Saluting the European Commission on 31 January

We were warned: skip the processional bit down Whitehall and past Parliament Square, and just go straight to Smith Square; the English Defence League is out in force to 'celebrate' Brexit Day. Not to be intimidated, a smallish crowd (maybe 200?) of REUniters - as I suggest we call ourselves - gathered as instructed opposite Downing Street between 2.30 and 3pm on the afternoon of the inauspicious day, ready to thank the European Commission Representation in London for all it had done over the years.

Organiser Peter French later told me that even he, the veteran campaigner and the man behind this splendid float on our last March of the Million, which you can see properly sideways on in that post but more obliquely from behind here,

was worried, and thought about abandoning the first bit. But I'm glad to have gone through the fire. The EDF horrors were parallel to us, separated only by a handful of police, megaphoning their hate, and some darted in between us yelling obscenities in our faces. But thanks to Orpheus Henrik Tideman with his zither,

we sang the Ode to Joy over and over, ever louder, and saw them back off bewildered. So grateful to the friends who did come - Henrik, Henrietta Foster, Claudia and Stephen Pritchard (Claudia stylish as ever in her EU wear), Sophie glamorous in black centre.

One good thing: there were possibly as many international radio and TV media folk as us. We all got collared to talk at one point or another. I was asked by an English lady representing ORF if I didn't think we were being provocative. And I said that we were offering no provocation at all, just wanting to honour an honourable institution, and that provocation was coming from the other side; we would not rise to it. Also made the acquaintance of til-then-MEP Julie Ward, who sported one of the scarves we saw them wearing proudly in Brussels.

Once past the Houses of Parliament, we lost the trolls and all proceeded as normal towards St John's and the European Commission in Smith Square.

It's a shame no MPs were in evidence - the partner of one said he'd been too afraid to come and had stayed home. Really. But we did get splendid speeches from Peter

and Julie.

They came in the nick of time, as we were wondering how many more times we'd have to infill by interlacing the Ode to Joy with 'Auld Lang Syne' , which we were briefly seen delivering on Channel 4 News (Latvian friend Kristaps contacted me to say he'd seen it - that is definitely not me on the right, contrary to some unkind friends who suggested there was a resemblance, but we are to be seen at 5m02s),

Fortunately that wasn't the point at which we were railroaded into singing it to some really not very good words, lambasting Parliament inter alia when we know that the House as a whole saved us so many times before the blow of the Toron majority fell and along with it a darkness we must shine light on at every possible opportunity (though it seems that the Prime Monster and his Chamber of Horrors are doing a pretty good job of shooting themselves in their unsteady feet at every opportunity).  Still, Orpheus Tideman was definitely the hero

until along came Madeleina Kay, #EUsupergirl and Young European of the Year 2018, whom I'd long wanted to meet. That's her cape up top, and here she is both singing her own composition, which we were able to participate in,

and with the cape behind her.

Not sure where she'd come from, but out of one of two Minis emblazoned with 'Bollocks to Brexit' stepped my old sparring partner on LinkedIn Peter Cook, who launched into some very amusing Chaz-and-Dave style numbers, the only drawback being that they weren't quite current, since Mrs Mayhem was very much a target. But a bit of nostalgia was welcome in the mix; this was a broad Remain church, serving up a varied divertissement (that word is French, pace W S Gilbert).

There was also an unfathomable kind of performance artist playing the widow bereft of Europe.

She wandered off as we continued to chat to some nice people from Maidenhead and a couple who were preparing for a candlelit vigil. Otherwise, folk had melted away as the grey declined into sombre night, and I went off with Hen for a plate of dependably generous pasta at Sapori round the corner.

The evening was consoling too: with J hosting a farewell dinner for a work colleague at the Garrick, I went off to bask in the always fabulous Stockwell hospitality of Katharina Bielenberg and Jamie Bulloch, hosting a relaxed gathering (with superb food as always) for Timur Vermes, whose latest novel, The Hungry and the Fat, Jamie has just translated from the German (confession: his book about Hitler returning, Look Who's Back, hasn't stayed with me). Speeches were given by Christopher MacLehose, Katharina's boss at that great press, and Timur, shortly before 11pm, and as I stepped out it seemed that Remainer neighbours were having a jolly party of their own. The journey home around midnight was uneventful.

Joyeuse Marche No. 4

No apologies for the French titling (the name is Chabrier's for the most gorgeously dotty and lopsided march ever; and that allows me to slip in a by now well-worn aperçu of mine about the connection between the opening of Elgar's Pomp and Circumstance March No. 1 and Delibes' "Cortège de Bacchus" from the ballet Sylvia, which EE would have known as a player in Worcestershire 'pops' programmes). This is the fifth time I've joined a demo for remaining in the European Union in a year. I didn't actually march on the first one, only able to turn up in Parliament Square for the speeches in September 2016. The fair-weather progress started for me properly in March 2017, resuming in June 2018 and beginning the parade of the 700,000 in November. They've all been exuberant, polite (this should have been called the 'sorry/excuse me' march), friendly for dogs

and families,

humorous, sometimes carnivalesque (though for that the anti-Trump march took the biscuit). The band above was actually playing 'YMCA', to a big singalong, halfway down Piccadilly.

I gave up on several alternative plans to meet folk, including one to join the West London Group led by my MP Andy Slaughter, which turned out also to include the great Alf Dubs, and came straight out of Hyde Park Corner tube, which once again like the train itself was packed with others heading to make up the million-plus - including my nice young neighbours -

to find the streets closed to traffic. So I headed for a grassy mound at the east end of Hyde Park Corner and immediately got various coigns of vantage - towards Park Lane, where Mrs Mayhem was to be seen spearing the economy with her ever-growing nose

and towards Piccadilly and Green Park.

Only when I saw my neighbour clicking some counter or other did I look at his coat and notice this:

Thought of asking him very politely why he was joining us, but didn't want to risk souring the general sense of well-being which held, as before, throughout the afternoon. There were much more interesting signs and declarations to be read. Many need no explanation, though the first, for anyone who hasn't watched the best entertainment/artistry on telly, is RuPaul's catchphrase for the contestant of the Drag Race week who gets to stay ('sashay away' is the phrase to the loser, which is probably on the other side of the placard- rhymes well with 'Theresa May').

The fearless Speaker of the House of Commons makes his first appearance on a march.

and there's at least one learned reference (bit surprised to be asked who Hannah Arendt was by two friends. Recommended them the surprisingly good biopic based around the Eichmann trial in Jerusalem starring Barbara Sukowa.

And so to the ridiculous, referencing Dumb Britain as represented by Love Island, which I've never watched.

Here's the clip to explain it.

Eeeuw. Time to slip in (not for the first time on the blog) the aforementioned Chabrier by way of intermezzo. I posted my favourite performance, Ansermet's, before, so time for Beecham.

Consumerism wasn't conspicuous on the march, but our delightful friend Orfeuo, just over from the Netherlands, added some retail colours. We met him, appropriately, outside the Ritz, fresh from a shopping spree.

Then we joined the march down to St James's Palace. I had a nice chat with these people, who'd adopted the consummate posters highlighting the tweets of the hypocritical mini-horror clowns for their boards.

The poster campaign was run by the creative heart of Remain, Led by Donkeys. For this ingenuity alone, obviously not my pic as it could only be seen from above in Parliament Square (click to enlarge a bit), I gave something for their campaign - you can, too, here.

Now we approach St James's Palace.

And here the enticing notion of lunch at the ICA took us away from the main procession and along the Mall.

I haven't eaten at the ICA in over a decade. The cafe used to be run by a nice Italian family who served cheap and excellent plates of pasta daily. They were replaced by a table-service-only restaurant with pretensions, no good for fast-ish food. Now there's an excellent restaurant and a fine cafe downstairs, and you no longer need to belong to the ICA or pay for a day pass to get in. Our lunch was splendid, and I met an acquaintances of J, Trevor Horne, and his wife Linda Morris. She happened to be sporting the same Tillmans T-shirt as I was, a first in my experience on any of the marches since I got mine,

and he was bearing, amongst others, the Tillmans banner I wanted to make myself but in the end didn't (the one on the left about Putin, Trump, Le Pen and the now-superseded Wilders supporting Brexit).

Time passed quicker than I realised and I got to Parliament Square just after the last speech had finished. I regret it even more since Heseltine's was one for the ages, spelling out the strong message of peace from one who was alive when that was the driving force of the European project. Do watch all 12 minutes.

I still caught a couple of excellent posters - there are two more 'anti-saints' on the reverses; but can anyone remember what "Saint Theresa" is, and what she was/is to be crucified on? -

and the legendary unicorn just before I descended to St James's Park tube for the journey home. The bike was then sitting with a flat tyre in Berkeley Square; yesterday I got it fixed at the superlative Cycle Republic off Upper Regent Street and while I waited for it to be serviced took a big loop of a stroll up to Regent's Park, around and back on the most perfect of spring days.

What we 700,000 marched for...

...seems like standing a real chance of becoming reality as day by day more influential figures call for a People's Vote and Mrs Mayhem's 'deal' seems doomed in Parliament.

Now's the time to start thanking the organisers for having a long-term goal in mind and keeping up the momentum. Because a poor deal and no deal are no longer options.

Not that I was able to follow the route, as I did earlier this year, in March and June, and for the anti-Trump march. My good friend Deborah had come up from Lacock and we were both due at Glyndebourne at 4pm for the tour production of Massenet's Cendrillon.

So we got to Hyde Park Corner for the start, realising that bigger-than-anticipated crowds were likely from the queues up the escalator at the tube station.

By all accounts it took three hours for the march to get started, by which stage we were gone, though J marched on our behalf later. Still, the start was a merry melee, and just about the first familiar face we saw was Anna Soubry's.

Plenty of monuments supported the fighting spirit

and the banners I remember from the spring march were out in force again

along with quite a few sporting this witty commentary on the First Big Lie (for which BoJob looks up for prosecution). This was the best designed that I saw.

At the entrance to Hyde Park, a different cause was being espoused

and I don't know if this band was part of the set-up, but they helped the carnival spirit,

Heading to Victoria, we finally saw the young who had been very much in the minority at the start finally having risen to join. And then it was a convoluted journey to Glyndebourne, bus replacement included, but nobody minded too much on a glorious afternoon. We decided not to change

and had nothing but delightful conversations with operagoers who wished they'd been able to attend. If anyone was hostile, nothing was said. Great gardener Deborah was fascinated by the abundance of purple-flowering sage. This is the best, along with Japanese wind anemones, for the end of season

and of course the trees were all displaying in advance of a change in London.

Walking round the lake couldn't help but remind me of one tour visit the day after the big hurricane - the opera was Nigel Osborne's punchy and very short The Electrification of the Soviet Union - when so many specimens were uprooted and showing their chalk-covered roots.

Sheep were back across the haha

and folk were out enjoying a very warm sun. 

If only Fiona Shaw's production of an opera I adore hadn't been such a mess. Much work to be done if it's to make sense in the main season next year. Meanwhile our labours continue to get to that People's Vote. Golden October may have declined into sombre November, with 24 hours of lashing rain and cold on Tuesday marking the start of winter - this was the view from the study window -

but we keep our hearts and minds stoked.