Time: 6:21 pm, Friday 9 March 1990
Context: [previously classified - original classification level withheld]
|The food ʼere really is dog shit|
She pushes away a mound of grey gloop. From an unappetising menu the mung bean bake didn’t sound too bad, but now she wonders if her insides are petrifying as rapidly as what’s left on her plate. She promises herself that after tomorrow’s much-needed lie-in she’ll walk to her favourite greasy spoon in Camden for endless mugs of tea, extra black pudding and sagging triangles of heavily buttered white toast. This prospect cheers her no end as she checks the time under the table.
On re-pocketing her wrist-watch she gazes around the Anarchist Centre, a title far more impressive than the reality; her pet theory is that its walls would crumble if not held together by all the political posters and graffitied slogans. The place was humming when she arrived an hour and a half ago, via busy Victoria station. However the pubs have opened, meaning most have been lured elsewhere.
She studies the shabby man who has been lying in the corner the entire time, eyes clamped shut and mouth agape. For these chilly premises to induce sleep she can only assume he must have run out of coins to feed his bedsit electricity meter.
Next she sizes up a trio of white rastas, the sole others left on this level. From their actions the two females are trading maintenance tips for their dreadlocks. The third is rolling himself a Rizla while singing to the calypso-infused track pumping from the ghetto-blaster between their positions. His voice gets louder each time he reaches the chorus ‘Stand down Margaret. Stand down please’. Undertaking some swift mental arithmetic, it surprises her that a decade already has passed since The Beat first invited Thatcher to resign. The guy is obviously delighted to finish his alternative lyrics with ‘Stand down bitch’, but she somehow suspects the Prime Minister may decline his request. In truth there’s every indication a further ten years in power is not out of the question, certainly if the government handles its current controversy as clinically as it did the Wapping newspaper dispute; just last weekend for example she saw an Independent on Sunday headline claiming the imminent extension of the poll tax into England is causing near hysteria.
Her musing is interrupted by a familiar voice.
‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?’
Swivelling to observe her contact, it takes a moment to realise the reference is to the teaspoon which she’s absent-mindedly using to autopsy her leftovers.
A pained face lowers itself into the seat opposite her.
‘Hello. What’s the matter with you then?’
‘The 121’s bog wants a very large bomb dropping on it.’
She has to laugh along with the sentiment. This three-storey bookshop, occasional gig venue and general hang-out in the south of the city invariably gets referred to by its street number. And having once been caught short herself, she can confirm that the Centre has one of the worst toilets around.
Glancing back at her congealing plateful she concurs.
‘Yeh. Clearly they keep their cleaning products on the same high shelf as all the gourmet cook books.’
‘Tastes that bad?’
‘Worse.’
‘Well I did try to suggest you should never eat here didn’t I?’
‘I was starving. Had nothing all day.’
‘So did you hear what happened last night up in Hackney?’ she is asked.
As part of her morning reading she has already digested a preliminary report about a fracas in that area. It outlined the smashing of shop fronts and three dozen arrested, though of course she is keen to hear what details the agent can add.
‘Were you there?’ she inquires.
‘Hell yeh. It went right off I tell you. We sat around for ages afterwards in The Pembury laughing about it.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘You should’ve seen it. Coppers being run all over the shop. It took an eternity for them to call in back-up. By which time there must’ve been two or three thou brothers and sisters running amok.’
‘Two thousand?’
She is careful to keep incredulity out of her voice. Most demonstrations are far more modest if rowdy affairs trying to disrupt local council meetings, as was witnessed in Nottingham earlier this month when protestors had hurled foam pies. And on Tuesday a woman acting alone in chaining herself naked to the railings outside the House of Lords had caused customarily sluggish midweek attendance in Parliament’s upper chamber to boom, peers of the realm suddenly remembering matters requiring their urgent presence in Whitehall and even the most doddering deciding on a restorative stroll outdoors. That said, two days ago in usually sleepy Norwich almost two thousand people had prevented councillors from finalising a rate for the poll tax in their area.
‘Easy that many. Probably more’ comes the answer. ‘Fidel, Che, Wolfie Smith, eat your hearts out. The new centre of the revolution is London East Eight and it’s coming soon to a postcode near you.’
Even without her training she would’ve been comatose not to have gauged the excitement emanating from across the table. From her time controlling this particular individual she won’t have to prompt much in order to hear a full account; if anything, she’ll need to interrupt on occasions if she’s to keep the story on track. For now though she whistles to signal surprise at the number mentioned.
‘So what d’you reckon was the trigger last night then?’
‘They must be nuts.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Council. I mean, they’re already aware how worked up everyone is. Then yesterday they go ahead and wind everyone up for at least an hour before finally announcing their amount.’
‘How much?’
‘A monkey.’
‘Five hundred quid? Holy crap’ she exclaims. The figure wasn’t included in the briefing she skimmed through in the office so her astonishment is genuine. ‘Dunno how I’d be able to afford that much.’
‘Exactly. Anyway, a good few of us made it indoors to hear that ridiculous decision. By the time I manage to push out onto the street, word is well and truly out. And people are none too fucking delighted I can tell you.’
She needs the source to provide more than mere colour. Given this escalation has taken place close to the centre of the nation’s capital, she can foresee heightened management interest. As a result her own report will have to include plenty of specifics if she’s to keep a different type of monkey off her back. A shudder passes over her as she imagines her immediate boss heavy-breathing in her ear. Then him doing similar to Toby, an occurrence she sadly gets to witness all too regularly before the blinds get pulled. A thought she successfully dispels by casting out a lure in the hope of catching the extent of yesterday’s violence.
‘A demo in Bristol during the week only got a few hundred. Though apparently that’s enough to create a bit of argy bargy …’
On purpose she leaves the rest of her sentence hanging.
‘Hah! Last night was much more full on than that.’
She is confident her informant wasn’t present in the West Country on Wednesday and is unlikely to have heard a credible version in the short time since. Nonetheless she lets the comparison slide in order to sustain the flow.
‘Before you can blink hundreds more appear from gawd knows where and our friendly local constabulary have no chance. It’s a very thin blue line at this point believe you me. Next thing Old Bill are legging it along Mare Street with all manner of pint glasses and cans raining down on them. Looking back I’m guessing the whole of The Samuel Pepys must’ve piled outside to join in. Then some scrawny bugger I don’t recognise hares past me waving this metal pole, roaring at them like he’s Genghis Fucking Khan. I tell you plod’s pretty dopey at the best of times however those boys can’t half shift when outnumbered and in danger of getting their heads staved in. Anyway, next thing young [Sam - name changed] is up on the balcony of town hall and waving a banner around like he’s bringing in the planes at Gatwick. Bloody hilarious it was.’
‘Oh yeh? Was that Red Action [Sam]?’
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