feeling listless

Liverpool Life I think the first sign I had that there was something wrong, was when the bus took a massive diversion from its usual route. People looked at each other and asked ‘Am I on the right bus?’ ‘Is this the right bus?’ I asked too … it hasn’t been unknown for me to actually get on the wrong bus anyway so I needed to know soon otherwise I was bound to get lost. The passenger sitting next to me offered her re-assurance. This was the right bus. It was just going the wrong way. A diversion.

The bus wound about those narrow streets, streets which should not have had experience the wheelprint of this wide vehicle. I’d known that getting out of town would be difficult tonight, what with the Celtic supporters in town for the match. The pubs and restaurants had been flooded with a sea of green and white, the still air broken with the shouting, chanting and often booing of good natured but pissed Scotsmen. As the bus turned into a new recognizable road, the pavements were filled with people, scarves blowing in the wind.

Then we stopped. The traffic ahead wasn’t moving, so we weren't moving.

I glanced through the window to my right. In the distance outside Lime Street Station, at the junction which feeds the city within and without, emarald football tops were giving way to the broken starlight starbright pattern of the police tabards, and in between, sitting and standing in the middle of the road, the protestors of the new war, people who feel like they need to say or do something.

We waited. Two shellsuits behind me were offering their solutions to the human road block. ‘If I was in a car I’d just drive into them. They’d move then.’ ‘The bizzies just stick up for them, minute they’re there they’re around them. They should be arresting them.’ And as the police horses appeared ‘I’d just get the ‘orses to kick their ‘eds in …’

I tried to read my book. Twenty minutes later, as I’d slowly watched some of the other passengers get off the bus, I made my way to the front. By now, a policeman was standing in the doorway. I asked him if there was any forward movement. ‘I think they’ll be getting their candles out next ….’ He grinned. I nod and get off the bus.

Meantime I’d called home to say I would be late. ‘No.’ I’d said. ‘Getting a taxi won’t help…’]

My way out of town was past the protestors. I’d expected students, but they were young and old. They were standing very close together, many hundreds. They were chatting not chanting. They had plackards. Simply standing around. Spectators leaned on roadside barriers watching them, a carnival of peace creating chaos in their own city. It seemed to good natured; even the football fans were respecting them, even though they blocked one of the main routes towards Anfield. The headline ‘Celtic supports clash with anti-war protestors’ wasn’t going to happen today.