The Riots: A Strong Step Towards Revolution

The 26th March 2011 set a new precedent for Great Britain; half a million human beings, albeit for only 12 hours, retook control of a capital city, installed a very temporary but legitimate people's ruling council, and called for regime change. All this without a UN authorised no-fly zone. Helicopters buzzed overhead like flies surveying shit, and many of us worried about a mid-air collision as they attempted to capture the best footage for the news. Alas, some of them were police choppers, looking for people like me.

The TUC expected 100,000 people. Us grunts on the ground, used to seeing London busy on a Saturday afternoon, estimated half a million. And these people were not here to shop. I arrived early; there was some serious and some less serious business to attend to: from joining the psychedelic Routemaster in Trafalgar giving flowers and hugs, to ensuring our balaclavas were donned before the Forward Intelligence Team arrived and videoed us all for their nefarious databases.

My first taste of this mega-protest was outside Parliament Square at midday; the police, (already barking orders), gave us Kafkaesque directions to ensure our safety – forcing us to take huge detours to get to a street we could almost touch.

They quickly swarmed around our little cell as we loudly protested that we could walk wherever the fuck we wanted, though the truth was, we couldn't. These fluorescent-jacketed servants came along with toys that could damage; pepper spray, lead-weighted truncheons, and tasers. From previous experience, we also knew that these police were trained in “pain compliance techniques” (on the spot torture, basically).

By 12:30, the main body of the protest had already set off from Victoria Embankment towards Trafalgar Square. The mood was jovial, and the banners were on the whole family-friendly. And then the Black Bloc turned up.

They’re not a specific group per se, but a tactic (dressed head to toe in black makes identification from CCTV footage very difficult). I used to dislike these anarchists, I even feared they may be “controlled opposition” or agent provocateurs – they certainly seem to smash the shit out of a lot of banks and fast-food outlets. But after studying their actions I warmed to them and now I’m in full and utter support of their direct actions against the slave-ship. Someone has to do what they do; lest we forget that we are all human beings and that sometimes a destructive act can be the greatest act of love.

I read that the TUC has condemned all the violence. Honestly, I think that their spokespeople are being politically correct. Deep down I think they really wanted to say: “We'd like to thank the black bloc for getting us worldwide coverage; much more than flag waving or chanting could have done alone”.

The Love Police Academy, my personal feudal army, had been planning the day for a while. Our attempts to restore some semblance of sanity to this country were rewarded with a two-man police tail for the entire day. One was rather chubby, and I almost felt bad for him as we ran up and down Regent Street with the oxygen of freedom filling our lungs, but my sympathies were short-lived as one of my spies overheard them commenting on my most recent text messages and phone calls. The fat bastard was monitoring my phone! I guess these were the new tactics the police had been boasting about before the event.

At 13:00 we stormed the Leicester Square McDonald's and attempted to liberate the burger-flippers. Unfortunately they were still Lovin' It too much to join us. Half an hour later we forced the flagship Boots store in Piccadilly Circus to close. Texts began to arrive from people saying: “We saw you on the news!” Those pesky helicopters again…

By 15:00, Central London had transformed itself and I was having flashbacks of my not-so-pleasant time in Toronto for the G20 2010. The Metropolitan Police completely lost control of the area as Fortnum & Mason was stormed and trashed (I’m on TV!) and officers pulled Section 60 (weapons search) forms from their bags to deal with us.

Shortly afterwards, I found myself staring at the front of the Ritz Hotel and howling with laughter. People kept throwing bricks through its windows and smashing the doors in with hammers. By the time we had moved on, the most famous hotel in England looked like it had been squatted for years by a pack of savage and atavistic hippies.

From there, I moved to Downing Street, where I gave a megaphone speech with a kettle in my hand. Moments later I was thrown to the ground by a group of officers. My balaclava was torn off, and my bag was searched. My friends tried to wrestle the police off of me, but to no avail; we'd been caught with inferior numbers and invited their ambush. I told the police that all they would find in my bag was evidence of my revolutionary intent and my toothbrush. In another surreal turn, I suddenly felt an incredible rush of forgiveness for the man in the uniform. We hugged closely after he'd given me back my stuff, his red eyes beginning to dampen with frustrated tears.

As sunset settled in, Trafalgar Square was well and truly occupied and we received Tweets from our fellow fighters up on Oxford Street – the anarchists: the unsung heroes of the 26th March insurrection. I could spend another 880 words applauding their actions, but it’s probably more economical to just say that they well and truly “fucked shit up”.

Did we overthrow the wicked psychopaths in power? No. But what we did do was send a message to those who rely so heavily upon their state-given power. The message read:

“WATCH HOW HARD YOU FUCK US, BECAUSE THIS VICTIM IS READY FOR REVENGE.”

And so we continue. Towards a free Earth. See you all at the next one. Please remember to wear black.

TEXT: CHARLIE VEITCH
PHOTOS: HENRY LANGSTON

For a less political view, go here.

For more photos, go here.