Whichever way you cut it Guy Fawkes, Guido to his friends, was set on a murderous course. To kill a king and his court. For politics and reasons of religion. His not theirs. Or mine.
If only the powder stored under Parliament had exploded. If parliament had not been deployed since July. And if only Walshingham hadn't been a master spy. The first of his kind. The plot fell to bits long before Master Faulkes' body did. From the scaffold. Sir Francis, his heirs, were on his case from the beginning. The Old Bill got his man. Do they still?
Today we call it terrorism. ("Theirs" not ours?) A bomb dropped from three thousand feet is a crime.
Poor old Guy.
Burnt ever year. As he was years ago. After his neck was stretched and his bowls opened to daylight. Perhaps not the best tale to be teaching our kids. Then again it happened. Here's a roman candle. Bang bang. Unlike tooth fairies and Father Christmas. It is not a myth.
Like the idea of free speech?
It is the small things that irritates freedom and therefore citizens most. Especially for the English and the Irish. A class and clans united.
Cutting to the chase.
Today in Trafalgar Square young people marched in from Jarrow. 330 odd miles away.
Demanding jobs. A chance. 70 years on these children are not starving like those who marched before to shame a government. They get a pound each for their return journey home.
And while this licensed trade union event in Trafalgar Square is taking place, off stage, a Guy look alike, is told he may not protest in this most public of spaces. Under Admiral Nelson's gaze, of all people, who had seen off the French and other invaders. Go away he is told by two men with small authority and no sense of history. Horatio looks south towards the sea we share with an old enemy.
His eyes, both now dead, follow the route, precisely, of Whitehall, south passed government offices of Scotland and Wales on the left and the right. To Downing Street and the bankers quarter known also thereabouts as the Treasury.
So he goes. Quietly to sit outside the Nation's Gallery. He is left alone. His sign, on the reverse, says don't panic don't riot.
By a quarter of the third hour, three 15 in old money and an all together greater row is brewing.
The campers of St Paul's are stretching their legs. From their general assembly. Passing Nelson and on the run, cat and mouse, and fleet of foot with the Met on a route that would make the tourists buses proud. With their own colours. And none.
Whilst tactics are digital, and can be spread easily by everyone, by police too - get him says a FIT team cop - spotting a man with the loud hailer, a leader? words, printed, are handed out to Londoners, on paper, bus drivers, caught in the crush and their passengers, passersby are happy to read the reason for their delay.
Albion.
At ten to four parliament square is closed. Traffic passes. Citizens do not. Section 132 is invoked. I order you to move. I will arrest you. So say some grumpy silly young men in uniform. Tourists are baffled. This is a riot a female PC tells a crowd, of 15 standing by, to watch, nothing more. She leaves. Hearing in her ears, perhaps, the advice of a man maybe not unknown to such events - to read a law book before coming back. To lecture the public on its rights. Under article 10 and others of the english common law. Jesus where are Leslie Scarman and Tom Denning. Dead?
Overtime is being paid. Legal observers are being turned away. My order applies to you says a constable to an officer of the court. The supreme court, the judicial committee of the privy council is the sound of a conker and the sight of a sparker away.
Ann, a woman police constable, doing her duty, mixing with the people and having got slightly away from her mates is recalled by those in blue, men, to rejoin the crew. Ann, Ann her name echoes along the line. Her sergeant Michael is stern. Stop doing nice, she is told. In no uncertain terms. No more directions for those who are lost.
May her gods bless Constable Ann. Who works for us. A thought in passing.
Finally, corralled. Outside parliament. Small p from now on until its lame members earn something better.
The kids, the children, on November the 5th, our heirs, the heirs to Cromwell, our children are herded like sheep.
Arrested for wanting to plant a tent, or two, and to have a conversation. A moot.
That is the meaning of the saxon word Witan and this dialogue, poorly started, perhaps, is not yet finished.
One per cent or them. It's O' Level math. As the Americans say.
Parly. It could even be French.
