April 1st, 2009 11:53 P.M. St. Christopher’s Inn, at the bar, Hammersmith, London
Riot in the city. Theatrics. Anarchists, hippies, spectators. Police getting pelted with glass bottles, cans, baby powder. Trashcans flying through the air, crashing down, spilling out. Dread-locked freaks banging on overturned street cones, pounding bank windows like tribal drums. I sat next to a bonfire in the middle of Chamomile Street and warmed up with a circle of activists while hungry photographers clicked rapidly, some of them clearly marked as “MEDIA”. All of this happening on streets that were virtually empty the night prior.
We met with Carl and his friends at 7PM in front of Liverpool Station. They had already been at the protest. Activists were taking policeman’s hats and tossing them in the air, those goofy British police hats.
Immediately I knew the atmosphere around The City had shifted. We were perhaps a mile from the action when we arrived from the inn to meet the Swedes, but the street was full of freaks. Garbage was piled up, empty booze containers and cigarette butts all around the formerly classy Liverpool Station. A lone female McDonald’s employee faithfully swept the steps which were far enough from the proximity of McDonald’s to be a different person’s problem. The air reeked of “problem”.
We enthusiastically greeted the Swedes and made our way South to the real action. Riot police wouldn’t let us into “The Climate Camp,” a group of activists boxed in by lines and lines of yellow-vested storm troopers. People stood in the streets, the occasional police car or pedestrian vehicle grudging through the freaks. Not being able to enter “The Climate Camp” made me want in immediately. We walked around the block, trying to sneak in the back. After a few futile attempts to wriggle through the Storm Troopers, we headed a bit further south.
There was a four-way intersection, and down at the west end of the road was a particularly rebellious group in front of a line of troopers (the crowd seemed to be following the police at this point). It was a small group, but boisterous, seeking conflict. We joined in out of curiosity and in about 10 minutes there was a massive crowd hissing and jostling, dissing and posturing. Our group had gradually migrated further from the boundary: the intersecting vector between riot control and the crowd. Restless for more entertainment, friction, we moved forward again.
I passed a body lying on the sidewalk and stopped. A pale body on its back and not moving, a crowd of about 5 surrounding it, looking down. In 5 seconds there was a crowd of 10 surrounding it, snapping photos hungrily—feasting on flesh. I stepped up (shamefully grasping my camera in my coat pocket) to see if he was breathing. The middle-aged body was. Its arms and legs sprawled helplessly out like a starfish. Breathing slightly. Moving along.
Glass bottles began flying. A cloud of smoke appeared in front of the riot troops. Tear gas? Panic began brewing. Police shoving people, loud clanging and shattering sounds flooding the street, moving like a human river now and pulsing with fear and confusion, moving in unison like a school of fish. A large bottle full of clear liquid, looking very much like Moltov cocktail flies at the officers.
A huge clang. And now a trashcan flying through the air and several glass bottles. A cloud of smoke appeared from directly in front of the police again. Screaming. The whole crowd ripples like a lake. The people closest turn and run and likewise everyone does, all at once a waterfall of fearful expectation: rubber bullets? Tear gas? Glass bottles explode against buildings and a stampede ensues, ending abruptly but still hesitant, wary, backing off slowly, some people back-peddling to see what happens next: which freak needs attention the most? Which cop is the most hateful? Who will set the bar higher?
About half an hour after his collapse, an ambulance finally squeezed its way through the crowd, but the man on the ground was dead. As the ambulance hauled his corpse away, spectators pelted the ambulance with bottles.
At 7:45 activists are climbing streetlights. Bottles of wine, hard alcohol (Captain Morgan, really?) and all manner of liquor magically appear in peoples’ hands. A helicopter hovers above, the new crews are timid. It feels like something awful could happen any time, as an endless parade of police and riot troops descend like vindictive marching band geeks on a bizarrely polite raid of a city completely taken over by youth, disenchanted by war, capitalism, greed, indifference: and who could blame us for that? But silly humanity, smashing and polluting to protest smashing and polluting. Oh, the pain. Oh, the humour. It’s 5 till 2. The bar is closing. Bye.
April 2nd, 2009 8:17 A.M. St. Christopher’s Inn, Hammersmith, London
The Barely Breathing Starfish Man was pronounced dead on the news just minutes ago. I wonder how everyone’s photos turned out. They didn’t identify the man, but said that he died in the Bishop’s Gate area of “natural causes not related to the protest or police involvement.” Make of that what you will, I guess.
Authors Note: Later in the day (on April 2nd), I gave my testimony of the man’s death to a member of the media. He wanted more than I could give him.
