You Can't have Your Police and Eat Them - Thoughts on police, power and privatisation.

Once again, the police are back in the spotlight. It's that contentious subject of privatisation, which gets into every pore of the public services at the moment. We have now become familiar with Conservatives advocating competition and private investment, and citing the conditions of austerity and bureaucracy to free public services from the shackles of the state and promote the pseudo-natural logic that beholds that selling off things and leaving them to the market makes them work better.

Generally, we know where we stand when it comes to the sell-off. We point to the ideologies in the Tory armoury; we point out that bureaucracy isn't inherent to state institutions and the private sphere lacks the accountability that public ownership provides; we question the ethics of creaming profits from ill people or students, and the logic of replacing state targets with business targets. We generally fight every bit of privatisation. Education, last year, met huge opposition, and inevitably happened anyway; the NHS is undergoing the same treatment. But is the standpoint which posits state ownership as the problem-solving antithesis to private ownership conducive to substantial change?

Perhaps one of Žižek's jokes can help us here. Here he is in full swing in Violence:

Under socialism, Lenin's advice to young people, his answer to what they should do, was 'learn, learn, learn.' The joke goes: Marx, Engels, and Lenin are asked whether they would prefer to have a wife or a mistress. As expected, Marx, rather conservative in private matters, answers, 'A wife!' while Engels, more of a bon vivant, opts for a mistress. To everyone's surprise, Lenin says, 'I'd like to have both!' Why? Is there a hidden stripe of decadent jouisseur behind this austere revolutionary image? No - he explains: 'So I can tell my wife that I'm going to my mistress, and my mistress that I have to be with my wife...' 'And then, what do you do?' 'I go to a solitary place to learn, learn, learn!'

Aside from the old knowledge is power maxim, this tells us both to not be seduced by the existing opposition and to step back and look at the bigger picture. Perhaps our outrage is misdirected...

The privatisation of the police brings out a problem for the anti-private brigade, or, rather, it illuminates a peculiarity of the privatisation issue itself. Our impulse to condemn another privatisation initiative is put on hold when we acknowledge that the police are not the same as other institutions. The police are the ones standing before us, intimidating us, when we march and protest and shout slogans. While the teachers and nurses join us on the strike, the law prevents the police from doing so. They stand for the last line of civil defence for the state, put in place for us via the state, to preserve the state, and thus preserve us, civil society. For Walter Benjamin, the police, as an arm of the democratic state, are a 'nowhere-tangible, all-pervasive, ghostly presence' in our lives, operating with a form of violence which is both lawmaking and law-preserving. Police violence asserts the law when the state's legal system is insufficient in attaining the aims of the state, and in victory this violence preserves existing laws and establishes new ones. With the dispersed, self-governing power we have under the modern democracy, this self-affirming, creative violence is harder to locate than if it were wielded ruthlessly by an absolute monarchy, but this does not exonerate it from its position as guardians of existing institutions of power. We need only consider the tame justifications used for police tactics at protests, or the number of deaths in police custody and the lack of convictions for those deaths, to see how the police operate with a skewed and productive version of the law. And the suppressive force at the protest is legitimated (especially if we watch the news) due to the fear that the Hobbesian 'state of nature' ready to burst through as soon as we become complacent about our own security. While we watch the stand-off between 'thugs' and cops, we should be aware that it is the barricades around shops which show where the police's real priorities lie. And equally so at the (physically) non-violent end of the spectrum, where the media/police/state tripartite exposes to us the grease that keeps the power-machine working, capital.

So, the police is by no means safe from the two-headed monster of power and capital. It's increased privatisation exemplifies the complicity between the state and the private sphere in a manner of self-regulating security, not simply in the name of the state and its power, nor in the name of private capital and its continued accumulation, but for the neoliberal amalgamation of the two. Like the way CEOs take advisory positions in government (with the controversial appointments of A4e's Emma Harrison and Andy Coulson exposing the rule, not the exception, of the state's power/business interests) the state's privatisation of the police is a joint effort, not for or against the state or the private sphere as such, but for the continued protection of the newly defined ruling classes. This elite, increasingly indiscernible if we focus on categories of gender, race, private or public, and the traditional distinction between bourgeoisie and proletariat, are, as David Harvey shows, a class determined by neoliberal economics, and re-establishes the lines of class division in its most contemporary form.

So how to we express ourselves when the threat of police privatisation arises? On the one hand we want to save things from the invisible hand of the market as it grabs for everything in sight, but on the other hand we recognise the problematic position that the police currently holds. Furthermore, whilst appreciating this problematic position, we hope the police to be nearby to protect our houses when the next round of riots breaks out, and tackle the bad guys to the ground. Abolishment of some kind of protective force is just not something society can take seriously. So we want the police, or something like it, but do we want it in its current form, being haggled for by two sides of the same coin? Accountability is often something we often fall back on. We want the police to be accountable, and privatisation inhibits this. So do we call for the nationalisation of everything - education, healthcare, energy, transport, banks...? Some would say yes, but this prospect would ignore and only encourage the tendency to be ruled by a narrow business-oriented technocratic elite. Instead, we need to conceive of a distinction beyond the private and public and turn the notion of accountability on its head, no longer relying on 'public ownership' for it. Equally so for the other institutions we fear we are losing to the market. Instead, as Georges Sorel says, control of the means of production enables the shift in the balance of power. The neoliberal capitalist elite blend the state and the market, conflating the existing categories of public and private instead of simply squeezing out the public. What they increasingly leave behind, or indeed create as the wealth gaps widen, is a new form of masses, and with this comes the Sorelian clarity of class distinction. 'The middle class is a luxury that capitalism can no longer afford,' said John Gray, and, to slightly amend the words of Marx, they have nothing to lose but their consumerist possessions. The middle is being 'squeezed', as they say, or more accurately, it is being relocated. Some go up, some go down. The police, given this distinction, are protectors of both the state and capital, and neither nationalisation nor privatisation changes this. So do we have them or eat them? Do we fight for the institution as it stands or let it be swallowed by the neoliberal program? We eat, digest, and shit out something new.

NUC: Truly Scrumptious, Camden

To Camden we travelled, plectrum in hand, for band practice. New drummer in our cohort, enthusiasm was high, prospects were good, weather was bad, and the rain was trickling in where Chris' guitar case's zip has broken. Well, Chris, if you will buy your guitar accessories from Argos... Once, I now recall, I bought a MP3 player from Argos which turned out to be a dud, a fake MP3 player maybe used in the display cabinet, with buttons that didn't click. I returned it and they would only give me vouchers to be spent there within twelve days. These twelve days passed by without me returning. I'm sick n tired of this type of shit - who's with me?? It must be riot season soon...

In the lobby at the Roundhouse, we waited for Chris who had the necessary clearance codes for the studio. We've been here before and the rules always seem to change. Whatever logic they have to decide their rehearsal room policy confounds us. The situation presents itself now as follows: Chris is a member and can have three guest passes over the year. Two, according to the computer, have already been used, meaning one is left. With one pass but three other band members present, we can't go in. However, only a few weeks ago we had six people in there in one go and before that we had five. (And Chris comes here on other occasions to use the space with his theatre company.) The price also changes. Previously it was £5 overall, for five people in there for five hours. When Jacob turned up on a previous occasion, he was asked to pay £5 himself but then, upon enquiring why this should be, was told not to worry about it. Now we are told that we each individually have to pay the same amount for the number of hours spent, even though we can't go in because of the aforementioned clause relating to guest passes, which prevents us getting through the second door anyway.

Dumfounded, dejected and dismissed, we decamped and disembarked to some other destination. This became Truly Scrumptious, which is a greasy spoon in smart clothes. Turnover is quick, hurried all-day breakfasts for busy north London people dining alone. Sausages supply the local fragrance. Peckish is a word that comes to mind but I stick with an Americano. It's £1.50. It has quaint seaside paintings on the wall, in total contrast with the damp Camden outside. You wouldn't come here to read fine literature and ponder philosophical questions, and you wouldn't bring your parents here to show them what Camden was all about, but the place serves a purpose, and seems to satisfy those in need of that, and without descending into greasy spoon decadence.

The four of us sit on cold aluminium chairs. We apologise to Jane the drummer for buggering up the first session with her. Jacob, on the other hand, has undergone some kind of psychic mutation, for which we hold the English breakfast tea responsible, and has convinced himself to walk to Primrose Hill in the rain. Chris and I will go to my house, get drunk and record ourselves singing in keys which are not very flattering to our limited vocal ranges.

NUC: Café Trinity, Turnham Green

Today I ventured west, further west than I thought possible. It was a veritable odyssey over to a building near Acton used for storage spaces but refashioned into a band room for a certain drummer of mine, Jane. We are trying to rework a song for her course. Candidates thus far include A Design for Life by the Manic Street Preachers and Help by the Beatles, also Last Flowers to the Hospital by Radiohead and The Call by the Backstreet boys, just to add a touch of class to the line-up. We made some progress before decamping to this café for a coffee wind-down.

It somehow reminds me of the cafés of Southampton, situated here in a place where the oppressive assault of the city hasn't quite eroded the quaint little-Englandness of the mythical yesteryears. The eponymous green stretches out to the left, a church of sorts to the right, a roundabout and a red phone box in the middle. Inside too, it's Southampton - it's 4:30 PM and empty, with bored staff talking amongst themselves, and little wooden round chairs screaming for someone to sit on them. We heed this call. The one other customer in here turns out to be working here. We order a cappuccino and a tea; the cappuccino is very fluffy.

There are a few tasteful paintings on the wall. The café is dark and green and warming. Despite the sun, the day is cold, but the deep colours take the edge off. The staff talk in a language I can't understand and I think one of them is nicer than the other. Jane and I talk about the art of drumming. I tell her that most of my drumming practice was done on the dashboard of a minivan in Australia, and that my favourite drummer is Abe Cunningham of the Deftones. For her, a Taiwanese band that I would not know inspired her to embark on a life of drums, and she's never looked back.

This café is not overwhelming. Maybe because we're the only ones here? It's safe though. Or maybe that's the problem - too content with being a merely safe café to be in, and little more. Upstairs it gets more loungey. Out the front dark wooden tables face outwards towards the road and the confusion - a new bus every twenty seconds, a mother and pram, a jogger and dog walker. Yes, some of London's suburban traits have found there way here after all.

NUC: The Deptford Project, Deptford

Saturday rained, Sunday did not. Saturday's café notes from Deptford is at Canary Magazine, which is down the digital street on a South East London server. Canary is good because 1. it's not oversaturated with content; 2. it's set out clearly; 3. it's got intelligent, creative articles which aren't dumbed down or formulaic and boring, and are instead embellished with such delights as Freud, existentialism and class war; 4. it's got stuff about stuff that I might be interested in - art and music and film and other random thoughts, little twists on everyday life; 5. it seems to have a voice - a Canary voice, if you will - that has a particular mood and direction (lose this at your peril...); 6. it's hoping to go to print which is way retro (physical things are cool); 7. it's got me in it, bestowing to me the semblance of legitimacy.

http://canarymagazine.co.uk/dir/portfolio/notes-from-a-cafe-the-deptford-project/

NUC: Wild and Wood, Holborn

On the day Saint Paul's became under siege by marauding disgruntled taxpayers (99% of the country, so I hear), Dave and I stopped here, at Wild and Wood, for a coffee, before heading into the battlefield and making unruly remarks about bankers, politics and the ambiguous City of London Corporation. We all know a little more about this secretive institution now, right? No, not really. "A coffee before the protest?" I advanced. — "Yes," replied Dave, "I know a place up here." — "Ah, but there's a place up here that I'd like to check out, looks pretty good." — "Trust me, the one I'm thinking of is really nice." — "Where is it?" — "Somewhere round here, not quite sure..."

Neither of us could find the cafés we were thinking of, which were both, incidentally, Wild and Wood. Until, voilà, here it was. The micro-network of roads round there still throws me. Our coffee was swell and gave us a much needed fuel injection for the chilly day of polemics which awaited us.

Today I am back here with Chris. We nestle in in what could be described as an alcove. The seats are carved into the walls, and the tables protrude from them. Pictures of old movie stars dot the wall, and a candle sits between us, giving Chris' beard an enigmatic shine. The unusual layout is a novelty in itself, and invites you to clumsily share the space with other coffee comrades. As the name of the place would suggest, its prettty woody and pretty goddam wild.

It's another one of those places which opts out of the conventional 'bar' system, instead simply plopping a cash register on the side and relying on shelves and worktops which spill into the room. The woman with the coffee (European but I didn't catch enough to guess where) is to-the-point but friendly. The small 'polite' reminders that those who sit here must purchase something, not water, sums up her character, at least in my head. Three suited men squeeze around a tiny table, sipping coffee delicately and talking about 'fiscal years' and 'strategic incentive strategies (SIS)'. We enjoy our coffee, it's good and is complimented nicely by a fine sugar. Buzzing slightly, we wonder whether we will ever set foot in an office; we expect not.

NUC: Blossoming Together, Deptford

The award for cutest name goes too Blossoming Together. They've only been open a handful of months, so I am told, and they're still getting going. But this lack of refinement makes the whole thing better, possesing a reality that most places don't have. They hail from Italy, and slot comfortably into this quiet pedestrianised road opposite Deptford High Street.

When I walked past and took a look in it felt like I was peering into someone's front room. A woman appeared, somewhat expectantly, somewhat suspiciously, with a cautious smile on her face. I went in and asked for a coffee. She seemed slightly thrown, as if I had asked for something unusual, like a rabbit or something. But, quickly she seemed to accept that this was indeed a café and coffees were a fairly ordinary request. First, she fumbles around finding me an suitable place to sit. It's not busy, so this shouldn't be too challenging. But, also, there's only a few tables. There's one woman reading at one table, and a young girl with toys at another. I join the woman, she with Kindle, me with paperback. The three of us briefly discuss the merits of each device and the prospects for the rainforest.

There's also a space downstairs. From the amount of noise I deduce that downstairs is bigger than up here. Apparently it's a sewing and colouring and braiding workshop, and it sounds like it's going well. This community-oriented project seems to be a principle theme for the café, and I think that's good. Although, I might add, I'm fairly indifferent to sewing.

There's no 'bar' as such in here. A sort of small table/cupboard loosely demarcates the bit of the room where coffees are made and cakes are sliced. The sides and walls are lined with ingredients. It's like when you go to someone's house and you see how much better their kitchen is than yours. But this is a comfortable kitchen to be in, easy on the eyes and bursting with culinary potential.

Our Italian hostess, after marveling at the brilliance of Deptford market for things such as prawns, soon runs out the door leaving her one available employee, only just recruited, to keep things in order. This was fine until the Kindle Woman wanted to pay for her drink. The till loomed like an unfathomable corrupted robot, teasing her with booby-trapped buttons that do who-knows-what. I came to the rescue with my paltry knowledge of rudimentary cash registers and between the three of us we managed to get £2 into it. Soon after, the hostess returns showing off a bag of prawns. I pay for my drink, promise to return to tell her about my studies, and head home.

NUC: Petitou, Peckham Rye

Once, en route to the estate agents. I walked past this place and thought, 'hmmm . . . ' Yes, useful vocabulary was replaced by general sentiments funneled into even more general sounds. Another time, I walked past and thought, 'well, I wonder . . .' and the generality of my thoughts had taken a slight, almost imperceptible, shift towards substance.

Something was happening, that much I was certain of. Days passed, they became weeks, then we moved house. With myself in Deptford and Dave in Peckham, a suitable middle-ground became Petitou. I walked here (from Deptford, I kid you not), to find Dave, dressed in yellow, with his bike, which is also yellow. He sits in the front garden complimenting the green foliage.

Petitou's a charm. Set back from the high street, in a surprisingly quaint street. We sit in the garden, by an oak tree. Inside is good-looking. A menu on the wall has the usual list of drinks. Other original goods are on offer, teas and jams and such. I have an above average coffee, served to me by an above average woman. No music as far as I can tell, but a suburban soundtrack of bikes, cars and wind. Hold on, we're upgrading to the pub . . .