There must have been a few police chiefs slapping each other on the back after yesterday’s protests. We marched quickly and efficiently through every one of their check boxes – tick! – until finally corralled in an area pre-fortified for minor skirmishes. The constant sirens of police rushing to keep up with action beyond their control were entirely absent. We didn’t detour, turn round, or even just take our time. The march was the police’s, they controlled it. A demoralising feeling. The UfSO had hastily planned to have a mobile conference on private and public space. It never materialised, perhaps because it didn’t feel right, there was no time, we just kept marching to a policed rhythm. We need to think about this. We need to make sure it doesn’t happen again. With that in mind, what follows is what I might have said yesterday if things had gone differently. Given the hurried, arse perspiration of yesterday’s march, today it must be read as only aspirational.
Turf War/Class War
I will take a brief moment to say a few words about space. Brief, although there is no need to rush, even when flanked on all sides by the pig headed, fuck faced bouncers and bodyguards of Capital. Instead, we should take our time. Take our time back from those who have always already stolen it from us, who marshal it back at us as the measurement of labour time in the abstract. We should loiter, hang around, hang about, vagabond and vagrant, comfortable and at home in the streets. After all, it is not us whose guts churn when we watch the news and see life returning to these squares and lines. Decolonizing the sterility of space, making it fertile for the bacterial formations of collectivity, life, love, friendship. Little Diddy Davey Cam Cam would hide under mummy/Maggie’s dress and try to crawl up into her bourgeois interior if he came face to face with just one of us in the street. Our family is in the streets. We belong in the streets. We are energized and enervated by our feel for this place. We know its alleyways and shortcuts. We know where to run, which places are good to defend, and where to attack from. The elite must hurry from interior to interior, afraid of the outside. Afraid of us. Class war is a turf war, we need to be on point.