       London, Anarchy in the UK: 10 days with the London Mob

       by Mitzi Waltz
       
       I have a habit of picking auspicious days to arrive in 
       a place I've never been before. Either a tornado
       watch has got half the town hunkered down in the basement or
       a meteorite just fell on City Hall. So as I left the plane
       at London's Gatwick Airport, I wasn't surprised to see that
       a tunnel had just collapsed under Heathrow Airport, knocking
       out transportation and snarling traffic for miles around
       London.No, I was just glad that for once, I had also picked
       an auspicious place to be in a new city.And also a little
       nervous. One of my bags was stuffed with about 150 pounds of
       radical books and pamphlets, including a number of items
       that I wasn't sure would make it across the border. Not
       being a seasoned international smuggler, the best plan I had
       been able to come up with was to stuff everything in small
       boxes, wrap them, put fancy ribbons on them and attach cards
       with messages like "Here's that late birthday gift! Love,
       Mitzi."Turned out to be a pretty good idea. I breezed
       through Customs, whereas several other people en route to
       the same event didn't due to similar literature (foolishly
       enough, not wrapped in polka-dot paper). Anarchists from the
       U.S. and Israel were turned back at the border, which no
       doubt really sucked for them. Anarchy In the U.K., an
       international anarchist convention billed as "Ten Days the
       Shook the World," was a hell of a lot of fun.I know, I know
       - "anarchist convention." Contradiction in terms and all
       that, right? Actually, they happen all the time. Back in the
       old days, when Emma Goldman and Ben Reitman were getting
       tossed into the Portland pokey for advocating legal birth
       control and suchlike, they were rather formal affairs with a
       lot of speechifying and factional struggles. Not nearly as
       bad as a Communist Party convention but nothing like @UK, to
       be sure.North American anarchists got back in the habit of
       convening yearly in the '70s - the first was here in
       Portland, in fact, a 1978 gathering organized by the It

       alian anarchist artist Pietro Ferrua, then a professor at
       Lewis & Clark. The North American conventions since then
       weren't organized by any party or group, at the end of one
       folks just get together, and some group of people from one
       town or region volunteers to organize next year's. After the
       1989 convention in San Francisco drew 3,000+ participants,
       the consensus was to go regional for manageability. (And
       saying "North American" is really a bit of a misnomer: there
       are always quite a few Europeans hanging around, and since
       the anarchist community in Mexico is pretty lively they'll
       usually send up a few folks. Brazil and Argentina have big
       yearly meets too, although they interface more with Europe
       than with either North or Central Americans.)Conventions are
       a lot of work. They usually consist of workshops on whatever
       subjects people are interested in at the moment, human
       rights in East Timor or self-organizing in the sex industry
       or anarchist education, for example. Workshops might
       facilitated by one or two people or pulled together by
       more-formal affinity groups. And there are generally lots of
       cultural events, gigs, picnics and demonstrations to go with
       the "educational" stuff.@UK promised to be "the biggest
       ever," bigger even than the 1983 Milan convention, which
       drew several thousand people from all over the world and
       deserves credit for revitalizing the European anarchist
       movement. Consisting mainly of members of Class War (about
       which there's more below), the group behind @UK expected
       10,000 participants; I'd say there were about 7,000. They
       announced "500 events at 100 venues," I'd say it was more
       like 300 events at 50 venues. That's still a hell of a lot.
       @UK itself arranged for about 10 halls or buildings to be
       available for the 10 days, pulled together a night of
       speeches, handled the money and paperwork, produced
       thousands of programs, and encouraged other folks to do the
       rest, which they did.How could I miss this? I couldn't - and
       shere's my tour diary.
       
       Friday October 21
       
       I made it!!! Took the train into London 
       through miles of housing projects that looked
       like they were rotting from the inside. Ever seen the Clash
       movie "Rude Boy"? These high-rise hovels made the one that
       was featured in that look like a palace.Transferred to the
       tube at Victoria Station, where warnings about "suspect
       devices" (i.e., briefcases and bags left behind, which could
       conceivably hold a bomb) still blared every five minutes
       despite the IRA ceasefire. Thanks to Rod's impeccably bad
       directions, I got off at the wrong station and ended up
       dragging all those books plus my carry-on up Clapham High
       Street for about 20 blocks. Finally got to my friend's
       house, sweaty and miserable looking. He made tea and
       eventually I felt much better. Then it was lecturefest time
       at historic Conway Hall. This place has been a hotbed of
       radical politics for at least 100 years, and tonight it was
       packed to the rafters for a series of speeches about the
       Criminal Justice Bill. One of my jobs here was to cover this
       controversial piece of legislation for Mother Jones
       magazine. It's hard to say what the worst thing about it is
       - it abolishes the right to silence at arrest, sets up a new
       prison system for 12-to-14-year-olds, revives the "sus laws"
       (which let cops stop and arrest anyone anytime based on
       undefined "suspicious behavior"), lets the cops take
       "intimate samples" from all arrestees to build a national
       database of criminal DNAI I could go on for half an hour.
       The law itself goes on for an entire book.For a lot of the
       people taking the stage in this hall, the effects are likely
       to be very personal. Squatters and anyone behind in their
       rent can be given 24-hour notices of eviction. Travellers,
       these new-agey types who live in caravans and other vehicles
       and roam the countryside selling handmade goods (and
       occasionally dope), have basically had their lifestyle made
       illegal. Raves will be illegal, ditto any political
       gathering or party that doesn't have a government permit.
       And guess what!  : the government isn't going to be issuing
       any, unless you're backed

       by Virgin Records or rallying to support the Tories.Put
       simply, this law is fucked. Ian Bone, organizer of the
       conference and infamous rabble-rouser from those wannabe
       political street thugs Class War, opens the roadshow with
       the most incredible display of apoplectic raving I've
       witnessed in years. He's a good warm-up act. Hell, he oughta
       be a stand-up comedian.And he makes some very valid
       points.The crowd is pumped up and ready for an endless
       stream of speakers representing ravers, travellers, the
       local Black community, the animal rights movement, blah de
       blah blah blah. One of my favorites is "Mr. Social Control,"
       a hilarious comedian who delivers some well-thought-out
       political commentary in doggeral. One piece includes Tory
       leader Michael Howard's home phone number, repeated several
       times. Howard is the point man on the CJB. I see a lot of
       people writing it down. Mr. SC ends his poem with "if we've
       no right to silence, then he's no right to sleep." I bet
       Howard's gonna be hating life tonight - or checking into
       the nearest hotel.
       
       Saturday October 22
       
       Today's the famous Anarchist Bookfair, where publishers and 
       booksellers from all over the UK and a few from overseas 
       come to hawk their wares. I'm happy to see a familiar face, 
       Russell from Seattle's excellent Left Bank Books, has managed to 
       get his stuff in as well.  And I get to meet Fabian of the London
       Psychogeographical Society, which is extremely nice. He's a
       grinning, curly-haired fellow who does very strange research
       linking Masonic conspiracies, royal inbreeding and ancient
       ley lines, among other stuff. He also leads group tours
       pointing out connections between and weird history behind
       places around London and sometimes further afield.The best
       part of the Bookfair is that I sell almost everything, so I
       don't have to tote the 150-pound medicine ball  of a bag
       back that night. This is a good thing, since after the
       ookfair everybody heads for The Sun, an excellent pub with
       several dozen microbrew-style beers. It's all very matey,
       I keep drinking something really strong and spicy from Young's 
       Brewery, some drunken pal of my new friend Becky keeps trying 
       to chat me up, and I'm treated to some terrific singing by a bunch 
       of drunken Welshmen who get booted out.
       
       Sunday, October 23
       
       It's lovely, sunny day - perfect for a picnic at Jubilee Gardens, or 
       for a levitation.That's right - posters all over town and our
       handy little @UK guidebook say that we'll be levitating the
       House of Commons today. My friend and I get together with a
       bunch of people for lunch in the park, then it's off to
       Parliament Square where a crew of tie-dyed and be-
       dreadlocked hippies, punks, travellers and Revolutionary
       Tourists have gathered.There does not appear to be a plan
       for concentrating mental energy on the building, which is
       rapidly surrounded by cop vans. A row of bobbies back the
       crowd off the sidewalk and into the park. This bunch seems
       to be pretty "fluffy," to use a derive term that I'd learned
       the night before. "Fluffies" want to keep demonstrations
       non-violent, enter dialogues with the police, create a
       "positive space," and even identify any riotous
       troublemakers in their midst by spraying them with paint. In
       other words, they're a slightly hippie-dippier version of
       what we Yanks call the "Peace Police." Bor-ing. Looks like I
       will not be treated to a proper riot as promised.So I decide
       to make like a reporter and see what I can learn. One thing
       I discover is that the police vans are full of riot gear,
       and the cops are extremely nervous. Seems that a demo the
       week before had turned violent and a bunch of their brethren
       got whacked (I've seen the leftover Class War posters for
       this one around town too - "Leave your juggling balls at
       home - it's time for some class justice!") A unit on
       horseback is hidden just around the corner, as are two
       groups of soldiers.Juggling balls, and fire-eating, circle
       dancing, rainbow banners and goofy costumes, appear to be
       prevailing over the balaclava-and-bricks crowd here. I guess
       the cops, horses and soldiers will have to be satisfied
       with a little free entertainment and some time-and-a-half. 
       
       After spending a few hours snapping pictures of colorful, 
       fresh-faced kids with posters and explaining the demo to several 
       groups of passing American tourists, I take off, as does most of the
       crowd.[Postscript: there may have been something to this
       levitation crap after all. London newspapers report a few
       days later that Big Ben, which is attached to Parliament,
       has inexplicably moved a couple of centimeters. No
       shit.]Later, I manage to get into an overcrowded showing of
       "Siege of Sydney Street," a black-and-white gangster
       melodrama about a gang of Russian anarchists at war with the
       police, based on a true story. Although I have to watch it
       hidden in the corner with a couple cans of ale, it's lots of
       fun. Next is "The Stuart Christie File," a BBC documentary
       about the English anarchist who tried (and failed) to shoot
       Franco, was imprisoned in Spain, became a publisher in
       London after his release, and was later swept up on
       suspicion of being part of The Angry Brigade, a
       anarchist/situationist-inspired "terrorist" group. Several
       news shorts and documentary-ettes about The Angry Brigade
       were also included. Some of the alleged members and their
       friends were in the audience, and it was fun to hear their
       sotto-voice commentary bout inaccuracies and gossipy asides.
       The documentaries were uniformly cheesy, attempting to paint
       Christie as some sort of evil mastermind even though at the
       time he was living in self-imposed exile on the far-away
       Orkney Islands and doing nothing but writing. Very
       funny.
       
       Monday, October 24               
       
       Today promises to be very interesting. Along with some 
       guys I've met only online, I'm doing a workshop on 
       computer networking for anarchists. Or something like 
       that. We meet up at a place called Culross Hall and 
       on entering the second-floor meeting space discover
       that the interior decorating scheme is, well, eye-catching.
       We're sharing the room with an ongoing exhibit by Homocult,
       a radical gay art collective that specializes in
       shockingly graphic posters and t-shirts decrying the
       counterculture and middle-class gay culture. Lots of S/M
       imagery, dirty words, offensive images. We like it a lot,
       but I'd be lying if I didn't admit that after four hours in
       here I was experiencing anger overload.The workshop goes
       great. There's a huge number of interested people here, so
       many that we set up separate sessions for publishers
       interested in distributing stuff online, people who want to
       network about computer communications projects already in
       progress, and a second basic how-to class. Ian from Spunk
       Press (an archive of anarchist texts maintained on the
       Internet); Matt from Fast Breeder, a cool London BBS;
       various participants with experience and myself keep things
       running amazingly smoothly. Everybody's questions get
       answered, handouts are much appreciated, those who want to
       have a chance for a hands-on look at the Internet and
       BBSing, and we soon retire to a nearby pub for more.
       
       Tuesday, October 25
       
       I start off the day with a walk around the area near Culross 
       Hall, a strange combination of interesting old architecture 
       cheek-by-jowl with more of London's trademark concrete-block 
       public housing. I also make the mistake of stopping in a 
       "caff" for a traditional modern English breakfast - crisps 
       and a scrambled egg-toast-and-ketchup sandwich. The crisps 
       are OK.I've come to the conclusion that the only thing 
       edible that's English is Cadbury's chocolate (infinitely 
       better than the crap they sell in the U.S.), chips (i.e., 
       french fries), crisps (i.e., potato chips) and food 
       cooked by immigrants from just about anyplace else.
       Today there are more computer workshops, and I finally 
       get over to see the exhibit brought in by some Spanish 
       anarchists who've been attending all the computer sessions. 
       It's a retrospective of what's been going on in
       Spain since 1970, very educational and good practice for my
       rusty Spanish skills.Also went to see "The Death of
       Imagination," a strange, three-part dramatic event featuring
       Penny Rimbaud and Eve Libertine of Crass plus another
       actor and some musicians. I'm still not sure what
       I thought about this. It was veryI heavy. From the
       program: "Pt 1) An introduction to the naked flesh through
       the pictures of Auschwitz and the garishly painted Christ of
       the local cathedral who, despite Nietzsche's claims to the
       contrary, still lies at the very root of our cultural
       consciousness."Actually, it wasn't as dire as that excerpt
       makes it sound. It was very personal, obviously painful
       stuff derived from Penny's life, I think putting it together
       and performing it was a cathartic act for him, and an
       interesting thing to see in person. The set was nifty
       too.
       
       Wednesday, October 26
       
       The second beginner's Internet/BBS session comes off OK, although 
       we don't have our demos up since the computer went back 
       to Scotland with Ian. Since everything's done early 
       I set out for Camden Town, where I
       check out an art exhibit by well-known anarchist illustrator
       Clifford Harper and "G," the guy who used to do collages and
       illustrations for the band Crass. It's good art, but there's
       hardly enough of it to call an exhibit. I've been trying
       to reach Fabian and his friend, the infamous Stewart Home.
       Home is the skinhead author of several novels ("Red London,"
       "No Pity," "Defiant Pose," etc.) that revolve around themes
       of bloody street fighting, down-and-dirty sex and in-joke
       portraits of his friends and enemies. Written as much like
       the pulp-fiction masterpieces of his literary idol, Richard
       Allen, as possible, they're a literal laugh riot. When we
       can't connect, I take off for the evening's entertainment on
       my own.The event is Smut Fest 94 emceed by an old friend
       from SF, Jennifer Blowdryer. Ms Blowdryer left the punk-rock
       world some years back for a more lucrative career as a sex
       worker in New York, and had put together one hell of a
       line-up for this.The idea is to present a politicized porn
       cabaret, and featured performers included
       stripper/dominatrix/porn star Danielle Willis (who I vaguely
       remember from her days as a Mitchell Brothers girl);
       necrophile poet Karen Greenlea of "Apocalypse Culture"
       fame; an insane and very
       tall drag queen named Burnel; Tuppy Owens, who's England's
       answer to Susie Bright; and a really gorgeous babe who did
       what was definitely the anti-CJB speech that got the closest
       attention of the entire festival. There seems to be
       something about talking politics while falling out of a
       black-leather bikini that makes people shut up and
       listen.Much attention was given to the Spanner case, in
       which a group of gay men practicing consensual S/M sex were
       busted and jailed recently. The only really boring parts of
       the show were an overly-long gothic "execution ritual" by
       some guy called Phil Adams and a few pieces of mildly filthy
       but ultimately sleep-inducing poetry from William Levy,
       former editor of a "Screw"-style magazine.
       
       Thursday, October 27
       
       Except for turning in that Mother Jones story, I blew off
       most of the day doing some touristy things like getting
       presents for the kids. My friend had company over for dinner
       and we all had a good time eating lasagna and drinking wine.
       And I finally got ahold of Stewart, and made plans to
       meet up. I did meet up with my Spanish anarchist friends and
       we went off to ind the elusive Unity Hall, a "Labor pub"
       somewhere in a neighborhood that I don't think I could find
       ever again. The reason? It was the site of "anarchist quiz
       night," a political variation on the popular Brit pastime of
       competing to answer the most Trivial Pursuit type questions
       correctly whilst hoisting pints. Needless to say, when faced
       with questions like "what was Louise Michel's nickname?" I
       folded pretty rapidly.Simultaneous multi-language
       translation made for lots of hilarity. My Spanish pals were
       also failing miserably, and none of us really cared. The bar
       had good, cheap beer (a rarity in London, let me tell you)
       and weird-tasting chips flavored like turkey and stuffing.I
       got an embarrassing 23 out of 100. But, hey, I bet YOU don't
       know which cemetery Durruti's buried in either, do
       you?
       
       Friday October 28
       
       Went in search of a workshop with some Yugoslavian anarchists 
       but missed it. So  decided to go down Portobello Road, 
       check the world-famous flea market for some cool new shoes 
       and rouse Tom Vague (of Vague magazine). Didn't find shoes, 
       did find Tom, somewhat the worse for wear after
       a night of drinking. At 2 p.m. he was still "not himself,"
       so while he tried to pry his eyelids apart I chatted with a
       slightly unhinged Indian/English girl who had been handing
       around in German terrorist circles for the past several
       years. She was looking for a place in Tom's neighborhood,
       and I don't think he was real thrilled with the prospect.Got
       some copies of "The Great British Mistake," a Vague best-of
       that I had done some copy-editing on, and left with my new
       acquaintance in tow. I finally lost her at Stockwell tube
       station, thank god.And then it was off to find Stew and
       Fabian on the Isle of Dogs. I was really disconcerted when a
       bunch of scruffy brats grabbed me as I left the train and
       insisted that I give them "money for their guy." Being
       culturally illiterate over here, I didn't know that Guy
       Fawkes day was coming up, when people blow off fireworks and
       burn effigies. Kids collect cash to make the "Guys" to burn.
       (Gay Fawkes was a fellow who tried to blow up Parliament,
       often cited on t-shirts as "the only man to enter Parliament
       with honest intentions.")I got lost wandering around this
       depressing former swamp full of, yes, more housing projects.
       Finally found Fabian's place, one of the ugliest and most
       run-down buildings. The kind of place where every floor has
       a security door, and all of them have been permanantly
       jimmied by the residents or thieves. We had a terrific
       evening, probably the most fun I had in the UK. Good food,
       several bottles of wine, and we all talked ourselves
       stupid.Saturday October 29The day of the big Campaign for
       Nuclear Disarmament rally at Trafalgar Square,a and yet
       another let-down for the London police. According to news
       articles that came out later, the police had been expecting
       a phalanx of several thousand hard-core anarchist 
       militants to disrupt the rally and riot in nearby Soho. So
       they surrounded the square with every available officer, police lorry
       and even rented buses full of what may have been rent-a-
       cops. The square, however, was instead filled with peacenik
       college kids and do-gooders listening to blisteringly boring
       speeches by the kind of liberals that make you want to grab
       the nearest shotgun.There were a few anarcho-types hanging
       around, but it was obvious that this was not the place to
       play "Fuck Tha Police" and do some cut-rate window-shopping
       today.The cops had also put the kibosh on a punk gig planned
       for that night at the nearby Astoria. Instead, those of us
       who wanted to get our ears assaulted had to call the club,
       which sent you to another phone number. Your call was
       answered by the terse message "go to King's Cross Station,
       you'll be directed from there," where you eventually found
       the right guy who gave you directions to where someone else
       was waiting, who gave you directions toward a street, where
       we (by now a bunch of us were walking together) were in
       turn moved along to the warehouse space by other people
       skulking in doorways. It was like some bizarre scavenger
       hunt.The illegal gig was overly full, I sure was glad to
       have bought three beers right away because the organizers
       ran out before the first band, Kochise from France, was done
       playing. Kochise had brought a large coterie of extremely
       annoying, very drunk French punks with them. They called out
       the titles of their songs and what they were about in
       amusingly broken English: "thees ees song about zee
       Zapatistas een Mexico! Eet ees called, 'Viva
       Zapataaaaaa'!  "Oh yeah, they got everybody to do a singalong
       to that old Crass chestnut, "Do They Owe Us a Living"
       (chorus: "of course they fucking do!"). It was silly and, I
       admit, I was singing too.  Next up was Schwartzenegger, with
       ex-Crass guy Steve Ignorant and a really awesome female
       vocalist who sounded like a hardcore version of Poly
       Styrene. Her vocals were girly and high-pitched but very
       powerful nonetheless, and from what I could catch of the
       lyrics from my precarious perch on top of a speaker there 
       was some intelligence happening here as well.  Conflict, the 
       headliners, was actually quite
       good. This was their first gig in a long time but it didn't
       show. Very tight and muscular, but not as strong as they
       were when I saw them eight years or so ago. But hey, neither
       am I.The state of anarchopunk in the UK? Looked alright from
       this standpoint.Sunday October 30Went to an "anarchi-
       tecture" lecture at the Calthorpe Project, a self-built
       community center in Camden. This was an appropriate location
       for a session on self-building, complete with slides and
       personal tales. The folks in attendance were mostly older
       anarchists of the hippie-ish persuasion, including a couple
       of architects and some travelers, who exhibited their nifty
       caravan creations outside.Hit a whole bunch of bookstores
       later this afternoon and got stuff for my partner. Can't
       come home from overseas emptyhanded, you know.And I went to
       Smut Fest again, not having anything better to do (yea h,
       right).Monday October 31Went home. What a let-down.I heard
       rumors that this is going to be an annual event, although
       I'm not sure that some of the other organizers will want to
       work with Ian Bone again, since he apparently did a lousy
       job of getting the money for halls and stuff where it was
       supposed to go. I know I had a fun time, I figure it was the
       best way to see London, from the bottom up and with a bunch
       of people actively doing to their best to accelerate its
       destruction. 



































