The Beautiful South released Old Red Eyes Is Back in the New Year of 1992, trying to get a hit song during a period of traditionally low record sales. The two copies I purchased could not even nudge it into the top twenty.
John Major called the 1992 election for 9 April. Surely Labour would win this one, everybody ventured. Back down to Bermondsey and Bethnal Green I went, to take part in more abuse of the democratic process. In Bermondsey, the NF and the BNP kept a subtle distance from each other. The new Croydon BNP was out in force with the rest of the far right in support of Steve Tyler, while Blackham, standing for the NF, had a motley crew of football hooligans and psychopaths to back him up. Anderson did not make an appearance. For a long time John Tyndall had refused to allow BNP members to stand in elections. Like many old Nazis, Tyndall had little faith in or respect for the electorate. The poor results achieved and the enormous amount of money spent for no return, as well as the obvious humiliation and Tyndall’s own beliefs about democracy meant that, although the BNP were good at rabble-rousing and inciting racial hatred, coercing people to put a tick or a cross next to their names, was often impossible.
The BNP was growing at such an enormous rate now though, that Tyndall had to allow this new mood to go to the ballot box, even if only to show those people that elections were a waste of time. He even selected a good seat for himself in the East End that had a dedicated branch to campaign for him. The long hot summer of racial hatred that the BNP had fermented in London and other parts of the country last year had to pay some dividend.
Across the board, Edmonds said that Tyndall was hoping for an average of between 2.5 and 4 per cent. The BNP held a violent and vicious election meeting three days before polling. Using York Hall again, John Tyndall and Richard Edmonds addressed a hundred-strong public meeting, while BNP stewards Nazi-saluted demonstrators and attacked photographers. Inside, Tyndall and Edmonds were ferocious in their speeches against the multiracial society. Their rhetoric even surprised some hardened campaigners.
Blackham lost to the BNP in Bermondsey by about 300 votes, and gained only 0.4 per cent of the poll. Across the country, 29 far-right candidates struggled around, but mainly below, 1 per cent. Edmonds polled 1,310 votes in Bethnal Green (3.6 per cent), and Tyndall got 1,107 (3.0 per cent) in Bow & Poplar. Eddie, keeping his promise to Birmingham NF, polled 370 votes, just under 1 per cent. John Major, standing on a milk crate to make himself heard, was re-elected as PM. Billy Bragg, I’m told, stayed in bed for a week.
Blokes in white vans, blokes off the building sites, plumbers and the odd squaddie began paying attention, thinking that the BNP was some sort of legitimate party with new ideas. The new idea was simply to create as much chaos as humanly possible and simply let the race war take off. Meetings and paper sales became more daring, and the violence more indiscriminate. The very lowest of society had a voice. Years of bitter resentment about the real and perceived injustices of their lives fed the BNP.
Pubs were filled seven nights per week as the thirty or so members of C18 strolled around Bethnal Green like gangsters. Sargent himself had taken to drinking in the Blind Beggar in Whitechapel, a shallow tourist attraction for those who liked to pop in and see where the Kray twins had murdered George Cornell, nearly thirty years before. Sargent had already been to prison four times for possession of guns and drugs. From the pub he used the public call box to muster his troops, arrange meetings and meet people getting off of the tube at the nearby station. With more and more people finding themselves out of work, Charlie paid for their drinks with his drug money. His money and muscle made people sit up and take notice, none more so than John Tyndall, the uptight BNP leader who needed someone like Charlie on his side.
In response to this sudden growth in far-right activity, the SWP re-launched the Anti-Nazi League, something that seemed to do little more than provide more young, wide-eyed victims for Sargent and his gang’s appetite for violence against the left. We were certain that Charlie Sargent was running the BNP security team as a UDA front. That would also explain the plentiful supply of drugs.
Gable also asked whether I knew anything about the American book clubs flooding the far right with their literature. The BNP had always sold certain books published by the National Alliance, a well-financed and seedy organisation, including the blueprint for terrorism, The Turner Diaries. At the moment, I knew nothing. ‘Sargent’s pushing this stuff too,’ he told me, ‘he has his hands on every bit of poison that the right seems to be producing at the minute.’
In May, London UDA and the BNP held a joint demonstration against a march through Camden and Regents Park led by the future Mayor of London, Ken Livingstone, against racism. Edmonds and his small band of BNP supporters waved flags and shouted abuse. A small group of Charlie Sargent’s supporters broke away to try and attack the front of the march. Five Jewish students were hospitalised.
Next up, the Reverend Ian Paisley was going to be in Bristol for a march in the summer. London UDA was going down to Bristol to guard the parade of loyalist marching bands and a selection of Orangemen and mainland Apprentice Boys, to the park where Paisley would speak. A council minibus was procured, and at eight in the morning I was at Croydon Station waiting for the minibus with an already drunken Ulsterman and his busty English girlfriend. The drive down to Bristol was a serious affair. Liverpool and Birmingham UDA units were also going to provide security and/or intimidation along the route of the march. As ever, Frank was trying to come across as sinister and secretive, while Eddie kept his eyes on the road. Only a year or so earlier, the NF had gone to Bristol, drunk and aggressive, for a rally. We were kicked from pillar to post, until the day ended with an enormous punch-up with the left at a train station. Two gangs of Bristol football supporters had even taken sides, of which we were the less supported.
The social event that followed the march was a nightmare. We sat at one end of the room, staring at Liverpool UDA who were sitting with the team from Birmingham UDA at the other. An auction was held, including an artefact from the Maze Prison, signed by Michael Stone. As the evening grew drunker, lips grew looser. A major row had been brewing on the mainland about the active or inactive role of certain UDA commanders. Previously, London UDA had been a haven for show-ponies, but the arrival of Frank Portinari and a serious group of far-right thugs, was causing friction. The change in the UDA leadership in Belfast had led to new alliances and favourites. Portinari had been to Belfast to talk his group up and was forming a cell structure akin to that being used by the UDA in Northern Ireland. Portinari had been sticking knives in the back of every other commander and here he was, sitting with the well-known Sargent and Whicker, two trusted, big-hitting, fascist hard-men, plotting the downfall of the other mainland loyalist commanders. They were, according to Portinari and his chubby Italian-looking sidekick, ‘Hollywood Prods’, while we were lapsed Catholics, drug dealers and Nazis. The standoff lasted until we were safely on the motorway and Portinari was plotting their downfall. But I still had no idea exactly how important London UDA was.
I met with Searchlight on the following Monday. Gerry Gable leant across his table and asked me again if I had heard anything about the book clubs that seemed to be springing up around the place, pushing hard-line American Nazi theoretical journals alongside bomb manuals. I confessed to still not knowing anything except for having heard of and read all the material he mentioned.
‘It’s no longer under the counter stuff, Mattie, some of this stuff is quite serious. Go to see David Irving speak, and see who’s pushing this stuff.’