by I Fought the Law- A Riotous Romp in Search of British Democracy (epub)
Before we left, I asked Dorothy if there was anything else she wanted to tell me, if there was anything specific she wanted me to record in my search for Albion.
‘There is one thing.’ She paused, and seemed unsure whether to continue. ‘I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but during the last twenty years of campaigning over various things, I can see ... I was going to say a creeping totalitarianism, but it’s not creeping. It’s here, and it scares me. We had a protest here in Derby when the G8 met up in Scotland [in July 2005]. The police spent millions on getting extra police for the protest and in the end the scale of the effort prevented lots of people coming because they were simply too afraid. That’s not good for a democracy if people are afraid to come out and express their opinion. We got two hundred in the end, which wasn’t bad. But there was. a cycle ride from the station that day and the police thought some of the cyclists were cycling too slowly so they started dragging them off their bikes and throwing them in the back of police vans. In the paper the next day there was a picture of a policeman and a woman, a protester, standing apart. The angle of the photograph made it look as though they were closer than they were, but you could see from the perspective they were about eight feet away from each other. The headline was PROTESTER SQUARES UP TO POLICEMAN. The only violence that day was when the police dragged people off their bikes. Before the protest the papers were full of stories predicting lots of violence. All the shopkeepers boarded up their shops in anticipation, the little statue in the memorial garden got put in a little box. It was weird, because protesters are always portrayed as being violent now, but it’s not violent extremists who want to protest.
I’m sick of being portrayed like that. We just care about our communities.
‘I’ve been involved with Friends of the Earth for twenty years, and in the campaign we’re running now we’ve got an engineer, a train driver, a gardener, a nurse, a teacher, and I wouldn’t have seen that twenty years ago. I’ve even got a lawyer advising me with the liquor appeals for this development. I think it’s becoming normal to protest and be “radical”, which is probably why the government deal with protest in such a heavy-handed way, to scare away normal people from demonstrating their point of view. It’s becoming mainstream to demonstrate and the government don’t like that. But people have had enough, and that’s one of the best feelings I have noticed since being up here. I’ve had enough too, but now I’m actually fighting and doing something about it. I’m going to carry on fighting. I will not roll over. I’m not going to give up and let this development happen. I just hope lots and lots of other people will start to think, “I’m not going to take it any more” where they live too.’
The media do often portray protesters as lunatics who are violent and dangerous, and we’ve already seen that the government shares that view. Being arrested for eating cakes in Parliament Square may strike you as absurd, but it’s surely also frightening. But is it frightening on a George Orwell scale? From Dorothy’s point of view it seems to be heading that way. Protesters are not weird extremists who don’t fit into our society. My experience with the ones I’d met so far proved that. They were not violent. Angry, yes, but not mindless thugs or, in Jack Straw’s words, ‘evil’. What they were doing was more often than not incredibly sensible and well thought out, if you stopped, listened and actually recorded what they had to say. It’s not that these people are out of place in normal society, it’s that the priorities of society are becoming out of place for the few of its people who are actually behaving like responsible citizens. It is genuinely alarming that things around us have changed to the point where someone demonstrating against a council’s plans to build a huge development on a flood plain can be dismissed as insane. What Dorothy said just sounded like simple common sense to me.
We left Dorothy and headed into Derby’s town centre. Mark had pointed out that now we’d met someone who was standing up against tyranny, it was time to enjoy our other birthright — by drinking beer in the pub.
After a bit of searching, Mark and I found a pub adorned with St George’s flags that looked more conventionally patriotic. We were looking for a pub that seemed in spirit the opposite of Dorothy, in the hope (and in my case presumption) that we would hear a few opposing local points of view about her protest. It looked like the kind of place where fights are seen as just another way to socialize. When we walked in everyone stared at us. They seemed a little anxious about Mark’s pink hat. There were pictures on the walls commemorating England’s 5-1 defeat of Germany in Munich in 2001, and gruff old men propping up the bar smoking impossibly thin cigarettes. I bought a pint of bitter for me and a pint of Guinness for Mark.
We sat down at a small table by the door. The barman asked whether we’d be more comfortable over there, and pointed to another room on our right full of empty tables. We moved, somewhat nervously, next to a man with a shaved head whose arms were covered with England tattoos, and began chatting about Dorothy. I was convinced everyone in the bar thought we were gay, and on the basis of the decoration I’d made another presumption that that wouldn’t be seen as a good thing. After a while a chap standing at the bar came over and asked if he could join us. He was wiry, with black hair and a black eye. I felt even more nervous. Mark seemed delighted. He moved his coat from one of the seats and took off his hat.
The man was called Adam and he worked at the pub. He was waiting to start his shift but had an hour to kill. It turned out that he’d been listening to our conversation about politics and Albion, and it soon emerged that he wanted to be a writer but had given up on doing anything about it beyond deciding it was something he’d like to do. ‘I can’t write. I’m crap,’ he said of himself, dismissively. I asked him what he wanted to write about and he began to tell us about his life. ‘I’d like to write a book about working here, in the pub. I’ve got loads of stories. I don’t know if you can see this’ - he pointed at the enormous bruise around his eye - ‘but my missus did this. She came in with three blokes and they dragged me outside so she could beat me up. She’s eighteen stone! She can punch!’ He started laughing. ‘Then I had to go to court for my lad and I got everything I asked for. She asked the judge for me to have a drug test and I said, “Oh yeah, fine, as long as she has one too.” And then I passed it but she failed! Now I get to see him whenever I like. I always take my lad down the river to feed the ducks and swans, down by that old bus station.’ Adam hadn’t heard about Dorothy’s protest, but he was worried about a development stopping him from taking his son to feed the ducks along the river. I told him to buy a notebook and write down his ideas but he had no faith in himself and just shook his head. ‘No, I wouldn’t do that. It’d just be a load of rubbish.’
I doubt whether Adam is alone in thinking that his thoughts have little value. Being allowed to have ideas is another thing that’s been professionalized now. Tom Hodgkinson, the Idler's editor, wrote a fantastic piece in the magazine about the joy of notebooks: ‘You may feel a trifle self-conscious when you first get the notebook out. You may worry that people will think you have ideas above your station. You may think that the very act of jotting down thoughts in a book implies a sort of arrogance - that you consider your thoughts to be worth jotting down in the first place. Ignore these negative emotions, which have been produced in your mind by years of conditioning by the industrial society, conditioning that says only the experts have got anything to say...
Before long Adam had to start his shift. I told him I’d send him a copy of Crap Towns to read, but I didn’t. I sent him a notebook instead.
By this time Mark and I were half sozzled - only because we hadn’t eaten, I hasten to add - and he was busy waxing lyrical about how real democracy would save the world. He soon caught the eye of another man sitting at the next table who looked over at us shiftily. ‘Are you two politicians or something?’ Mark told him we were not. ‘Good. I’d have beaten the shit out of you if you had been. I was listening to some of the stuff you said, about politics.’ Then he l
ooked slightly embarrassed.
Mark tried to draw him into the conversation. ‘What do you think of politics, then?’
‘It’s a load of shit,’ the man replied, ‘but nobody’s interested in what I think, anyway. I been in prison. I fuckin’ hate politicians.’ Mick (as we soon found out) came over to sit at our table and carried on talking. ‘My sister, right, she’s twenty-one, she’s got two kids and she needs a house, but she was told she can’t have one because they’ve got quotas. They have to house forty immigrants a month and they’re ahead of her in the queue. Now, I grew up in Normanton all me life, and so did she. I’m proud of where I come from. I’m a mongrel, me: my gran was Polish and my granddad was German. Imagine that! But there’s all sorts in Normanton. Of my best mates only three are white. I got black friends, Pakistani friends, Indian friends, friends from all over Europe, and everyone’s always got on fine. I’m proud of Normanton, because it’s where I’m from, but I wouldn’t live there now. It’s been ruined by these Albanians and their fucking prostitutes. I got nothing against anyone coming here if they’re in danger, but they’re fucking taking the piss. There’s no space for ’em. They can fuck off. People born and bred in Derby should get priority over immigrants. But no-one gives a fuck what I think.’
The rage was now literally bursting out of him. ‘I’m no racist, right? How many friends you got who aren’t white?’ I admitted that apart from Prasanth, who I’d only just met, I had none. ‘I’m a mongrel myself,’ Mick continued, ‘but we haven’t got enough down here to start sharing it with immigrants. Now, no-one gives a shit what I think, I’ve been a cracker and I’ve been in prison, and if I thought you two were politicians I’d tell you to fuck off and job on, but if people read what I think in your book then they might listen. So write about that.’
I’m the kind of person who thinks immigration is good for Britain, but at the same time I have to admit that immigrants don’t actually get placed in houses near to where I have always lived. I’m also the kind of person who assumes that people who vote for the BNP because of immigration issues are racist idiots, but if the BNP are the only party prepared to defend these communities from the problems Mick talked about then it’s hardly surprising they achieve electoral success. The poorest places in Britain don’t have enough for themselves, let alone anyone else. Again, it’s common sense.
I bought another round, and Mick told us more about his German grandfather who had suffered terrible racism during the war and for the rest of his life. Mick said that today people would be able to tell he had depression, but he felt such an overpowering sense of obligation to his family that he kept on struggling despite everything he had gone through, first his escape from Germany and then becoming a target of persecution here. His daughter got engaged on her twenty-first birthday; the next day, Mick’s grandfather hanged himself because she was no longer dependent on him for her survival (his wife had died a few years earlier). Mick wanted to know more about where his family came from so I suggested he go to the Public Record Office in London. He seemed intrigued, but soon started shaking his head. ‘Sounds great, but that stuff’s just not for people like me,’ he said.
Mick had a copy of that day’s Derby Telegraph so I began leafing through it to see if it mentioned Dorothy’s protest. It didn’t. The front page was full of praise for Derby’s council instead. That very day it had been awarded four stars by the Audit Commission which made it one of the best-performing councils in the country. The council leader, John Williams, said ‘We’ve put a lot of effort into making sure we do things as efficiently and effectively as possible and this shows we deliver high-quality services when and where they are needed.’ The council was clearly very successful in acting according to the government’s remit. It was the remit itself that left a lot to be desired if Dorothy’s struggle was anything to go by.
After a few hours of drinking and chatting with a couple of facially tattooed lesbian DJs Mark got us talking to, we left and made a dash for the train. By the station we grabbed some fish and chips from a girl behind the counter who, memorably, ‘fuckin’ hated havin’ to touch fish’ and climbed on the 8.02 train back to St Pancras.
Chapter 5. The High Society 'Hoodie'
In 1797, John Hetherington walked out of the shop he ran on the Strand in London wearing his latest invention. As he walked down the road he created quite a stir. Ladies fainted, men booed and a young boy accidentally had his arm broken as a crowd surged forward to see what was going on. Before long, Hetherington was arrested and hauled before the Mayor of London, who found him guilty of breaching the King’s peace and fined him £50 (more than a skilled textile worker or a policeman earned in a year). As he passed judgment, the Lord Mayor condemned Hetherington for ‘wearing upon his head a tall structure having a shining lustre and calculated to frighten timid people’. He was warned that a repeat offence would see him sent to prison.
His invention was a top hat.
In 2005, a sixteen-year-old boy in Portsmouth was given an anti-social behaviour order by a local judge which prevented him from wearing a hood or a baseball cap on his head. After the case, PC Andy Montague said, ‘Some people see baseball caps and hoodies as intimidating.’ Earlier in the year another sixteen-year-old boy from Manchester had also been banned, again using an ASBO, from wearing a hoodie. He was told that if he wore one again within a five-year period he would be sent to prison.
There’s over two hundred years of legal progress for you.
In a speech about anti-social behaviour in 2003, Tony Blair outlined the argument for introducing ASBOs as part of the government’s ‘Give Respect, Get Respect’ initiative. ‘First, anti-social behaviour is for many the number one item of concern right on their doorstep -the graffiti, vandalism, dumped cars, drug dealers in the street, abuse from truanting school-age children,’ he said. ‘Secondly, though many of these things are in law a criminal offence, it is next to impossible for the police to prosecute without protracted court process, bureaucracy and hassle, when conviction will only result in a minor sentence.’27
But not all ASBOs have been given to people committing acts like those outlined above. In November 2005, police threatened Vic Moszcyznski with an ASBO because of the Christmas lights he had put up on his home. Apparently his display was attracting too many visitors seeking the spirit of Christmas. David Gaylor, who had been banned from entering any branch of Asda, was found guilty of breaching his ASBO and fined £50 for sitting at a bus stop he didn’t realize was on land Asda owned. Christine Boswell, a sixty-year-old woman who is partially sighted, was sent to prison after she breached her ASBO by swearing. Eileen Davies was threatened with an ASBO for feeding the birds in her garden. Eileen is seventy-two. Mark Devlin was jailed for breaching the conditions of his ASBO, which outlawed him from riding his bike. Stefan Noremberg was given an ASBO that forbids him from moving furniture in his house if anyone can hear him doing it from outside. Mitch Hawkin was threatened with an ASBO for posting a joke about the Pope’s death on his website. Caroline Shepherd was given an ASBO for walking around her own house in her underwear. Eight months later she was found guilty of breaking the conditions of this ASBO and was evicted from her council home. Roger Trotman found his neighbour’s penchant for parking on a blind corner on his road irritating and dangerous, so he went round to complain and was given an ASBO for his trouble. The five-year restraining order forbade him to go near his neighbour, and he was also ordered to pay £1,200 in compensation and court costs. The council subsequently earmarked the blind corner in question for double yellow lines because it was unsafe to park there. David Boag, a fan of An American Werewolf in London, likes to go into his garden and howl like a wolf. He got an ASBO for that and was given a four-month jail term over Christmas for breaching its conditions. Janice Lee, thirty-seven, was given an ASBO for singing in her own home. Paul Henney was given an ASBO for slamming doors too loudly. Alexander Muat, eighty-two, is not allowed to be sarcastic to his neighbours. So far he has breached
his order three times. Teresa Webb, thirty, was given an ASBO for playing Peter Kay’s version of ‘Amarillo’ too often. In Aberystwyth, a woman was given an ASBO for trying to kill herself thirty-six times by jumping off the town’s pier. If she attempts to go anywhere near the beach or the sea she’ll breach her ASBO and be sent to prison.
It’s a long and ludicrous list, and ASBOs have certainly made headlines, though probably not the ones the government intended. Especially in the case of Paul and Gary Doyle, whose ASBO conditions memorably included banning either of them from saying the word ‘grass’ anywhere in England and Wales.28 Thank goodness these ‘criminals’ are no longer able to evade justice.
Fear of crime is a very powerful thing. Personally, I’ve got to the stage where if I’m ever walking home late at night and I see more than two young people hanging around I immediately become convinced that I’m about to be stabbed. I work on the assumption that all young people carry knives and anyone wearing a hoodie is potentially a drug-addled maniac. One evening in February 20061 was walking home in the dark pushing Wilf in his pram when I came to a railway footbridge that leads to the road we live on. The bridge is caged in, presumably to stop people throwing things down onto the line. Standing on the other side were a group of six teenage boys wearing hoodies, all of whom were mooching around shivering, smoking and swearing. I felt very intimidated, which according to Hazel Blears, the government minister who defined anti-social behaviour as ‘whatever the victim thinks it means’, meant that these boys were being anti-social. I walked towards them with trepidation. When I got within a few feet of them I slowed down, hoping they would move out of my way, and to my surprise they did. One of them leant over the pram and said ‘boo’ to Wilf, making him giggle, and then drew back his head to blow out smoke over his shoulder. I thanked them all profusely for letting me through unscathed and the one blowing smoke said with a shrug, ‘We’re not monsters, you know.’ After that experience I started to look at what the actual risk of violent crime is today. Statistically, our fear of crimc is almost as absurd as our fear of terrorism. According to the British Crime Survey, 73 per cent of people believe crime rates arc rising when in fact they have dropped by 17 per cent since 1999. A third of elderly women feel ‘very unsafe’, but only 0.00025 per cent of them will actually be assaulted, according to The Times.29 And it’s always young people wearing hoodies that they, and we, seem to be most afraid of.