February 15th, 2003  
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February 15th 2003

 I went to war yesterday. Along with millions of other combatants. We secured the streets of London, New York, Berlin, Moscow, Sydney, and Damascus. 600 cities in fact were subjected to the rule of peace.
Protest was deployed to disrupt the forces of aggression and its attendant strategic objectives.  A coalition of language forced time into the recesses of the conscious mind, its objective projected beyond arbitrary national borderlines. Redrawing and mapping the peace of mind necessary for the rule of global law.

 Of all the riches on display in the nation's capitals yesterday, it was not the gilded statues, or  architectural wonders overhanging the busy streets which caught the eye. It was the millions of feet contemplating peace at every step, advancing rapidly through the jungle of urban warfare.  The objective was not to overcome by use of force, but to is disdain the use of rhetorical discourse implying war is some logical recourse that brings disarmament.

 Having established our lines on the Embankment by the riverway, Big Ben seemed struck dumb by the determination and play paraded past its striking hands.  Cromwell's drooping figure watching, Churchill's stout overcoat gawping, even the Burgers of Calais's chains were rustling in sight of this parliamentary session of objection, voting with its feet for the rule of peaceful rights.

 Advancing on, with whistles blowing trumpets blaring past all the Downing Streets of Whitehall declaring this fanfare of the commonweal. Towards Nelson and his phallic column strolled this phalanx of the deemed forgotten.  These converging forces of the peaceful were meeting with multi-cultural greetings sent out from the black bronze lions at the feet of old "one-arm-missing's" lofty view.
There we queued for a cup of tea -not - war, and watched the massing peaceful hordes from some meditative distance.
Then back we went up the Mall having taken Piccadilly and Eros's erotic smile, the drums beating all the while in Reggae rhythms and Bristol Samba.

 We massed, away from Leicester Square, passing the Royal Academy and the Aztec exhibition where, we made a strategic decision to stop off for a voluntary secret mission, veering off heat seeking, a spot of quick pint drinking and loo-locating friendly fire pissing. We chatted outside a pub, above the waves of sound wafting over from the marching hubbub. Flying by the American embassy with some wry smiles, we advanced upon our objective "the Park of Hyde". Confronting the speakers there with all the force of listening they could strategically bear.  From Ms. Dynamite to dear Jesse Jackson, our lended ears were sadly much distracted by the noisy chopper in the air, hovering above our ears in  mediated fanfare. 

 As we strolled away, down to QE gates, at the end of that eventful peaceful day, we noted how the millions strong -still with banners raised- were thronging into the park. Gathered by our made up sign, we checked for missing on our list, while the chariot of victory or Boadiccia seemed to glisten in the twilight sky. Down Grovenor Place beside the walled palace gardens toward our number 49-er, we sauntered to be transported back to base.