Wednesday 1st April, 2009
The Canadian woman standing in line with the hundreds of other protestors on Threadneedle Street looked vaguely confused when asked “Can you please put your placard down? I can’t see.” Yet with a gracious smile, she said “Oh, I’m sorry” and lowered it, impervious to the fact that it proclaimed “Canada Out Of Afghanistan”. Above us, a police helicopter hovered, filling the air with its insistent throbbing.
We were in the City of London’s Bank district. Crowds stood ten, twenty deep, hemmed in by cordons of police in hi-vis jackets, jostling at the edges and being politely but firmly guided backwards every so often by the police. Drums rolled and percussion instruments played, lending an almost carnival atmosphere to the scene. Banners and flags (“MAKE TEA NOT WAR”) appeared from the middle of Bank concourse itself.
Most ‘protestors’ turned out to be ordinary people out for a laugh, such as Matt. He was on his lunch break from the office, along with a handful of his colleagues who’d “come to see the fun, watch a few crusties get beaten up,” at the hands of the police. The lost Canadian woman, Veronica from Vancouver, turned around and frowned. “Why aren’t you supporting withdrawal from Afghanistan?” Matt laughed. “I think you’re in the wrong place, love”.
Everyone laughed and joked together, cheering whenever a policeman’s helmet was knocked askew or a particularly rowdy protestor was forced back a few paces. It was almost a sporting atmosphere, neatly divided between the British love for the underdog and sympathy for the poor coppers caught in the middle of it all.
Then it happened. At 12.45, the percussion band, who had been quietly edging towards the police cordon, reached the edge and began to push. The police line tensed, like a muscle, and held firm. The band tried and tried again, aided by dubious characters dressed in black with scarves obscuring their faces. Matt looked worried. “I’m out of here mate, this is going to get nasty”. A female Eastern European voice behind me whined “Get the pigs!” Policemen swayed, batons were drawn, voices were raised. A tall, imposing figure in black at the front of the push fell and resurfaced with blood streaming down his head. The mood perceptively changed.
This was no longer a peaceful demonstration. This was a full-on Protest, capital emphasis and all. The police struggled manfully to hold the line, pushing us back (no “please can you move, sir” now), sweeping photographers back from the elevated ledges they were snapping from. Far above us all, an ornamental clock hung from the side of a building. From the window adjacent to the clock, a man emerged, as cool as ice, and nonchalantly watched the seething crowds swaying back and forth. Occasionally he called down and pointed at some key tussle within the crowd.
A sudden commotion began behind us and a hand in the small of the back pushing me face first into the stinking beard of the hippy next to me. Police reinforcements had arrived, led by a burly Inspector. Again, the Eastern European woman piped up with, “We don’t want blood”. You could imagine her whining the same thing after the failed 1990 August Coup in Moscow. The band broke through, to a wave of cheers, and the protestors surged towards the Royal Bank of Scotland’s branch on the corner of Threadneedle and Bartholomew Street. None of them seemed to notice the great big “To Let” sign over the door. That didn’t stop the mob – for that was what it now was, fuelled by timpani drums and the greedy lust of success – advanced on the RBS offices. Coloured smoke began to waft from the direction of the police lines as black-masked rioters burst through the police lines and started chanting “Our streets!”
Several things stood out at this moment: the number of cameramen gathered around RBS; urgent figures dressed in black pushing their way towards the bank’s offices; the number of smokers in the crowd; the weird old hippy still beating his drum in front of me. Such was the scene as the first window of RBS shattered, at precisely 1.32pm. Cheers went up from the whole mob, the police (now augmented by riot police with helmets and shields) backing off. A senior policeman came and looked round the corner at the shattered window, shook his head like a disbelieving parent and turned to walk away. A plastic bottle bounced off the pillar next to his head.
Once RBS had been breached, to the accompaniment of about fifty cameras recording every movement, the crowd lost interest. I moved back to Bank square and observed the peaceful half of the protest. Some people were waving banners – for some reason the Green Party were present inside the police ‘kettle’ – and more still were just sitting around chatting. Compared to the hardcore elements crowing over RBS, the majority here were either students or genuine believers in their cause. Public speakers stood in front of the Bank of England, exhorting the ills of the capitalist banking system. ‘Fun police’ offered weed to passers-by. Somebody started dancing, and before long an impromptu rave had begun. Couples kissed. Girls rode past on bicycles bearing flower power placards. The violence evident on Threadneedle Street was nowhere to be seen here; and tellingly, neither were the sinister people in black. No longer were the crowds expectant, merely venting their feelings.
A City of London policeman on the edge of the protests commented, “It’s good that we have the freedom in this country to protest peacefully, just a shame that you get the idiots who spoil it for everyone”. But what had the 'peaceful' protest achieved? Broken windows, road closures, bloody noses and a street party. Hardly the beginning of the end for Britain's megabanks.
