Monday, July 21, 2008
5.
The Nazi story turned out to be a complete wash out. There had been reports of racist and nazi activities at St Michaels Social Club on Wednesday afternoons, (tea and biscuits provided). I entered their ‘lair’ with a due sense of apprehension at what I might find. I prepared myself for goose stepping skin heads running a mock and was astonished to be greeted by my Aunt Nell sat there with Aunty Annie, Mrs Kilgannon from Lacey Street who used to baby sit me, and a sea of elderly, yet relatively familiar faces from various funerals, weddings and such like I had attended through the years. This Nazi rally must had the most formidable wealth of knitting and cake baking talent the Third Reich had ever witnessed. Even Mrs Patel who used to run the corner shop was there with her sister Rhanviar. I sensed instinctively that I had not unearthed the soft white underbelly, the ‘Eagles Nest’, of racist extremism in Farndon.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked Aunt Annie in a bewildered tone, still struggling to comprehend what I was witnessing. There wasn’t a swastika in sight, not even a knitted one.
‘Were just helping Mr Bloodworth with the by-election love’ she answered as if it was the most natural thing in the world ‘would you like a cup of tea?’
‘But he’s a BNP candidate!’ I spat hoping that perhaps the penny would drop
‘He’s promised to do up the Community Centre and look after the pensioners, just what this town needs’
‘But, what about Mrs Patel and Rhanviar?’ I tried hoping to bring some sense to the madness ‘ Oh it gets them out of the house, they’re friends of Mrs Kilgannons and they don’t get out much these days. It’s not right them being cooped up in that flat all day and they do love the bingo.’
I was gob-smacked; there was no way I was reporting that my own family were at the hub of the fleece-lined gumboot wearing ‘Jerry’ –atrics! Even if the anchor line appealed to me enormously.
‘Doesn’t Mrs Patel think its, well, a bit racist?’
‘No, they don’t mean people like Mrs Patel and Rhanviar, they’re after the illegal immigrants, too many of them coming in you know, this country’s going to the dogs. Mrs Patel’s more British than you.’
I had to get out; I finished my cup of tea, dropped three custard creams into my pocket (noticing the distinct lack of bourbon creams) and jumped the number 13 to the office.
The Nazi story turned out to be a complete wash out. There had been reports of racist and nazi activities at St Michaels Social Club on Wednesday afternoons, (tea and biscuits provided). I entered their ‘lair’ with a due sense of apprehension at what I might find. I prepared myself for goose stepping skin heads running a mock and was astonished to be greeted by my Aunt Nell sat there with Aunty Annie, Mrs Kilgannon from Lacey Street who used to baby sit me, and a sea of elderly, yet relatively familiar faces from various funerals, weddings and such like I had attended through the years. This Nazi rally must had the most formidable wealth of knitting and cake baking talent the Third Reich had ever witnessed. Even Mrs Patel who used to run the corner shop was there with her sister Rhanviar. I sensed instinctively that I had not unearthed the soft white underbelly, the ‘Eagles Nest’, of racist extremism in Farndon.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked Aunt Annie in a bewildered tone, still struggling to comprehend what I was witnessing. There wasn’t a swastika in sight, not even a knitted one.
‘Were just helping Mr Bloodworth with the by-election love’ she answered as if it was the most natural thing in the world ‘would you like a cup of tea?’
‘But he’s a BNP candidate!’ I spat hoping that perhaps the penny would drop
‘He’s promised to do up the Community Centre and look after the pensioners, just what this town needs’
‘But, what about Mrs Patel and Rhanviar?’ I tried hoping to bring some sense to the madness ‘ Oh it gets them out of the house, they’re friends of Mrs Kilgannons and they don’t get out much these days. It’s not right them being cooped up in that flat all day and they do love the bingo.’
I was gob-smacked; there was no way I was reporting that my own family were at the hub of the fleece-lined gumboot wearing ‘Jerry’ –atrics! Even if the anchor line appealed to me enormously.
‘Doesn’t Mrs Patel think its, well, a bit racist?’
‘No, they don’t mean people like Mrs Patel and Rhanviar, they’re after the illegal immigrants, too many of them coming in you know, this country’s going to the dogs. Mrs Patel’s more British than you.’
I had to get out; I finished my cup of tea, dropped three custard creams into my pocket (noticing the distinct lack of bourbon creams) and jumped the number 13 to the office.
# posted by aworthlessexistence @ 12:52 PM 
