Something was different this time around. London itself has not changed much, it still feels like a giant machine. Not a particularly well oiled one, not one that is functioning smoothly (perhaps the snow that had prevented some trains from running contributed a bit to the impression), not one of those seamless and noiseless gadgets seen in sci-fi movies. Rather it is reminiscent of a monstrous steam engine. It is entirely too big, terribly inefficient, not particularly user friendly, yet it still somehow manages to persist against the grain of history. Its main purpose? Extraction of surplus value. The city hardly conveys the impression of being constructed for people to live in. Every inch of it feels like it was built by capital for capital. Every footstep sounds a bit like the stroke of a piston. Yet something was different this time around. If you put your ear to the ground you could hear the facade of cold concrete beginning to crack. If you looked attentively you could see fresh buds making their way through the cracks. They are fragile yet persistent, unwavering in their battle against the weight of dead material piled upon them. They are the people claiming what ought to be theirs.
Walking down Kingsway from Holborn station one passes LSE's new academic building. The contrast between the name and the architecture defies belief. The facade towering menacingly above the pavement appears like a bastard child of a high security prison and a bank. Tall gray monoliths that vaguely resemble doors speak no invitations, they guard. I walk on. I turn the corner, then another and there it is: an invitation. A makeshift banner is hanging from a window of the old academic building, informing passers by that LSE is under occupation. „Join us!“ it says. How can I refuse? Inside it hardly resembles an occupation; it is a place of learning, of coming together, of critical thinking and action, and most certainly of fun. It is what a place of higher learning ought to be. It is not occupied, the remainder of LSE is. Howard Davies, LSE's director, has refused the students' invitation, which is hardly surprising. He is a former banker and bankers have a hard time understanding the importance of learning, coming together, critical thinking and action, and they almost certainly do not understand why people need to have fun.
About half an hours walk to the north the students of UCL have put quite some effort in redesigning the exterior of their university. Bright red signs are anouncing a closing down sale and promising further reductions. For now the commercial discourse is ironic. The most likely result of the vote in parliament on Thursday will make it bitter reality (irony is another thing bankers fail to understand). Some very pompous stairs guarded by pompous columns are covered with witty messages written in chalk, demonstrating that irony can effectively take away the power of threats. „How can I afford my caviar?“ one of them reads. UCL's management on the other hand has responded with sarcasm (or was it a farce?) when their demand to have students evicted was rejected in court. I somehow doubt they see the funny side of it.
Neither did Topshop security when a bunch of people started blowing whistles inside the store on Oxford street. This time around irony was supplied by the police. In response to the protest they barricaded the entrance, either not realising or not caring (reductions in their salaries are also part of the government's austerity measures) that completely closing down the store was something protesters never could have achieved without their help. Again sarcasm is to be found higher up in the hierarchy: while government is cutting public spending in ways absolutely devastating for working people it is turning a blind eye toward tax evasion by the rich. The people have decided that they have taken about as much of it as they can take. Their chants were without irony this time: „If you wanna sell your clothes pay your tax!“
