In the wake of the horrible footage that was released on Tuesday showing the defenceless man that died on April 1st being pushed by police, after simply walking home through the G20 Meltdown. My experience of the day has to be heard.

A massive yellow canary being stretchered away, with the words R.I.P Canary Wharf written on him was genius. Being April the 1st, there was no doubting who the fools were today. The protest, aimed at the G20 summit, commenced at London Bridge and travelled a short distance to The Bank of England. This was a perfect chance for me and my fellow students to get stuck in to what promised to be the largest protest since the 2001 anti war campaign.

And get stuck in I did. Protesters were hoping to leave the square mile and head towards the University of East London, where an autonomous summit was due to take place. Discussions were due to focus on, as the vocal speaker put it, “What needs to be done to our economy, locally, nationally, European wise and through the world. Follow the samba band, if you want to be part of the revolution”. Fearing the worse, police decided to seal all entrances off, leaving thousands of protesters unable to leave, a tactic known as kettling. As protesters tried to make their way down ThreadNeedle Street they met stiff opposition in the form of-The Riot Police.

By now I had managed to haul my tiny frame through the masses to the front line, where I was confronted by a pack of Bulls. All kitted out in their armour, I knew my eyes were deceiving me but one officer was blowing steam from his ears. Another shed a tear, more likely to be beads of sweat. What prevailed in the next three hours, outside the RBS building became quite an eye opener.

The situation became a stand-off, with each meter or two gained by protesters, police would barge back. Shields and truncheons at the ready. Just as things would calm a little, the police would get restless and barge some more. Sandwiched between two sides of the law it seemed ludicrous that the police would be the ones to apply force and it turn arguably instigating what turned into constant scuffles.

“Who are you defending, not your people, chanted the masses”. Something so simple had never sounded so true. “We want to go forward but we are here for a peaceful protest”, shouted another. A group of twenty to thirty people sat down, emphasising they were not ready to cause trouble. There were many blood casualties; each wondering how it became that standing for your right deserved this sort of treatment.

“Who’s Street, Our Street”. No one was going to back down in a hurry. Protesters had broken windows on the RBS building, it was time to get tough, bring out the cavalry. I couldn’t help thinking that being contained was not helping matters whatsoever. On this note I made my way back to the square where spirits were much on the brighter side, the party had begun. I sat reflecting on the stark contrast of what I was experiencing now and what I had just witnessed. We were sat in a massive fish-bowl, you were lucky to be let out and there was definitely no one coming in.

Out from the bubbling cauldron, came Joe one of our crew, looking a whiter shade of white. He had been caught in a moment, guilty of coming too close to the hand of the law. “I’ve had enough of the Met for one day. I was stood there, there was pushing and then wham”, he said, sporting an eye socket that was darkening by the minute and a hand that won’t function for a while.