by I Fought the Law- A Riotous Romp in Search of British Democracy (epub)
I went to see Billy in his home town of Chatham, to the east of London along the Thames. He greeted me with a smile perfectly framed by a wide Victorian moustache, led me into his kitchen and made a pot of green tea. We began by talking about how, rather than inspiring people to do things themselves, official culture actively seems to prevent normal people from bringing creativity into their own lives. ‘You see, culture is meant to be about communication and not about elitist groups,’ Billy said. ‘The whole idea that anybody can be anything is a limitlessness, which means that no-one can find where they are because there are no boundaries and nothing really to aspire to. You should actually enforce limitations on yourself as rigorously as you can so that you don’t end up with despotism. We’ve got a vaguely despotic, throwaway commercial society which sort of imposes in a very subliminal way lots of rules on people’s behaviour. What you should do, what’s cool and what isn’t. The important thing in contemporary culture is to show that you’re a bit wise, you don’t really care, you’re not really bothered. You don’t show any vulnerability. That’s the most important thing in contemporary culture, and that is its great weakness, its adolescent attempts at nonchalance. It doesn’t matter that these things exist, of course, what is important is what you choose to align yourself with. A lot of artists have been interested in taking sponsorship from alcohol companies and that shows their desperation and lack of integrity. People don’t like moving towards integrity because they are afraid of failure, but failure is what they should be trying to embrace because that shows you your humanity and weakness.
‘People find it very, very difficult because we have no proper spiritual grounding. In school they don’t teach or instruct the value of truth, how we really are and what the purpose of being alive is, which is to grow and be better people and not be obsessed with materialism - which is another myth, by the way. Materialism isn’t even materialism now because quality doesn’t matter. At least the Victorians were into proper materialism. Quality has never mattered less. I mean, I make books and you can’t get decent paper now bccause decent paper costs two or three pence more per page. Decent paper doesn’t exist any more because no-one gives a flying shit if a book’s got that paper in it or not because they’re chucking it away anyway, or no-one’s going to buy it. I just did a three-book collection of poetry and I tried to do it on slightly more expensive paper - although it’s hard to find good stitched paper - but it means that you have to spend more to begin with and you’re not going to get as much money back as quickly. So it means you actually have to be interested in what you’re doing to be bothered doing it. And most people are very, very cynical about that sort of stuff and they won’t make something that they want out in the world. If you go into a restaurant or buy some clothes somewhere you get the feeling that what you get is what the people think they can get away with selling you. They won’t say, “Well, how would I want this sort of thing to be?” It’s always, “Well, this’ll do. They won’t notice.” What you have to do is do things differently yourself. That’s why it’s important. It’s all very well seeing things, but once you’ve seen them, don’t do it, or endeavour not to, because then you don’t become part of it.’
I pointed out that even when people have dreams they get hijacked into thinking that they must make a million pounds out of them. We all seem to equate winning the lottery with happiness. ‘Well,’ said Billy, ‘I always say, “If they’ve got what you want, then they’ve got you.” People working like that are unfortunate in the sense that they don’t have the time or the inclination to work out what they really want in their heart, or what they need. And I’m not some kind of puritan. I’m as greedy and have as many problems as everybody else, and I’ve been an alcoholic, but I’m just very fortunate in life in that I lack ambition. I don’t mind if I’m successful or not because I know what I’m doing is right. I look for myself in what I do and I try to be truthful to that. I’ve always been protected by not having any breaks, but I’ve never tried to change what I do or what I think. I’ve never tried to outwit or pre-guess anything. I never try to scheme.’
One of the reasons I find Billy so fascinating is because he occupies a strange position in our culture: he’s almost the ultimate in cool because he has no interest in ‘cool’ whatsoever. I asked him if he found it odd that so many famous musicians kept name-checking him. ‘Not really, I’m used to it. It doesn’t make any difference to me. Look at the group I’m in. We cannot become what other groups become because we refuse to do the things that other groups do. We cannot be a stadium group because we refuse to use that equipment. I’m available to talk so people cannot make me into something that I’m not. The fifteen feet most groups want between them and the audience we’re always dismantling. You can see the holes in everything we do because we don’t hide behind PA systems and volume. In the same sense, I’ll talk to you because if I talk to people they can see for themselves that I’m not anything like they expect. I’m totally ordinary, and I’m just doing something I enjoy.
‘Someone said to me recently that I’m a minor celebrity. I refuse to be a celebrity. Celebrity is completely idiotic. I don’t think artists are special, I don’t think writers are special, I don’t think people who work on magazines are special, I don’t think there’s any specialness about it. If people think they’re special because they are artists then they are liars. They are egotistical and they are losing themselves. If a few people realize that and see that it’s about our right as human beings, our nature to be creative - that’s all it’s about, and everyone is equal in that - then we wouldn’t have this obsession with celebrity. It’s about people doing things for themselves. Look at The Milkshakes [one of Billy’s bands]. We gauged our success on the number of people who came up to us and said, “We liked your group so much that we decided to form a group.” Things are meant to be inspirational. If they’re not then they’re not of any use.
‘What you’re talking about, if people think I’m cool they’re getting the wrong end of it. All I try to do is be authentic and not be original. Originality is completely overrated and a complete waste of time. All that matters is authenticity. And I’m not authentic all the time. I fall down sometimes and make mistakes* but my intention is authenticity and that means looking at yourself and trying to do what is right for you. Having a community and integrity of communication is paramount. It should be about moving towards inclusion. I don’t do exclusion when it comes to music. The writing is not about excluding people. People ask me about writing and I say you get a Xerox machine, you write your stuff and you do it. And you make a book and I’ll show you how to do it if you want, but you’ve got to do it, I’m not doing it for you. Look for authenticity that speaks to you. Keep low to the ground. If you’re looking for inspiration then everything’s already inside you, it just needs to be unearthed and looked at. The problem is this false notion of originality, which is used to hamstring everybody. Originality is the least important thing there is. Authenticity and integrity are what matters.’
Before I left Billy in his attic, where he was hand-painting the boxes for his latest collection of poetry, and ambled off down the road to the station, I asked him what he thought about the state of Britain and how things could be improved. ‘Well, I’d go for reduction in everything. I’d go for community policing and community shopping. You want decentralization in everything. Britain almost doesn’t exist any more. Sometimes I can’t believe I’m not in America.’
On the train home my phone rang. It was Mark Barrett.
‘Dan? Where are you? Charlie Chaplin has just been arrested outside Downing Street. The police even took his “You have the right to remain silent” sign off him, so I guess you don’t have that right any more either.’ I was used to odd things coming out of Mark’s mouth, but this was strange even for him. ‘He’s coming on the march tomorrow. Are you around? I’ve told him all about you. Come to the London Eye at four o’clock.’
The exclusion zone around Parliament Squar
e was beginning to attract more and more people who had come up with ever more creative ways to make a stand. Chaplin was an interesting icon to choose, a man of the people who was always keen to kick officialdom up its backside whenever he had the chance — which was very often, if you’re familiar with his films.
The next day Rachel, Wilf and I got to the London Eye on time but couldn’t see Charlie. Mark, dressed as a clown in military apparel, was having some kind of altercation with a few gruff-looking security men while other clowns bounced and wheeled around him. A few minutes later more people began to emerge, and then I spotted the tramp, limping along with his walking stick, wearing a suit and bowler hat. I went over and introduced myself. He put his fingers to his lips and said, ‘I’m not supposed to speak but I’ve got something for you.’ He pulled out a thought bubble on a stick from the back of his jacket; it had ‘Free Speech’ written inside it. If I carried it within the exclusion zone I would no doubt be guilty of Britain’s first thought crime.
We hobbled together over Westminster Bridge behind the mayhem Mark had organized, communicating only with nods and supportive smiles. By the time we got to Parliament Square Neil Goodwin’s lips had loosened up a little, although he still only spoke in a whisper. ‘My girlfriend says she’ll leave me if I get arrested many more times, but do you fancy going up to Downing Street?’ Mark and his assortment of beautifully dressed clowns were dancing and singing in Parliament Square but were attracting little attention from the police. I wondered what they would make of Charlie Chaplin outside Downing Street so soon after his arrest the day before. Neil still wasn’t speaking much but he smiled broadly as he shuffled his way up Whitehall with me and my family in tow. We had no idea what would happen next.
Crowds of tourists seemed to think that he was some kind of official attraction and began to ask for photos. Neil duly obliged. A few tried to give him money afterwards but he ushered them away with that little hobbling walk I recognized from City Lights. As we got nearer Downing Street he leant over to me and said, ‘Chaplin was the man, you know.’ A few minutes later I began to understand exactly what he meant.
The tramp is not one of the most widely loved icons of cinema for nothing. Despite many of Chaplin’s films being over seventy years old and having had no major cinema release in generations, everyone still knows and loves his characters. The tourists by the entrance to Downing Street laughed and clapped as Neil took up his spot outside the gates. They queued to have their photograph taken with him, but the police were not amused because he was holding a sign that said ‘Not Aloud’, which, because of the ludicrous nature of SOCPA’s exclusion zone, meant he was breaking the law.
Within minutes an armed officer called over to him. ‘You can’t stand there, mate. It’s illegal.’ Neil shrugged as though he didn’t understand. The policeman tried again. ‘You can’t demonstrate. Move along or you’ll get arrested.’ The crowd of people began to boo at the policeman. ‘Doesn’t he have the right to remain silent?’ I offered. The crowd laughed. The officer angrily looked at me. ‘Are you trying to be funny, mate? Who are you? Are you with him?’ I shook my head and he turned back to Neil, who was doing his best to look scared, which was drawing sympathetic noises from the crowd. One of them callcd out, ‘Leave him alone, he’s only standing there!’ Someone else put in, ‘It’s a free country, isn’t it?’ Neil shook his head with a rueful smile and the crowd began to applaud and cheer.
The policeman spoke into his radio. I decided to explain to everyone that because he hadn’t got permission from the police ‘Charlie’ was actually breaking the law for holding an illegal demonstration. A man behind me laughed. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you, mate?’ Others seemed astounded. One woman looked at me as though I was deranged. ‘You can’t be serious?’ she said. ‘Protest can’t just be made illegal!’ The policeman rounded on me, ‘Look, who are you? Can you just move along?’ I refused and pointed out that I wasn’t breaking the law. He became contrite and lowered his voice. ‘No, you’re not breaking the law, I’m just asking you out of courtesy if you’d move along because you’re adding to this disturbance.’ I refused again and he said into his radio, ‘There are two of them holding an illegal demonstration. Can I have back-up?’
At this point, again to a vast array of boos from the crowd, another armed policeman emerged and asked Charlie his name and if he had any ID. A group of lads who looked like builders began to laugh, and one of them called out, ‘What’s his name? His name’s Charlie, you muppet!’ Again the swelling audience fell about. The policeman pleaded with Neil to move a few yards away to stop the crowd blocking the entrance to Number Ten. Charlie shuffled along, only for another two officers to approach him and ask again if he had any ID. Neil let go of his sign, revealing that it was chained to his wrist (so it wouldn’t get confiscated like the last one) - cue more laugher from the crowd - and began theatrically to look through his pockets. Eventually he found a scrap of paper which he unfolded as if he had all the time in the world and turned its contents towards the crowd. ‘No Comment’ was written on it in large black letters. There must have been fifty people at this point and they all began to cheer. Even the armed policeman laughed. ‘Well, he is funny, I’ll give him that.’ Two officers then ushered him a few yards further down the street. Neil was given a piece of paper that outlined the exclusion zone and explained about Section 132 of the Serious and Organised Crime and Police Act, which solicited a huge guffaw from sections of the crowd. The policemen told Neil that if he was still there in half an hour they would arrest him. Neil shrugged his shoulders.
Part of the crowd began to disperse. More tourists emerged and had their pictures taken, but none of them could believe that he was about to get arrested. One of them came over and chatted to me to learn what was going on. I explained that in a few minutes’ time Charlie was going to get taken to Charing Cross police station for holding his sign. The man was incredulous. ‘They can’t arrest you for just standing there, can they? What about our rights?’ He was about to see exactly what had happened to our rights. A police van pulled up, the two uniformed officers emerged, and Charlie Chaplin was read his rights and manhandled into the back of the van. The passer-by turned to me with a look of shock on his face. ‘That’s fucking terrifying! They can’t do that, can they?’ I shrugged my shoulders and looked at Rachel in disbelief.
It was the first time I’d actually seen anyone get arrested and it was an unpleasant and alarming experience. One of the picnickers, Elizabeth, had told me that everyone should know what being arrested feels like to get some idea of what protesting in today’s Britain actually means. The notion that Neil was a criminal left me baffled. As he got carted off in a police wagon the funny side of Section 132 of SOCPA seemed to go with him. The crowds seemed unsettled too. Their laughter gave way to bewilderment and shock. If only the architects of SOCPA and all the MPs who voted for it in Parliament had been on hand to explain to us all why there was nothing sinister about a man dressed as Charlie Chaplin being arrested outside Downing Street for carrying a sign that said ‘Not Aloud’.
I’d had enough. It was time to get off the fence and put something on the line myself.
Chapter 7. The 'Ashes' of the Magna Carta
In terms of journalistic integrity and expertise you have to be careful not to overstep the mark when it comes to your story. Happily I’m an amateur, so that rule doesn’t apply to me. Besides, I was more taken with an approach I’d heard from the artist Damien Hirst: ‘Sometimes you have to cross the line if you want to find out where it is.’
From my journey so far and the people I’d met I had come to the conclusion that the problems we face in Britain exist only because so few people have the time or inclination to do anything about them. So, having done nothing since getting dressed up as a teddy bear, I decided it was time to get my hands dirty again.
But what do you do if you just want to do something? Conventional wisdom states that you need the press to poke people into action, and t
hese days it has to be a grand and clever gesture to persuade the media to get involved. After watching others from the sidelines, I had begun to develop a few ideas about what might make a successful protest. I was convinced that the first step to getting your message across was not to give anyone an excuse to ignore you, whether that’s through having too many piercings, wearing tie-dye trousers, or looking and sounding like a politician. If you want anyone to listen you have to be wary of the pigeonhole you will put yourself in before you utter a word. Of course I was already in the most powerful pigeonhole I could be in, the one for white middle-class men, but I decided to make patriotism the other feature of my plan.
Patriotism seemed a good idea because everyone is patriotic to some extent, whether it’s to do with sport, hating the French, the Americans, or anyone else for that matter (in a humorous rather than racist way, you understand), or because of Thomas Paine, the Diggers, Guy Fawkes, Stephenson’s Rocket, Brunei’s bridges, Jeremy Garkson, Princess Diana or Margaret Thatcher. We all love our country, even if we do reserve the right to think it’s a bit crap some of the time. People care about Britain because there is something in the air or the light of this land that you can’t quite put your finger on. George Orwell wrote in an essay entitled Why I Write, ‘One day Patriotism and Intelligence will come together’, and I wanted to do something to try to bring about that change. Overt displays of national pride seem to single you out as some kind of moronic bigot, but I’m proud of my country, I’m not a moronic bigot, and I’m sick of being told I should be ashamed of our flag. So that became my plan, to bring the fight for freedom of speech and liberty within the realm of patriotism.
