creek, a slow-moving, funeral-procession-on-a-hot-day creek with a lot of fine trout in it.
And the dead didn't mind me fishing there at all.
One graveyard had tall fir trees growing in it, and the grass was kept Peter Pan green all year round by pumping water up from the creek, and the graveyard had fine marble headstones and statues and tombs.
The other graveyard was for the poor and it had no trees and the grass turned a flat-tire brown in the summer and stayed that way until the rain, like a mechanic, began in the late autumn.
There were no fancy headstones for the poor dead. Their markers were small boards that looked like heels of stale bread:
Devoted Slob Father Of
Beloved Worked-to-Death Mother Of
On some of the graves were fruit jars and tin cans with wilted flowers in them:
Sacred
To the Memory
of John Talbot
Who at the Age of Eighteen
Had His Ass Shot Off In a Honky-Tonk
November 1, 1936
This Mayonnaise Jar
With Wilted Flowers In It
Was Left Here Six Months Ago By His Sister
Who Is In
The Crazy Place Now.
Eventually the seasons would take care of their wooden names like a sleepy short-order cook cracking eggs over a grill next to a railroad station. Whereas the well-to-do would have their names for a long time written on marble hers d'oeuvres like horses trotting up the fancy paths to the sky.
I fished Graveyard Creek in the dusk when the hatch was on and worked some good trout out of there. Only the poverty of the dead bothered me.
Once, while cleaning the trout before I went home in the almost night, I had a vision of going over to the poor graveyard and gathering up grass and fruit jars and tin cans and markers and wilted flowers and bugs and weeds and clods and going home and putting a hook in the vice and tying a fly with all that stuff and then going outside and casting it up into the sky, watching it float over clouds and then into the evening star.
Other favourite chapters are: On Paradise and The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari, Terrorists and the letters to and from Trout Fishing in America. They are all available to read online.
Only today, did I discover that in 1984, at the age of 49, Richard Brautigan shot himself in the head. His body was found six weeks later. I am not knowingly attracted to artists that commit suicide or are destined to do so, but there seems to be a running theme.
Fabpants Recommends: When I said Brautigan is everywhere, I meant it. He has already been in this blog, courtesy of this song:
Download MP3: The Lovely Eggs - Have You Ever Heard a Digital Accordion? (sorry, this link has died)
As we’re talking about authors that appear in songs, you may recall that I reviewed Ham on Rye last October. This chap had Bukowski on his mind. I love this song and have had it on my mini 'gym' MP3 player (1GB only!) for 5 years now. It doesn’t grow old.
Download MP3: The Good Life - Album of the Year (courtesy of sillypipedreams.net)
As we’re drifted from Brautigan to Bukowski, I guess I should mention that Emmy the Great references Bukowski in her new album too:
Download MP3: Emmy the Great - 24 (courtesy of awmusic.ca)
Thursday 16 April 2009
Look a Book: Winner of Orange Prize for Fiction
We Need to Talk About Kevin
by Lionel Shriver
We Need to Talk About Kevin. Let’s not.
I hated this book. Not only was the storyline hideously contrived, every line in every paragraph was too. This is a damning critique. I have never hated a book so much.
I hate film trailers, and I hate book covers. I have no desire to see into the future. I like a story to be like life. I don’t want to know where it’s going and I hate to second guess.
It horrifies me that I was 99% sure of this story’s twist, only three pages in. I deliberately don’t think about 'twists', or what they might be. Yet, this one was brutally shoved down my throat, like a screaming rat. I’m no detective. I get nothing out of being 'right' and far less out of being 'wrong'. The reward is in the mystery.
Yes, some books are both predictable and enjoyable, but this was not. Lionel Shriver forcibly pushed me - as a reader - towards a horribly pathetic anti-climax, with banal observations and a grating attempt to fake depth and insight. Had the twist not played out as predicted, for once I might have enjoyed being wrong.
To add insult to injury, having completed 468 pages of the most annoying read ever, I was greeted by this:
'Group questions that have arisen from the publication of We Need to Talk About Kevin in the USA'
There were two whole pages of them.
If I ever stumble across a group answering those questions, I may have to shoot every participating member in the head.
Sorry, I really had to get that out. The book has made feel dirty. I need to cleanse my brain.
So says she; she that has never written a book and is hardly qualified to comment.
Fabpants Recommends:
Dan Michaelson and The Coastguards – Saltwater. This album is not as good as the best of Absentee, but it’s a charming listen all the same.
Download MP3:Dan Michaelson and The Coastguards – Ease on In (sorry, this link has died)
Jeffrey Lewis and the Junkyard - Em Are I. This is the best release from Jeffrey in a long, long time, but he’s let the outsiders in. It’s not ‘The Last Time I Did Acid I Went Insane’ and it would be far better if it were just Jeffrey and acoustic guitar.
Download MP3: Jeffrey Lewis and the Junkyard - Roll Bus Roll (courtesy of sonnyvenice.phpnet.org)
On a Jeffrey Lewis theme, I rather liked this video, perhaps more than the album:
Jeffrey Lewis with Laura Marling covering Eminem's Brain Damage
by Lionel Shriver
We Need to Talk About Kevin. Let’s not.
I hated this book. Not only was the storyline hideously contrived, every line in every paragraph was too. This is a damning critique. I have never hated a book so much.
I hate film trailers, and I hate book covers. I have no desire to see into the future. I like a story to be like life. I don’t want to know where it’s going and I hate to second guess.
It horrifies me that I was 99% sure of this story’s twist, only three pages in. I deliberately don’t think about 'twists', or what they might be. Yet, this one was brutally shoved down my throat, like a screaming rat. I’m no detective. I get nothing out of being 'right' and far less out of being 'wrong'. The reward is in the mystery.
Yes, some books are both predictable and enjoyable, but this was not. Lionel Shriver forcibly pushed me - as a reader - towards a horribly pathetic anti-climax, with banal observations and a grating attempt to fake depth and insight. Had the twist not played out as predicted, for once I might have enjoyed being wrong.
To add insult to injury, having completed 468 pages of the most annoying read ever, I was greeted by this:
'Group questions that have arisen from the publication of We Need to Talk About Kevin in the USA'
There were two whole pages of them.
If I ever stumble across a group answering those questions, I may have to shoot every participating member in the head.
Sorry, I really had to get that out. The book has made feel dirty. I need to cleanse my brain.
So says she; she that has never written a book and is hardly qualified to comment.
Fabpants Recommends:
Dan Michaelson and The Coastguards – Saltwater. This album is not as good as the best of Absentee, but it’s a charming listen all the same.
Download MP3:Dan Michaelson and The Coastguards – Ease on In (sorry, this link has died)
Jeffrey Lewis and the Junkyard - Em Are I. This is the best release from Jeffrey in a long, long time, but he’s let the outsiders in. It’s not ‘The Last Time I Did Acid I Went Insane’ and it would be far better if it were just Jeffrey and acoustic guitar.
Download MP3: Jeffrey Lewis and the Junkyard - Roll Bus Roll (courtesy of sonnyvenice.phpnet.org)
On a Jeffrey Lewis theme, I rather liked this video, perhaps more than the album:
Jeffrey Lewis with Laura Marling covering Eminem's Brain Damage
Saturday 11 April 2009
Fabpants Aint No Fool Day and the G20 Protests
The G20 Protests, April 1st 2009
What follows is an account of my day of protesting and trying not to get into hot water. Being trapped in a steaming kettle doesn’t sound like fun to me.
I have a bit of a no photographs policy on this blog, to encourage me to write. For writing helps me to remember. For this entry, I'm going to make an exception. Enjoy the colour, but don’t get blinded by it.
Blogger has automatically reduced the quality of my photographs, which is a little annoying. Apologies for the blur.
9.22am - Hove
On the train to the old smoke, the heart of commerce, and my old home - London - there was no sign of other protestors. A man sat diagonal to me raised suspicion. For the last few stations, he riffled cards. He dropped several on the floor. Anarchy!
11.00am - Liverpool Street
Liverpool Street terminus was surprisingly empty. I took a 30pence wee, glanced at two coppers in the main hall, and then headed out to Bishopsgate. I know that everyone expects protestors to wee wherever they like. I like to wee in a loo. Surprising, eh?
On Bishopsgate, a few people had gathered. One third carried big fat cameras. The media circus was in town. Oh Ruby, roll your stockings down.
While protestors held banners, the media made film and pictures. The banners said things like 'One World One Chance', 'Greed is Bad' and 'Capitalism Kills'.
No Green Horse was in sight. The four horses of the apocalypse were missing a member and we were without a leader.
11.20 - Restless Legs
It was sunny.
Someone asked me if I knew when we were going. Perhaps I looked like I might know. I smiled and said "no". I knew that we were due to leave at 11.30am. In my experience, marches generally start late, gathering as many people as they can. I didn’t want to assume leadership. Someone else had planned the march. They might be hiding in the crowd.
I overheard mention of a group that had already gone, held in by a police cordon. They had gone in the direction of the climate camp, not in the direction of the Bank of England. That was another protest, the one with tents and fake grass. It was peaceful until the police trampled it. There is some footage of it online: G20 Climate Camp Video.
I looked at the police vans lined up on the other side of the road. The gathering seemed small in number, the police many.
11.30 – Marching
A man holding a sign saying 'Mouths to Feed' took action. He didn’t look much like a horse, but he had a soft command of the situation.
"They’re boxing us in", he called, "Come on, we have to go". We left on time. An A-Z showed the way. The police had blocked our path. We zigzagged instead. It was defiantly wonderful.
I clapped heartily. A beautiful young lady, supporting a 'Greenwich Peace Society' banner, jingled her tambourine next to me. She had the air of someone incapable of violence, and it warmed my heart. A drumming band played ahead of us. Later, I walked ahead of it.
The start of this film shows the band. I'm just out of the shot. I encourage you to watch it later, and not now. It shows more of the day and may interfere with sequential reading.
I looked behind me and our numbers had grown. The protest looked strong. People whooped, and whistled. I whooped too. The band filled the street with echoing beats. I had to hold back tears. I felt so happy.
A taxi driver leant out of his window, said an emotional "Good on you", and raised his fist in support. Bankers, tourists and shop workers stood on the pavement. Some took photographs, some smiled and some stared. Liquid thrown from a high window landed just ahead of me. Not everyone was supportive.
Throughout the march, I was watchful for my safety. I stayed near the front, to maintain a clear sight of police traps. Police vans were on every street.
Where there were buses, with frustrated passengers going nowhere, I felt safer. I knew that the police could corner me at any point. Wild police batons, with no means of escape, hold no attraction for me. As we’ve already learnt, I also like to wee in toilets.
11.50 – Princes Street and Queen Victoria Street
On reaching Princes Street, a line of police quickly formed in front of us. The trap was set. A protestor tried to pass the line and failed. I climbed a pedestrian fence to escape. It would have taken seconds more to walk around, but I didn't want to waste seconds. Few followed me or seemed aware of the pen forming on all sides.
I was on the other side of the fence with city workers. Protestors were either side of the police line. Fluorescent jackets moved like ants forming into lines all across the plaza. I realised that another line was forming to block me in again. I swiftly moved to the other side. I was outside the protest on Queen Victoria Street.
In May 1st 2001, I escaped the kettle too. I don't think it was called a kettle then. Or I didn't know it was. Apparently, it's legal. In 2005, a judge ruled that surrounding and holding 3,000 protesters at the May Day protests in Oxford Circus, for seven hours, was reasonable in order to stop violence and damage to property. In 2009, they held many more.
From a group of girls on bikes, one called "Get your friends out, they’re trapping everyone".
"Our friend is stuck", she added, "He's in a pirate ship. There's no way they’ll let him out".
I had taken a photograph of their friend earlier. He looked brilliant. I hope he did okay.
To remain safe, I was unable to be a part of the protest proper. It was a close shave.
I wonder what I missed. I missed Billy Bragg having an argument and singing the Internationale. I saw both on the internet. I also missed the RBS bank losing a window. The pen was a big as the Reading Festival arena, so I may have missed both anyway. I'm more concerned about the comradery that I missed, and the sense of being part of something.
At Mansion House, on Queen Victoria Street, just outside the cordon, the Wetherspoons pub was shut. A suited man released a friendly laugh when he realised that neither of us could get in. I needed a wee. Yes, again! Did he need a beer?
Sweetings Restaurant was open. Well-dressed waitresses stood together peering outwards. Tables sat laid and ready for the rich to dine. The venue was missing its suits.
A pub two doors down had security on the door. That was to stop the likes of me.
The city workers, instead of hiding, seemed fantastically intrigued and amused by the protest. They walked up and down Queen Victoria Street. They had a look at the pigpens, took photographs and liven up their working day. Some wore jeans, shirts and trainers and looked like Jerry Seinfeld. Others wore beautiful suits. I admired those that shirked both the pretence of dressing down and the stupidity of the police and media for predicting violence against bankers. The girls looked pretty much as they always do; lovely.
As well as showing no fear of the protestors, the city workers showed no fear of the twenty stationary or circling police vans that surrounded us, ready to form another seal.
While I tried on several occasions, I was not as brave as the lunch-break tourists.
I couldn't bring myself to stay next to the sound system and the small gathering of protestors, that like me, were on the wrong (or right) side of the police line. Repeatedly, I joined them, danced a little, and then walked the length of Queen Victoria Street. To feel safe, I had to go to the other side of the vulture like vans. Back and forth, I went. I wanted so much to be a part of the protest, yet I was scared of entrapment, flying objects, shields and batons. My walks made me feel half safe, half part of the protest, and wholly frustrated.
My presence amongst the rubberneckers earned me a compliment. "Nice dressing down!" a man said. He wore a pristine t-shirt, designer trainers and ironed jeans. I was wearing all black, an outfit I regularly don, for I like black clothes. On the shoulder strap of my black rucksack, a yellow 'smiley face' badge looked on. "I think she's one of them", his colleague said.
1.00pm - Trafalgar Square
The police vans started to line up on Queen Victoria Street, forming the second seal for real. I got on the tube. Mansion House was still open. At Trafalgar Square, I looked to see if anyone had gathered. It is the traditional square for protest. No one had, so I emptied my bursting bladder and moved on.
1.15pm - Oxford Street
Arriving at Oxford Street, I saw a group carrying banners. Stood next to them at a crossing, I asked "Are you going to the Anti-War protest?" One of them looked at me suspiciously. "I've just come from Bank", I added, "They’ve got everyone in a kettle". I felt stupid using that term in real life.
A lady with an empty pushchair took my conversational bait. She said, "The police have already stopped us to ask us what we are doing and where we are going". I should highlight that this was a family group. As well as her baby, held in arms just behind us, there were other children present. The police perhaps feared the twelve year old from Cambridge. His clothes were a little unruly.
On the other side of the road, an Asian man had his car searched. "Is this what it’s going to be like today?" my temporary friend asked, "Do they think that all Asians and protestors are terrorists?"
1.30pm - Grosvenor Square
At Grosvenor Square, once again, police vans squatted all about. With so many protestors held at Bank, the turnout for the rally was poor. Three groups seem to be leading the way: the Anti-War Coalition, CND and the Socialist Workers. They all had banners to hand out. They just couldn’t get rid of them. There were more banners than people.
On the bright side, the ethnic diversity was greater here. While this cheered me, the Socialist Workers did my head in.
To raise my spirits, I watched Tony Benn being interviewed by Channel Five. Tony Benn is a dude. I am not. I sat on a bench and ate sandwiches. I don't have a pipe.
The construction workers that I sat with talked about joining the protest. One regaled the others with a story of a friend that went to The Races, instead of to work. His boss saw him on television. They opted not to protest.
With the construction workers gone, a group of young men joined me. A Socialist Worker saw fresh blood and swooped in. She made her point quite desperately. Then, deciding that they weren't her demographic, and that she was as boring as hell, she drafted in the Young Socialists.
"March with us they said, we’ll make lots of noise". "Okay", the young men decided without hesitation. That must be the Socialist Workers wet dream. "How about you?" a Young Socialist turned to me. "I don’t agree with your politics", I said. I should have said, "I hate evangelists".
2.00pm - US Embassy
Chanting started. It was directed towards the American Embassy. It was vehement. Tired voices that have chanted for years, cried old slogans. The atmosphere was far less cheerful than in the Square Mile. It was fierce and demanding. It was non-threatening. It was serious.
We really don't want war. We know that the governments won't listen, even if a million people march. Yet, we still we chant.
An elderly lady, with a young child in a pushchair, sat next to me. "I thought this would be the big rally", she said.
I told her about the trapped protestors. "I'll stand next to the hedge, so it looks like I'm adding to the numbers", she decided, "I can't go into the crowd with the child". She was as old as the hills, but it was the child that she thought of.
2.30pm - Back to the Bank
Feeling trapped on all sides by Socialist Workers, and itching to know what was happening at Bank, I decided to head back across town. Despite meeting some wonderful people, I felt like I had more in common with those that I had left behind. I have been to many protests with the Socialist Workers, but I have never felt so hemmed in by them.
Watching a video of the anti-war rally online, I can see that the numbers grew, and that the march was well attended. I'm truly pleased. I feel somewhat sad that I left, but I can't be everywhere at once. The march was due to leave at 2pm. It was late and I had an unquestionable urge to move on.
My contacts, elsewhere in the country, informed me that no violence had been reported at Bank, just a bit of argy-bargy between police and protestors. I guess that trashing windows and assets doesn’t count. As far as I can tell, the Royal Bank of Scotland was broken into at around 12.45pm.
The Royal Bank of Scotland smash up was a minor incident really. A bit of property got broken. It's a shame that such events are headline grabbers. It's a shame that people do such things.
I've seen financial institutions and McDonalds smashed up on other protests.
It's when the police and protestors battle that it gets scary.
Sat on the tube, I discovered that my bag had been either violently crapped or attacked by guacamole. I didn't touch or sniff. I covered it with tissue and wiped as much as I could off. This was the worst attack on my person so far.
An announcement declared that Bank and Mansion House Stations were shut, by order of the police. I opted to alight at St Paul's. A couple sat next to me. The female held the male's hand and gave him a serious look. "Promise me that you'll be careful", she said. She genuinely feared for her fella's safety. I have never known London's anti-capitalist protestors to fight with anyone other than the police.
2.45pm - Bank
I left St Paul's station with the city worker, and tried to reassure him. A helicopter circled above the Bank of England. The shops were open on Cheapside. I washed my bag and prepared myself with a pee. Not being pig-penned has many advantages.
A man, and what I can only presume was his young teenage daughter, walked beside me. She held a banner collected from Grosvenor Square. Like me, they left the anti-war rally to come back to the Bank of England. They discussed how the Square Mile protest looked different to when they'd left that morning.
All road access to the protest was blocked. Thirty police vans sat on or beside Cheapside. Police cars sat further back. Many protestors stood outside the police lines, unable to join the carnival, some infuriated by the kettle.
After a low-key reconnaissance mission of my own, I discovered that Bucklersbury Passage – a thoroughfare through a building – was open and had no police presence.
I walked into the carnival. The area on Queen Victoria Street, which I had once stood freely in, was now part of the cordon. Near Mansion House, a police line was being chanted at. I wondered if trouble was brewing. Reassured by my easy entrance, and feeling safe in using the same exit, I joined the carnival. There was no evidence of violent conflict.
Several sound systems boomed and a band played. Buildings and pavements had been defaced with chalk (not spray paint).
People sat in groups on the steps of the Royal Exchange and on the road, chatting and soaking up the sun. Placards moved with people. Banners hung from railings and buildings.
An effigy of a banker hung rigid from traffic lights.
There were jugglers. There were costumes and there were masks.
A man dressed as the Duke of Wellington sat on the plinth with a statue of the Iron Duke himself.
It surprises me that what looked like a shop manager and a security guard, stood outside a shop, bang in the middle of the kettle, chatting. The shop door was wide open. To the right of them protestors and police were jostling. Within a poor stone's throw, a masked man was scrawling the phrase 'melt-down' on a pillar.
3.30pm – Cheapside
With a police line gathering on the alleyway next to Bucklersbury Passage, I feared that my exit might be next. I headed back through the thoroughfare onto Cheapside. Cheapside was busy with protestors walking back and forth, and many were leaving. Just outside the pen, an Evening Standard stall had been set up. The board said "Riot Police Battle Anarchy in City". The two female vendors, based at the entrance to Bucklersbury Passage, sat right between the entrance to the protest and a long line of riot police.
Nearby, amidst the vans, Tesco was open and thriving. I watched as protestors boosted sales. A lady came out holding a large banner in one hand and a Tesco bag in the other.
Did the 'Consumerism Sucks' banner go supermarket shopping?
A small branch of Boots was also open and doing well. Anarchy has its own rules.
It seemed that some protestors caught outside the main area, between Queen Victoria Street and Queen Street were frustrated and in a pen of their own. I could see them over two lines of riot police. Some were climbing lampposts.
3.50 - The Thinning Crowd
On checking, Bucklersbury Passage was still open and I went back in.
The number of protestors had thinned, but there was a lot of noise coming from Queen Victoria Street. A large crowd stood gathered next to the police line and on the other side too.
I asked a policewoman, "Don’t they know about this exit?" pointing towards the passage. She replied, "We only tell them if they ask". This didn’t seem like a helpful approach to diffusing a potentially violent situation to me.
During my absence, Portaloos had been brought in a placed on Lombard Street. A group of media photographers sat in a doorway with cameras. They looked bored. I made a remark about it looking feisty on Queen Victoria Street, and got asked where I’d been all afternoon. "It all kicked off at the bank earlier", one of them said, "We’ve got our shots". The media only had interest in one event. If I was paranoid, I might wonder if the bank smash was a set up.
A man sat typing into his laptop. This was evidently an unsafe environment.
I went back to Queen Victoria Street to check my exit. My side of the police line seemed safe. Metres away, beyond the second police line, it remained noisy.
I saw some great characters. One was a friendly pensioner, with a fiercely brave spirit. She was alone, like me, but giving it her all. Shame on me for not doing the same.
A stunning lady in a haughty 'business person' outfit pushed a 'Greed is Good' wheelchair to the police line and I followed. Going into the crowd near the police seemed safe for the time being.
In the wheelchair, an evil masked mock banker sat. He was covered in fake money and holding a briefcase labelled 'bonus'. A sound system blared from the chair. In the middle of the thronging crowd, almost touching the police, they posed for photographs. One police officer turned his back away from the cameras.
4.15 – Trapped?
"Oh shit", I thought. For all my vigilance, a police line was heading towards my exit. They moved swiftly and a line formed before I reached it.
The police lady who I’d spoken to earlier was still in situ. "Can I get out there?" I asked. "No" she answered.
"Is there another way out?" I followed. "Yes", she said. She directed me towards St Stephen's Row, where I found myself surrounded by more police.
"Can I get out this way?" I asked an officer, stood in a line. "No", he said. "One of your colleagues said I could", I appealed. "You're not in the cordon", he offered. He was right. A thin alleyway was letting people in and out. I believe that I was one of the last people to be let out. The rest had to stay for hours. I nearly got myself trapped.
On Cornhill, a sleeping policeman sat on the Royal Exchange Building. His eyes were shut.
City workers were rubber necking next to me, peering at the fluffy animals, sorry the protestors, inside the pen.
A series of placards sat neatly arranged at the 'Royal Exchange Buildings' road sign. They said things like 'Get Money Here!', 'Apply Quantum Theory of Money', and 'Bail Me Out Darling!'
Despite the many riot police, the atmosphere felt light.
A line of non-riot police stood laughing at Threadneedle Street, right outside the smashed up RBS building.
At the split of Old Broad Street and Threadneedle Street, another line of police vans sat, blocking any route to the Bank of England.
Forget the laughter; an ominous presence remained.
Once more, I found myself at Liverpool Street Station. Whilst trying to get a shot of the Evening Standard newspaper board, a man dressed as Jesus stood distractedly in my shot. Half in half out, he was having a conversation with his friend.
"Please decide whether you want to be in my photograph", I asked in a cherry tone. He did. It was the comedy terrorist. The one that gate crashed Prince Williams’ 21st birthday bash. He thrust his dick at me. I guess they predicted a carnival atmosphere.
4.45 – Homeward Bound
I caught the train home. Two strangers politely discussed the protests on the train. They had opposing views.
I do regret not looking in on the Climate Camp before trekking home. I did intend to. I know that protests often get more violent after 5pm, so it was time to go.
The police didn’t charge the Climate Camp protest until 19.45pm, but when they did it was with brute force.
The Sad Part
Since then, we have all learnt that a man died at the protest. While City Workers were fed false fears about protestors attacking them, I was right to fear conflict between the police and protestors.
The night before the protest, My Geek worried that I'd get hit by a baton, never to be seen again.
The prophesy was half-right.
The man that died was walking away from the police, with his hands in his pockets. He got hit twice from behind. Moments later he died.
He was on his way home from work.
Fabpants Recommends: There is a little bit of a police and protest theme to my selection today. It seems apt, if a tad clichéd.
Download MP3: The Libertines – Time for Heroes (courtesy of rocktownhall.com)
Download MP3: Bob Marley – Get Up, Stand Up (clubnext.com)
Download MP3: Gustav – We Shall Overcome (courtesy of radio879.com)
Download MP3: Junior Murvin - Police and Thieves (courtesy of mydomainwebhost.com)
Download MP3: Gruff Rhys – Cycle of Violence (courtesy of vox.com)
Download MP3: Klashnekoff - Revolution (courtesy of radivizija.com)
What follows is an account of my day of protesting and trying not to get into hot water. Being trapped in a steaming kettle doesn’t sound like fun to me.
I have a bit of a no photographs policy on this blog, to encourage me to write. For writing helps me to remember. For this entry, I'm going to make an exception. Enjoy the colour, but don’t get blinded by it.
Blogger has automatically reduced the quality of my photographs, which is a little annoying. Apologies for the blur.
9.22am - Hove
On the train to the old smoke, the heart of commerce, and my old home - London - there was no sign of other protestors. A man sat diagonal to me raised suspicion. For the last few stations, he riffled cards. He dropped several on the floor. Anarchy!
11.00am - Liverpool Street
Liverpool Street terminus was surprisingly empty. I took a 30pence wee, glanced at two coppers in the main hall, and then headed out to Bishopsgate. I know that everyone expects protestors to wee wherever they like. I like to wee in a loo. Surprising, eh?
On Bishopsgate, a few people had gathered. One third carried big fat cameras. The media circus was in town. Oh Ruby, roll your stockings down.
While protestors held banners, the media made film and pictures. The banners said things like 'One World One Chance', 'Greed is Bad' and 'Capitalism Kills'.
No Green Horse was in sight. The four horses of the apocalypse were missing a member and we were without a leader.
11.20 - Restless Legs
It was sunny.
Someone asked me if I knew when we were going. Perhaps I looked like I might know. I smiled and said "no". I knew that we were due to leave at 11.30am. In my experience, marches generally start late, gathering as many people as they can. I didn’t want to assume leadership. Someone else had planned the march. They might be hiding in the crowd.
I overheard mention of a group that had already gone, held in by a police cordon. They had gone in the direction of the climate camp, not in the direction of the Bank of England. That was another protest, the one with tents and fake grass. It was peaceful until the police trampled it. There is some footage of it online: G20 Climate Camp Video.
I looked at the police vans lined up on the other side of the road. The gathering seemed small in number, the police many.
11.30 – Marching
A man holding a sign saying 'Mouths to Feed' took action. He didn’t look much like a horse, but he had a soft command of the situation.
"They’re boxing us in", he called, "Come on, we have to go". We left on time. An A-Z showed the way. The police had blocked our path. We zigzagged instead. It was defiantly wonderful.
I clapped heartily. A beautiful young lady, supporting a 'Greenwich Peace Society' banner, jingled her tambourine next to me. She had the air of someone incapable of violence, and it warmed my heart. A drumming band played ahead of us. Later, I walked ahead of it.
The start of this film shows the band. I'm just out of the shot. I encourage you to watch it later, and not now. It shows more of the day and may interfere with sequential reading.
I looked behind me and our numbers had grown. The protest looked strong. People whooped, and whistled. I whooped too. The band filled the street with echoing beats. I had to hold back tears. I felt so happy.
A taxi driver leant out of his window, said an emotional "Good on you", and raised his fist in support. Bankers, tourists and shop workers stood on the pavement. Some took photographs, some smiled and some stared. Liquid thrown from a high window landed just ahead of me. Not everyone was supportive.
Throughout the march, I was watchful for my safety. I stayed near the front, to maintain a clear sight of police traps. Police vans were on every street.
Where there were buses, with frustrated passengers going nowhere, I felt safer. I knew that the police could corner me at any point. Wild police batons, with no means of escape, hold no attraction for me. As we’ve already learnt, I also like to wee in toilets.
11.50 – Princes Street and Queen Victoria Street
On reaching Princes Street, a line of police quickly formed in front of us. The trap was set. A protestor tried to pass the line and failed. I climbed a pedestrian fence to escape. It would have taken seconds more to walk around, but I didn't want to waste seconds. Few followed me or seemed aware of the pen forming on all sides.
I was on the other side of the fence with city workers. Protestors were either side of the police line. Fluorescent jackets moved like ants forming into lines all across the plaza. I realised that another line was forming to block me in again. I swiftly moved to the other side. I was outside the protest on Queen Victoria Street.
In May 1st 2001, I escaped the kettle too. I don't think it was called a kettle then. Or I didn't know it was. Apparently, it's legal. In 2005, a judge ruled that surrounding and holding 3,000 protesters at the May Day protests in Oxford Circus, for seven hours, was reasonable in order to stop violence and damage to property. In 2009, they held many more.
From a group of girls on bikes, one called "Get your friends out, they’re trapping everyone".
"Our friend is stuck", she added, "He's in a pirate ship. There's no way they’ll let him out".
I had taken a photograph of their friend earlier. He looked brilliant. I hope he did okay.
To remain safe, I was unable to be a part of the protest proper. It was a close shave.
I wonder what I missed. I missed Billy Bragg having an argument and singing the Internationale. I saw both on the internet. I also missed the RBS bank losing a window. The pen was a big as the Reading Festival arena, so I may have missed both anyway. I'm more concerned about the comradery that I missed, and the sense of being part of something.
At Mansion House, on Queen Victoria Street, just outside the cordon, the Wetherspoons pub was shut. A suited man released a friendly laugh when he realised that neither of us could get in. I needed a wee. Yes, again! Did he need a beer?
Sweetings Restaurant was open. Well-dressed waitresses stood together peering outwards. Tables sat laid and ready for the rich to dine. The venue was missing its suits.
A pub two doors down had security on the door. That was to stop the likes of me.
The city workers, instead of hiding, seemed fantastically intrigued and amused by the protest. They walked up and down Queen Victoria Street. They had a look at the pigpens, took photographs and liven up their working day. Some wore jeans, shirts and trainers and looked like Jerry Seinfeld. Others wore beautiful suits. I admired those that shirked both the pretence of dressing down and the stupidity of the police and media for predicting violence against bankers. The girls looked pretty much as they always do; lovely.
As well as showing no fear of the protestors, the city workers showed no fear of the twenty stationary or circling police vans that surrounded us, ready to form another seal.
While I tried on several occasions, I was not as brave as the lunch-break tourists.
I couldn't bring myself to stay next to the sound system and the small gathering of protestors, that like me, were on the wrong (or right) side of the police line. Repeatedly, I joined them, danced a little, and then walked the length of Queen Victoria Street. To feel safe, I had to go to the other side of the vulture like vans. Back and forth, I went. I wanted so much to be a part of the protest, yet I was scared of entrapment, flying objects, shields and batons. My walks made me feel half safe, half part of the protest, and wholly frustrated.
My presence amongst the rubberneckers earned me a compliment. "Nice dressing down!" a man said. He wore a pristine t-shirt, designer trainers and ironed jeans. I was wearing all black, an outfit I regularly don, for I like black clothes. On the shoulder strap of my black rucksack, a yellow 'smiley face' badge looked on. "I think she's one of them", his colleague said.
1.00pm - Trafalgar Square
The police vans started to line up on Queen Victoria Street, forming the second seal for real. I got on the tube. Mansion House was still open. At Trafalgar Square, I looked to see if anyone had gathered. It is the traditional square for protest. No one had, so I emptied my bursting bladder and moved on.
1.15pm - Oxford Street
Arriving at Oxford Street, I saw a group carrying banners. Stood next to them at a crossing, I asked "Are you going to the Anti-War protest?" One of them looked at me suspiciously. "I've just come from Bank", I added, "They’ve got everyone in a kettle". I felt stupid using that term in real life.
A lady with an empty pushchair took my conversational bait. She said, "The police have already stopped us to ask us what we are doing and where we are going". I should highlight that this was a family group. As well as her baby, held in arms just behind us, there were other children present. The police perhaps feared the twelve year old from Cambridge. His clothes were a little unruly.
On the other side of the road, an Asian man had his car searched. "Is this what it’s going to be like today?" my temporary friend asked, "Do they think that all Asians and protestors are terrorists?"
1.30pm - Grosvenor Square
At Grosvenor Square, once again, police vans squatted all about. With so many protestors held at Bank, the turnout for the rally was poor. Three groups seem to be leading the way: the Anti-War Coalition, CND and the Socialist Workers. They all had banners to hand out. They just couldn’t get rid of them. There were more banners than people.
On the bright side, the ethnic diversity was greater here. While this cheered me, the Socialist Workers did my head in.
To raise my spirits, I watched Tony Benn being interviewed by Channel Five. Tony Benn is a dude. I am not. I sat on a bench and ate sandwiches. I don't have a pipe.
The construction workers that I sat with talked about joining the protest. One regaled the others with a story of a friend that went to The Races, instead of to work. His boss saw him on television. They opted not to protest.
With the construction workers gone, a group of young men joined me. A Socialist Worker saw fresh blood and swooped in. She made her point quite desperately. Then, deciding that they weren't her demographic, and that she was as boring as hell, she drafted in the Young Socialists.
"March with us they said, we’ll make lots of noise". "Okay", the young men decided without hesitation. That must be the Socialist Workers wet dream. "How about you?" a Young Socialist turned to me. "I don’t agree with your politics", I said. I should have said, "I hate evangelists".
2.00pm - US Embassy
Chanting started. It was directed towards the American Embassy. It was vehement. Tired voices that have chanted for years, cried old slogans. The atmosphere was far less cheerful than in the Square Mile. It was fierce and demanding. It was non-threatening. It was serious.
We really don't want war. We know that the governments won't listen, even if a million people march. Yet, we still we chant.
An elderly lady, with a young child in a pushchair, sat next to me. "I thought this would be the big rally", she said.
I told her about the trapped protestors. "I'll stand next to the hedge, so it looks like I'm adding to the numbers", she decided, "I can't go into the crowd with the child". She was as old as the hills, but it was the child that she thought of.
2.30pm - Back to the Bank
Feeling trapped on all sides by Socialist Workers, and itching to know what was happening at Bank, I decided to head back across town. Despite meeting some wonderful people, I felt like I had more in common with those that I had left behind. I have been to many protests with the Socialist Workers, but I have never felt so hemmed in by them.
Watching a video of the anti-war rally online, I can see that the numbers grew, and that the march was well attended. I'm truly pleased. I feel somewhat sad that I left, but I can't be everywhere at once. The march was due to leave at 2pm. It was late and I had an unquestionable urge to move on.
My contacts, elsewhere in the country, informed me that no violence had been reported at Bank, just a bit of argy-bargy between police and protestors. I guess that trashing windows and assets doesn’t count. As far as I can tell, the Royal Bank of Scotland was broken into at around 12.45pm.
The Royal Bank of Scotland smash up was a minor incident really. A bit of property got broken. It's a shame that such events are headline grabbers. It's a shame that people do such things.
I've seen financial institutions and McDonalds smashed up on other protests.
It's when the police and protestors battle that it gets scary.
Sat on the tube, I discovered that my bag had been either violently crapped or attacked by guacamole. I didn't touch or sniff. I covered it with tissue and wiped as much as I could off. This was the worst attack on my person so far.
An announcement declared that Bank and Mansion House Stations were shut, by order of the police. I opted to alight at St Paul's. A couple sat next to me. The female held the male's hand and gave him a serious look. "Promise me that you'll be careful", she said. She genuinely feared for her fella's safety. I have never known London's anti-capitalist protestors to fight with anyone other than the police.
2.45pm - Bank
I left St Paul's station with the city worker, and tried to reassure him. A helicopter circled above the Bank of England. The shops were open on Cheapside. I washed my bag and prepared myself with a pee. Not being pig-penned has many advantages.
A man, and what I can only presume was his young teenage daughter, walked beside me. She held a banner collected from Grosvenor Square. Like me, they left the anti-war rally to come back to the Bank of England. They discussed how the Square Mile protest looked different to when they'd left that morning.
All road access to the protest was blocked. Thirty police vans sat on or beside Cheapside. Police cars sat further back. Many protestors stood outside the police lines, unable to join the carnival, some infuriated by the kettle.
After a low-key reconnaissance mission of my own, I discovered that Bucklersbury Passage – a thoroughfare through a building – was open and had no police presence.
I walked into the carnival. The area on Queen Victoria Street, which I had once stood freely in, was now part of the cordon. Near Mansion House, a police line was being chanted at. I wondered if trouble was brewing. Reassured by my easy entrance, and feeling safe in using the same exit, I joined the carnival. There was no evidence of violent conflict.
Several sound systems boomed and a band played. Buildings and pavements had been defaced with chalk (not spray paint).
People sat in groups on the steps of the Royal Exchange and on the road, chatting and soaking up the sun. Placards moved with people. Banners hung from railings and buildings.
An effigy of a banker hung rigid from traffic lights.
There were jugglers. There were costumes and there were masks.
A man dressed as the Duke of Wellington sat on the plinth with a statue of the Iron Duke himself.
It surprises me that what looked like a shop manager and a security guard, stood outside a shop, bang in the middle of the kettle, chatting. The shop door was wide open. To the right of them protestors and police were jostling. Within a poor stone's throw, a masked man was scrawling the phrase 'melt-down' on a pillar.
3.30pm – Cheapside
With a police line gathering on the alleyway next to Bucklersbury Passage, I feared that my exit might be next. I headed back through the thoroughfare onto Cheapside. Cheapside was busy with protestors walking back and forth, and many were leaving. Just outside the pen, an Evening Standard stall had been set up. The board said "Riot Police Battle Anarchy in City". The two female vendors, based at the entrance to Bucklersbury Passage, sat right between the entrance to the protest and a long line of riot police.
Nearby, amidst the vans, Tesco was open and thriving. I watched as protestors boosted sales. A lady came out holding a large banner in one hand and a Tesco bag in the other.
Did the 'Consumerism Sucks' banner go supermarket shopping?
A small branch of Boots was also open and doing well. Anarchy has its own rules.
It seemed that some protestors caught outside the main area, between Queen Victoria Street and Queen Street were frustrated and in a pen of their own. I could see them over two lines of riot police. Some were climbing lampposts.
3.50 - The Thinning Crowd
On checking, Bucklersbury Passage was still open and I went back in.
The number of protestors had thinned, but there was a lot of noise coming from Queen Victoria Street. A large crowd stood gathered next to the police line and on the other side too.
I asked a policewoman, "Don’t they know about this exit?" pointing towards the passage. She replied, "We only tell them if they ask". This didn’t seem like a helpful approach to diffusing a potentially violent situation to me.
During my absence, Portaloos had been brought in a placed on Lombard Street. A group of media photographers sat in a doorway with cameras. They looked bored. I made a remark about it looking feisty on Queen Victoria Street, and got asked where I’d been all afternoon. "It all kicked off at the bank earlier", one of them said, "We’ve got our shots". The media only had interest in one event. If I was paranoid, I might wonder if the bank smash was a set up.
A man sat typing into his laptop. This was evidently an unsafe environment.
I went back to Queen Victoria Street to check my exit. My side of the police line seemed safe. Metres away, beyond the second police line, it remained noisy.
I saw some great characters. One was a friendly pensioner, with a fiercely brave spirit. She was alone, like me, but giving it her all. Shame on me for not doing the same.
A stunning lady in a haughty 'business person' outfit pushed a 'Greed is Good' wheelchair to the police line and I followed. Going into the crowd near the police seemed safe for the time being.
In the wheelchair, an evil masked mock banker sat. He was covered in fake money and holding a briefcase labelled 'bonus'. A sound system blared from the chair. In the middle of the thronging crowd, almost touching the police, they posed for photographs. One police officer turned his back away from the cameras.
4.15 – Trapped?
"Oh shit", I thought. For all my vigilance, a police line was heading towards my exit. They moved swiftly and a line formed before I reached it.
The police lady who I’d spoken to earlier was still in situ. "Can I get out there?" I asked. "No" she answered.
"Is there another way out?" I followed. "Yes", she said. She directed me towards St Stephen's Row, where I found myself surrounded by more police.
"Can I get out this way?" I asked an officer, stood in a line. "No", he said. "One of your colleagues said I could", I appealed. "You're not in the cordon", he offered. He was right. A thin alleyway was letting people in and out. I believe that I was one of the last people to be let out. The rest had to stay for hours. I nearly got myself trapped.
On Cornhill, a sleeping policeman sat on the Royal Exchange Building. His eyes were shut.
City workers were rubber necking next to me, peering at the fluffy animals, sorry the protestors, inside the pen.
A series of placards sat neatly arranged at the 'Royal Exchange Buildings' road sign. They said things like 'Get Money Here!', 'Apply Quantum Theory of Money', and 'Bail Me Out Darling!'
Despite the many riot police, the atmosphere felt light.
A line of non-riot police stood laughing at Threadneedle Street, right outside the smashed up RBS building.
At the split of Old Broad Street and Threadneedle Street, another line of police vans sat, blocking any route to the Bank of England.
Forget the laughter; an ominous presence remained.
Once more, I found myself at Liverpool Street Station. Whilst trying to get a shot of the Evening Standard newspaper board, a man dressed as Jesus stood distractedly in my shot. Half in half out, he was having a conversation with his friend.
"Please decide whether you want to be in my photograph", I asked in a cherry tone. He did. It was the comedy terrorist. The one that gate crashed Prince Williams’ 21st birthday bash. He thrust his dick at me. I guess they predicted a carnival atmosphere.
4.45 – Homeward Bound
I caught the train home. Two strangers politely discussed the protests on the train. They had opposing views.
I do regret not looking in on the Climate Camp before trekking home. I did intend to. I know that protests often get more violent after 5pm, so it was time to go.
The police didn’t charge the Climate Camp protest until 19.45pm, but when they did it was with brute force.
The Sad Part
Since then, we have all learnt that a man died at the protest. While City Workers were fed false fears about protestors attacking them, I was right to fear conflict between the police and protestors.
The night before the protest, My Geek worried that I'd get hit by a baton, never to be seen again.
The prophesy was half-right.
The man that died was walking away from the police, with his hands in his pockets. He got hit twice from behind. Moments later he died.
He was on his way home from work.
Fabpants Recommends: There is a little bit of a police and protest theme to my selection today. It seems apt, if a tad clichéd.
Download MP3: The Libertines – Time for Heroes (courtesy of rocktownhall.com)
Download MP3: Bob Marley – Get Up, Stand Up (clubnext.com)
Download MP3: Gustav – We Shall Overcome (courtesy of radio879.com)
Download MP3: Junior Murvin - Police and Thieves (courtesy of mydomainwebhost.com)
Download MP3: Gruff Rhys – Cycle of Violence (courtesy of vox.com)
Download MP3: Klashnekoff - Revolution (courtesy of radivizija.com)
