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I had decided some time ago, to attend the TUC organised march through London. This event’s purpose, was to show massive support in favour of protesting the shocking cuts brought in by the coalition government. Reports have indicated that upwards of 400,000 and perhaps as many as 500,000, took part in the march and recalling the unending column of people winding its way through London streets, I would have to say that I could well believe those estimates.
I had travelled down to London Kings Cross from Kingston upon Hull on the Friday evening. I was going early and staying over with a photographer friend, Russ. Surprisingly we didn’t bother going out for a few pints as one might expect, but decided to stay in and have a few beers and a pizza at his gaff.
It seemed like a good idea and opportunity to discuss tactics for the next day. For instance, should we try and stay together or work independently? What kit were we going to take with us? Where should we head for first? This was particularly important as with such a massive event, we wanted to be in the right place at the right time.
Our kit was an important issue too. I had bought myself a new climbing helmet that folds up and so saves space in the kit bag. (Edelrid Madillo £70) This was obviously for head injury protection from flying missiles! I also presented Russ with a new T-shirt, dark blue in colour with the words ‘PRESS PHOTOGRAPHER’ in large yellow sans serif type, front and back. A bit like FBI styling. I had these produced after the EDL protest in Luton that had taken place a few weeks before. I had been rammed from behind by a guy in black, riding a big grey charger. No it was not the black knight from Scott’s Ivanhoe. This one had a fluorescent jacket with the word ‘POLICE’ emblazoned on it! I felt that wearing a big sign proclaiming ‘PRESS PHOTOGRAPHER’, may make a police officer think twice before ‘moving me’ and if they did happen to ignore it and perhaps beat me anyway, then it would be more likely to be apparent on photographs from the day that he/she had no excuse making the claim that they didn’t know what I was!
Russ had got information that lead us to believe that it would be best to head off to the University of London Union building on Malet Street. Sure enough students were gathering with the idea of setting off at around 10:00 to join up with the main march. Russ and I had a really good cappuccino and a not so good sausage roll, in the Student Union cafe which was open to all including the 20 or so photographers who were hanging around outside.
A large group of students from Glasgow had travelled down in order to add their voices and a half dozen or so, one with a set of bagpipes, struck up a few tunes to get everyone into the spirit of things. Fortunately they appeared to have left their claymores at home. (Claymore as in sword, not as in anti-personnel mine)
As the departure time approached, more and more people gathered, including a sizeable ‘Bloc’ of black clad, masked anarchists, who at this point didn’t seem too worried about having their photograph taken. The march set off (actually after 11:00) with the usual problem of trying to stay with the front of such a gathering as you get the inevitable ‘bottle necks’ where everything moves ahead of you and trying to catch up is a real difficulty. It hadn’t taken long for Russ and me to be split up, but we kept in touch via mobile and met up a half mile or further down the route.
There then followed the usual process of trying to get some interesting images from an angle that no other photographer (including Russ!) is going to get. This is a virtual impossibility as is the chance of actually selling one of your images, but we’ll leave that issue until a later post.
We must have walked and ran many miles that day and our sight seeing took in the Houses of Parliament, Whitehall, Trafalgar Square, Oxford Street, Piccadilly, Green Park, Buckingham Palace and then the same probably, all over again. Twice more maybe! At least that is how it felt at the end of the day.
Trouble didn’t appear to start until around 14:00, when we joined up with the anarchists, who had by that time formed into a sizeable group of several hundred, maybe as many as 500. We then witnessed various small scale acts of defacement of Barclays logos on the hire pedal cycle points along the route, although they seemed primarily concerned with not becoming bottled up by the various squads of police who were driving around in convoys of police vans.
Russ, me and the ‘Bloc’ moved eventually into Piccadilly at around 14:30 with my ears still ringing from the detonation of some kind of firework aka a bomb, that had gone off just behind me. I thought that it had burst my left eardrum it was that loud. In fact these were thrown with some regularity down Piccadilly and I saw one upsetting scene of a father carrying an infant and both being bustled into a adjacent shop by police, just after one of these fireworks had gone off directly behind them. I am sure that they were probably quite traumatised by the experience.
It was this mixing of anarchists bent on violence with the general peaceful marchers and the innocent sightseers and bystanders, that probably caused the police to hesitate and show some restraint with what was to follow. To have riot police charging through crowds of the innocent in order to prevent these relatively few and yet still sizeable group of anarchists from venting their fury on their perceived symbols of riches and capitalism, was a scenario not to be countenanced.
I am sure that the police authorities were probably having nightmares in the weeks prior to this march, dreaming of the newspaper headlines that would follow in the wake of baton wielding officers smashing their way through crowds of old ladies, children and newspaper sellers.
As it happens, I admire the restraint that the officers showed. They were stalwart and steady in the face of abuse, flying paint and other less benign missiles. I saw officers covered in paint of various hues, the rivulets dripping down their faces, which several seemed to want to hide from the cameras as if they felt shamed by their apparent impotence. Imasculated by plastic bags of Dulux white emulsion.
I cannot begin to estimate the costs involved with buying new uniforms, but somwhere and someday there is going to be a very big bonfire of multi-coloured police kit. Add to that that cleaning, repairing, respraying and replacing of police vehicles and you have a massive cost that hardly alleviates the current cutting of costs to the services.
However, I divert. The police of course were not the only targets. In fact probably, they just happened to be in between the protesters and the real targets. The Banks. The Shops. The Hotels.
Santander, Lloyds, Starbucks, The Ritz. These were just some of the coroprations targeted by the anarchists. Windows smashed, doors broken open, paint flung, fireworks hurled, smokebombs thrown, spray cans sprayed. Along with of course, everything that could be picked up and used as a battering ram, considerable damage was wreaked upon these various symbols along Piccadilly.
A crowd of ever present photographers and journalists (myself and Russ included) seemed more numerous than the police. We were covered in as much paint and were assaulted by anarchist members who did not want their photograph taken to record them committing a criminal act. With my eye to the camera, I had someone cover the lens with a hand and shove me back, which not only hurt my nose, but more importantly, spoiled a really good picture. Up yours pal!
I will be returning to this issue in a later blog about the question of whether the press encourages by its presence, acts of violence and destruction. And, is that why the police also seem to dislike the press as much as the protesters? Certainly a question worth considering and one that has probably being discussed before and no doubt will be again.
Anyway, Russ and I eventually met up again and decided that a burger and chips along with a pint of orange juice and lemonade was in order. My train from Kings Cross was due to leave at 17:00 and for a moment, as I ate, I considered whether to stay another night and follow the trouble. I decided not to. Perhaps a mistake, but then again maybe I had what I wanted.
I had set out to record a national day of protest and along with that, I had happened to record some images of the nastier side. By staying later, I would probably end up with more images of the nasty stuff, which could imbalance my perceptions and recall of the actual day. I was not prepared to allow the day to be spoiled and overshadowed by that. Added to that of course was the fact that I was just plain knackered! (Pardon the vulgarity but I think it was more appropriate there).
Russ and I shook hands and I got on the Victoria line heading North. Many more former protesters, their flags hanging limply and furled now, were on the same train looking dazed and bemused. Perhaps considering whether the expense had been worth it? Would the government really listen now?
Personally, I thought ‘No!’ – So I packed my cameras away, relaxed my mind and arrived at Kings Cross to a packed station and more annoyingly, people filling up my Hull Trains carriage to capacity. One of them was a vicar from Selby though, so I played it safe and was nice to him!
All these people heading North, to be dropped off at the various points along the route. Peterborough, Grantham, Doncaster, Selby, Howden, Brough and finally Hull. The end of another interesting, historical day for all of us. One to be contempleted, dissected and analysed for years to come.
