Who Watches The Watchmen?

Quality time with the family. Playing in the park. Trips to Granny & Grandad's and Nan's. Learning how to fall off her stabiliser free bike. School holidays are an endless treasure trove of tiny delights. In this oasis of joy I find myself popping my head over the parapet to see the bullets of hate and lies whizzing past.

World leaders gathered in the sleepy village of London to try and find a way to dig us out of the shit pile their friends Fred, Brad, Topper and Gretchen have landed us in. Those who would oppose global economics used their time off from their studies to gather and make themselves heard, before returning to complete their dissertations and embark on their chosen career, complete with pension and stock options. Somewhere in the middle would be the usual pack of anarchic Neanderthals for whom any mass gathering is an excuse to show their disgust by destruction of property. Nothing says you are a true anarchist quite like forcing up insurance premiums.

In my happy little pacifist ignorance I watched the headlines and was saddened to see that in the midst of the chaos a protester died of a heart attack, and that as police tried to provide assistance and get him medical treatment they were beaten back by bricks and bottles from other protesters. Except, over these past few days footage has come to light proving that whatever the actual truth of what happened is, those initial reports given by police and reported as fact were nothing but abject lies. Ian Tomlinson wasn't a protester, and the circumstances leading to his death seem far removed from what we were lead to believe.

I'm reminded of a sketch David Baddiel did on The Mary Whitehouse Experience in which he explains the feeling of helplessness should a member of the constabulary decide to take their frustrations out on you, as it's something I can relate to. When you've been jumped or are being beaten up, one of things you may think to yourself as another brick hits your lower back, is that maybe someone in a house overlooking the scene will have heard the noise. Maybe they'll look out of the window and see a gang amassed around a solitary figure huddled in the foetal position, and they'll pick up a phone. You hope beyond hope that in the absence of any superhero like figure willing to take on such a collective that perhaps the sound of a siren or the sight of blue lights would be enough to at least disperse them while you still have some feeling in your legs to make it home. Aside from wishing that it will end while you're still breathing, there is always that hope.

When those who are tasked with our protection are the ones dispensing arbitrary justice, there is no hope. There is just confusion and fear.

Anyone with a keen interest in photography will no doubt be aware that police now have the power to confiscate your camera on sight if they believe that you have captured images of them, or official buildings, or manhole covers, or anything at all in a public place, under the crochet blanket of the Counter Terrorism Act. Indeed it's a wonder MI6 haven't been breaking down the doors of Google's London offices or undertaking controlled detonations of Street View vehicles.

The cynical or sceptical may say that the purpose of such a power isn't so much to protect us, but to conceal things from us. I also wonder why else police would wear balaclavas and hide their identities if their intentions were not nefarious.