The Speccie has charitably printed an article from one of the ever so reasonable Republic protestors who gives an inside account of being politely but firmly prevented from raising his placard.
And here's an actual nicking in progress (buy a JST one !).
https://twitter.com/JustStop_Oil/status/1656277047097061377
Harvey Woolfe
What’s the real reason police disrupted our anti-monarchy protest?
10 May 2023, 8:52am
The Met Police has expressed ‘regret’ over the arrests of six anti-monarchy protesters on coronation day. Officers even apologised in person to Graham Smith, the leader of the anti-Monarchy group Republic. But so far, no-one has said sorry to me.
I’m a middle-aged dad, and not much of a rebel, but feel strongly about wanting an elected head of state. So, at 7.45am last Saturday, on the day of the coronation, I was part of a dozen-strong Republic sub-group, stationed on the Mall just opposite the Duke of York steps.
The plan was simple. Nine of us, wearing yellow Republic T-shirts, would hold metre-square placards, each containing a letter of the phrase ‘NOT MY KING’. At the precise moment the gold-encrusted carriage passes, we intended to raise our banners, ideally in the right order (thankfully we seem an educated bunch), while chanting the slogan: ‘Not My King’.
Was this all a ruse to keep us out the way and prevent us crashing the party?Despite the drizzle, the mood in the crowd is expectant. Some are curious, engaging us in good-humoured conversation trying to understand why we’re here. Many are tourists – French, American, Scandinavian – relieved their own countries don’t confer similar responsibilities on a 74-year-old, with eccentric opinions, requiring him to converse on our behalf and on an equal footing with world leaders, purely through an accident of birth.
While we await our big moment, a colleague with knowledge of the law maintains a regular dialogue with the police. He checks repeatedly that they’re happy with our intentions, especially the raising of our banners. As increasingly senior officers arrive on the scene, we’re again reassured they have no objections.
Eventually we hear the waves of military bands, evidence that the soon-to-be crowned monarch and his queen are coming. We gaze at the cameras on the temporary scaffolding opposite and prepare to raise our boards. Our once-in-a-lifetime opportunity will soon be upon us – a few seconds to make our mark on history.
But it is not to be. At 10.16am we’re surrounded by 20 officers who escort us back into St. James’s Park. Ironically it is only as we are led away, that the crowd reacts. There are a few boos and jeers; a crowd-pleasing ‘take ‘em down’. No doubt some onlookers think the sight of a score of burly bobbies leading away a few middle-class professionals and retirees means we were up to no good.
Here, we are remorsefully addressed by a slightly built, rather debonair sergeant with a matey Welsh accent. He regrets disturbing us and tells us we are definitely not being arrested. But they’ve had reports that people in the crowd are carrying missiles – paint, rape alarms etc – so we’re being stopped and searched, to ascertain whether it is us. Two officers go through my rucksack, delving into my sandwiches, leafing through a magazine, even opening my water bottle.
Nearly half-an-hour later, we’re free to go. They’ve discovered no evidence we intend to criminally disrupt the procession. By then, of course, the King is in Westminster Abbey – and we’ve missed our chance to protest. Was this all a ruse to keep us out the way and prevent us crashing the party?
We wander off disconsolately, trailed by a pair of Met minders, sharing our frustration that our basic right to protest has been denied us so unfairly. Some of our number slip off to catch a train home. But the hard core remains, returning eventually to the Mall. Far back from the front of the crowd, we defiantly raise our sodden banners as the newly-crowned King inches his return to the palace. Some female royalists, by now well oiled, shout insults. One labels us ‘unpatriotic’, a particularly grotesque slur since all we want is a better Britain than one based on unearned privilege. Another shouts ‘peasants!’. I can live with that.
In the end, we all feel cheated – sad that a once proud and defiant nation had too little self-confidence to tolerate a few peaceful protesters. But the publicity is good, and our arguments are becoming more mainstream. My mugshot has appeared across various media outlets, earning me instant credibility with my daughters – who, I suspect, are rather proud of their old man, trying to stand up for something he believes in.