The experience of using London transport has significantly changed over the last few weeks. Apart from the long delays because of the workers being in semi-strike mode all the time, the stories you overhear from your fellow passengers are far more colourful and action packed.Heading to a comedy gig in one of the student-frequented boroughs last week, I looked up from my free copy of the Evening Standard to see a boy who more closely resembled Harry Potter than a Revolutionary regale his fellow students with tales from the front line of the Tuition fee protests:
“We were kettled”, “They planted the van there on purpose”, “It was peaceful and the police got violent first”, “I’m going to the march on Tuesday”.
Fully aware that he was getting looks from the older folk he raised his voice to deliver the story. A lady who was following the “report” asked for the definition of kettling, which was delivered in very precise terms by a one of the girls in the group.
Kettling is: “A police tactic for the management of large crowds during demonstrations or protests. It involves the formation of large cordons of police officers who contain a crowd within a limited area. Protestors are left only with one choice of exit or are completely prevented from leaving.”
So it’s nothing to do with tea then? The lady said in response and the whole train carriage burst out in spontaneous laughter.
“If a police officer has two kids can he afford the £9.000 a year tuition fee proposed by the government? Why are they even standing against the students?” said a man with hands that looked like they were used to manual labour.
“It’s their job I suppose”, he said answering himself. “A man’s earning ability can motivate him but it can also be used to tame him”.
We all looked at each other and then back at the students. What were we doing about this re-structuring of society? Where was our voice?
"Well, I think you’re doing great", said the man with the rough hands getting up from his seat.
“Don’t worry about the police van. I’ve paid for it with my taxes. If my grandkids go to University, call it my gift to you”. He put his hands in his pockets to shield them from the cold and got off at the Kentish Town stop.
