Friday, 1 March 2013

Rod, the undercover copper---

http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2013/mar/01/rod-undercover-police-officer-friend

How I met 'Rod', the suspected undercover police officer

'Rod' was such a nice bloke - and appeared to be a committed activist. I couldn't believe he wasn't one of us
Rod Richardson
A picture of 'Rod Richardson' at the 2001 protests in Genoa.
I remember the evening vividly. It was April 2001, and I was walking across the complicated system of roundabouts at Elephant and Castle in south London to meet a group of fellow activists in a bar at theSouthbank. We were a group of anarchists, environmentalists and anti-capitalist protestors who were having a planning meeting for a May Day demonstration which was only days away. It was a balmy spring evening, and the sense of mounting excitement was palpable.
At these big meetings you'd see a group of your friends and gravitate towards them. These were people you shared a strong affinity with – people you'd been on big European protests with, who you'd put yourself at risk with, maybe even been arrested and beaten up with. These were people you trusted implicitly, and with whom you shared a strong bond.
When I arrived, one of the first people who grabbed me in an embrace was Rod. We had only been friends for a year or so but in that time shared a lot of intense experiences, living as we did in an environment of strong camaraderie and full-time activism. We had both been around various anti-capitalist groups where we had occupied buildings, worked together on actions, travelled around the country together and enjoyed long drinking sessions after protests. He would come and visit and we would have meals together; he would sit at the table with us discussing ideas and strategies. It wasn't until after he vanished without a trace in 2003 that I became suspicious that "Rod" wasn't whom he claimed to be, and that he may have been an undercover police officer.
At the time I was involved with various protest groups and was prominent on the London activist scene. Having grown up in Yorkshire I had been politicised by the miners' strike, and in the 1990s had been involved in protests against the criminal justice bill, environmental campaigns, squatting, and anti-capitalist actions against financial institutions in the City. The disparate groups that formed the "anti-capitalist movement" shared a sense of anger and indignation at the way unregulated markets were wreaking havoc on the environment globally. We believed that casino capitalism was the reason why so many people were living in poverty, and as an extension of this saw squatting as a political strategy to provide a practical solution to the crisis in homelessness.
As an artist, I was involved in symbolic street protests against the monarchy that were an attack on the British class system of privilege and hierarchy. The discussions we were having then, on the wealth of a ruling elite, have become even more pertinent 10 years down the line – the arguments we were having about the City, the banking industry and environmentalism have become standard points of view for a significant section of the British public. We discussed traffic disruption, guerilla gardening and, on one occasion, wheeling a guillotine around the Tower of London – we were not terrorists. Actions such as stopping the City,reclaiming the streets and transforming urban space in order to question the system we are living in is all work I still stand by politically.
After Rod's sudden disappearance, I began to thread together the disparate moments that had raised some suspicions. In 2001 we begun small meetings in my flat to discuss the logistics of blocking the Elephant and Castle roundabout to clog up a main artery into the City. Rod was a regular visitor, and even stayed the night there on occasion, most notably the night before the May Day 2001 protests. His reason for doing this was that he lived up in Hertfordshire and wanted to be in central London for the first actions of the day. Around this time, my flat was raided by the police – this seemed disproportionate when what we were actually arrested for was flyposting. We were held overnight in police cells, where even the duty sergeant expressed surprise that someone being held for "graffiti" would have their home raided.
When I was released from the police station at 5am and made my way back to the flat, it looked as if it had been burgled. They had ransacked everything. Getting a "visit" from the police is a violation – they had trampled through my bedroom turning everything over, ransacking cupboards, drawers and wardrobes. After they had gone I started to wonder if the phones were tapped.
On another occasion a friend and I went to Norwich to meet up with some people we had recently met, to discuss working together on some anti-monarchist actions. When we arrived at the house for dinner, which was a small affair of about eight people, I was really surprised to see Rod there as I wasn't aware he had any connection at all with these individuals or Norwich in general. I remember asking him how come he was there, and him being slightly affronted by the question. He shrugged and said he had been invited. It was the flash of discomfort on his face that triggered my suspicions. It just didn't seem right – there was a total sense of disconnect about his presence there. There were other things too, such as his claims to be an artist activist to explain sometimes bringing a video camera to actions. Strangely, none of the films he claimed he was making for Indymedia ever appeared there, but we now know who the real intended audience was.
Reflecting on it now I can't help feeling gullible, but at the time it seemed aggressive and paranoid to challenge every activist with a camera. Also, my feelings were just that – "gut feelings" are not enough to accuse someone of the worst thing you could ever accuse a fellow activist of being.
Later that summer I went into a deep depression. I thought that I was experiencing paranoid delusions in thinking that my phones were tapped and that people I had developed close friendships with might be police. This fear that the state might go so far in violating privacy, involving itself in the closest relationships and invading homes, made me nervous and anxious. For a few months I was a wreck, unable to really talk about it for fear I might seem completely unstable.
Ten years on, "Rod" is now suspected to have been an undercover police officer. It is a disturbing thing to read about, to know that the name we called him may actually have belonged to a baby who died at two days old.
Such an infiltration affects you psychologically, and impacts on your relationships with other people. It makes it more difficult to welcome new people into your friendship group. Politically, it's easy to see how damaging it is: the movement can't function if trust between activists is eroded. When a network is riven by accusations and suspicions, organisation and practical actions become an impossibility.
The weirdest thing of all is that I liked Rod a lot – he was such a nice bloke, always smiling and a good laugh in the pub. He appeared to be a committed activist, not afraid of breaking the law, challenging police lines and subjecting himself to, and in some cases instigating, difficult and dangerous situations for the sake of our collective principles. He never, to my knowledge, tried to initiate any kind of intimate relationship with anyone in the scene, but came across as genuinely decent and friendly. He left behind an odd floating feeling akin to grief, with questions left unanswered and a sense of betrayal and loss.
If I saw him now, I would for an instant expect the smile and the warm embrace, because I haven't adjusted to the idea that the entire friendship may have been fake. I am still deeply confused by the whole episode. There is an element of me that wonders if he experienced confusion as well. It's hard to accept that all those feelings of kinship and affection, those familial bonds that form through full-time activism, were perhaps a sham. If Rod was indeed misguiding us all along, surely feelings of revulsion and guilt must have shivered across him when we called out to him in that stolen name.
• This article was amended on March 1 at 3.30pm for legal reasons

 ..for legal reasons this article was amended to say 'suspected, perhaps, may have been' etc but there is compelling evidence to support all these claims http://www.theguardian.com/.../rod-richardson-protester...

Wednesday, 13 February 2013

Greil Marcus review of Savage Messiah



Greil Marcus review of Savage Messiah.

Laura Oldfield Ford, Savage Messiah (Verso). From 2006 through 2009, Ford produced the issues of the fanzine collected here: hundreds of pages of text, maps, bland drawings of vague faces, and cumulatively riveting photos of architectural detritus—roads, graffiti, housing blocks, filthy courtyards, storefronts, overgrown building sites, almost all of them utterly depopulated—chronicling a long walk through the back alleys and abandoned patches of a London remade through Thatcherist and New Labour gentrification and the evictions and new constructions of the looming 2012 Olympics. Read straight through, Ford’s work is the most convincing follow-through there is on the project of poetic urban-renewal inaugurated by the situationists Guy Debord, Ivan Chtcheglov, and Michèle Bernstein. In the early ’50s, they and a few other young layabouts began an exploration of Paris as a city that ran according to its own backward-forward-spinning clock, where a drift down the streets might so scramble time that 1848 would exert a stronger spiritual gravity than 1954. In places Ford echoes Nan Goldin’s The Ballad of Sexual Dependency, her slideshow of sex and death in bohemian New York in the 1980s, and the cityscape in Andrea Arnold’s 2006 film Red Road, where in a decaying Glasgow foxes dart around the base of apartment buildings that are corroding from the inside, almost as strongly. On any given page, Thomas De Quincey, from his 1821 Confessions of an English Opium-Eater,might be holding Ford’s hand: “I could almost have believed, at times that I must be the first discoverer of some of these terrae incognitae, and doubted whether they had yet been laid down in the modern charts of London.”
Number by number, Savage Messiah is a delirious, doomstruck celebration of squats, riots, vandalism, isolation, alcohol, and sex with strangers, all on the terrain of a half-historical, half-imaginary city that the people who Ford follows, herself at the center, can in moments believe they built themselves, and can tear down as they choose. The past is a shadow, an angel, a demon: most of what Ford recounts seems to be taking place in the ’70s or the ’80s or the ’90s, with the first decade of the twenty-first century a kind of slag-heap of time—of boredom, enervation, despair, and hate—that people are trying to burrow out from under. “1973, 1974, 1981, 1990, 2013,” she chants on one page. “Always a return. A Mirror touch. A different way out.” “Queen’s Crescent is the nexus of knife crime, a flashing matrix of Sheffield steel,” Ford writes in Savage Messiah #6, “…suspended somewhere between 1968 and 1981, and I sense my darling there, on the corner of Bassett St. and Allcroft Road. I’m searching the brickwork with dusty fingertips for the first Sex Pistols graffiti of 1976. He was here then, and possibly now, we drift in circles around each other”—and answering herself on the facing page: “In the fabric of the architecture you can always uncover traces and palimpsests, the poly-temporality of the city. As I lay my palm flat against the wall I grasp past texts never fully erasing the traces of earlier inscriptions.”
The aura of a mystical quest hovers over even the most sordid incidents, the ugliest photos of belongings piled up at the foot of an apartment block. John Legend’s “Ordinary People” is on the jukebox: “And all the guilt I harboured, all the shame, the walk around Highbury with so much hanging in the balance, tyranny of choice and the crashing cruelty of desire, it was all locked into that one anodyne song.”
             

original article here


Friday, 11 January 2013

ELEPHANT AND CASTLE///// BERMONDSEY---1985//2001//2012- PART ONE,,,,, ---




St.George the martyr.
A tramp cracks jokes. Jim Davidson 1981.
Beyond the tobacconists and apothecaries of Tabard Street the damp construction of another yuppiedrome; scaffolding spines and the bright faces of imagined tenants.
Ghosts of Marshalsea, marker pen scrawls across the hoardings. “DEBTORS PRISON OPEN SOON”.

1985//2001//2012 . Aylesbury Estate.  The end of a three month bender , a series of destructive episodes. I remember needing to escape the sultry heat of the flat,  to walk out of that block and leave that whole life behind me. Trinity Street and Merrick square.  Drifting through shady Regency enclaves I sensed escape routes emerging in the blackness.
The Dental Factory. Squatted social centre,  holding it together, scavenging, signing, bunking up for comfort in that dusty hive. That was where I first noticed him, possibilities radiating in that first glance, a euphoric moment suspended,  waiting to be realised in the sparkling Autumn. 
Bailiffs at 6 in the morning, rubber plants and kit bags scattered across the pavement.  Belway Homes. Craters of dirt, faux Georgian new builds on that site where denture moulds were hurled at JBW thugs.
Always a return. Mirror touch. A different way out.

52 Beckett House,  Austin Osman Spare’s Alaphabet of Desire carved on powdery walls. Erasure and repetition, the ego at the brink of dissolution. “We are what we desire. Desire nothing and there is nothing you shall not realise’.
Dense showers of sigils oscillate and shimmer in the abandoned council flat.

England .
Black Horse Court.  George crosses and wooden scaffolds, fences built on communal lawns.
50s Estate pub. A fragment of PIL’s Death Disco glimmers for a moment before dissipating in a wall of fruit machines.  Treasure Island, Rainbow Riches ,Cashino.   Luminous 777s,  acid greens and glowing oranges.

I sense the River Neckinger beneath the paving slabs, the queasy toxicity shifting to St.Saviours dock. Devils Necktie. A chalked eye glowers up.  Bricklayers arms, a tangle of flyovers and slab block islands. The Old Kent road lifts in a confusion of non Euclidean space. .

May 2001. A macabre play of semiotic markers conjuring the phantom of an imagined England.  NF hyperactivity . Bermondsey, that knotwork of bombsites and dank maisonettes, the ghost of the Surrey canal pulling us deep into hostile terrain. A pointless escapade round Southwark Park road, cracking ribs to prise open police cordons,  festering hatred in rotten pubs, eggs thrown from seventh floor flats. Squads and spotters,, eyes darting with suspicion and territorial assertion.  Drinking plans laid to waste as we ride caged up in the back of a meat wagon to Stokey nick, flats raided in a series of petulant Section 18s.