I'm corralled inside the police kettle surrounding the Bank of England, along with (a police estimate of) 4000 others and, and aside from the equally urgent need to urinate and to return to my desk to file this story, things are fairly great. The sun is shining, the carnival spirit is alive and kicking and the majority of those contained are here to express their views peacefully.
The King Tubby soundsystem provides an open mic for poets and speakers, and the stream of those wishing to speak is continuous. 'Wake Up And Smell The Coffins' is one of the best poems, recited by a chap in a Union Jack hat:
'Are you a human? A bovine, blinkered, battery human?' He screams.
Cheers for the poetry alternate with those for a protester who has impressively scaled the pillars of the bank to attach a banner which reads 'Stop Trading With Our Future'.
The mood here today is excited and exhilarated. Although individual views may differ, the people here today agree in the main that capitalism is not working. '0% interest...in us.' 'Left Is Right' 'Democracy is an illusion' '7/7 Survivor – MI5 did it' are a few of the banners. A yellow, feathered Canary Wharf is being carried around on a stretcher. People are enjoying themselves. Music pumps from the King Tubby system, while metres away outside the RBS, batons are being raised and blood is flowing.
Whilst it may not be metaphorically true that it's the fate of the revolutionary not to see the forest for the trees, in a literal sense the idiom definitely applies. I have no idea what's going on anywhere else aside from brief textual snippets and snatched conversations squatting down so I can hear my phone. Where I stand things are peaceful and jovial. But a brief walk up to the Royal Bank of Scotland reveals the truth of the frontline. A few men in masks push their way through the crowd – heading away from the violence. I follow them gratefully, eager to get as far from conflict as possible. There are smashed windows, thousands upon thousands of cameras and a man with a face full of blood and bitterness. The mounted police soon arrive.
It's human nature to consider the grass to be greener, and at every police line there are people head to head with the men in riot gear, enquiring when they can leave. They plead that they're hungry, desperate for the loo, due back at work. The pleas fall on vastly unsympathetic ears. 'You shouldn't have gone in there then should you?' On the other side of the line, hordes are patiently waiting to see if they can get in.
After perusing every line, it's fairly obvious we aren't going anywhere. Resigned to their captivity, people relax in the sunshine. Gents are gleefully pissing against the bank of England while men in suits look down from a safe distance atop the building.
I head back up to one of the lines to see if I can get out again. They've reinforced them, and the police are now two deep and in full riot gear. I spot my brother on the other side, clutching a sandwich, eager to get into where the action is. 'Hey' I'm waving, shouting. We can see each other but not hear the words. I want that sandwich. 'Excuse me officer. Can my brother pass me that sandwich?' 'You can have it, but don't expect me to pass it to you love.' 'No chance', some of the others pipe up. The three men barring his way make him open the bag. They all confirm it really is just a cheese sandwich. He passes it to one who kindly hands it over. Cheers. A small victory for my tummy.
There's a fair bit of antagonism going on from both sides. People just can't understand the logic of being contained. 'We're keeping you here so you can protest peacefully' says one officer. It follows that if you imprison people they get a bit angry. It just feels wrong. After four hours I really, really want to leave.
How many times have you strolled down Bishopsgate, cut a right, wandered casually past the Bank of England, craning your neck to look up at one of the bastions of capitalism and British prosperity? We live in a free society don't we? Freedom of speech, freedom to protest. Freedom to walk from one street to another, to wander as you please throughout London? The tactics of walling people in don't make any sense. Characteristics of a 'kettle': Boils contents. Renders contents dangerous. Raises contents to boiling point. Things get smashed, people get hurt.
The news of the man who died reaches me after we have escaped through an unblocked shopping precinct. I saw no medics. Walking out the other side of the shopping mall, and I'm suddenly aware that the people around me are the people I see everyday on the tube; wearing heels, carrying shopping bags instead of placards. We appear to have escaped, and wander unprevented back into the real world. Freedom tastes great and we hot foot it round to Bishopsgate where Climate Camp have erected tents and are camping outside the Climate Exchange to protest against the G20's plans to use deeply flawed carbon trading mechanisms to tackle climate change.
It really does feel like Glastonbury. Activists are painting each other's faces, drinking cider, singing. It's a lovely peaceful space they've created and to me it recalls the spirit of Greenham Common. The greatest thing about the camp is the forum for discussion that it's created. There are workshops, everyone is talking about their world views, climate change, their experiences of the day, the state of the planet, what to do. It's an incredibly well organised and intelligent gathering.
Three riot vans are parked down one side of the street amid the tents, engines idling. One of them is empty. An activist knocks on one of the windows. 'Excuse me officer, can you turn your engine off please?' She asks politely. 'I need it for my AC, I'm hot,' comes the reply.
Six riot vans pull up at one end of the camp. We decide to leave while we still can, and five minutes later, after we have scarpered, the area is kettled and the camp dispersed, somewhat aggressively according to reports.
It's difficult to tell what points have been proved by today's violence. What has been shown is just how strong the public anger is. There's no single aim which unites the protesters – except a desire to be heard, to be listened to, to be counted, to be represented. Today is a passionate demonstration of the injustice and discontent felt by the people of Britain, as they march on the streets of our capital.
People are angry after the bloodshed – more angry than they were yesterday. But if the demonstration has politicised a handful more people, made them question the society we live in and the system which rules it then surely it must be considered a success of sorts.
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