Juliet England: Marching against Brexit – with a hearing loss

There was only place our writer Juliet felt she could be on Saturday – but what was the Put it to the People march like with less than perfect hearing?

Hands up and cards on the table time. I’m a fully paid up Remainer.

There, I’ve said it now. Come at me and call me a latte-swilling, quinoa-chomping member of the liberal luvvie, Metropolitan elite if you dare. And I will tell you a £20 two-course dinner at Café Rouge is my idea of a pricey night out.

And as one journalist put it adroitly, there’s a lot to remoan about just now, so no apologies from me for being a treacherous ‘enemy of the people.’

All of which means that, last Saturday, there was only one place I could be – London and the march for a People’s Vote.

“Ooh, Waitrose’ll be empty,” sneered one client. (I nearly spluttered on my soya  skinny latte at that, but had to let the jibe go.)

Anyhow. Really, really, really leaving the country’s currently deranged politics to one side, how would I fare on the march with a hearing loss?

I’m not a particularly veteran marcher, nor an especially hardened bearer of placards or wearer of badges. Sure, I did the massive Iraq protest in 2003, and have marched against Brexit a couple of times, but they were the exceptions, not the rule.

I rock up at Reading station before 9am (on a Saturday! – shows how bad the situation is) and greet my fellow marchers. My local MP is also there, his words to me lost on the breeze, though he’s soon off, mumbling something about having to ‘go on ahead’.

My heart sinks when the woman next to me on the train wants to talk. I just want to read my paper (Guardian, well, obviously) and have half an hour’s peace. She’s sitting next to rather than opposite me, making lipreading hard. It takes a while to understand that she wants to know where the march is gathering.

At Paddington, I find myself separated from the group, apart from a couple and their student son, so we make our way to Hyde Park Corner. I don’t know them or their voices, and worry about the loudness of my own voice, echoing around the surprisingly only half-full tube carriage.

Once at the start point, I chat briefly to the couple’s son about his student life in Swansea. Then I find two acquaintances from my old walking group, another married couple, the female half of which is lovely but her gentle voice is so soft it’s almost impossible to catch anything she says. I do a lot of smiling and nodding while desperately hoping she isn’t asking me anything.

Then they take themselves off, as things hot up and the crowd heaves. I’m by the sound system just outside the Dorchester (‘the music sounds better with EU’) – and, for a deafie, I’m remarkably sensitive to loud noise. It feels less like being at a march than at Glastonbury. Who are all these young people, drinking, smoking, dancing and, worst of all, having fun? Don’t they know the future of our country is at stake?

The crush is intense, and I’m penned in, unable to move or leave the throng. What’s more, I can’t hear the announcements, so have to ask someone, who tells me we’ll be waiting a while yet. This is not so much a march as a stand, and a long one at that.

Three of the young people next to me spot me looking stressed, ask if I am OK, want to be sure I have water and offer me an energy bar. We can all barely hear each other above the blaring music.

Then, at last, we’re on our way, shuffling forwards. This is much better. We make our way through some of the poshest parts of London, Piccadilly, St James, the Mall.

Occasionally, a great cheer goes up, although I can’t quite understand why, or summon the strength to ask in case I don’t hear the reply, but I think it’s just a cheer for the hell of it.

Every now and then, we shuffle to a halt. Wherever I spot a gap ahead, I try and squeeze through it.

I love the placards. There’s one in Latin bearing a rude message about Brexit. A sausage dog is wearing a little jacket saying leaving the EU will be ‘the wurst’. And ‘my rubbish bra has more support than Brexit’ (at least, that’s the polite version.)

Finally, Trafalgar Square comes into view, and then we snake down Whitehall. I sit down for a few minutes, bone-weary. I realise I have barely eaten or drunk since breakfast, and not had a wee since the train hours ago.

At the Churchill statue by the Houses of Parliament, a policeman tells me I’ve long since missed the speeches and the rally. Damn.

Outside Westminster tube station, people are relaxing on the pavements, pooling outside the pubs and cafes, their marching efforts done for the day.

The station itself is shuttered. I just about manage to hear the London Underground worker tell me to walk to Waterloo.

I can’t remember the last time I felt this exhausted. It’s Saturday night and I should be out, but I will barely have the energy to turn the TV on.

My mobile signal returns on the train, having been down for much of the day, due to the sheer numbers of people. A news site tells me that I have been one of a million marchers. Maybe the numbers were a bit exaggerated, but who knows or cares? Hearing loss or not, I was there.

Juliet England is a partially deaf writer.