Whilst the NF were turning over a small group of Trotskyite reds in Hounslow, BNP stalwart and South African-born racist, Steve Tyler, was beaten up while delivering leaflets advertising a BNP demonstration due to take place in Bermondsey. This made Eddie very excited when the news was relayed to him. As we exchanged gossip about another weekend outbreak of violence, Eddie said, ‘The word’s out Maff, things are getting really fucking heavy. The reds are going to get it, bad.’
Next, Edmonds rang me in similar whispering tones. ‘Look, my advice to you is to lie low, that’s what we’re all doing. The reds and the Jews are putting our members in hospital. Lie low. I’ll see you at the shop.’
Edmonds had also been attacked recently. Someone had gone for him in the lane behind the shop where he had been parking the BNP minibus. ‘Good reconnaissance on their part,’ someone offered by way of praise to the reds. The far left took assaulting what they called ‘the fash’ very seriously. Red Action even ran seminars where they instructed their members who worked on building sites to smash people cracking racist jokes in the face with the nearest available brick.
The shop was full of people tutting about poor Steve Tyler’s beating. Beackon was there, scratching his head with one hand while his other rested on the hammer in his pocket. Everyone was scared of getting off the train at Welling in case there were reds waiting around. ‘There’s going to be retribution,’ Beackon growled. ‘This state of affairs is not on. They’re fucking cowards.’ And with that everyone began hatching plots to attack reds in their beds while they slept.
In their coverage of the Hounslow attack, August’s Searchlight referred to us as an NF goon-squad and ran a photograph of Terry and me. It also outed previously unnamed NF members and my arse began to quiver. We met in a bar over Kensington way. Gerry Gable bought me another Billy Bragg CD, so that small indiscretion was forgotten. Searchlight had named the people involved in the attack so that those who were hurt would know who had attacked them. Blackham would be furious about this, but hey, my name was there too. I relayed the information from the bookshop, but it was only that any red could be hit at any moment, and to look to Beackon if there was any major incident.
The charges against the Curry House Five were dropped when none of the student doctors involved in the incident were prepared to give evidence. Once they’d been reminded that they would be up against NF members, they must have decided against going ahead with it. The name NF could still fill people with fear, particularly when they found one of them on their doorstep with a large hammer.
In response to the growth in far-right violence, AFA made a decision to get the far right off the streets in east London permanently. Both sides were now prepared for a long, drawn out confrontation. The far right was already upping its game for this battle, still not interested in wining council seats or seats in the European Parliament. The race war was still about control of the streets. People from all over the country were converging on an east London market on a Sunday to engage in ideological bloody street fights.
On my return from a week’s holiday in Devon, Edmonds greeted me at the shop. There had been much excitement during my week away over plans by a black-led organisation to march in Bermondsey.
‘These niggers,’ said Edmonds, holding up a black community newspaper, ‘are going to march in Bermondsey, our Bermondsey, complaining about racism. We’ve really got the locals on our side, come and join us. Let’s send these niggers a clear message like in Thamesmead, that whites will not be intimidated into giving in to black demands.’ Edmonds stretched out a little, speaking warmly of Bermondsey. ‘They don’t want coons and Jews telling them they can’t live the way they want to. It doesn’t make sense. These blacks, these blacks, they’re just the tool of the Jews anyway.’
I passed Searchlight the crude leaflet that the BNP had been distributing in Bermondsey about the march by the National Black Caucus. I couldn’t see why, but the march was also attracting much criticism from the left. Apparently, even though I had been a white racist, I still failed to understand English ethnicity. Wouldn’t most people just go shopping for the day, ignore all the fuss and commotion and continue with their ordinary lives?
I agreed I’d go to the demonstration. I agreed to go for Searchlight, I agreed to go with the BNP, and when Blackham and then Woods both rang independently of each other, I agreed to go with the NF.
We met at the Blue Market. Ginger Rick was the first to arrive. The usual faces began to crawl their blinkered ways into the area in threes and fours with their hands shoved into their jean pockets. Bermondsey was awash with white faces that day, even more so than usual. There was a torturous expectancy in the air. It wouldn’t help the National Black Caucus that Millwall were playing at home that day. Sure enough, the BNP produced a handy-looking thirty or so lads who stood staring at the NF’s half a dozen. ‘There’s going to be a huge fucking riot today,’ said Terry confidently. It was as if we were minutes from all his Christmases coming at once.
I actually doubted there would be a riot. I was certain there would be an angry and vociferous demonstration and no doubt someone somewhere would end up with their face being kicked mercilessly by some brave, boozed-up Nazi. But as a rule, we didn’t do riots, as we didn’t have the numbers or the organisation. What we could do though, was get other people to do those things for us.
We split from the BNP and headed for a nearby pub, which was breakneck full of football casuals. This was nothing to do with us. I did not feel welcome and surprisingly, neither did Terry. We decided to stay away from the football supporters, but then Nick Cooper turned the corner with a group from the Nutty Turn-Out.
‘There’ll be no football today until we’ve cleaned all the niggers out of the area,’ he said confidently and with real menace. With him were hardened street fighters, the rent-a-mob I had dreamed of back in Enfield the year before. We mixed it up with the Millwall supporters, who generally agreed that they would not join the BNP or NF demonstration, but would use their presence to really have a go at the marchers. Hooligans will fight for any cause.
‘It ain’t a racist thing mate, it’s a Millwall thing.’
There were few police in the area this early, so it must have dawned on them pretty late, that the usual crew of a couple of hundred from the Old Kent Road were strangely absent at the football ground. Eventually they began to scour the Bermondsey pubs close to the march, and found a 300-strong crowd of pissed-up yobbos with Union Jacks and fascist newspapers getting aggressive. Probably because it was a football crowd, the police asked for the pubs to be closed. Hundreds of angry young white men in designer jeans and trainers poured onto the streets, lagered up without the promise of a kebab or a Vindaloo this early.
While the mob milled around without direction, the BNP appeared as if by magic to stand at the head of the throng, and led the mob towards a pre-arranged static picket which the police had set up and not manned adequately. Football was definitely off the menu as everyone crushed against the barriers and waited for the march to come up the road. At first Blackham decided not to join the static demonstration so the few NF supporters hung around, away from where the BNP were leading choruses of Rule Britannia and God Save the Queen.
As the march got closer, police began running along the pavement to where the mob was starting to rattle the barricades, and the football mob began a chant of South London as if it were West Ham supporters marching past. We ended up being swept into the back of the mob. The more police that turned up, the more aggressive it became. The police began to look nervous; their training might give them the warning signs that a riot is imminent, but I only became certain that it was by the looks on their terrified young faces.
The NF lads were grinning. From the back of the mob, we watched the crowd push as the march got closer and began to turn away into the park around the corner.
‘Niggers, fuck off niggers,’ began the abuse, and the NF pushed their way towards the front, causing a crush where Edmonds and his BNP generals had positioned themselves. The BNP were chanting: ‘Tool of the Jews, tool of the Jews,’ but that did not catch on with the football supporters. The shoving became more persistent and more aggressive as the march came into close eyeshot. I did not see how many of them there were, but my stomach tightened as I realised the police were not able to control the bloodthirsty mob behind these barricades.
Up on the balconies behind us, old ladies hung out their Union Jack tea towels and watched the black marchers from their vantage point. The police began to move against the barricades, looking us in the eyes shouting, ‘Come on fellas, calm down, don’t start,’ when from the back, another huge push saw the barriers collapse onto them. A huge cheer went up and the mob stormed towards the park. The police were beaten. Some of the football fans stayed to fight with them, and the anger, the alcohol and the sun began to boil up in everyone who headed towards the park and after the marchers.
By the time I got into the park, there was already a trail of destruction. Blacks in the park for nothing more than some nice weather and a read of the paper were nursing bruised faces as hundreds of pissed and racist hooligans ran past them, pretending they were on an international football excursion. The march was stuck and unable to move. The BNP positioned themselves for photographs. It was going to be their day.
It shouldn’t have been about the march. Surely they were angry because they wanted to know where were their jobs, where were their new homes, where was their hope? Why did no one listen to us? I was after all, one of them; an angry white face continually pushed into the dirt. None of us were living in the new homes with riverside views and burgeoning youth, music and cultural projects.
The police wanted to negotiate. ‘That’s enough now lads. We can’t move on if you’re blocking the way. You’ve had your fun, please disperse.’
Word spread immediately that the black marchers were not to be allowed to leave the park unharmed. ‘These black cunts will never leave the park alive,’ one bloke said, sidling up to me spreading the message. Nick the Nazi pressed past me and said, ‘Terry wants you right at the front.’ There was a lingering standoff. The mob was only catching its breath. Still there were no sirens announcing police reinforcements, as wide-eyed and panicked police officers shouted angrily into their radios in anticipation of a bloodbath.
I pushed my way through rank after rank of football hooligans until I reached the front where Blackham stood with the BNP goon squad. I took in the faces of angry strangers gasping for breath, planning in their hushed tones and secret football code what was to happen next. Steve Tyler proclaimed into a loudhailer that the blacks should ‘Go back to the jungle.’ The crowd cheered loudly.
‘Get on the loudhailer and shout NF,’ barked Blackham. Tyler obliged, probably through fear of Blackham, by giving me the loudhailer. ‘We are the National Front, you are not…’ and with that Eddy Butler grabbed the loudhailer from me and begun a chant of ‘Rights For Whites!’ which, once the rest of the BNP goons had begun, got the whole crowd up and chanting. The police didn’t know who to negotiate with. I assumed it was their football hooligan spotters who were pointing people out, but there seemed to be more people swelling the ranks of the mob than the ranks of the boys in blue. Millwall’s ground was not that far away, where were the rest of the Old Bill?
A mixed-race couple held hands and came and danced close to the fascist demonstration, causing the policemen to start getting anxious.
‘Come on guys, get back, give us room. Don’t be wound up by them.’
A stupid plod announced to us that the march was going to be marched back out of the area, so we would wait where we were and then be allowed to have a rally ourselves. That seemed to please the BNP, this was a good result. Could we not go back home now, try and catch the highlights of the Millwall game on TV? Before Edmonds could step forward and accept plod’s kind offer, someone from the Millwall mob spoke up:
‘Let’s do the fucking march!’
A huge cheer went up from the crowd and off they ran again to confront the marchers from a side street. Edmonds and some of the BNP hung around, splitting the police’s resources, while into the streets ran the angry white mob, arming themselves with anything they could grab. It was a simple question of circling the park to get back to the front of the retreating march. As the police tried to move the march out of the park, 300 young men stood in their way. Then the rocks started flying and the aggression boiled over as people ran right up to the police to throw their missiles into the march. The police began to move forwards towards the mob but all the mob did was throw their stones and bottles from further back, mainly hitting the police, something which has never really bothered Millwall hooligans too much.
Around me grown men, not just kids, stood with their fists clenched around objects, screaming venomous hate at the marchers and the police. Edmonds walked past me saying, ‘Don’t throw stones at the police!’ As if I would! After a while the police regained their numbers and began pushing back at the mob. The mob began to retreat, but only because they wanted to go into the familiar series of railway tunnels in the area. From behind came police on motorcycles. Voices begun shouting, ‘Get the police on the bikes,’ and more rocks and bottles flew in their direction, causing them to spin their motorcycles around and retreat from the hail.
Hundreds of angry whites were now in the tunnels grouping together before splitting off, without any police there to control them. Further up the road a good 100 metres away, officers were trying to group up to come into the tunnel and push the mob out of the area. Nick the Nazi ran past me shouting, ‘We’re moving onto the estate, we’re gonna flush out some niggers.’
On their yellow-bricked estate, locals stood at their open doors, nodding at the mob running past their homes swearing and shouting. The estate led into another maze of tunnels. In one tunnel were cars, unable to move as marauding thugs ran through, banging car bonnets. As they ran a large skinhead pointed out that one of the cars had black occupants. Nick and I watched as a mob jumped onto the car and began to try and pull the occupants out. Someone dumped a dustbin onto the bonnet and a huge cheer went up as another car was overturned. I could hear windows breaking and people pointing out shops not owned by whites – ‘This one, this one’s a Paki shop,’ followed by a smash and more cheering. And in amongst it all, among all this mayhem, a photographer walked, taking photographs calmly and discreetly, taking his time to position himself for a good picture of cars being trashed by fascists and football hooligans.
‘Shall we do the fucking photographer?’ Nick asked, wide-eyed and panting. He was standing within feet of him, with a knife in his hand.
‘Don’t be so fucking stupid,’ I said with horrified panic in my voice.
His eyes closed for a rare moment of deep thought. He leaned forward into me, ‘I’ve got to stick this in some cunt, some cunt’s gotta get this.’ I’d misread the situation, the fascists weren’t supposed to be as angry as the locals, the fascists were just meant to wind up the locals.
‘Come on Matt,’ he urged me, spitting his anger onto the floor. His large forehead was pushing against mine. ‘Some cunt has got to get done today.’
All around us cars were being attacked and shop windows were being smashed as the police were getting closer and closer. Rubbish bins were bouncing off shop windows before they were systematically kicked in.
The Millwall mob was now regrouping at the bottom of the street for a charge against the police. ‘People are getting fucking done,’ I said, raising my arms. The photographer had gone and bricks and bottles were raining over our heads towards the advancing police. Things were now totally out of control. The air was filled with the noise of things breaking, smashing and crashing, people being beaten up, police sirens and encouraging shouts from the flats overlooking us.
First it was the photographer, then another one of our own, and slowly the football mentality turned on itself and rival groups within the mob began to confront each other, throwing bottles, fighting over somewhere to hide as they ran out of objects and individuals to attack. I left, as I became more and more concerned for my own safety. I paused to catch my breath in the car park of Lewisham Tesco. I was shell-shocked. I walked for what felt like miles to find a bus stop. I feared upon my return home that my bags would have finally been packed for me, that the world would have stopped to witness the white riot.
No bags were packed. The house was empty except for my brother’s girlfriend sitting miserably at the dinner table.
‘Any news on the television while I was out?’ I asked as casually as I could.
She looked up sheepishly and sighed. ‘Your father’s been sent to prison for drink driving.’