Sunday, March 24, 2019
Yesterday supporters of a People's Vote took to the streets of Westminster - less a march, more a million-strong queue. They brought placards, they brought blue and gold-starred berets, they brought their children, or quite simply they just brought themselves. These weren't your usual angry protestors hyped up by political factions, these were everyday folk driven to make their presence felt as Britain teeters on the edge of heaven-knows-what.
I've read cleverer slogans. Some of the most heartfelt came from the under 16s, who didn't get a vote on their future last time and won't again next. I've heard noisier protests. Most people walked and chatted, and only the occasional chant caught fire. But I've never before experienced quite such a throng moving through the West End, threading off along sidestreets in an attempt to skip the logjam on the main route and make it to the end of the rally on time.
I couldn't tell you where in Parliament Square the main stage was, only that a densely-packed sea of Remainers, Revokers and Revoters stood patiently watching the big screens. Politicians who'd once have been unlikely bedfellows attempted to tell the crowd what they wanted to hear, with varying degrees of success, for slightly too long. And slowly the People slipped away to the pub, the coffee shop, the tube - stickers still proudly sported - having at least Voted with their feet.
Anyone else go?
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