I, with over a million of my fellow citizens, marched in London to protest against Brexit. And thus I had to explain to my innocent LittleBear what "bollocks" were, and why there were some occasions when it was OK to shout "bollocks to Brexit" in the street, but there were other occasions, such as at school, where the use of the word but would be less acceptable. I confess that I was a little more vague on the meaning of "bugger". And when I say vague, I completely bottled it and claimed I couldn't quite think of a good way of explaining it at the moment.
I think I've explained previously why I think leaving the EU is a bad idea, and how I think the negotiations should have gone (and I bet my suggestions are better than Trump's "advice"). My views have only become stronger since then, and my views of the current government continue to sink, as they alternate between revealing their collective gross ignorance*, arrogance and incompetence, and attempting to blackmail Parliament with "my deal or catastrophe". So instead of a political polemic, I'll tell you about our day.
I had made a double-sided placard at work, with the assistance and blessing of my right-thinking colleagues. When LittleBear had seen said placard, he put in a bid to add his own addendum, so we completed our three-part placard and were out of the house at 8am.
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| A bonus prize if you can spot which part of the EU is outside the red line |
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| Perfectly designed for a LittleBear to carry |
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| Ready to go. |
We were fortunate enough to be able to get places on a coach leaving HomeTown with the local branch of the Liberal Democrats. This meant that we had stress-free travel to the centre of London, and were conveniently deposited at Marble Arch shortly after 10:30**.
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| Waiting for the LibDem coach |
We then convened with other regional LibDem contingents outside the Dorchester Hotel, including those who'd come down by coach from Aberdeen. They'd set off 10 hours before we had. There were a good smattering of wealthy people with strangely plastic faces and large luggage who seemed unimpressed that the hoi polloi were cluttering up the view from their hotel.
However, the crowd was friendly, chatty, welcoming and kind. LittleBear was made friends with by a great many middle-aged women who thought he was both lovely, but also patient and well-behaved. I glowed with pride. And this patience was required. We waited at the Dorchester from 10:45. 11am passed relatively quickly. But then came 11:30. And 12:00. Not to mention 12:30, and indeed 1:00. At shortly after 1:30 we began to take tiny shuffling paces forwards. Our feet were already tired and we hadn't even started.
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| Hanging with the LibDems |
The march was a very good natured affair, with people hanging from scaffolding and cheering, people leaning out of windows and starting chants, a general camaraderie of strangers getting to know each other. The chants were largely inoffensive, being along the lines of "What do we want? A People's Vote! When do we want it? Now!" There seemed a certain lack of charity in standing behind the "Labour for Remain" contingent and chanting "Wher-ere's Jer-e-my Corrrrbyn?" but I think any protest where the worst is a slight dig at a politician is going OK.
On the other hand, once we set off, and LittleBear and I slipped ahead of the LibDems, past Labour, through the Greens and into a more general area of unaffiliated marchers, I was forced to confront the meaning of a wider variety of chants, as mentioned. Fortunately LittleBear didn't read all the placards being waved, or I'd have had a lot more explaining to do. As I had a rucksack, a placard and a small boy to keep hold of, I didn't manage to get shots of many placards, but here are a few that caught my attention, one for its wild incongruity. I'll leave you to spot the odd one out.
After being on our feet for several hours, my LittleBear began to seriously flag, despite my efforts to keep tanking him up with food, so the time came when I had to start carrying him for short spells. I tried piggy-backing and I tried simply carrying. Neither were much fun. My ribs hurt. My back hurts. My hips hurt. He is no longer a LittleBear in quite the way he used to be. Nonetheless, by 4:30 we'd made it to Trafalgar Square. We'd passed the massive sign thanking us for taking part, and we only had half an hour till our coach left from Temple Place. So we didn't continue to Parliament Square. I have minor regrets about that, but it was clear that by that time the crowds were generally reaching Trafalgar Square and then dissipating so we didn't exactly miss anything.
Exhausted, we stumbled down the Strand, and finally found our way to our coach, on the dot of 5pm. The miracle was that we were then home by 7:15 and I managed to get LittleBear bathed, fed him pizza, brushed his teeth, read him a bedtime story and got his light off at 8pm. I may be more proud of that than of marching...
Having been awake since 5:15am worrying about losing my LittleBear in the crowds, I think I may sleep well tonight. Goodnight all.
* A Northern Ireland secretary who admitted, "I didn’t understand things like when elections are fought, for example, in Northern Ireland – people who are nationalists don’t vote for unionist parties and vice versa.”; A Brexit secretary who admitted "I hadn’t quite understood the full extent of this, but if you look at the UK and look at how we trade in goods, we are particularly reliant on the Dover-Calais crossing."
** Yes, this had meant leaving the house at 8am, earlier than a school day. We managed surprisingly well, considering.
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