A March Saturday

Beware the ides of March (what a strikingly banal (that’s oxymoronic, and you know it is!) phrase to be so often quoted…it just means beware the middle of March.  As if the rest of the year is free from political intrigue and the threat of violence…)

On the bus to London (I’m not calling it a coach – I’m still working class, OK?), we are relaxed, and enjoy a spirited discussion about the difference between 3/4 time and 6/8 time.  Our expert witness settles the argument, but doesn’t quite end it…(Thanks, GrayDog).  Ah, open-ended academic arguments….remember when they seemed important enough to bother with?

I haven’t been on a march for a while.  A long time, come to think of it.  Help us out, Saint Jude…
We’re meeting friends here; they’re on the phone.  “Don’t worry, we’re a middle-aged, middle-class white couple in blue – you can’t miss us.” Ha ha.

I don’t love the EU.  I do hate Brexit and almost everything about it.  Both as a compound noun and a political clusterfuck (how’s that for a compound?)
As usual, I am conflicted, ambiguous, ambivalent. 
What I think about this cannot be summarised in 140 characters, a long facebook post, or a 20-second voxpop interview.  (If I could, it would be something like: “’Brexit’ is a grammatical and political turd; an ugly act of violence perpetrated by an ill-informed, angry public, at the behest of a few dozen extremists who have been granted an unjustifiable level of attention for years, and proved surprisingly adept at using it, seizing their moment with a combination of luck and ruthlessness, some of whom are retrospectively honest about their frequent massive dishonesty.  So, pretty much politics as usual – but leading to an unusual level of unpredictable upheaval which will affect more than the usual victims.  But mostly the usual victims.  But that would be 594 characters. Not including this bit.  Or this bit.  Or this bit.  Or this bit. Or this bit. Or this bit. Etc.)

So fuck off, journalists.  I’m sick of you clamouring around me for an easily-digestible opinion, a poem about the prime minister, or a new album.  Leave me be.

This is not the first demonstration I have been to, but it is the first one I have ever been on time for.  It is also the most middle-class demonstration I have ever been anywhere near; that quinoa will have to drizzle extra virgin oil on itself today.  That’s part of the point of all this: these times are dragging out more than the usual suspects.  Because they are hurting more than just the usual victims….still, unless someone punches a police officer, or gets arrested for pissing on a war memorial (both highly unlikely), it probably won’t be on the news.  But no one gets their news from The News any more anyway, do they?

So, there will be no Black Bloc, no Usual Suspects, no bottles thrown at The Cops.  In fact, there will be so little hostility to or from the Police, it hardly seems like a protest at all….there is a fella selling whistles, though, so…let’s steal all his whistles and throw them down the drain, I suggest.  No takers.

I am used to standing in a crowd and agreeing with no one else in it on 99% of any/everything, so I think I’m prepared for all this, emotionally and intellectually.  (This is the sole benefit of my university education.)
I am also familiar with the knowledge that 52% (or more) of the electorate disagree with me violently about any/everything that matters, and are angry about every/any opinion I express, no matter how reasonably.  (This is the sole benefit of my comprehensive secondary education.)

It’s not that I’m getting old, it’s that I was born old, and I’m growing in to it. 

But this isn’t about me.  (Well, this is, obviously, but the arguments, the important stuff, really isn’t.  Or, at least, not for anyone who isn’t me.  If you get me.)

This gathering will not be ignored, because this number of middle class white people caring about something enough to march through London is still a big deal, politically.  It’s a bitter irony, don’t you think?  It fits the narrative for both sides (people like narrative these days, don’t they?)  The gathering contains a lot of people who, in the popular imagination (the narrative, if you will.  (I’d rather you didn’t.)) have been living in a bubble and don’t understand that lots of their contemporaries are more racist than them.  Which would be true of us, if we’d never been in a pub.  Or a workplace.  Or a school.  Or a taxi.  Or known any white people.  Or been anywhere in public at any time in the last hundred years.  Or ever seen a newspaper. 
(Seriously, if it were possible to live without ever encountering ill-informed prejudice and lingering bigotry, I know lots of people would be inclined to try it.  Some have and will surely be disappointed.  (Would it be different than just hanging around with people who broadly agree with us, like most people tend to?  (Yes, I’ve heard of Facebook – and I know that makes it easier to try it, but…does it really exist anywhere, even online?  Perhaps I am an unusually curious person disinclined to agree with anything/one, or seek to insulate myself from distasteful opinions…..but I don’t think so.)))

I’ve got no flag.  There’s not a flag in the world in which I would drape myself.  Not of a supranational alliance of countries, nor the country in which I was born, nor the one where my parents were born nor the one where my great grandparents were born, nor any I like, any under threat, any currently threatening, any to which I have been to, or to which I have not been.  Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel, as Samuel Johnson may or may not have said.  (It doesn’t matter which, in case you’re wondering.)

I’ve got no sign.  There are not many examples of wordplay I would wave around on a placard, and today will see thousands of piss-poor efforts, alongside a few good ones.  If I did have a sign, it would probably feature the phrase “No. Fuck off.” In every language of the EU.  But that would require a level of effort and planning that is just not idiomatic for me here and now…

There’s “Hipsters 4 Justice” – and my favourite (so far) says simply: “Tut.”  Mmmm, that’s good satirical self-awareness. There’s also a man who enters from a side street, carrying a gold crocodile, and joins the march for a while, whether he wants to or not.  That would have been simultaneously hilarious and freakishly disturbing, back in the day…

But by far the best sign of all says: “Boris Johnson was sent by Christ to get the UK out of the EU and fulfil biblical prophecy”.  This seems totally genuine – it’s held by a man resplendent in orange and green, who gets bewilderment and cheers – in equal measure – from passing marchers.

Also, these are part of my legacy of proper protest from years ago.  Others include my general distaste for entry-level protesters coupled with my anger that there aren’t more people here (it’s like living in a tourist town, I expect).

Once again, this is about lots of people who are not politicians or journalists politely asking the political and media classes to be a bit more honest and a bit less harmful to us.  (In the old days, I’d have said, Fuck asking politely, let’s tear shit up.  I never like to agree with the prevailing wind, so at this moment in our political/cultural “development”, I do not say this.)

One of my problems with the “debate” about immigration is that it is dominated by the idea that it is inherently a problem, and mostly a problem of resources.  I overhear someone defending EU citizens in the UK and the “contribution to society” they make/have made.  I understand the argument, but it’s cheap, at best – the person making it is shadow-boxing with an imagined squawking UKIP shoutsman who is complaining that there isn’t enough healthcare or houses to go around, so it must be because there are too many people here, so last in, first out.  The problem with this is that we shouldn’t let the right frame the debate – especially when they’re not even here. 
It’s not really about what contribution people make to society, wherever they’re from; it’s about the right of everyone to live where they want, because no one is illegal and the very best kind of border is no border.  If we accept the idea that people are allowed to live in a country based on their material contribution, why don’t we kick all those who don’t pay tax?  You know, like old people, children and huge corporations.

Also, the fact that all the bullshit people talk about it is referred to as a debate, by anyone with a straight face, is tremendously disappointing.

This being a traditional march-from-one-spot-to-another-through-a-cordon-of-police-to-a-public-square-near-parliament, it ends with loads of speeches made by people whose opinion I could not give less of a shit about.  One of them is the current leader of the Liberal Democrats, and another is a former leader of the Liberal Democrats.  Fifteen years ago, I think I would only have gone to throw things at either person.  People change.  Unless they’re the current or former leader of the Liberal Democrats, in which case they stoically – even obstinately – stay the same. 

Naturally, I agree with some of what I hear, with the important caveats that a) I don’t agree with anyone about anything in any depth, b) there’s always some kind of common ground (humans are complex), and c) however much we agree on certain specific points, I do not see things the way any of these people do.

So, why did I go?  Well, why does anyone protest or complain about anything?  Partly – sometimes mostly, occasionally entirely – to say “No.  Fuck off.”  It’s probably a more considered way to do so than voting for a jump off the white cliffs of Dover.  But I’m all middle class and middle aged, so I would say that.  (Look at the amount of italics in this thing!)  It’s probably because I live in the bubble of The Metropolitan Liberal Elite who run the media and the government and are spoilsports and won’t let people shout racial epithets at footballers or smoke in pubs.  And yet, curiously, rarely, if ever, seem to get the electoral victories which should be a foregone conclusion, given their supposed dominance.  Strange that.

Another reason to go is to live up to my belief that Everything We Do Matters, something I have been telling anyone who will listen and a lot of people who won’t, for a long time, and in many forums.  Nothing in human relations is inevitable. 
“Bit late isn’t it?” is the most frequent, most fatuous, and yet the most cogent criticism of the march.  (Apart from mine, obviously). 
But it misses the point, which is “No.  Fuck off.”

Even if leaving the EU is unavoidable, there is still a lot of very significant stuff yet to be decided – a lot of it is up to all of us, whichever way we voted.  So, probably worth getting it on the news…
Once again, it falls to the governed to civilise the government.  It has been done, it can be done and it is being done.

People who are alive and consuming media in “rich” countries in this era are the most marketed, polled, surveyed and surveilled people ever.  Everything we do is noticed.  Especially if we are white, middle class and middle aged.  (It’s a naïve and comforting thought that this can be used against the cynical marketing teams who dream up policy to sell to the rest of us.)  Probably worth using that to say something, to be somewhere, that might count.  If it doesn’t….well, we have a few pints and a chat about it between ourselves, in the pub afterwards, and discuss it with rowdy, friendly, opinionated strangers – and drink pints, and smoke fags, and everything.  Just like working class people do!