yet another blog

I have to confess, its not entirely unknown for me to be somewhat scathing of the cops.
Not generally when they’re performing their normal “bobby-type” duties you understand (although even then I’ve had a few run-ins with the traffic cops from time to time) but moreso when they’re peforming tasks that could be perceived as serving a political agenda. Like providing protection for war criminals (a la the G8 summit) or for arms dealers, or snooping on innocent protesters, or suppressing legitimate political dissent.
And I’m not overly impressed with their deceitfulness (sometimes moving over into actual lying), their hypocrisy, their bully-boy tactics, their preconceptions, and their seeming inability to distinguish between hardened criminals and political activists (who generally are fairly law-abiding folk but with a social conscience).

However, I’m not exactly one of those journalist-types that seem to be anti-police regardless of circumstance - almost on principle, sort of thing.
Almost inevitably at any gathering of activists where the cops are likely to be lurking one hears the old refrain “Don’t talk to the cops. Even when they seem to be ok they’ll only try to get information from you”.
Well, let me set the record straight: that’s only a generalisation, and more often than not completely untrue - and I think I’m probably old enough now to recognise fishing when it occurs!

There are few events I’ve attended where at some stage or other I’ve not talked to one or another of the assembled boys in blue, and its not been very often where an attempt’s been made to elicit info from me. Sure, its happened occasionally, and my normal reaction is simply to deflect the probe.
More often than not responses (if I’ve initiated the exchange) are formal bordering on dismissive (yeah, I can see in their eyes that they think I’m scum!), but just occasionally I’ve had really good conversations. Ok, not very often, but it does happen.

You can put some sort of rationale to this (if you want) along the lines of trying to touch their humanity, or demonstrating to them that those engaged in, or seeking to report fairly on, protests are not just a bunch of wasters and scumbags, or whatever.
But the truth is simply that I’m the sort of person who prefers to be on good terms with folk unless they give me cause not to be. And that applies almost regardless of who they are (I’d probably draw the line at Tony Blair, George Bush et al, but hey, none of us are perfect!).
Sure, I can shout abuse with the best of them if occasion demands it, and I’ve a few sharp responses for those that try to talk down to me, but generally I find it preferable not to deliberately alienate people, providing I don’t have to compromise the things in which I believe.

So, having now probably laid the groundwork for arguments with some of the more die-hard activists, I can proceed with the tale.

One of the roles I found myself fulfilling at this year’s Climate Camp was that of photographer - in various capacities. Camp Photographer, photographer for the FitWatch people, and journalist-type person (see this post).
Well, certainly in the last two of those capacities I found myself almost literally rubbing shoulders periodically with the activists’ dreaded foe.
A few exchanges and conversations occurred, some of which were ok, others leaving me muttering “bastard” and similar expressions.

But one stands out head and shoulders above the rest. I’m convinced that I’ve finally met a copper who’s actually a real human being!

Chief Inspector Pendry of (would you believe it) the Metropolitan Police!!!

The first encounter was at second-hand and occurred in the village of Harmondsworth where the Kids Block march had come to a temporary halt, the cops wanting to go one way, the marchers another. So there was a rather noisy assembly at the crossroads leading into the village, the locals siding with the protesters and the cops determined not to give way.
But, although noisy and a few “pleasantries” tossed from either side, there was no real trouble.

So it was with complete astonishment that suddenly, out of the blue, a squad of riot cops in full gear comes trotting toward the crowd.
Unfortunately a mate and I were positioned between the protesters and the oncoming intimidators and my one thought was “Shit, we’re in trouble now”, rapidly followed by swivelling head to see if I could spot a hole to crawl into.
Didn’t stop me from firing off a few photos though and whilst so engaged some guy with a PA system (it may even have been the Rinky-Dink crew) drew everyone’s attention to what was happening.
Moments later, after milling around like lost sheep, the squad simply turned tail and disappeared from whence they came.
Then my mate reports to me that he’d overheard some senior cop (my Chief Inspector Pendry as I later learned) shouting the classic phrase “What the f*** are they doing here upsetting my protesters?” (or words to that effect!).

I found the notion that she’d sort of adopted the marchers as “her protesters” curiously delightful, reinforced by the sheer relief at seeing the nasties scurry away tails between legs. In fact, something about their entire behaviour reminded me a lot of the Keystone Kops.

The dilemma of which way the march should go was shortly thereafter settled to the relative satisfaction of all (some sort of compromise having been worked out) and everyone peacefully wandered down to the village green for a brief stop and a mingling with the locals.

I did hear tell that some of the cops just couldn’t shed their control mentality though, and sought to prevent access to the local hostelries. But apparently a landlord of one of the pubs made plain his dismay at losing out on such wonderful potential trade, and the cops moved away.
Not that my mate and I were too bothered; we’d already snuck in for our refreshments.

Eventually the assembly moved off, back up to the crossroads in resumption of the march to BAA.

At some stage along the route my mate and I, being way out in front with other media people, found ourselves talking with this police-type person mainly to find out what the current route was, and whether we were actually going in the right direction.
Turns out this is none other than the admirable Chief Inspector.

Well, the brief exchange turned into a conversation that, on and off, lasted virtually the rest of the march.
Not once did she try pumping us for information. Not once did she utter a single derogatory remark about the protesters, or the Camp itself. Indeed at one point she confessed to being somewhat impressed by the hardiness of the Campers spending a week-long sojourn in a field in not the best of weather.

She even shared with us where along the route we’d find somewhere for a quick cup of coffee and a toilet! (Vital things to know when you’re engaged in this sort of activity.)

The only explanation we could come up with to explain this completely bizarre behaviour was that she didn’t actually realise we were “embedded media” so to speak.
But now I doubt even that. For when we saw her again the following day her attitude toward us was exactly the same, yet its inconceivable that by then she hadn’t discovered, or been informed, of who we were.

Ok, the whole thing may just have been a huge con intended to lull us into changing our perception of the cops. But somehow I think not. She came across to both my mate and I as being perfectly genuine (and I think we’ve both probably had enough encouters to distinguish between false sincerity and the real thing). Yet even if we were both taken in, she’s gotta score big-time in terms of PR for the Met.
Perhaps if there were a few more like her events such as Climate Camp wouldn’t be so stressful for either side.

Chief Inspector Pendry… you’re worthy of respect!

“C’mon lads, let’s get ‘em!”

” ‘ang on a minute, someone don’t look too pleased”

“Oops… s’pose we’d best go back the way we came”