Riots In London

When it comes to authority – especially the police and army, there are limitations. Like most people, I can have an argument with Traffic Policeman, but will tread a tight and cautious line when it comes to take on the others like the Anti Riot Policeman. And likewise with the army - regular Army Man fine, but Red Top, (Military Police) like most sane people I walk away. We walk away because the rationale of Anti Riot Policeman and Red Top is beyond human. Their pattern of thought is, ‘ the baton is their first as well as their last line of defence’.
Back in 80s in England, anarchy reigned. Coal Miner and just about everybody with a grudge against the Conservative government of Margret Thatcher was on strike. And if that was not enough, we students decided to go on strike – something about an unpopular tax called Poll Tax.

Being a student in England in the 80s meant one had to be a Communist, Socialist or a member of some extreme group with a preferred dress code of Doc Martins (a style of footwear that bore a resemblance to the boots Nazi Storm Trooper wore when they swept through Europe in 1940), army fatigues and a Russian army overcoat during the winter.

My English friends would do anything for a demonstration (read riot). If they heard of a demonstration, they just had to be there. They had to be there for the ‘cause’ so they would say. And the cause? To bring down the fascist Thatcher government and all it stood for.

And off they would go armed with placards, rotten eggs, flour and an assortment of other weaponry to throw at Riot Police. Upon their return, some would have bruises, others would be in hospital and other detained in police cells. With that in mind, why go for a demonstration?

But Poll Tax was a big issue amongst the students and the National Union of Students was determined to fight for its abolition through a massive demonstration in London. There was so much pressure to be there that I succumbed and went along.

As the train tumbled into London’s King’s Cross Station, there was a phalanx of police to meet us. It was an overwhelming site to see hundreds of students’ from as far as Scotland descending on London and bewildered Londoners’ scurrying for cover.
And it was to Trafalgar Square that we convened to ready ourselves for the march to the Houses of Parliament. There was an air of apprehension – the unknown and a sense of going into the abyss. The songs that rang out went along these lines: “Down with Thatcher, down with the Tories. Kick the fascist pigs out!” As we chanted the crowd swelled as did Police Man but, they didn’t look threatening enough.

And so the march began. It was peaceful enough that that I wished I had attended earlier demonstrations because it had the aura of a street carnival than a demonstration. As the chanting grew and the crowd continued to swell, the ranks were infiltrated by people who wore ski masks or scarves to cover their faces. They were the Antichrists’ so I later found out, a group compromised of skin heads, fascists, racists and many not so savoury groups. Then the stone throwing started, the kicking in of shop windows, cars being set on fire - basically mayhem reigned.

Police naturally moved in to quell the situation and when they were overwhelmed, they retreated and a huge cheer went up! “Up with the proletariat and down with the imperialist pigs” Student screamed. And from that moment on, anarchy reigned. The peaceful demonstration was no longer peaceful but more of an unwarranted destruction spree.

But Police who had retreated had not really retreated. They had backed off to block off access roads and to channel us down to Waterloo Bridge where Riot Police lay in wait. And onto the bridge we marched and half way down it, Lone Policeman-on-Horseback sat there with a mega phone to his mouth. “You have five minutes to disperse” he bellowed – words that fell on deaf ears and he was pelted with rotten eggs, stones and anything that could be thrown. But he stood his ground and when five minutes were up, he simply raised his arm and that was it. From the other end of the bridge, a ga-zillion Policeman-on-Horseback trotted forward with batons raised and proceeded to beat whoever was in their sight. There is nothing scarier than seeing Police Horse stand on its hind legs as you crouch on the ground ready to be trampled and Riot Policeman ready to follow it up by bashing you with a baton. If that was not bad enough, tear gas filled the air.

Everywhere students screamed in panic. I too screamed – no, I wailed when Police Horse towered above me and showed of its mighty scrotum (the cartoonist Mr. Ras must have been there too for otherwise, where does he get the inspiration to draw animals with big scrotums in his cartoons from?) Apart from screaming, I also peed my pants – something I had not done since my nursery school days.

In desperation to get out of what can only be described as ‘Dodge City’, I think I peed myself twice more that by the time I made it back to King’s Cross Station, I was a mess. And at the station to meet the fleeing students were police vans. And just went I thought the end is nigh, fracas broke out at the far end of the station which diverted the police attention. With that, I slid onto the first train to make the trip back to campus in now very damp and urine smelling jeans.