29 October 2015
Red City
A gentlemanly kettling
by J.R.Thomas
It is not often that your correspondent gets the chance to go out on assignment (those who think the American Presidential election run-up is being covered from an hotel room in Washington DC are sadly mistaken). But on Wednesday night last week the company Oyster card was nervously proffered and your reporter, with notebook, pencil stub, and soft hat, set off to the latest field of conflict.
At 6.15pm sharp, in light rain and a deepening dusk, he found himself in the zone, with two implacably opposed and angry forces separated by only the thinnest of barriers and two lines of charming policemen.
Charming policemen? Well, yes; this was the City of London and the City of London Police Force is not drawn, it seems, from the type of recruit taken by the Met, or other large urban forces; indeed the City Police seem to have an esprit d’corps more akin to an old fashioned county force than an urban one. Police officers in the City still patrol the streets on foot, or on bicycles, or even on horses – usually in pairs.
And on Wednesday the City police had turned out en masse, reinforced with some Met colleagues, to supervise security for the Lord Mayor and Corporation of the City of London’s Guildhall dinner for the President of China, Xi Jinping, and his wife. These events are rare indeed, and a great honour for the recipient, who is usually some serious big wig whom the City Corporation wishes to honour and sees the possibility of making lots of money from. Currently none are bigger wigs or seen as a greater source of trading opportunities than the leaders of China. Hence the President’s visit to the UK last week, and the remarkable round of pomp and circumstance to which he and his wife were – well, “subjected” is the word that comes to mind, assuming that, as egalitarians and Communists, endless white tie banquets, carriage processions, and being conducted about by Lords Chamberlain and Lords Lieutenant to the sound of military bands is not much to their taste.
Not only was the handbook of pomp heavily consulted and followed to the finest point of coat-tails and decorations, nothing was allowed to offend the President’s sensibilities. The collapse of the British steel industry, where some 3,000 jobs were lost in an unfortunate piece of timing in the week the President arrived, brought to its knees by imports of cheap Chinese steel, was touched upon by Mr Cameron. But not too forcefully, and, as the President said, there is worldwide over-capacity in steel and China is having to cope with many issues in her own steel production. Human rights in China were little alluded to – although Mr Corbyn may have said something in his private audience. If he did, the President’s insights on a radical socialist in tailcoat and white tie addressing the most powerful left wing leader in the world have, alas, not been recorded.
Not everybody wished to be as circumspect as British political leaders though. That is the reason why your correspondent was by the Guildhall, waiting for the President to arrive on a wet Wednesday night.
“Tibet or Chinese Government?” the constable politely enquired when I got through to the first line of barriers – the police having divided Gresham Street into a series of little pens, the way Lakeland sheep farmers do when bringing their flocks off the fells for shearing. The Tibetan side was much quieter, (many drums and klaxons being warmed up on the Chinese side) and the barrier had a nice gap to lean on; also the Chinese supporters were carrying enormous red and gold flags on what appeared to be long sections of scaffolding pole; the thought of literally been pole-axed tipped the decision to Tibet.
Tibetans have much to learn about demonstrating in western streets. A good half of the crowd had decided to make their point Buddhist style – by sitting and praying in silence. The rest, more western this part of the crowd but predominantly female and/or older, were holding a long banner asking Xi Jinping to free Tibet. A man with an elderly loudhailer sporadically broke into shouts: “Tibet!”, the crowd responding “For Tibetans”. And “Xi Jinping!”, reply: “Go Home!”. At the other end of the pens the Chinese supporters – mostly male, young and in blue suits –responded by sounding their klaxons and beating their drums. Perhaps not a sophisticated response, but one pretty effective in silencing everything else.
Then, much activity among the police in the demarcation zone between the two groups. Lots of officers walking back and forth, many looks of concern. Finally an Inspector approached the loudhailer man. “Sorry to do this, but we have just measured the gap between you and the other group; it should be 50 yards and it is only 48. Could I trouble you to get your colleagues to move back a yard or so? Then we will push the barrier back”. An outbreak of klaxons 48 yards away confirmed that the police were being entirely even handed about this. Much shuffling of barriers; the crosslegged silent praying group standing and moving their prayer mats back, then resuming their vigil.
A roar from the crowd of bystanders. Some part of the pen system seemed to have gone wrong. Into the neutral space came two immaculately tied and tailed men with their ladies (one allows for the modern possibility that it may have been ladies with their men, of course), and a Boris biker with a yellow warning bib. They all made for the entrance to Guildhall Yard but were hastily captured by a couple of constables and led out through the barriers.
City workers came, paused, and went. A rumour went round that the President was running half an hour late, but the police presence, to a man, claimed that they had no information on any timings, forecast or actual. The regimental drummers and pikemen of the Honourable Artillery Company appeared from King Street and marched into Guildhall Yard, a relic of the struggle for English freedom in the C17th welcoming a C21st dictator. Several police Range Rovers and a plain Ford Transit van drove into the yard. A group of police motorbikes, passing and repassing each other in formation, heralded the arrival of a royal Rolls Royce – so fast that there was no chance to see the occupant (the Duke of York, the police officer nearest said). Then, even faster, two ancient Rolls Royces, well known in the City – the Lord Mayor and Sheriff. Should they have been there before the Royal Duke?
The rain stopped. The chanting restarted. Much drumming and shouting and klaxon sounding. The Tibetan ladies leaned lightly above their banner and looked serene. But the heart seemed to be going out of it. The chanting stopped. The City crowd was thinning, though more and more police officers were arriving. Did this herald the President’s arrival? The pinstripe type standing next to me opined that the President had been in the Ford Transit and we were all wasting our time. A female amplified voice from the far line, crowned by waving red and gold banners, started: “China, China, China!”. “Out, Out, Out!” came immediately from the Tibetan crowd. This continued for a while amid much laughter until the female voice abruptly fell silent – somebody on her side perhaps having pointed out that ironic humour was not the foundation of the people’s revolution.
Then, just as we were concluding the Transit theory might have been right, there appeared another set of police motorcycles, weaving and whistling around each other; followed by a fast moving cavalcade of people carriers with blacked out windows. Klaxons and drums hastily deployed, shouts of “Free Tibet”. But the procession and the President were in Guildhall Yard and the barriers were closed.
The two opposing campaigning groups resumed their vigil. The police chatted to each other. And the remaining crowd dispersed to City wine bars and tube stations.
