What a lovely time we had of it on the protest against the cuts on Saturday. A nice brunch, a brisk walk (it was brisk!) through the traffic-free streets of London town Grindr-ing the shit out of the march itself (quite successful!)… And then the silliness kicked in.
Now, we have nothing against people making the strength of their feelings about the banks and tax dodgers felt, and there was something quite pretty about the multi-coloured blobs of paint on Topshop. But you don’t attack police: they’re working people too, you know. And they’re at the sharp end of cuts as much as anyone.
Besides, the people running around in black writing ‘Class war’ on the doors of Fortnum & Mason (honestly! What year is this? Can’t we choose better targets than a posh food shop? And ‘class war’? Do us a favour!) are actual nutters.
Walking along Piccadilly with the grannies and granddads and little kids and union types in rainbow jumpers and Pack-a-macs with flasks of tea and neatly folded copies of The Guardian, one anarchist dressed all in slimming black with a black mask over most of his face (honestly, you might as well wear a burka) was shouting in the faces of the little old lady marshals ‘STOP FUCKING POLICING US!’
Because a 65-year-old Socialist nana in a day-glo tabard is the enemy all of a sudden, right?