Kenny Park's Blog

AWE Aldermaston has one of those double-fence jobbies you may remember from the Great Escape. You know, the kind short Scottish men who’ve spent too much time in the cooler with Steve McQueen get shot trying to climb. There’s a good four or five metres between them, and so the Boilerhouse Gate was actually two sets of imposing iron doors. Luckily for my nerves, Scary Machine Gun Guy was well behind the second set.

The police had continued to be the kind of enforcers that might appear in some naïve utopian fantasy. Still not quite able to believe their luck, the blockaders maintained their effortless decommissioning of the gate(s). At some point, though, the row of blockaders nearest the AWE realised that a potential opportunity lay right behind them: the gates, both sets, were still open. Now, beyond THEM was a host of cops and security, including Scary Machine Gun Guy, and beyong THEM was a large sign which read: “TERRORIST THREAT LEVEL: HEIGHTENED.” It was no welcome mat. Nevertheless, the chance to become a nuicance was right there, and between them they reached a near-instant consensus and dashed over the invisible line into MoD territory.

The police within the weapons factory reacted swiftly, lining up just beyond the second threshhold, effectively becoming a blockade all of their own. The five activists, though, were comfortably inside the perimeter, and were starting to enjoy themselves. Songs were hollered, dances were pranced, but the line of cops stood firm, allowing themselves none of the affability of the officers with us, still out on the public, civvy highway. Neither, though, did they antagonise or threaten. In the best tradition of NVDA, they simply blocked the way.

Eventually, and probably having been told that they’d be forcably ejected, the protesters just lay down where they were. In the scenario of success, the authorities would conceed defeat by simply closing the gates, whereupon the group would probably move to another, less secure gate (depending on what the cellularly-connected ‘gate support’ people were reporting). Here, though, they couldn’t shut the gate even if they wanted to, thanks to our brave tresspassers.

And so the first arrests were made. A special unit appeared and started cutting through the tubing that protected our comrades’ bonds. It took a while and made a fair amount of noise, but I could make out that the tension had dissapated, leaving room for smiles and banter. Cut free of each other, the arrestees were lifted into the base to be processed before being transported to Newbuy Police Station.

Having cleared the gateways of people, the police were free to close them officially, which they did. Of course, they often wait for the blockaders to relocate and just open them right back up, so we stayed put. The intel from the other gates was that they were all shut anyway, so there wasn’t much call for our human-wall services. With the gates closed, though, our blockaders technically weren’t doing much disrupting.

I got talking to a policeman. I told him how impressed I was with the police and how reasonable they were being. He told me that their briefing had included the instruction to engage with the protesters, listen to their arguments and stories and, generally, be human beings. (This was in contrast to previous actions, the protesters told me later, where the official policy had been to avoid engaging with the activists at all, other than to arrest them.)

I enjoyed chatting to the guy, feeling that there was goodwill though circumstances had put us on opposing teams that day. Just then there was some commotion on the road and my new pal darted away. One of the other supporters stepped up beside me, the one who’d correctly predicted that we’d have our expectations confounded. “Here we go,” he said. “It’s been cozy up ’til now, but things can change. Things can change very quickly.”

On the road in front of the gate there was a swarm. A few policemen held back to cover the gate itself, but most had spilled onto the road, and traffic in both directions was at a stand-still. I swung my camera onto the scene, holding my tripod over my head to get the highest angle I could. The group of linked blockaders nearest the road had apparently taken things up a level and moved onto the road itself, lying down and blocking it completely. The queues of traffic already stretched to the horizons.

The police were talking to the protesters urgently, but quietly, and their trademark leather notebooks saw a lot of action. For a while nothing really changed and it seemed like an impass. A van driver got out and stode threatenly towards the blockade, no doubt late on his errand, but was talked back into his van by a firm, controlled copper.  Eventually, I heard policeman promise the road-blockers that they would be arrested, and soon after they were back in front of the gate.  The traffic started moving again, cups of tea recommenced flowing, but nothing on the arrest front.

Things started to get interesting when the ‘cutting team’ (as I shall call them) returned and erected a large, sturdy and yet portable fence around those who’d been promised arrest.  It was the kind of thing I expect could spring out the back of a Martian rover, instantly configuring itself into a green house in preparation for the first primate visitors.  There was some fervent chatting at the cutting team’s van, though, and before the structure could be completed they dismantled it again, packed it away and left.  After a while, a policeman addressed the road-blockers, telling them that as they were no longer blocking the highway, they wouldn’t be arrested after all. However, if they blocked it again, the whole rigmarole would be replayed.

It turned out that the two forces involved in today’s policing were on a no-arrest policy along with their talk-and-listen-to-them policy.  It was a move of such astonishing good sense that it had some of the seasoned blockaders flummoxed.  “They’re playing us at our own game,” one noted, smiling.  Another pointed out, with disappointment, that it prevented those who wished to have their cases heard in court from doing so.  I’m new to all this, and I’d kept my ears pricked all through the trip for clues as to the minutiae of motivation, goals and expected outcomes of the exercise.  This was extremely telling.  Later, I chatted to a lovely lady called Barbara who I’d met at my NVDA training the week before.  She told about her previous arrests, and how she’d refused to comply with court directions or pay fines, but that she’d won the respect of more than one judge in her commitment to have her view (that she commited no crime, but was preventing the crime of WMD proliferation) preserved in official literature.

So in a way the friendliness of the police, while easing my nerves, was a frustration to the endeavour.  Which goes to show how effective non-violent action can be.  It’s just, like the fellow said, that the police have cottoned on.  Things, indeed, can change.

As usual, I woke up in the middle if the night and didn’t quite get back to sleep as deeply as I had been. That happens in proper beds as well as dusty hardwood floors. So when I heard stirring at half-five, I was more than ready to jump up and greet the day.

After the previous night’s delicious chicken chilli thing with rice and mysterious lentil stuff (also delicious), the great food continued with porridge, bread, rolls, all kinds of spreads and sweet, life-giving apple juice. There was only one gents’ toilet as far as I knew, but there was no conflict for access or even queues. The only problem was that I foolishly left filling up my water bottle ’til too late, and there was far too much ‘number two’ in the atmosphere for me to consider it. (I know I can’t avoid inhaling other people’s airborne shit particles from time to time, but I refuse to bottle them and keep them with me all day, preserved in water I intend to drink.)

I was taking my little bag with me to the blockade, but those who had been more sensible with their sleeping provisions left their rucksacks in a designated room of the hall (which I can now safely reveal as St. Michael’s, near the shopping centre – thanks, Mike!). Someone’s job was to return after the blockaders had been delivered and move the bags to the hall in Reading we’d be staying in later. (I can also identify that as St. Johns & St. Stephens Church & School – thanks, Johnny & Steve!)

As rehearsed before last night’s dinner, the blockaders got locked to each other and boarded the buses. Time could not be wasted at our destination – Aldermaston’s Boilerhouse Gate – for there was every chance the police could intercept them and prevent the blockade from happening at all. The veteran activists all had stories of being thwarted by waiting police officers. On some occasions, they’d been prevented from driving right up to the site, in which case the consensus was to jump from the bus and run the rest of the way, dodging the law as best they could. The worst case was that the van would be turned away too far from the gate to attempt the sprint, meaning there might not even be a blockade. That would please my mum and my wife, I thought, who were fretting away in Glasgow about my possible arrest. (Translation: I’d be slightly relieved, too.) As one of the drivers pointed out, though, the reality when we get there could differ greatly from any of our imagined scenarios. As it turned out, he was right.

With the blockaders aboard, I found a seat on the leading bus and got my camera ready. We manoeuvred out of the church car park slowly, making sure the other two buses were following, and headed to the Atomic Weapons Establishment, Aldermaston.

“The most important thing is to stay calm,” said Jane, one of the experienced blockaders, and I drew a couple of deep breaths. I couldn’t see much in the pre-dawn darkness, but I kept the camera rolling just in case. Up next to the driver a guy was navigating with a map on his lap while constantly updating the other buses over the phone. “This is your ten minute warning… This is your five minute warning… This is your three minute warning…”

“We’d better get locked on now,” said Brian, one of the main organisers, and those who hadn’t yet did so. We were at the perimeter of AWE Aldermaston now. It’s a massive site, straddling two police force jurisdictions, and we were following it’s circumference anti-clockwise. “Can you see anything yet?” Brian asked.

“I think I see high viz coats,” said the driver. “Difficult to tell.”

The traffic was thick and slow-moving along the two-lane B-road. The AWE employs a lot of people, and the Boilerhouse gate was the port of entry for many of them. When there’s no blockade, that is.

“Two high viz jackets,” called the driver, “three… four. Directing traffic. Five. Definitely police. Six. Shit!”

The road was lined by trees, and it wasn’t until we’d trundled closer that a good view of the gate was afforded us. Countless police guarded it, all blurring into a single impenetrable mass of neon-yellow.

Then we were next to them, with two buses and a mile of regular traffic behind us. No time to think, just keep calm. The side door slid open and a supporter jumped out, clutching placards and signs, followed by me, camera still rolling, ready to capture whatever happened next.

Despite myself, I made eye-contact with the officer nearest me and instinctively gave him my friendliest smile. He smiled back. Not curtly, or politely, but broadly and with genuine good will. “Morning,” he said.

Not wanting to push it, I got onto the grassy verge beside the gate as swiftly as I could (the commonest charge for arrested blockaders is ‘blocking a public highway’). Training my camera back towards the bus, I managed to capture the blockaders (or ‘arrestables’) disembarking fluidly, despite being locked to each other by the wrist. To everyone’s surprise, the police made way for them and even offered helpful suggestions: “You could be a bit further over, love, give your pals a bit more room.”

Before we knew it we had three neat rows of people, arms locked at the wrist within reinforced tubes, successfully barricading Boilerhouse Gate, flanked by officers of the law who were either engaging in good-natured banter with us protesters or moving the traffic along, telling AWE empoyees, “Sorry, this gate’s blocked.”

If I couldn’t believe it, the veterans were flabbergasted. “Never seen anything like it,” they all told me. One young policeman was weaving through the protesters with a camcorder capturing everything with rather more solemnity than his more affable colleagues. When he turned his camera towards me and mine, I waved and pointed back and forth between them, whereupon he broke into a wide, friendly grin.

The traffic got moving again, the blockagers got as comfy as they could (not very) and the supporters started to erect the Bombs Away Café to keep everyone fed and watered. We had made it, we were fine and the police, it seemed, were our pals.

I was reminded of one of the many classic scenes in A Hard Day’s Night. Ringo and Wilfred Brambell (as Paul’s “very clean” grandfather) are sitting in a city police station. A hopeless trouble-maker, the grandfather regales Ringo with tales of police brutality and corruption, inviting him to consider the bobbies who have just escorted them to their bench. “They seem alright to me,” says Ringo, but McCartney Snr.’s having none of it, insisting, “All coppers are villains!”

Oblivious, the desk sergeant calls through to them, “Would you two like a cup of tea?”

Brambell leans in to Starr, sporting his best Steptoe sneer, and says conspiritorially: “See? Sly villains.”

Sleeping in a church hall reminded me of a Scout camp I went on once. Actually, it was a Cub camp; I never made it as far as the Scouts, and here’s why:

Some other kid and I were shining our torches onto the ceiling of the hall after lights-out and having a good old laugh about it. The leaders’ threats became more dramatic the more we ignored them, culminating in a choice between going to sleep and having our parents roused from their slumber to come and get us right away. I can’t remember where they’d taken us for this ‘camp’ but it was at least a few hours’ drive from home. Like the others before it, this threat went unheeded, forcing our opponents’ hand. Though it was the middle of the night, we were told that our parents were on their way and we were to pack our things and prepare for their arrival.

I think my partner in crime’s will broke and he started blubbing and grovelling, which no doubt pleased our adversaries no end. I, however, was resolute: not because I was preturnaturally brave, but because the thought of my parents’ passionate fury was nothing compared to the shiteness of the camp. Sleeping bags on the floor of some strange church hall, bad food and, for fun, ritual humiliation in the traditional children’s game, Let’s Rank Our Worth By Athletic Prowess.

Pathetically and crushingly, the Cub leaders had lied. Our parents hadn’t been called and were still, as infuriating as the thought was, lying in REAL beds in REAL houses and no doubt sleeping soundly. I mean, really, where were they planning to go after dropping that whopper? “Your parents are coming. No… wait. No they’re not. We just told you that to make you cry and crush your spirit. We hadn’t realised your contempt for us outweighed your fear of your parents.” I’m still ashamed that I didn’t demand the use of the phone then and there.

I’ve slept on plenty of floors since then, and doing so when discovering drugs and girls led to my becoming fond of it by default – a pavlovian response. So I didn’t mind at all sleeping in the church hall, even opting for my usual bag-for-a-pillow, jacket-for-a-blanket over everyone else’s comfy sleeping bag and camping mat approach.

It’s only the fact that that we were all lined up on the floor of the hall that reminded me of that night. In the morning I would awake and go to battle. The foe this time, the utterly immoral and militarily useless WMDs that we’re continuing to develop though we can’t afford it. Like that childhood memory, I would be brave, but wouldn’t follow through; I’m not there to get arrested, and I’ll back down and do what I’m told. Unlike that Cub-scout skirmish, though, this time I REALLY don’t want them to phone my mum.

We didn’t have long to wait in Killington Lake before the other two buses showed up. There was, however, something of a pause while coffees were drunk, lunch eaten and plans made. Not being much involved with the plans, and having had an easy ride what with not having to drive, I made myself suspitious/useful by filming beautiful panning shots of the car park.

I thought I’d seen every service stop on the M6, but Killington Lake was new to me. Helen on our bus (a knitting genius from whom I plan to commission a pair of psychadelic rainbow socks) went so far as to call it her favourite.

Almost as nice, but not quite, was the next service stop, just after the turn off to avoid the M6 toll. This was about two or three hours later, during which time I filled the Archers vacuum with podcasts. The other two buses made then for Basingstoke, but we detoured to a Travel Lodge to drop off some of our number who’d opted for more civilised digs (including psychadelic rainbow socks Helen).

At our more humble lodgings, we put the finishing touches on our plan, ate some excellent food and practiced disembarking from the buses while locked together. Well, of those three, I only did the eating, hiding behind my camera the rest of the time. I AM only ‘media support’ you know.

I’m starting to sense a frisson, though. I’m conciously avoiding specifics about where we are because the police (hopefully) don’t know we’re here. If they did, they’d probably have turned up and confiscated our locking devices. I’m not here to get arrested, but for some (fourteen of us, to be exact) that’s the whole point. They might not get arrested tomorrow, but bailing them out is certainly part of tomorrow’s itinerary.

I should be safe from arrest, as I won’t actually be doing anything illegal. (I just hope my tripod doesn’t look too much like an automatic weapon.)

As my eyes drew open, seconds before my six-thirty alarm sounded (as is their wont), I began the calculations that customarily get my brain into gear: what is the last second I can get up and still be where I need to be, when I need to be there?

The two minibuses bound for Aldermaston, Reading, via Basingstoke, were leaving at 0830 from Glasgow’s George Square with or without me. AWE Aldermaston is where they’re building the next generation of nukes for the replacement/upgrade of Trident that the government hasn’t officially committed to yet. An NGO called Trident Ploughshares had arranged a bockade and I’d gotten myself involved.

I heard about it at a Green Party meeting a month ago. The membership secretary told me about it, and when I expressed an interest he sent me contact details. At the next meeting he asked me how I’d got on. “Fine,” I told him, “I’ll be there. Are you going?” At which point he giggled nervously. “Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head.

By the time I got up I barely had time to jump in the shower, throw some clothes, phone and camera chargers, a bottle of Diet Irn Bru and a fork into a bag, feed the cats and make for the door.

Thanks to a solitary cab on the ghost town streets of Sunday morning Glasgow, I got to George Square just before the minibuses. I had failed to photocopy my driving license for the Non-Violent Action Training the week before, and some last-minute work during the week prevented me from providing it in the intervening time. So I wasn’t allowed to be one of the drivers, as had been the plan. There were still three drivers for each of the two buses, so no one would have too much driving to do, but I felt appropriately idiotic.

Some of the people departing from Glasgow I’d met at the training the week before, but there were as many new faces. All were immediately friendly and welcoming, and by Carlisle I’d managed to remember all their names.

The first leg of the journey would take us to Killington Services, where we’d rendezvous with the other Scottish buses (one was coming from Edinburgh) and reaffirm the plan from then on. In the mean time, we had the Archers omnibus to keep us company. I don’t follow the Archers, but I soon found myself hoping Pip’s father would lighten up about her older boyfriend.

I heard someone say it today at STV.  It about sums up the best of my childhood, that.  From copying a rental edition of Empire Strikes Back (later paying for it twice on VHS and again on DVD, not to mention the cinema tickets for the re-release) to making mix tapes to impress a girl, “Press ‘play’ on that one, and ‘Record’ on that one,” made magic happen.

I had finished for the day.  I’d saved my project, closed the application, shut down the computer and gathered my things.  On the way to the door I heard a woman say it.  Looking instinctively in her direction, I saw her regarding a video tape deck, probably DigiBeta, and a DVD recorder.  Although both formats were digital, they were linked by a fat, umbilically analogue cable.

I assumed they were transferring the tape’s contents onto DVD, but it could easily have been the opposite. It didn’t matter.  It mattered only that one was to play, and the other was to record.

I was instantly reminded how lucky I am to have a job that lets me do for a living what, in childhood, I did for fun.  Or, if not for fun, because it seemed the right thing to do while I was in that blissful state of having two hard-working individuals subsidise my entire existence.  The options weren’t infinite during that time, but they were multitudinous, and I often chose among that wealth of possibilities to press ‘Play’ on one machine and ‘Record’ on another.

Sometimes I was taking possession of something I had only paid to rent, sometimes I was sharing culture.  I was stealing.  I was giving.  Plus I edited my first film by hooking two VHS recorders up and learning how many seconds it took one of them to actually start recording after you hit the button (slightly nearer four than three seconds, FYI).

What I do for a living now amounts to making copies.  The camera copies what it sees onto film, or tape, or solid state media.  I copy that information onto a hard drive, reorganise it and make multiple copies of my derivative work.  In TV, I deliver some of those copies to various places and other people make many more copies, broadcasting them, analogue and  digital, over the airwaves and hosting them on streaming web platforms. Then any interested home users (if we’re fortunate enough to have any) copy them to their local systems and put yet more copies on YouTube and similar sites.)  Frankly, the more the merrier.

There’s a hysterical crisis over copying at the moment, but I won’t get into it here, except to say that, broadly, I’m all for copying and always have been.  I’m for preservation, for sharing and, yes, for paying what I deem fit (which ranges from nothing to far in excess of what is being asked).

For me, it started with, “Press ‘Play’ on that one, and ‘Record’ on that one,” and I’m so glad that within the broadcast industry it’s still, on occasion, considered a solution rather than a problem.

We had our new coffee machine wake us up with a fresh pot this morning.  I’ve never been much of a coffee-drinker, but now I’m beginning to feel like I did when the family took its first foreign holiday (to Rimini, Italy) when I was fourteen or so and I discovered that I did like spaghetti.  Up until then I had liked the look of spaghetti; that and the fact that it could be bought in the shape of whatever the toy fad was at any given time.  I’d made my mum buy me dinosaur spaghetti, Transformers spaghetti, He-man spaghetti and a million other kinds, only to spit the first mouthful back onto my plate and demand that she make me something else.  My problem had been the disgusting tinned pasta that Heinz and others thought somehow would ‘do’ and the lazy way they used the same tomato sauce they used for their baked beans.  Then, in the restaurant of our Rimini hotel, when there really had been nothing else I could stomach the thought of on the menu, I had surrendered and asked for spaghetti bolognaise.  The joy of al dente pasta and a sauce that someone, somewhere had given a shit about flooded my being.  I was in love with pasta instantly, and my passion has never waned.

Now, having picked up a coffee-maker in the post-Christmas sales — reasonably priced and coming without the advertised instruction manual and measuring spoon — I’m discovering that freeze-dried, instant coffee isn’t really coffee at all.  Mo tells me it’s not tolerated by anyone in the United States and I’m immediately ashamed that there are millions of the people who can simultaneously vote for George W. Bush and hold more sophisticated tastes than I.

This new coffee is a revelation.  I’m already an addict, and proud of it.

So, this morning the timer on the machine had coffee ready for us at 9am.  Mo poured it and brought her mug and mine back to bed.  She also made the first run for refills, I made the second, and after our third cup I was so awake that I wondered why I’d waited over three decades to start the day with this jolt of awareness.  It struck me that half the planet starts the day this way, so I’ve really had no excuse not to give it a try.  Now, now I can see their point.

What other wonders await me?  Do I really not like tuna?  Can the eight tenths of the world’s population that smother everything in mayonaise all be wrong?

As these radical ideas bravely burn new pathways in my extra-alert brain, I realise that my cup is empty.  Mo offers to refill it, but I claim the chore for my own.  For one thing, I’m getting restless just sitting here.  Honestly, how much of my life have I spent at rest?  How could I have tolerated it?  I’ve got to move around, dammit.  There’s also the fact that the coffee machine is my new toy, and I want to play with it.  If they made coffee-machine-shaped spaghetti, I’d probably go and buy some right now.

Cup refilled, I ingest the goodness.  It’s been over a week since I last had a beer, but I’ve a new monkey on my back, and he’s very friendly.  Next time I see you, I’ll introduce you.  Name’s Joe.

Here’s a list of films that take the bold and unwise decision to remind their audience of better movies:

Film: Sleeping With the Enemy

Better Film: The Shining

Reminder: Hector Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique (specifically, the fifth movement), used extensively on the soundtrack for SWtE, but forever associated with the opening credits of TS as they accompany the greatest opening helicopter shot in cinema history.

Film: Enemy of the State

Better film: The Conversation

Reminder: Because the Gene Hackman characters in both are similar, Tony Scott and co. “cleverly” use a picture of him from TC for his EotS character’s file. Bad move.

Film: Ocean’s Thirteen

Better films: Sea of Love and The Godfather part III

Reminders: OT is so bad I was clutching at straws while sitting through it for any ray of hope.  Just seeing Al Pacino play against Ellen Barkin (as he did in SoL) and Andy Garcia (as in TGpIII) made me pine for those superior thrillers.

I’ll add to this as I think of more.

A lie in today, then to Tesco, then to Sighthill Cemetery for dog-walking.

It wasn’t only dead people whose remains we roamed among.  Check out these high rise flats (now a lot flatter than once they were):

Why walk the dog in a cemetery?  It was there.

Merry Christmas, everyone!