G20 and the Pointless People

The start of the month was hyped up to buggery with focus on the G20 summit, and more importantly about the potential disruption that the protestors were expected to cause. Companies in the City of London told staff to dress down, to stay away, and to remain in the buildings if they did venture in to work. Quite frankly, any City worker that stayed at home, dressed down or remained behind closed doors should be ashamed of themselves. They let the rabble win, and a very ignorant two-faced bunch of rabble at that.

Now, I don't work in the City, nor have I any intention of doing so. However, I wasn't going to stand by and let a bunch of whinging so-called Anarchists and Pinko Lunatics take over the streets of London. Plus, I wanted to find out just what these dullards thought they could achieve.

The first people I ran into were from the West Country. They had travelled up to vent their collective displeasure at the 'Capitalismisation' (some fat bloke with bad breath a beard - the children of the revolution, eh - used the word several times, despite being informed it was a nonsense). The country, they told me, had been sold down the river of globalisation by the corporations, and they were prepared to fight very hard to defend their right to opt out of the system. I asked how hard they would fight, and the fat bloke said 'very very hard'. It had gone from 'very hard' to 'very very hard' in a few sentences. These carrot-munchers were hard-core indeed.

I asked if they'd fight to the death. They shook their heads. No, that was a bit too hard. I asked the fat one if he'd fight me, there and then, for whatever cash we had on us. If I won, I'd spend his on porn; if he won, my hard-earned could go to charity. He declined.

I said I was a capitalist. I wanted to provoke him. It wasn't a lie. He still declined. I said his girlfriend was ugly. Again, not a lie. An even uglier blonde girl took offense, and asked why I was in London if I was a capitalist. Everyone knew it was an anti-capitalism protest. I explained that some people did actually live in the place. I don't think she believed me.

I asked Fatty to explain his alternative life style. He said he rejected the corporates, he rejected the Government's right to spend taxes without a common consensus, he rejected the entire capitalist infrastructure. I asked if he had a bank account; he confirmed he did. I asked him if his credit rating was good. It was. When asked if he was proud of that, he smiled and said he was. I laughed, alone.

I asked what they thought about the privatisation of services. They said it was bad. How bad? Very bad, apparently. Bad enough to fight for? Fatty wasn't falling for that, and said it wasn't that bad. However, on a point of principle - let me repeat that - on a point of principle, he boycotted all previously nationalised services that were now privatised. I asked how they got to London. He told me they used the train.

After pointing out the error of is ways, another very ugly woman - who I initially thought was a man - spoke. She had a voice like an angle grinder. She demanded that I explain how they get from the West Country to London without using a train. Should they walk? I offered the opinion that if they rejected the system, and wanted a different way of life, perhaps walking would have been less hypocritical. Ugly jumped in and pointed out that she didn't pay for the trip, as she had an annual train pass. Did Che have one of those? She wasn't sure.

Next, I met a young lady from the International Prostitutes Collective. She wore a badge that read: 'No bad women, just bad laws'. In passing, I mentioned that maybe, just maybe, prostitutes might be better off with the financial industry going forwards. She agreed; it seemed that Lucy had only come because her boyfriend - a banker - had the day off! They'd just come to watch the trouble unfold. Seizing the moment, I asked what was the average cost of bum love in the City's square mile compared to the rest of London. She said she just added a zero to the price. Nice girl.

Next I met a middle aged man who, at first glance, seemed quite sensible. A child of the punk generation, he said he still has 'anarchy in his water'. We had something in common. I too was a child of the punk generation. However, I had passed my anarchy water a long while ago. I asked how he was going to display that anarchy in his water, and he admitted that he wasn't. He'd only come to have a look.

Finally, I spoke to a sincere but very spotty lad who decried the state of the world and blamed everything on the bankers. Banks, he declared, should be abolished, and the barter system should return. The peasant workers would be the true power in the land, not the money-counters. It would be a nation of workers, run by the workers, for the workers. I asked what he did for a living. He was on benefits. Apparently, he'd have to work at least four whole days a week to makes as much as he got on benefits, and he was 'too mashed up on puff' to do that.

'Bankers, eh?' He agreed; they'd screwed it up for all of us!