Sunday, March 27, 2011


Scenes of savage, mindless anarcho-violence on Piccadilly yesterday. You do wish, though, that the BBC could have talked to the ageing couple with the Unison flag, who remained in the throng outside Fortnum & Mason throughout three police charges. Or the bloke with the two pre-teen girls, who were both so terrified by the ordeal that they...giggled and talked to each other. Or the shop staff on Piccadilly who, in a state of pants-wetting terror, left their doors open, allowing customers to walk in and out. Or the constant stream of 'normals' pouring from the tube station, walking around the burning placards, and casually asking what was going on. Or the tourist girls taking pictures of themselves against the Piccadilly billboard, unperturbed by the sinister Black Bloc youth who...gave them directions, temporarily removing his muzzle of HATE. Or the lone guy with the Communist Party flag, who was summarily HARANGUED by rabid anarchists who...completely left him alone. Or the people posing for their snapshots in front of the line of riot cops ((OK, sneer about collaborating with the tools of the state, but they DO make cool pics - weirdly enough, I saw a cop sticking his thumb up for one of the photos...)). Or the blonde girl with the Harrods bag and her parents, who simply picked their way through the mob, only to be mercilessly....IGNORED. Or the diners in the restaurant who chomped away, polishing off their fish and chips as they watched us through the window. Or the girl running the ice cream stall, who was so paralysed with fear she had no choice but to stay there...

As for the ammonia...the overpowering, pungent stench of...oh, I dunno, I couldn't smell it. Tell you something for nothing though - those orange smoke bombs smell rank.

A real night of terror. A thug in a black ski mask bumped against me, threw his head back, and said 'Sorry, mate'. I've been subjected to more hostile jostling on the Victoria Line at 8.45am.

Actually, the only time that any of the folks above looked worried were when the old bill suddenly threw themselves forward, unprovoked, and sent columns of protesters scattering. But that's how they operate. It doesn't make me angry, doesn't even surprise me. You can chant Your job's next! at them 'til you're hoarse, but they'll never get it.

Then, switching on internet radio later, a taxi driver rings into a BBC call-in show, claiming that he was so scared 'his hands were still shaking', because five masked kids had sat in front of his taxi. Obviously the luckiest cabbie on Christ's earth, never having had to eject a raving, drunk idiot or violent late-night piss-taker from the back seat. Which leads me to the question - what sort of wimps are we all meant to be, these days? Where was all this FEAR? Some banks, clothes stores and upper class food vendors need a scrub and some new glass, and that's about all that the anarchists did yesterday. No tourists kicked to death. Nobody put in immediate danger ((except for when the police drove a van through the crowd at Oxford Circus, or waved their truncheons around like blind drunks attempting to smash a pinata)) ((actually, one of UK Uncut could have fallen off the roof at F&M and crushed someone @UKhealthandsafety)). The BBC is essentially suggesting that this basic level of vandalism petrifies YOU, the London citizen. It scares you, and you need to be protected from it. Now, how big does that make you feel?

((In other news: the Subhumans might have sucked, but their skull logo still makes a great addition to the back of any leather jacket))

She's always name-dropping...
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