It’s been a while since I felt sufficiently outraged to write one of these, and I imagine you’re expecting this to be about the Covid enquiry, or Rishi Sunak’s spineless leadership, or how he’s managed to offend the entire Greek nation, the appearance of Farage on I’m a Celebrity… or the long-overdue demise of Suella Braverman.
But no. Whilst this could have been about any one of those, instead I’m going to tell you about something that happened to me this week.
On Thursday I travelled via train down to London and work. So far so mundane. On the way back, however, I found myself in an unrequested discussion with someone that I can only describe as a racist fuckwit that I did not initiate.
Now, given my previous Rants on these very pages, some of you may find this rather hard to believe but I don’t really enjoy arguing with people. My mother would doubtless disagree, as I was an argumentative little sod in my teenage years – think Harry Enfield’s Kevin (of Kevin and Perry fame) only less tolerant and you won’t be far wide of the mark.
But, other than locking horns with my parents, I’ve since been far more reticent about getting into an argument. So lacking in the courage of my own convictions was I that, when I was on the Student Union Executive at college, I became known as The Fencesitter. My response was that my position as Social Secretary was a non-political role, so I didn’t see why I had to have an opinion on everything. Besides, I could usually see opposing opinions from both sides; a typical Libran, if I believed in such mumbo-jumbo.
It’s the fear of being challenged, of getting my facts wrong and then found out, I think. On subjects where I’m confident, which aren’t opinion based, then I’m fine. At work, for example, where I know exactly what I’m doing and have the experience and information to back it up, then I’m fine. I was once engaged in a 40+ minute telephone discussion with a claimant, who simply wouldn’t accept the reasons that I’d declined his claim; at the end of it, several people came over to congratulate me for the way I handled myself throughout, not once raising my voice or losing my temper.
In an old job, I ended one call to a motor insurers, and my boss said: “Please don’t ever leave this job. I’d hate for it to be me you’re arguing with.” And in yet another job (I’ve been around a bit), I had adopted my customary position when dealing with an awkward customer on the phone – slumped back in my chair, feet on the desk (it was my signature move, a way of communicating to my colleagues that I had “a live one” on the phone) – and at the end of the call, the work experience lad came over to me and said “Cor! You’re brilliant at arguing mister!”. (He really did say Cor! by the way; I remember thinking at the time that I’d never actually heard anyone saying it in real life, only in comic books when I was a kid):
Oh, and in Carry On films, of course. And anything with Terry Scott in it. But never in real life.
But I digress. What I’m trying to say that it’s easy for me to construct a narrative here, to present my side of the argument, knowing that, generally, it’ll be read by people who broadly agree with me, and I won’t be challenged on what I’ve said.
Besides, long ago I learned a valuable lesson from my old pal Tony: you’ll never change an adversary’s mind by arguing with them, you’ll just make them more entrenched and determined that they’re in the right. A withering comment, however, can be far more fatal. Tony related a conervsation he’d been in where one of the other participants said something racist; rather than challenging them, Tony just said: “Well, I think that’s sad,” shook his head and moved away. Shortly afterwards, I was working in a restaurant, where we did not serve anything as exotic or tasty as Indian food, when one of the waitresses whispered to me “God, it stinks of curry in here” as an Asian family walked in. “Shhh!” I said. “It’s ok, they didn’t hear me,” she replied. “No, but I did,” I said. It may not have changed her view, but she sure as hell never repeated anything like that in my presence again.
Whenever I remember this, the words to Kristofferson’s To Beat the Devil swirl across my mind:
Kris Kristofferson – To Beat the Devil
So, on Thursday evening – and before I go any further, lest any of the “This Didn’t Happen” brigade start parping up: every word you are about to read is true; I’m nowhere near talented enough to make any of this up – I was travelling back from London. Other than the joy all of us feel when we’ve finished work for the day, I’m not in the best of moods: I’ve endured standing in the cold waiting for my connecting train, delayed as usual, to arrive, and at work that day a colleague had told me that I reminded them of someone, but that they couldn’t put their finger on who it was. Until they suddenly managed to put their finger well and truly and annoyingly right on it:
Yeh, thanks, mate.
I board the train and manage to bagsy a seat, one of those foursomes, where two seats face the two opposite. The other three seats are occupied. Ordinarily I avoid these for two reasons: you’re constantly battling your fellow travellers for leg-room, and also it increases the chances of you sitting in the vicinity of someone you’d rather not be sharing air with.
As the train ventures on its journey, stopping at such places steeped in prestige as Biggleswade and St Neots…
…inevitably empting as it goes, until I am sitting in the four-seater all alone. In the four-seater to my right is a bloke having an animated conversation with someone on his phone, about what I don’t know, as I have my ear-buds in. I click the volume on the iTunes app on my phone a couple of notches higher to drown him out completely, stretch out and wait.
The train approaches the penultimate station and passengers rise from their seats and head towards the doors, some having walked several carriage-lengths to be nearer the door they think will be closest to the station exit. It’s then that I clock him for the first time; he’s quite young, mid-20s to early 30s I’d say, white caucasian; whilst I notice him, he doesn’t really stand out from the rest, and I assume he is going to be alighting at the next stop.
The train stops, passengers disembark, the doors close and we start moving again. And he’s still there, standing in the aisle, now seemingly trying to decide whether to sit with shouty-on-the-phone man, or listening-to-music-quietly me. He plumps for my four-seater and sits diagonally across from me.
Literally seconds had passed before I was suddenly aware of him trying to attract my attention. I removed one ear-bud and looked at him quizzically.
“Excuse me, does this train go to Peterborough?” he asked.
I nodded, and pointed at the digitalised sign scrolling above his head. “It literally doesn’t go anywhere else,” I said. “Next stop. Last stop.” Knowing that he had got on to the train at least one station before the last, I briefly wonder why he has waited this long to check he was on the right train, and why he has been unable to either read the display or hear the pre-recorded “This train is for Peterborough” announcements, but I replace my ear-bud, the internationally recognised sign which means “Now leave me alone.”
But he didn’t. A few seconds pass, and this time he is trying to attract my attention by clicking his fingers at me. I sigh and remove one ear-bud again, annoyed because he was interrupting a rare moment of brilliance by Sting:
The Police – Can’t Stand Losing You
“Are you from Peterborough?” he asked.
“I live there, but I’m not from there, although I did grow up not far away. I moved back to the area a couple of years ago after thirty or so years living away.” I’m resigned to having to talk to him now, and plump for courtesy as the best way to get through this, although a part of me is terrified that he’s either going to ask me if I have somewhere he can stay, or worse, to recommend good night-spots in the city.
“I’m from Crowland”, he told me, “do you know it?”
I do. “The scene of my greatest moment ever”, I tell him, thinking that this isn’t so bad, he’s not that weird really. He looks at me quizzically. “I used to play football when I was younger, before I discovered booze and fags and girls”, but he cuts me short before I can tell him of my greatest moment ever, scoring two goals (admittedly, at U-15 level) against Crowland, the first where I nutmegged the thuggish and intimidating central defender before slotting the ball past the ‘keeper, after which the defender hissed “Do that again and I’ll fucking kill you!” in my ear. So a few minutes, I nonchalantly did it again, same result, and he didn’t kill me, or come even close to doing so. I don’t know, whatever happened to keeping your word, eh?
“Do you find there are less indigenous people in Peterbrough since you returned?” he interrupted my re-telling of the finest solo goal since Ricky Villa in the 1981 FA Cup final.
“Well, there’s only one person that I knew back then who still lives here,” I reply, thinking how he had used the word indigenous in rather a strange way.
“I bet you think that’s really quite sad, don’t you?” he ventured.
“Not really,” I replied. “People move. Some come back again. I have. My friend did. There’s probably more people living locally that I know if I could be bothered to look and particularly wanted to see them again.” He’s nodding and smiling at me sympathetically. I later realise that he wants me to think that he ‘gets’ me, that he understands.
“Can I ask you what you think about all these immigrants flooding into the country to take advantage of our benefit system?”
And it’s only then that the penny dropped and I realise I’ve been played. His enquiry about the train’s destination is merely an ice-breaker, the subsequent questions designed to see if and how I would react. He’s not just some lonely traveller looking for a bit of human interaction, he’s wanting to foist his frankly vile opinions on me. My courtesy has undone me, for he now has me engaged.
“Actually,” he says before I can answer, “let me tell you what I think and then you can tell me whether or not you agree with me.”
I’d rather you didn’t, I thought. Or rather:
The Ting Tings – Shut Up and Let Me Go
Your use of the word “flooding” and mention of our social benefits system being taken advantage of have already given me a pretty good idea what you think, I thought. But I kept my mouth shut. Keep your powder dry, old chap, you’re going to need it, I told myself, gritting my teeth.
“I don’t think it’s right that all of these immigrants, those non-indigenous people, can come to this country just to get put up in a hotel at our expense and sponge off the state,” he continued.
“They’re all doing that, are they?” I counter.
“Yes. Most of them.”
“I think you’re in very dangerous territory when you start attributing the same characteristics to a huge amount of people. Some may be doing that, I’d say the vast majority aren’t.”
“Don’t get me wrong, the ones trying to escape war-torn areas, fair enough, they’ve got something to escape from. But the ones that aren’t just want to take advantage of our generosity.”
“You’ve clearly never had to live on benefits if you think it’s generous,” I countered.
“You don’t get put up in a hotel if you’re on benefits.”
“Rather they live on the street, would you? But not in tents, of course. Anyway, those deserving of social housing where there is none available are often placed in paid accommodation. Local councils are doing it all the time.” You’ll have noticed I’m warming to the challenge by now.
“Then why do they come here? Travelling all that way, when they could stop in any of the countries they pass through?” He pauses, before adding: “I’m thinking about Albanians here.”
“What have you got against Albanians?” I ask.
“Nothing, nothing…but Austria, Italy, Spain, they could stop in any one of them, so why come here if not to take advantage of us?” he persisted. “France!” he adds triumphantly, like he has just wielded the best card at Top Trumps. “If it was me,” he adds, “I’d stop at the first place I could that was safe. Wouldn’t you? I mean, why not stop at France?”
“Oh, I agree with that to some extent. They have nice cheese and wine in France. But then, to off-set that, it is notoriously full of French people…so y’know,,,swings and roundabouts…” I offer, before remembering I will not defeat my foe with the use of humour.
“But seriously,” I continue, “They could stop in other countries, but they’re not obliged to, are they? I think there are a lot of answers to your “Why come here?” question. How about because the notion, however misguided it might be, that historically the UK, in spite of its “No Blacks, No Irish, No Dogs” signage, has been seen as a welcoming destination? We even invited migrants over in the Windrush scheme, not that that ultimately panned out particularly well for anyone. How about they just want to make a better life for them and their families, get a job, pay their taxes, contribute to society, and they think the place they’d most like to do that is here? Although,” I add, realising he has no idea where Albania is, “if they’ve taken the route from Albania you’ve mentioned then any job that involved map-reading is out of the question.”
“But we’re paying for non-indigenous people to stay in 5 star hotels when they get here…”
“Are we though?” I say in my best ‘U OK hun?’ voice. “Economically, since it’s councils placing them there, a lot of which are on the verge of bankruptcy thanks to Goverment cuts to their funding it’s more likely to be B&B’s, Travelodges and Premier Inns than 5 star hotels. And either way they’d mostly be empty at this time of year anyway, so they’re already contributing to the local economy, right? And perhaps if we weren’t so slow at processing their immigration applications, then they wouldn’t be such a burden on the state whilst they go through the process.” I’m quite good at this, I find myself thinking. “And unless I’m mistaken, I think current statistics show that immigration is higher than it’s been for quite some time and the backlog to process them is almost as big.”
“Well, that’s all Labour’s fault,” he offers.
“Labour haven’t been in power for the last thirteen years, how do you figure it’s their fault?”
“Corbyn,” he says, brandishing what he believes to be another winning hand, “he was on the left, wasn’t he?”
“I think history will agree that Corbyn was on the left,” I agree. “But he was also a left-winger with zero power. So, again: how exactly are Labour to blame for the current migration crisis, as opposed to, say the Conservatives – who are on the right by the way – who have been in power for much of the recent period.”
“Tony Blair,” he said, sitting back into his chair and crossing his arms. “Tony Blair was recent.”
“Blair resigned in 2007. That’s hardly recent.”
“But Labour were in power until 2010. That is recent.”
“Well,” I sigh, “that very much depends on what your definition of recent is. Is it more recent than Cameron, May, Johnson, Truss and Sunak? No. Is it more recent than, Ted Heath, Thatcher, Pitt the Younger…?”
“I’ve not heard of him…” he interrupted, like to mention someone he wasn’t familiar with was against the rules, and it was then that I knew this was not a man who was used to someone actually arguing with him. Most, I think, would either try to ignore him, or jusy agree with everything he said for a quiet life.
“Really? UK history not your thing, eh? Son of Pitt the Elder? First prime minister of the UK? No…?”
“No….I’ve heard of Margaret Thatcher though/”
“You do surprise me….”
” A fine leader.”
“I think we’re going to have to agree to disagree there.”
“You’re on the left too, aren’t you?”
“I’m certainly to the left of you,” I confirm. “I’ve never voted Conservative and I can’t imagine that I ever will.”
“I wouldn’t vote Conservative at the moment either.”
“Not right-wing enough for you?” I’m definitely feeling emboldened now.
“Socialists are on the left. Hitler was a socialist.”
“Hitler was not a socialist,” I counter with what I had thought to be the least controversial thing I’d said if not ever, then definitely all day.
“Yes he was. He was in the National Socialist Party!”
“Just because they called themselves the National Socialist Party doesn’t mean they were socialists. I could insist I’m…I don’t know…a donkey, but that wouldn’t make me a donkey. It’d make me someone insisting I’m a donkey.” [Why have I said donkey? I must stop saying I’m a donkey.] “I don’t think any socialists would include the systematic extermination of those holding a particular religious belief as an integral part of their political view,” I added, hoping he didn’t realise that we were potentially right back in Corbyn territory again.
“Let me ask you this,” he said, like he was changing subject, “this morning I caught the bus from Crowland to Peterborough. The bus was packed. And then this frail indigenous lady got on the bus…”
Here he goes with his use of ‘indigenous’ again. I wonder if he knows what the word means, or if he’s just heard someone use it before and is copying them, or, more likely if he has word-of-the-day toilet paper.
“How do you know she was indigenous? Was it because she was white…?”
“From her voice, the way she spoke. And the bus was full of non-indigenous people and not one of them got up to let her sit down. Don’t you think that’s terrible, that none of them subscribed to our views of what is right and gave up their seat to let a little old lady sit down?”
Non-indigenous people probably know not to start a conversation of any kind, let alone a political one, with a stranger on a train, I thought, but decided against vocalising it. And anyway, how did he know that they were all non-indigenous?
“I let her sit down. I stood, gave up my seat, and let her sit down,” he proudly crowed.
“Congratulations. I look forward to reading your name in the New Year’s Honours list.”
“I see you have a walking stick. Do you find people give up their seat for you?”
“They do, and I’m always very grateful and find my belief in human nature surprisingly restored.”
“And were they indigenous or non-indigenous people who offered their seat?”
“See, I never realised it was a competition, so I’ve not really been keeping score.” I stop short of saying “I don’t see colour….”.
At which point, the train pulled up at platform 5 of Peterborough station, and, instead of being relieved, I was suddenly more concerned about how I was going to shake this bloke off. Fortuitously, fate was on my side, not that I believe in that mumbo jumbo either: I stood on my own shoelace and I had to put a stop to my escape plans whilst I re-tied it. He was on his way out, unable to fight back against the tide of passengers getting off the train, and by the time I straightened up again, lace tied, he had disappeared. I waited a few more minutes, making sure he had definitely gone, until the train guard came on the tannoy to announce that any passengers left on the train had better get off sharpish, or they’d be locked on board, at which point I alighted, made my way to the exit and jumped into a taxi waiting at the rank.
The driver made an effort to engage me in small talk of a “it’s turned cold, hasn’t it?” nature. Noticing he was of Asian heritage, I mentioned the conversation I’d just escaped from, thinking my position would earn some credit of the non-financial type with him. However, I had forgotten the default political position of taxi drivers: “Oh yes, in Peterborough there are loads of them, but it’s not like in Birmingham where there are no-go areas for white people.” Here we go again, I thought.
“Do you mean indigenous people…?” I said.
“What was that mate?” came the reply, the driver looking at me in the mirror.
“Nothing, nothing,” I replied, sank back into my chair and didn’t utter another word until we turned into the road where I live.
“Whereabouts mate?” the driver called back to me.
“Just up here, on the left,” I replied.
Kirsty MacColl – The End of a Perfect Day
More soon.
A History of Dubious Taste