The student movement has faced a lot in the months since it boiled up. Kettling, violence, negative media, overly idealising media, angry politicians, EDL threats, security guards, bailiffs and snowstorms. But this is the first time a student protest has faced the most british of obstacles: the rain.
The first protest of 2011 got off on a bad start for me; distracted by an infuriating article about new plans to give 14 year olds the opportunity to drop out of academic education because 16 is “too late” to choose a career path, I intelligently managed to miss my tube stop and emerge on Embankment with no idea where to find the group. The “party” for Clegg was taking place outside Lib Dem headquarters in Westminster, so I headed there. Passing Westminster bridge I couldn’t help eyeing it suspiciously as if it might somehow turn around and re-kettle me of its own accord, and briefly taking shelter in the shadow of Parliament against the sheets of rain sweeping down from the black sky, I found myself musing that the building I always looked at proudly as a symbol of democracy was looking rather different to me now. The gates were lightly policed today, unlike last time I’d been there when the building had swarmed with hi-vis jackets and helmets. The high intensity of paranoia that had followed December’s protests had clearly died down.
Arriving at Cowley Street I found no protest, just vans: news vans with harassed reporters sheltering from the rain, and police vans waiting. The entrance to the street was blocked by a metal fence and two bored-looking coppers. Had I missed something? Where was the party? I circled around to the other end of the street, where another two police stood aimlessly in the cold. One appeared more on edge: “do you think they’ll come here? Do you think they’ll try and come this way?” The other, more sanguine: “what if they do? We can get a barrier up in a minute or so, no problem.” I wanted to tell them not to worry. Maybe a bit of rain could do the job the police couldn’t – keep protestors at home.
I exited the warren of streets around Lib Dem headquarters and headed back past Parliament, and suddenly caught the sound I’d been looking for – chants echoing through the rain – “Nick Clegg, we know you, you’re a fucking Tory too!” A gaggle of a few hundred people gathered behind a banner, placards to hand, skirting the base of Parliament. Only once I melted into the small crowd did I notice the colourful hats and party blowers, oddly incongruous among the grey light, soaked protestors and grim-faced policemen. At least four police vans drove after them. Perhaps that intensity of paranoia hadn’t abated just yet.
We reached the entrance to Cowley Street and gathered beside the fence, but nobody contemplated trying to break past it, which was probably a good idea at this point. Instead we burst into a round of happy birthday, which faltered when we reached “happy birthday dear…” Mr Clegg? You Tory? Dear scumbag? You wanker? So many different options of varying politeness that the song fell apart for a moment.
The police made some half-hearted efforts to move us onto the pavement and open up the road, and we made some half-hearted efforts to resist, but nobody made much effort – who was going to be driving down here anyway? One French girl raged “but this is a demonstration, isn’t it? You’re not meant to stand on the pavement and be quiet! This is a demonstration!” Another person called “we can’t! The media are in the way!” which was slightly true. When this was ignored we settled for the simplest argument: “whose streets? OUR STREETS!” People peered out of the headquarters windows and we waved cheerfully at them, blasting our party blowers as camera flashes lit up the falling rain around us.
The chant turned into “no to wars and occupations, spend the money on education”; “what’s wrong with occupations?” someone asked. This sparked a round of “if you cut back our education, we’ll go into occupation!”
Speeches started; a man from the South Bank occupation called out that “we’ve come to show Nick Clegg and the Lib Dems that the fight didn’t finish over Christmas!” Another added “I think we need to be clear that this is not just about uni students, and this fight is not just for education. And this is just the beginning!” A yell of “WE WILL NEVER SURRENDER!” was followed by whoops and laughter and descended into a simple “Cleggy Cleggy Cleggy – OUT OUT OUT!” Which isn’t a very nice thing to say to someone on their birthday.
Someone announced that a Lib Dem member had promised to give our gifts – kettles, as it happens – to Nick Clegg, but was interrupted by a yell of “they promised not to raise tuition fees, too!” A middle-aged black woman stood up and shouted “his party’s cutting your tuition, it’s cutting my housing benefit – I want to give him my kettle!”
Out of the chant a voice said “hey – someone got in!” We craned our necks over the heads of the media, and standing on the steps of the Lib Dem headquarters was a single young man, grinning broadly, a sparkly yellow party hat on his head and a cupcake in his hand. Within seconds, a clutch of police officers had propelled him away out of sight of the crowd.
It occurred to me that the unblocked entrance to Cowley Street was less than a hundred metres away. This looked like something that was worth watching, so I slipped away from the protest and around the back street, thinking as I ran I’m missing the presenting of the kettle so I can find out what the police do to the man with the cupcake and the party hat. The absurdity of this statement did not escape me.
At the entrance to Cowley Street – which was definitely no longer blocked – the man with the cupcake was surrounded by a group of police, posing for a mug shot with the cake in his hand and a mocking smile. It didn’t look like a particularly distressing situation, but definitely one worth wading into, so I did, with the line I’d always wanted to say in a criminal situation: “can I have some cake, please?”
“It’s for Nick Clegg, I’m afraid,” the cake man replied, “but they won’t let me give it to him.” The police appeared to take this as their cue, casting irritated glances in the direction of the interruptor. “What’s your name, son?” “Tom.” “And can you give me your last name?” “I’d rather not.” “We rather want you to. And your address?” “I’d rather not.” “Date of birth, please, Tom?” “I’d rather not.” “So you just want to be known as ‘Tom’.” The policeman grimaced. “No problem, ‘Tom’, thanks for your time.” It was only as the police turned to leave that Tom Rather-Not experienced a moment of worry: “wait. Are you going to keep this on record?” No reply and the police wandered back to scour Cowley Street for any other cake-related malcontents.
Tom Rather-Not and I strolled back to the protest, lamenting that Clegg wouldn’t be getting his (now rather soggy) birthday cake. “How did you get in?” I asked.
“I walked. They asked ‘do you live here?’ ‘…yes. Yes I do.’ It was just me on my own, so… in I go! I wasn’t wearing the hat at the time. There were only a couple of police at the entrance to the street, but there was a group further on. They were watching me so I was thinking, ‘let’s get my keys out…’” Then they moved me on for standing outside a house. They grabbed me and dragged me, and I asked why they were moving me, and they said ‘to prevent a breach of the peace.’ Well, muffins are very offensive foods.”
When we arrived back the crowd were singing “for Clegg’s a jolly good wanker!” which, again, is a very nasty thing to say to someone on their birthday.
Perhaps Clegg would have been more touched by the final speech by a protestor, shouting into a loudspeaker emblazoned with the word RESIST: “our movement hasn’t gone anywhere! Already one university has gone back into occupation!” (oh, SOAS occupation… does that mean we have to, too? I’m going to make the most of my bed for the next few weeks just in case…) “What Parliament does, the streets can undo!”
Or perhaps he’s more disturbed by the polls which put his party’s support at just 7% of the population. In the past year, he’s been through the heady experience of being at the centre of Cleggmania, been handed the power to decide which party to ally with to create a new government, and then found himself one of the most despised men in Britain. It must have been a pretty devestating transformation for him. Of course we need to hound him with the fact that he's betraying the promise he was elected on - because by doing so he's done more to undermine British democracy than the men who dug the tunnels under Parliament: there are thousands of young people who voted for the first time, were ignored, and will never vote with confidence again. But it's not an impromptu birthday party and an intimidating cupcake which will be giving him sleepless nights. It's the fact that he's killed his own party, and is damaging the causes he stands for in the process of scrabbling to squeeze them into his government's agenda. It's time we left Clegg alone, because he's demonstrated again and again that he's pretty much powerless, and focused on the people who are making decisions for him.
The party was starting to dry up; the soaked placards littered the pavements of Great College Street. I wandered off with two girls in leopard-print coats and dyed hair, drama students, who were disappointed with the numbers at the protest: "everyone's saying oh, the internet and facebook are so good at organising for protests. But there weren't that many there today - you need more offline organising." The numbers had been disappointing, only a hundred or so; a flashmob more than a demonstration. But the energy definetly hadn't been missing. On our arrival we'd looked miserable and soaked and the party blowers and hats had looked like a sad joke. But since we'd reached the headquarters, everybody had forgotten about the rain.
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