So, the three of us took Wednesday off work/school to join in with The Greatest Mass Working Class Demonstration Against The Iniquity Of Capitalism Since The Jarrow March/ 'A Damp Squib' (delete as appropriate depending on which newspaper you read). It was a resounding success as far as I was concerned, right from the mid-morning moment when I stepped off a strangely deserted Metrolink train and somehow located Charlotte and Frankie in what looked like half the population of the metropolitan area gathered under the Hilton Tower (the plan had been to rendezvous via mobile phones, but we had reckoned without the tin whistles and the Police helicopters). In unseasonal sunshine we set off along Deansgate, where legal functionaries in shirtsleeves peered down on us from office block windows, coffee cups in hand, inscrutable faces masking either solidarity or disdain, it was hard to say (although there could be no doubting the standpoint of the unseen person who had tacked to a second-floor window a sheet of A3 pilfered from the photocopier and handscrawled with the jibe 'Why Should We Pay Your Greedy Pensions?'.
That was a one-off though- the only moment of real discord. More telling I thought was the reaction of the shoppers-well-heeled ladies with expensive coiffeurs and Marks and Spencers bags- who lined the pavement at the Albert Square Christmas Markets. Maybe one in ten were applauding us as we past. I acknowledged these admirers from across the class divide with a wave, imagining myself to be Lech Walesa, or perhaps a competitor in a bizarre urban walking marathon where the prerequisite for entry was a pair of Doc Martens, a beard, or a banner bearing the Unison logo and a pithy handwritten cri-de-coeur (such as 'It Wasn't the Blood Banks Who Got Us In This Mess', or 'We've Really Had Enough Of This Now).
The final stretch of the route took us up Oxford Road, under the Mancunian Way underpass where the tin whistles were momentarily drowned out by old-fashioned chanting ('They Say Cut Back We Say Fight Back!' 'Cleggy Cleggy Cleggy! Out Out Out!'). We finished with a rally in Whitworth Park, where resounding oratory emanated from the bandstand. We had taken a short cut so nabbed a seat at a picnic table just in hearing range of the speakers. Our arrival- or more accurately, the simultaneous arrival of approximately 10000 other people- came as a palpable shock to the pair of Middle Eastern gentlemen already at the table, who until ten minutes previously had been enjoying a peaceful mid-morning chat. A pair of nurses from Oldham came to the rescue, taking the space at the side of them and launching into a patient explanation of the context, starting with Edward Heath's battle with the miners, taking in Norman Tebbit's Father's Bike, and ending in George Osborne's Autumn Statement.
The Middle Eastern Gentlemen, who by now had no choice but to join in, given that they were wedged into a sturdy Council-built wooden picnic table on all sides by possibly militant public sector workers, nodded politely and made appreciative noises at appropriate-seeming intervals. Meanwhile Frankie spread out on the corner of the table his own handwritten banner (inspired by coverage of the build-up to the action on BBC Newsround, ie not by seven years of gentle brainwashing from me, honest) which read 'Leave My Parants Pension Alone, Stupid Govermant!). Passers-by stopped to admire the sentiment, with not a single primary school teacher among them taking the opportunity to correct the spelling- an omission that would be no doubt seen by Michael Gove as testament to The Inherent Failings Of The Comprehensive System and Further Evidence (As If It Were Needed) of the Need For Free Schools In Our Inner Cities.
A half an hour (and another half-mile walk, it's a hard day's work, this striking) we were in the 8th Day cafe by the Student Union (it's a workers co-operative you know!) where we celebrated bringing global capitalism to its knees with a pot of tea made (I would be in no doubt) from certifiably ethically-sourced tea leaves. Which certainly made a change from scootering through the Westside Rush-hour in the freezing cold after a day of meetings. Do you think we can do it every week,or for six months solid, like in Spain? Come on Brendan Barber- let's finish what we started; never mind the Autumn Statement (whatever that is), let's have an English Spring. Or just a Manchester Spring, I really don't mind. Altogether now: 'Cleggy, Cleggy Cleggy!....'
Good on you. I went along to my local hospital in the rain to applaud the damp but vigorous strikers. Then I came back to listen to the news coverage - how strange it was that the frenzied riots that the government predicted at Heathrow customs hall never actually happened...
Posted by: ISBW | December 05, 2011 at 05:19 PM
I caught the tail end of our strike - an affair characterised by the use of vuvuzuelas (I always find that word somewhat rude to type, half way through, before it swings back into reassuring Zulu or whatever language it's from), which did get a little formulaic at times, but never mind, it was very well-mannered, the police were quite relaxed about everything and for Lancaster, it was a fantastic turnout of about 1000, which is good going.
I expressed my solidarity with the strikers by joining a couple of them down the pub afterwards, which had this wonderful party atmosphere of teachers, mainly, making the most of a free afternoon.
I am pleased to see the courtesy shown to the Middle Eastern gentlemen, who have probably never been so politely kettled before.
Posted by: looby | December 06, 2011 at 11:26 AM