College Green is a little patch of grass diagonally opposite the Houses of Parliament, not big enough to go for a walk on, but bigger than the average kiosk pitch; almost purpose-built, in fact, for broadcasters to use when there is a political crisis. In normal times, this would be once every two or three years: elections, a major resignation. They might interview an MP there because they wanted a bit of fresh air.
Right now, broadcasters practically live there. As a result, it has a queasy atmosphere: a combination of artificial lighting juxtaposed with the often dreary sky, the presenters’ lips slightly blue with cold, and a lingering, unspoken editorial question – why do we have to do this opposite parliament? Is it in case the whole thing bursts into flames? Nothing speaks of crisis like having to move 20 yards closer to the action – the regular studios are only down the road.
The more serious crisis is happening in the background, of course. The downside of being in the open air is that any old Joe can wander past and yell something in the hope of getting on TV. Before the Brexit referendum, when there was no great fault line, the agitator was usually a pacifist. There was a CND dog who may have been anti-nuclear, but definitely wasn’t a pacifist. He made good on a joke from US politics: the most dangerous place in Westminster was between him and a camera. Now, there is almost always a People’s Vote contingent or a guy shouting “leave means leave”, often both. They get on each other’s nerves and harry the producers. They are exercising their rights to protest and speak freely. You might not want to go for a beer with them, but you wouldn’t want to live in a country without them.
So: a group of Trump supporters chased after me off-air yelling abuse, along with 'You're a traitor', 'Labour hates Jews', 'Show us your pussy', etc. Not going to be intimidated by this though, sorry. pic.twitter.com/1i8sWrebFa
— Owen Jones🌹 (@OwenJones84) December 4, 2018
On Tuesday, the Guardian columnist Owen Jones was leaving the green, having been heckled while he was on air. About five men – one in a cap, one wrapped in the flag of St George, one with a selfie stick ready to capture the inevitable impending social media spectacle – chased him down the street, accusing him of being a member of a “Jew-hating party” and belching a mashup of homophobic, pro-Brexit, Trumpian battle cries. On the page, it sounds like football thuggery; when you see the video, it is sinister. There is something in the act of chasing that goes beyond protest and disagreement – would-be stealth and almost-speed, a physical intimidation that wears itself boldly. In this instance, it may have been pantomime and Jones was not attacked physically, but that was the apparent threat. It had nothing to do with pluralism. It was a striptease of violence.
We can talk about whether or not Brexit is racist; whether antisemitism has been weaponised by people who wouldn’t cross the street to put out a real fire of prejudice. We can talk about any of the muster points of the far right and how well the left has met them. But first we have to talk about the breakdown of political civility.
Physical threat is not a trivial matter in politics. It has no analogy. It is not like a fight on Twitter. It brooks no compromise. Its targets and whether or not you agree with them are not relevant. If you don’t face it down, in solidarity, you are poisoning your own well.
