Apropos Mayday in London, things turned rather ugly as the evening wore on in town.
For some God-unknown reason I hung around the Oxford Street area (where I have an office) longer than I should have done as sporadic clashes flared up in the maze of little alleys and courtyards behind Oxford Street, and at times things were rather unpleasant.
What was extraordinary is how young the hooligans were - the average age must have been about 15, with some surely no older than 12; scarves over their faces and scrabbling around for anything to hurl at the police.
Another worrying thing was how many of the kids were Asian and Hispanic - I would estimate at they represented least a quarter of those I saw right in the thick of it (Christ, I sound so un-PC there, but that's what I saw...). Of the rest maybe half were poor white kids - they looked as if they'd come up for the day from Becton and the poorest parts of town, with fuzz-cut hair and that veneer of grime that very poor kids often have - while the balance was made up of an assortment of crusties with multiple piercings and facial ironmongery and ordinary students there out of curiosity and sucked into it.
As for organisation - forget it. Whatever you may read in the right-wing rags about sinister anarchist forces orchestrating the violence is cobblers - this was an inchoate, spiteful series of running spats with the police; just random acts of viciousness committed by a mob high on booze and adrenaline and completely uncontrollable.
In fact the whole thing was deeply depressing and - I'm ashamed to say - my sympathies lay largely with the police last night, personal bumps and knocks and bruises notwithstanding.
The kids had clearly come for a ruck and were determined to goad the police into giving them one. Thus there were all the usual risks for those near the front, with lumps of wood, scaffold clips and assorted pieces of masonry hurled indiscriminately forward from behind the main press and more often than not falling on the poor sods pressed up against the shield wall.
At one stage a group of kids tore down some heavy wire panels surrounding a building site and used it as a shield themselves to hurl crap at the police (and I mean crap - the contents of restaurant bins and dog shit in plastic bags and stuff like that!).
A couple in late middle age, who looked like Quaker veterans of the Aldermaston Marches, tried to remonstrate with the kids and were pushed and shoved and told to fuck off and worse, which left rather a sour taste in the mouth. In fact most of those involved in the daytime protests had gone, and the rioting was nearly all done by the kids - who, I'd imagine, aren't remotely politicised and couldn't give a shit about globalisation or whatever. In fact a good many of them were wearing Nike trainers, Adidas baseball caps and all the branded crap about which the protest was supposed to revolve.
Many of them were drunk as skunks and armed to the teeth with cans of cider, Tennants and Special Brew - so much so that when I found myself in a press of them it smelled like a pub at chucking out time. Thank God cider is now sold in plastic bottles rather than glass, though, as the empties were then hurled towards the police.
And the language, my dear! One kid of about 14 stood in front of a PC in his riot gear and let rip a stream of invective - "You fucking this that and the other, your are a complete cunt...etc" and the PC just looked at him and said: "Do you mind not calling me those names. I'm a human being too, you know!"
There were a couple of baton charges as the shield squads rushed out to nick people, and I got knocked over by a horse and later got a minor thumping as a squad of shield officers rushed forwards to clear one of the alleys - not as bad as a former colleague from the Standard, Jeremy, who was taking pictures and got quite a mauling, while some Spanish students were also quite severely battered.
I say severely, but the police tactics are to whack at arms and legs with their batons, so the injuries are superficial - but probably extremely painful nevertheless.
Anyway, as the evening wore on and I realised I didn't have any film fast enough to carry on taking pictures in the fading light, I ended up next to Jeremy, sweating like a pig and knackered. He looked at me and said: "Fuck me - Barmy (my old office nickname)! What are you doing here?" I have to admit I didn't really have a sensible answer to that. He went on: "You must be fucking mad - I have to be here, but you don't. You really are barmy!"
At which I realised that he was absolutely right, and made my way to the rather more civilised surroundings of Cecil Sharp House where we sang some proper May songs.
So, that was my evening. I'm bloody stiff this morning, but what the heck - it was marginally more interesting than staying in and listening to the Archers.