Trafalgar - sorry, this one's less light-hearted

I've got a bit behind on this blog I know (trying to bring down the government AND get my essays in on time, tiring work) but I really need to post this. If you are a Daily Mail-reading armchair ranter, you obviously know better because you weren't there, so please post and correct me. Do tell me how we deserved what we got, too, oh, and that the below was an enormous waste of taxpayers' money (actually you're right there). Taunting the traumatised is fun!
Anyway, this is What Actually Happened in Trafalgar Square, not sponsored by the Met Police's PR team.

I'm sketchy on times but fairly late in the evening the samba band arrived at Trafalgar square and it was filled with about a thousand people, drinking and dancing, talking and drawing on the flagstones with chalk. It wasn't a protest so much as a large after-party. Most people there were young - university and FE students and recent graduates. I think anyone who'd read the "turn Trafalgar square into Tahrir!" event title would have felt a bit disgusted comparing this to events in Egypt. But it wasn't violent, and there was still an atmosphere of defiance and unity and happy chaos. We weren't so much protestors as post-protestors. The band played a set and were surrounded by a cluster of jumping, screaming students chanting "we all hate the cuts, we all hate the cuts!" along to our drumbeats. Fireworks shot up into the sky at the cresendo of every song.

When we finished playing, the band started drifting away to home or the pub, and I walked over to a group of people I knew on the steps, to catch up and compare notes on the day. I was chatting to one of them when I was pushed aside by a group of around four policemen who dived in and grabbed a masked guy a few metres away from me. People shouted "what are you doing?!" and they responded "he just threw a paint bomb." Everyone on the steps began chanting "shame on you! shame on you!", and people pushed their way forward to grab the arrested guy's arms and pull him away from the police. The minute he was free, he bolted to safety, and suddenly the crowd was surrounding the police officers. Instead of listening to instincts of self-preservation they began chanting "who's kettled now? who's kettled now?"

The difference between police kettling protestors and protestors kettling police, of course, is that police have a large number of mates outside the kettle to help them out. And these mates decided that the only reasonable response to the affront was to clear us out of the square.

Within less than two minutes Trafalgar was filling with lines of helmeted, sheild-carrying police who had been parked just off the square waiting for something to kick off. I ran up to the plaza in front of the national gallery to find the rest of the band; most had gone but a few were left. A line of police advanced, blocking us off from the exit up to Haymarket, and a small group sat down in front of the line with our hands raised chanting "this is a peaceful demonstration! this is a peaceful demonstration!" The police ordered us to get up and move and at first we refused, but when we realised it was turning into a kettle me and two friends decided to get to the other end of the square fast. We leaned over the edge of the balustrade and down in the main part of the square chaos was breaking out. I saw a girl I knew backed up against a wall by a policeman with his baton raised. Another girl, clearly injured, was carried out of the crush by a few police and dumped at the base of the steps, crying. Protestors - they were clearly protestors now, protesting not the cuts but their being forced out of the square - responded by throwing anything they could find. Then another line pushed us out onto the road, out of sight of what was going on. A police line formed along the road, blocking us off from whitehall and charring cross. We were across the road from St Martin's, and a lot of people had gathered on the church steps, not sure where to go. A clutch of police burst out of the line, grabbed a guy in a hoodie, and pulled him back behind the line out of sight. In a moment of calm a girl started hitting my friend's drum and laughing: "sorry, I'm causing a scene!" "There's already a bit of a scene here." "Hmm, point taken!" It was then that some idiot had a bright idea: recycling bins full of empty bottles made great ammunition stores.

It had been dangerous before, but now it was deadly as the bottles flew through the air and exploded in shards on the road. A small group of seven or eight people stood down a side road, throwing the bottles overarm towards the police line. Everyone else was diving from place to place, trying to avoid the violence but not wanting to leave - we all had friends trapped in the middle of the chaos, and we were outraged at being driven from the square. A rubbish bin was burning. We saw another friend on the steps of St Martin's, and ran to join him.

This is the really controversial bit and I will accept a tiny possibility that I misread the situation, but it seems extremely unlikely. The people on the steps were not throwing anything, they were observers, wanting to get to safety but not sure they could, wanting to check their friends were OK. I didn't see anything thrown by anybody on the steps. The sensible thing for the police to do to do would have been to push us out towards the national portrait gallery, or even to kettle us - fine.

That isn't what they did. Instead a line of police pushed us off the steps into the firing line. In effect they forced us to stand between them and the bottle-throwers.

If it was really a tactic to try to stop the violence by the use of effective human shields, they failed miserably. Neither the police nor the kids throwing bottles really gave a shit if people got caught up in the fight. We made it a few metres before pressing ourselves up against the railings; I looked up, thinking I was safe for a second, and saw a bottle falling towards us. I just had time to think "50-50 chance which one of us it's going to hit" before it landed and shattered less than a foot from my head. I felt shards of glass land in my hair. Time froze for a second and then my friend shouted "RUN!" and I pelted up the road until I was out of the firing line. Seconds later my friends joined me. The bottle-throwers were trying to build a barricade out of recycling bins. An old man standing in the crowd shouted "why don't you go join them then? why don't you fight with them?" Tourists, Londoners and commuters were dragged into the chaos and had to run back when they realised what was happening.

From then on it was a mess - advancing groups of helmeted police and TSG pushing us aside or charging us every few minutes, and in the moments of calm desperately calling around everyone we knew in the square to check we weren't leaving anyone behind. Most people just didn't pick up their phones. At one point we were baton-charged and had to race up the Strand a few metres - luckily my friend who was carrying a heavy drum was out of the way at that point. A few minutes later another squad of police dived in to arrest a man, kicking my friend to the ground along the way. A man on crutches, knocked down onto the concrete, struggled to stand.

We were debating whether to leave or to stay and try to help people when my friend looked at her phone and screamed "run, we have to run, NOW!" She'd had a text that a line of police were about to block the Strand off, leaving us without any exit. We dived into a shop doorway with another ten or fifteen protestors to avoid yet another police charge and when we stepped out, the Strand was blocked. Police started their old routine: "you can't go out here, the exit is over there." "What, where the RIOT is?" Exhausted and furious, we started with the standard response "but we just want to go home. We just want to leave." The commander evidently took pity on us and said "let these guys out. Just let them go." We collapsed out onto the Strand. Just a few hundred metres away, people were sitting in restaurants, and drinking cans of cider on the street, enjoying a normal Saturday night.

What happened last night was the definition of escalation. We provoke the police. They respond disproportionately. Some of us respond peacefully, sitting with linked arms in front of the police line - some of us stupidly and brutally with glass bottles. The counter-response catches us all up in the cycle of violence. All this started with one paint bomb.

"we're going on a Hunt hunt!"

The opportunities inherent in Jeremy Hunt's name are just too good to miss. And no, I don't mean an easy rhyme (CUlture secretary huNT? for god's sake, what an irresponsible posting) - I mean that it's inevitable that someone will eventually suggest that we Hunt Jeremy. And in this case the suggestion was made in the form of a Facebook event entitled "Operation TBC."

By the time we gathered in the drizzle at the entrance to SOAS, Operation TBC had already attracted a lot of quiet controversy - everybody weighing in pointing out that organising on Facebook was stupid and a good way to attract police attention to ringleaders and anyway, didn't somebody want to, um, say what the protest was actually ABOUT? Not that the secrecy had any effect at all after the SOAS SU president emailed the plans out to the entire school anyway. But secrecy has become a bit of an automatic reaction these days.

But perhaps we didn't need to be secretive; perhaps it wasn't expected that we'd want to pay Hunt a visit. After all, he's not to be held responsible for the cuts; he's the nice, safe, friendly culture and media secretary. And perhaps he would have had an unmolested evening if he hadn't been thrust into the centre of the controversy over Rupert Murdoch's takeover of BSkyB after an old friend of ours, Mr Cable, said some unwise things to journalists (hint to all politicians: please keep saying unwise things to journalists). And maybe he would have been able to finish his speech uninterrupted if he hadn't decided to have secret meetings with Murdoch's son. But, ce'st la vie. We should probably be slighly miffed at the idea of one man having full control of vast swathes of the British media - what would happen to all the politicians saying unwise things to journalists?

Hurrying from SOAS to LSE, we dropped into a newsagents to collect a selection of Mr Murdoch's finest newspapers, though without an entirely coherent plan of what to do with them. Or even exactly what we were going to do, full stop. Beside me in the newsagent's queue, a leading member of UKUncut rolled his eyes and remarked that "if I'm not banged up by the end of this week, I'll be so happy." Ex-occupiers from SOAS, LSE, UCL and Slade looked worriedly at their copies of the Sun, and the first person ever to have been arrested in an action against the cuts debated whether to buy an out of date copy of the Times. I wondered if the shopkeeper had noticed that much of the heart of the student movement had temporarily swarmed his shop.

By the time we reached LSE, that was what we were - a swarm of around a hundred students. Unfortunately, a rather lost swarm. Perhaps it's a brain game for the economic geniuses of LSE to try and find their way around their own university, or perhaps it's their way of conferring a sense of inferiority on the lower classes of students from the other London universities. Either way, how to get to any one building of LSE is a closely guarded secret. With cries of "well, this isn't conspicious" we circled the campus a few times until finally we spotted the New Academic Building - a construction which looks like the sort of place you go to sign up for secret medical tests - and faced the reality of Not Really Having A Plan. But we did have leaflets, newspapers, megaphones, and excitement. So we went for the old standby of when you don't have a plan - just walk in.

With the receptionist's nervous "um, security, a large number of students have just entered the building" echoing after us through the shiny lobby, we rushed down the stairs and reached the doors of the auditorium where Hunt was addressing an audience with suits and tickets. There we faced a  deadly problem: stewards. There's something about a handful of young eager t-shirted stewards with walkie-talkies that's infinitely more offputting than a battalion of TSG. We resigned ourselves to blocking the entrance, chanting and making speeches. For a second we faltered on the choice of chant; any obvious rhyme with Hunt would be, well, just too obvious. Someone suggested "minister for culture, Tory vulture" and we were so busy admiring it that we barely noticed an intreguing-looking corridor that seemed to scream "back entrance." Or at least most of us didn't. But as a steady stream of people did, it became inevitable that we'd just... take a look?

The door at the end of the corridor was open, and suddenly we were in the hall and in the words of one protestor: "oh, it's Jeremy Hunt - mint!"

Unfortunately at the centre of the swarm I couldn't make spot the Honourable Member's face, but it was best described by a UCL student as "I... look like I'm trying to appear amused but really I'm very deeply disturbed..." We let the chant slide so that Aaron (the UKUncutter and Daily Mail favourite) could ask the obvious: was Hunt really able to be a neutral arbiter in the decision over BSkyB? His question was met with boos from the audience - one can hardly expect an audience at LSE to be open to any sort of disruption - but claps, too. The question went unanswered. A steward asked us to please stop chanting - "this isn't a football match!" Aaron tried again: "are you able to be a neutral arbiter? We implore you, answer us, and we'll leave you to it." And it was then that Hunt delivered the answer that will no doubt be immortal in the annals of British political history: "yes, I am." And an audience member called us inarticulate. We remained in place for a moment, hoping for a slightly more detailed response, but the startled minister seemed to want to leave it there, so we marched out and let them get on with it with cries of "we are everywhere, Jeremy! Get used to this! From now on it's not business as usual!"

Outside we milled about for a moment arguing about the merits of the chant "tory scum, here we come" - "we have brains from the best universities in Britain, surely we can come up with something more imaginitive?" "it makes people think we're going to kick off, you should have seen Jeremy's face when we started chanting it" - and the conclusion we came to was to go to a pub. Outside a woman approached us, French and smartly dressed, and enquired if we were "the people who alleviated the boredom." We guessed we were and she smiled broadly - "thank you! You were the most interesting part of the talk! He was so complacent, just... performing. You get deja vous when you hear politicians speaking." So nice to know we improved somebody's evening.

Time came and went and the ending time of the event passed. It was time to go out and greet Hunt as he left but there was a slight problem; nobody knew where he was going, how he was leaving, and whether he was going to be smuggled out quietly through a back entrance. But never mind that. Slightly tipsy, brandishing our copies of the Times and the Sun, we set off on a Hunt hunt. Someone was fairly sure they'd identified the car he arrived in, so we went to search for it - and there it was, caught at a red light on Kingsway. A few people dived into the middle of the road to stand symbolically with the newspaper in the car's path and then... realised it wasn't Hunt after all. This was getting silly. Someone heard that he was attending a drinks reception afterwards ("student union bar?"); someone else started singing "we're going on a Hunt hunt, we're going to catch a big one". UCL occupation's Ben strolled up to a reception desk and asked the bemused, amused receptionist "excuse me, we're looking for Jeremy Hunt. He's a minister. You'd probably be able to spot him, he'll be flanked by security and look a little bit evil." The farce descended to the point that people were peering into recycling bins: "are you hiding in there Jeremy?" At this point we collectively realised that this had just got too silly, and left the dark and scary right-wing maze of LSE for the world outside.

It didn't go down well with some of the audience. It was unplanned, and mad, and ended in a blast of hilarious stupidity. It was also the first time I genuinely felt the student movement was back on track. Operation TBC might not quite tip the balance towards a freer media or nicer Tories, but we certainly manage to make a rather obvious point: if as a government you really want to cut funding to universities, you probably won't get a quiet evening if you decide to visit one. Are we really able to be everywhere? At least within the university of London? Yes, we are.

Cupcakes vs the state

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.

We resolve

Some time close to midnight on the last day of 2010 it occurred to me that this was the last way I'd have expected to see this year ending. A year ago, I was at a house party shooting silly string at people. This year, I was standing on Westminster bridge with my arms around an 8-metre roll of cloth that was the result of two days work, scanning the crowd for the friends I'd hatched this ridiculous scheme with, and counting all the ways this could go drastically wrong.

But then this had been a rather unpredictable year. At the close of 2009 not many people were comfortably saying "oh yes, 2010 will be the year that sees the start of an unprecedented assault on public services, riots in Westminster, the transformation of Britain's most progressive mainstream party into its most hated, a wave of sit-ins and the political awakening of an apathetic generation, and the poking of the Duchess of Cornwall with a stick."

Personally I'd never have imagined spending 8 hours sitting outside a police station awaiting the release of a friend arrested for aggravated tresspass, getting removed by security for trying to ask the Higher Education Minister a question, standing in the constituency office of the business secretary with gaffa tape over my mouth, accidentally occupying the tory party headquarters, living in a function room in my university, playing samba in the middle of a riot, taking part in the court case "SOAS versus 'persons unknown'", forcing entry to the British Museum with one of my lecturers, or kettled on a bridge for two freezing hours.

But this was what had happened and this was the only appropriate way to end the year. We'd fought, apologised and cajoled our way to the edge of the bridge, climbed the barrier, and were poised for the moment of midnight except - oh no. My friend was picking her way towards me, panicked. "Where's the third one? There's one missing!" "I don't have it! I don't have it!" I yelped, then looked down at the second bundle of cloth at my feet. "Or, um, i do." Further down the bridge, another friend was attempting unsuccessfully to hold an 8-metre stretch of cloth by both ends at once, while yet another was unable to do anything except crouch to avoid blocking the view of an angry group of Hungarian tourists. This was a farce. Then voices were chanting "ten! nine! eight! seven!..." It had all gone wrong - until a middle-aged woman in a sequinned hat climbed the barrier to join us and take one corner of the cloth. A group of Indian tourists who a few minutes ago had been shouting at me took hold of the edge, and a twentysomething British couple in hoodies grabbed yet another stretch of cloth. The same thing was happening to my friends further down the bridge - suddenly we had more than enough people. We raised and shook out the cloths and a 24-metre banner unfurled itself - finally- along the edge of the bridge, reflecting the fountains of fireworks off the words "WE RESOLVE TO DEFEAT THE CUTS."

Yes, so it was crumpled and probably unreadable from a distance, mostly ignored by photographers whose attention was distracted by the rather spectacular fireworks and for a minute or so actually read "WE RESOLVE THE CUTS", but considering the complete idiocy the operation had descended into over the past few hours, it felt a bit like a victory. Our new year's resolution - the new year's resolution of tens of thousands of students across the country - was spelt out in metre-high letters across the Thames.

So it seems a fair time now to begin chronicling our attempts to keep that resolution. My student journalism career may have died the night I was dragged out of a tent by security guards along with the people I was supposed to be neutrally reporting on, but it's still my natural instinct to turn up to demos with a samba drum in one hand and a notebook and dictaphone in the other. The plan is to turn this blog into a record of the actions, protests, sit-ins, meetings, flashmobs, strikes, gigs, disasters and successes of the anti-cuts movement. Hopefully blended with a little ill-thought out political commentary and the chance to give other activists and protestors the chance to tell their stories. Yes, it will be crumpled and probably unreadable from a distance, and you won't find any neutrality here, but I'd like to make this a chance to show a slightly different face of the student movement than a masked teenager smashing a window.

Considering how 2010 defied expectations, I'm not going to try and put forward any predictions for 2011 and the events I'll be writing about here except: total mayhem.