Monday, August 29, 2005

There was a definite and eerie bleakness in certain places, despite the affluence.

The Isle of Dogs (apparently named after Charles II's hunting dogs, which were kennelled in these swamps) is a cockpit of modern British racial tensions. The neo-fascist BNP won a council seat here in 1993, and promptly lost it six months later. The papers regularly report racist assaults - whites on Asians, Asians on whites. Etc.

I know this is terrible but I have some sympathy for the BNP-voting whites here. For centuries they were a close-knit community, isolated by economics and topography , happy in their marshy fastness. Then suddenly in the 60s, 70s and 80s they were inundated with immigrants. Did anyone ask their permission? Even their opinion? I doubt it.

That said, the indigenous, aboriginal, working class white culture seems to be doing OK - I saw lots of pasty white people sitting round guzzling lager in the sun while admiring each other's Millwall tattoos. Bless 'em. Salt of the earth. We'll need them in the next war.

And frankly, there is an irony to all this. As far as I could tell, both the poor whites and the poor Asians are more in danger, these days, of being swamped by rich Eurotrash bitches in yoga pants driving their SUVs to the Canary Wharf Waitrose.

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