It’s been one week since I was in a taxi in Central London when the driver made an ill-advised turn onto Piccadilly. Then again, it wasn’t his fault that thousands of demonstrators clogged this main artery in one of the world’s great capital cities. At first the protestors kept to the opposite side of the road, but soon they engulfed the whole width of this fashionable boulevard, bringing traffic to stop.
They carried signs with such clever slogans as:
“Feed Your Trump Rage with Enthusiasm!”
“Say No to Racism!”
“Love Trumps Hate!”
This last one was ironic given the many expressions of hate emanating from the signage of this mob.
“Look at them with their lattes,” my driver observed. He had a point. A well-heeled lot, there was little kinship between these people and the poor, hungry masses of whom Dickens wrote.
“Who is oppressing them?” he continued. “Why not protest the Muslims who really are oppressing people? But you won’t see them do that. They haven’t the balls to do it.”
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