Riot The petrol bomb flew through the window of the police car, blowing it to pieces. Men in hoodies and balaclavas brandished weapons, from baseball bats to assault rifles. Flames were all around, the screams of men and women as they fled the chaos or were attacked were horribly apparent. The riots had come to England's capital city. Tower bridge was lit up in spectacular orange and red as flames and rioters alike swarmed around its base. The London eye was left solitary and abandoned, it's glass pods smashed. A crowd of policemen ran for cover in a hail of bullets and battle cries, clearly helpless. A man was knocked flying as someone swung a knuckleduster at his chin, his companion shot and tossed into the Thames. But the real horror was witnessed by one man as he stood on the south bank. He knew it had happened. The end had finally come for Britain. He watched as, in both physical and mental senses, the houses of parliament fell.