"Everyone a General."
I always looked up to Essex; mainly because he was taller than me, but he had the gravitas of that deep voice, plus he had a vibe of having been around forever, the aura of someone who'd organised the Colditz escape and had brought the benefit of his experience to Reclaim The Streets at the Cock Tavern. It came as a shock later to learn that he was actually younger than me, and had been around for, like, a bit. If you were in Colditz though, you'd want him with you. Anarchy was a done deal with Simon. It was decided. Riots were desired because he'd done the calculations and it made fucking sense to. When that voice spoke, it was to be listened to, and I did.
When twelve of us hit the Czech Republic in Autumn 2000 to ruin the World Bank / IMF summit, we stayed in a little village outside Prague and did tactics training in the fields. I was really proud to buddy up with Si; honoured to be the one who'd check his gas mask was fastened when the CS gas came in, although we both knew he was fucked if that happened because his mask didn't fit over his glasses, so he'd have a choice of being blind as a bat or choking in a token gas mask. 'We'll cross that bridge when we come to it' was the order of the day, which was ironic given that the next day we would come to an actual bridge and not cross that one either.
A group discussion was held the night before the big day, to decide once and for all whether we'd be on the anarchist blue route with the black bloc or the yellow route which the autonomists of Ya Basta were going to front with their padded white overall tactic. There was a bit of a conflict arising between the tactics we were training with and the politics we were driven by, and the group was mostly in favour of supporting the Italians, but consensus took a while to reach - in fact, wasn't reached - because an annoying pair of cunts kept insisting we should be fucking shit up with our anarchist comrades on the black bloc. Si and I grudgingly conceded to the majority in the end, and a day later found ourselves marching up to several hundred bemused Italians in our badly spray-painted padded overalls, through the massive anti-capitalist crowd behind them who started cheering the twelve of us on like the fucking cavalry had arrived. Thus began the WOMBLES.
There's something a lot longer to be written about all that followed, and if anyone was going to write it, Simon was the one. In October 2015, inspired by the fact another comrade was writing his experiences for publication, we talked about how a book on the WOMBLES would work. Simon had every relevant date memorised, so there was an idea that if he wrote down a timeline, we could just get everyone to write whatever they wanted, from deep political reflections, to inter-personal memories; most importantly of all, he wanted to record just how fucking hilarious it all was. We could then collate everything, hassling people periodically to let everyone know which areas we were short on, and finally producing a record of the WOMBLES by all the people involved directly or peripherally; we could surely get it published through the movement. It all seemed like a really excellent idea and something that should happen, and would be a good project for us both to do as people. I had some studying to do for an exam I had to sit the following spring, but said after that we would crack on with the book idea, at least putting it out there for folks to consider. Because otherwise, what happens to the story of us?
We never got it sorted, and as I live 240 miles from London, I couldn't do a lot when communication was sporadic with Si. I brought it up again last July and didn't get a response 'til August, that response being, "what book thing?"
The whole project would be a serious undertaking, and the idea of spending so much time in the past is a heavy thought. But we've lost one of us now, an integral one. The soul of the WOMBLES. That's one very important perspective gone. Maybe these stories don't need to be verified by a book; maybe they're a lot bigger and more meaningful in us than they would look written down.
Silly, funny moments that keep coming back to me... Simon matter-of-factly relaying the catering arrangements in the pre-DSEI convergence centre, counting on his sausage fingers: "Monday we had vegan slop; Tuesday, vegan slop; Wednesday the Krishnas... vegan slop..."
Some action organising meeting somewhere (fuck knows where, you tell me); the facilitator saying, 'if anyone's just here hoping for things to kick off, they may as well go now'; Simon and Becky very politely saying goodbye and stepping out.
The two of us running through King's Cross to catch the last tube to Watford or wherever those woods are that they used to have parties in, jumping dramatically down some stairs, Simon missing his footing and knocking himself out. Standing over him with some tube staff realising that someone can have their eyes wide open and still be unconscious.
Falling asleep on the circle line the day after and finally realising that we should get off at some point after periodically waking up and going around it three times like two sacks of shit.
Waking up in his squat in Tottenham to find him getting ready to go to his city job in a green jumpsuit. "It's dress down Friday."
So many moments, there forever.
I had the very great honour of being with him when his tears flowed as he talked about his father.
I had the very great honour of him being there when my life crumbled in my hands.
I'm so glad now I got to spend some time with him in 2015 and talk long into the night again after a long time out of touch. When his mind got into gear and that exciteable intelligence was holding court, I wouldn't be anywhere else.
What a beautiful, precious thing it is that he'll walk on in the world in Eliza.
I'm not ready to say goodbye yet. He's alright here for a while, he's safe and looked after. Simon's my buddy.
Proto-Wombles, Prague, 26th September 2000
