Yesterday I went down late to the G20 protests, missing the action at the Royal Bank of Scotland, to the Climate Camp pitched on Bishopsgate street near Liverpool Street Station. I’ve done one of these before a few years ago, when we all pitched tents in Trafalgar Square, to protest against the Iraq invasion. I remember it being very cold and noisy with local drunks constantly harassing us.
“What’s going to happen about Chris?” I asked.
“I think the university will quietly drop the whole thing once this protest is over. Chris is a chapel leader. They won’t want the hassle. But it must be said that anthropology (Chris’ dept) has only nine students this year. There used to be a hundred. It’s become too expensive to study any ‘non-essential’ subjects now. All the students want to study business.”(1)
I found the samba band, RoR, decked in their usual colours of pink and silver. Ms Canal Explorer had been outside the Royal Bank of Scotland when it was smashed and admitted that the samba band was in some way a catalyst for the protestors at that point. Ms CE and myself are both Space Hijackers (myself less frequently). They’d all been arrested outside News International with their tank ‘disguised’ as a riot squad van. (Facebook group: Free the SPA)
‘shame on you, shame on you’.
“I was just standing there when a policeman started hitting me with his baton”.
“It’s pointless all this. The MP’s can claim 40 grand expenses for second homes. The government can do what they want. We can’t. Nothing is going to change”.
And there we have it. Frustration and impotence. Anger and disgust. One set of rules for them, another for us.