Capitalism and Cappuccinos
During the days leading up to the 24th November 2010 the same facebook event notification was received by thousands of teenagers and students across Bristol. “Student protest, 11am, Senate House” was the only information we were given, but it was enough to spark our imaginations.
The teachers were generally supportive, a certain Señora even adding solemnly that this was the “oppurtunidad mas importante de vuestras vidas”, the most important opportunity of our lives. Rolling our eyes, we agreed that, like us, they were simply relishing the idea of a few hours out of lessons.
The day began as any other; drowsy shower, devoured shreddies, a frantic search through my wardrobe for something acceptable, and out the door clutching an apple and a hairbrush. But out of the corner of my satchel was poking a yellowing corner of old wallpaper, a hint that today I was no longer your average 6th form student, but a political campaigner straight out of my As history textbook. The banner had been painted the previous day on my kitchen floor with the help of our enthusiastic decorator, and my friend and I had printed our witty-yet-serious slogan in thick red lettering. Although the tones of Farrow and Ball “coral reef” slightly reduced our credibility, we still felt pretty revolutionary.
Quickly agreeing that at the first sign of violence we would leave, and to stick together, we stood and left the common room at 11.00am sharp. Commenting sarcastically on the poor turnout of our particular college compared to the 200 from Redland Green rumoured to be meeting us at College Green, we marched bravely towards Park Street.
The press leapt at the chance to reinforce the stereotypes of the younger generation, displaying images of fluorescently-tribal painted children in school uniforms gesturing obscenely, or worse still, bespectacled students holding complex placards under the headline “politically minded, 15 A*s, but still just as annoying”. And to be fair, we encounteres many of both, yet the majority were simply young people trying to be heard.
The violence of the later riots caused mixed reactions at school, with most simply angry at the cruelty towards the horses. The words “but they were just doing their jobs” rang out across the corridors in response to rants against the police, whilst others were hasty to boast of the heroic blows they had dealt.
Although a small minority, these adrenaline seekers caused intense “political debates”, and for several weeks talks of the XFactor, Christmas and curfews were cast aside. Instead, the common room buzzed with an unchartered subject, and words such as “Tory”, “capitalism”, “coalition”, and “revenue” were flung from table to table. Suddenly the longer you could talk about cuts and fees, the more the listeners gathered, and we decided politics wasn’t all dry legislation and international relations. And anything that interests young people in current affairs can’t be all that bad.
So, despite the tutting and head-shaking of newsreaders and parents alike, the first few hours of that crisp November morning were spent with good-intentions and pure childish excitement. Yet after several hours passed cheerfully marching up and down Park Street, I began to feel my enthusiasm waning. I was still outraged at the unnecessarily sudden way the new laws were being introduced, I still felt wronged, but more importantly I hadn’t had any lunch. The first of several fireworks aimed at a nearby police horse, together with a fresh pang of hunger, was enough to persuade us that we were done.
Our banner now torn to shreds and illegible, we turned and began the long trek to the nearest cafe, swapping tales of the day. Truly relieved to have our coffees, heating and comfortable chair, I decided the day had been worth the sore feet and possible detention, but that maybe one demonstration was enough. At least for 2010.
