MARTIN LUX: "ANTI-FASCIST" - The Book

I'd like to meet:

SAMPLE CHAPTER TO GIVE YOU A FLAVOUR OF THE BOOK:The National Front announced a ‘MARCH AGAINST MUGGERS’ to be held on September 6th 1975 in Hoxton. By remarkable coincidence, a Jewish holiday. This march was just another feeble excuse to flaunt their racist credentials; the muggers in question fitting the pathetic stereotype of young black lads. To drive the point home the nazis would march behind a banner reading, ‘80% OF MUGGERS ARE BLACK – 85% OF VICTIMS ARE WHITE’. Their route would take them from Bethnal Green to Hoxton, the latter a white working class racist stronghold. Hoxton then was a drab miserable shit-hole of crumbling council blocks and more recently erected concrete monstrosities, where blacks and asians walked the streets in trepidation. No one, least of all the Front themselves, really believed that the cracked pavements and dimly lit alleyways of that particular stretch of town were infested with footpads originating from sunnier climes. But that wasn’t going to prevent the Master Race from masquerading as victims.The left had organised a counter-demonstration assembling near the Front starting point. Circulating amongst the lefties and anti-racists it became clear to me that here would be no deliberate confrontation, not even an attempt to peacefully block the fascists by sheer force of superior numbers. But this is just what I’d come to expect from demonstrations dominated by Labour, the Communist Party and trade unions, with the usual sprinkling of Trotskyite grouplets flogging pathetic rags to the already converted.It didn’t take too long to locate a few dissatisfied souls who were more than willing to have a crack verbally or physically should opportunity present itself. A few thousand anti-fascists had gathered to oppose the Front, but a large number of police were on duty to prevent any fun and games. The atmosphere surrounding the counter-demo was tranquil, passive even though they’d mustered a respectable three to four thousand. Knots of local white youngsters hung around, looking as though they’d commit to the Front column. But I’d already figured that a barney wasn’t on the cards apart from on the margin of events. Too many cops. Not enough people willing to steam in. So it was a case of the same old boring hanging around, cooling heels. I was entertained by some old Jewish women. They clued me up about ‘the old days’, opposing Mosely and his blackshirt scum. True devotees of the well-lobbed half-brick were these old ducks, one of whom described how they’d roll out hundreds of marbles into the road under the hooves of police horses, thereby causing the animals to slip, shedding their porcine load. Couldn’t help wondering why we didn’t repeat that ideal scenario.Frantic pig activity indicated that the Front were ready to move off. Their Orange-Order style drum corps struck up with a chilling sound. Boy Scouts they weren’t, Hitler Youth more like. Large concentrations of filth prevented us from rushing the nazi phalanx as it goose-stepped off. We were determined to have some form of confrontation. Meanwhile the counter-demo moved off in the opposite direction, “THE NATIONAL FRONT IS A NAZI FRONT, SMASH THE NATIONAL FRONT!” they chanted, as usual. We wouldn’t be seeing many of them for the rest of the day.Drizzle began to fall, an autumnal chill in the air. But meteorological considerations were the last thing on our minds. Between a hundred and a hundred and fifty of us ducked through side streets leaving the plod standing in the road getting wet. Eventually after much expenditure of breath, losing a handful of people on the way, we drew up parallel to the Front march, verbally harassing them from the pavement. The nazis were well guarded by the police who walked in ranks alongside their parade. Even without the pigs it would have been suicidal to have launched an attack. I noticed that some of the kids and youth who’d been lurking previously at Bethnal Green had joined us, warming to our verbal abuse of the Fronters. As the nazis marched along, ducking the occasional beer can, those of us with the loudest voices raised the tempo, pouring out insults, mostly personal stuff rather than boring political slogans, although we did manage a few hearty ‘SEIG HEIL’s complete with accompanying stiff arm gestures. Bet they’d have loved to have returned the compliment, but it was the Union Jack and not the Swastika that they were flying today. The fascists were on best behaviour in fact, stewards pleading with the marchers to ignore us. Some however, couldn’t resist the deep-seated temptation, making anti-semitic motions with their paws, rubbing their noses, pretending to flick banknotes between thumb and forefinger. The marchers were predominately middle-aged, male, shambolically attired though doubtless considering themselves ‘smart’. Many on the march, including small gangs of youth, seemed somewhat disappointed by the lack of opportunity to engage in fisticuffs with the dirty red degenerates and hippy perverts who dogged them through the empty streets.Me and a bunch of young trouble-makers, along with some local youth, managed to get to the head of the march relatively unhampered by the police. They were too busy keeping the factions apart. This worked to our advantage because the Front were now surrounded by the police, reduced to strutting impotently in their ill-fitting jackboots, unable even to hand out their leaflets. And nor could sympathisers join their march. The head of the column contained the leadership and a set of gentlemen from the labouring fraternity, selected for their capacious bulks rather than their great intellects. The main banner displayed the ‘muggers’ slogan, but appeared to have been partly censored on the orders of the police. It depicted a silhouette of an old lady with handbag, glasses flying off, coshed by another silhouette whose features had been blanked out with the word ‘CENSORED’. It took no great flight of imagination to picture what had been hidden from view. We rained abuse on the leadership, a seedy looking crowd of hate-merchants. Most of it was extremely personal, such as remarks about various sexual peccadilloes of certain characters that would do little to increase the numbers of the Aryan race. The local kids were now enjoying themselves, getting into the spirit and regaling the Front with cries of “WANKERS!” “TOSSERS!” Hoxton, however, appeared strangely deserted. We seemed to be the only people on the streets. The mobs of frenzied racists that I’d half expected, but forgotten about in the heat of the moment had thankfully failed to materialise. Even within the march itself, most of the banners were from branches well outside the area, and the marchers appeared confused by the lack of local support. The kids by now were leading the chants of disapproval and some gained the road in front of the march. The streets narrowed and police now swooped, pushing the kids off the road, wielding batons, hemming us all against railings too high to be scaled. Kicks and blows were exchanged with the uniforms. The nazis were funnelled though the resulting bottleneck and we suffered a handful of arrests. Both sides were relatively content at the afternoon’s work as the Front eventually made their way to a rally in Hoxton Square.Around two hundred of us were left milling around, including the kids, who were up for more action. We roamed fruitlessly, exchanging pleasantries with the few locals who’d ventured out. The kids it seemed, had turned against the Front because they appeared to be collaborating with the police. Few, if any, kids in that neck of the urban jungle harbour pleasant sentiments as regards the Old Bill. Had the tables been turned, I’m sure the kids would have joined in on the Front’s side. We were more fun, that’s all. So we wandered around Hoxton for a while, unmolested, then drifted off to a green space to meet up with those we’d lost on the way. Unlike the nazis we’d picked up support en route. Although alert, somewhat pumped up with adrenaline, my guard had dropped. A bottle thrown from a high-rise disintegrated into powder at my feet. Another couple of inches and I’d have been a goner. Relatively unperturbed, I caught up with the others. Some diehards wanted to go over to Old Street tube where the fascists were sure to be heading after their rally. Saner voices prevailed. We’d be outnumbered, the Old Bill’s patience would have been long spent. Didn’t fancy a kicking on the streets, another in the meatwagon and a night in the cells. Some of the more hostile local youth were busy arguing with leftists who’d started to drift in now the action was finished. We decided to quit whilst ahead, relatively satisfied with the day’s events.Sunny Hoxton was also the scene of a notable incident the following year. A pleasant spring morning in 1976 saw around four hundred nervous lefties, trade unionists, and various representatives of local ethnic groups gather on the edge of Ridley Road Market in Dalston. The occasion was an anti-racist march deep into the heart of Hoxton, where there’d recently been an escalating series of racist attacks. I’d certainly kept away from the place since the ‘March Against Muggers’, having few occasions to visit that particular lumpen Cockney stronghold, but given the humiliation the Front had suffered on that occasion, I was confident that today would be a pleasant stroll. If our luck was in, we might even run into a few isolated nazi’s and give them a good kicking. Such was my naivety. What I’d neglected to take into account was the fact that most of the local support we’d received the previous September was due mainly to the Front’s perceived collaboration with the Old Bill: the fact that they’d crassly marched into Hoxton under heavy police protection. They’d marked themselves out as strangers – and in Hoxton they didn’t like strangers. Nor anyone, really.Although I’d arrived alone from another part of town, I’d arranged to meet up with a resident of Hoxton called Rosie. Despite being Jewish and blessed with the name Rosen, he’d somehow managed to survive in that racist menagerie. Maybe the locals were too busy abusing, harassing and attacking those of a darker hue to worry about someone inconspicuous .Rosie finally showed, hot foot from Hoxton market, flushed: “You’d better warn your mates, anyone you know, there’s loads of Front down there. They’ve been gathering all morning and they’re in an ugly mood.” The numbers for the demonstration had swelled to about six hundred, but I was losing confidence fast. Rosie pulled up his collar, plonking on a bobble hat as a hasty disguise, “Better off safe than sorry, Mart,” and so we shuffled off along Kingsland Road exchanging horror stories about Hoxton. It was a mild, pleasant morning, with no indication of the storms that lay ahead.The march filed along through Kingsland Waste, turning right into the appropriately named Nuttal Street leading us to the bottom of Hoxton Market. An air of trepidation settled over our assembled ranks.The locals were waiting. Nutters indeed. And they weren’t exactly overjoyed to see us. A guttural roar of disapproval emerged by way of greeting. This crowd of crazed individuals was mainly ordinary Saturday shoppers rather than hardcore Front. Frenzied old biddies brandished packets of Daz: ‘Washes Whiter than White!’ Horrendous curses emanated from snaggle-toothed hags and red-faced Cockney geezers in cloth caps and braces, “GET BACK TO RUSSIA YOU FUCKIN’ COMMIE BASTARDS!”, “RED SCUM!”, “HAVE A BARF!” Only the sizeable police presence prevented a large-scale punch up. The march, collectively reeling from all this naked hostility veered to the right, away from the baying mob. We weren’t out of the woods yet, though. A somewhat flustered mate of Rosie’s joined us, “Watch yourselves! There’s loads of Front further up. It looks like Planet of the Apes up there.” And though there were no vines hanging from the lampposts to enable the simian Master Race to swing to their rendezvous, we began to fear that the real jungle did indeed lie ahead.Knots of stunted locals continued to abuse us as the march progressed: “PAKI LOVERS!” “NIGGER LOVERS!” “GIT YER FUCKIN’ ‘AIR CUT!” Coming to Hoxton had been a big mistake. But there was no time to ponder. As we approached the roundabout, our route back to Kingsland Road and safety, a couple of hundred of the finest specimens the Aryan race has produced awaited, clutching Union Jacks and placards.The assembled apes were of the larger varieties of the species. Many were lacking skin on their knuckles, a result of numerous brawls perhaps, or was it from dragging them along the pavements as they meandered from the bookies to the pub? There was no time for further zoological investigations, however, as the sky blackened, and not with storm clouds but with a torrential shower of missiles – a veritable Agincourt no less. Rotten fruit, bottles, lumps of wood, smoke bombs, all flew our way. The head of the march, taking the full brunt of this assault, momentarily shuddered to a halt. Making no attempt to disperse or arrest the perpetrators, even the most blatant individuals, the Old Bill did manage to prevent some of the more deranged nazis from physically hurling themselves into the ranks of demonstrators. It stuck me that quite a few of these beer-bellied, cloth-capped, multi-scarred racists were middle-aged and almost certainly part of the indigenous population. Hoxton, what a fucking place! Fortunately however, their initially liberal expenditure of munitions meant that little was available for the tail of the march. So apart from the odd stray missile here and there, all we had to endure was a sea of horrible, contorted faces spitting hate, grolly and venom. After what felt like an eternity, but was in reality a few minutes we left the nazi mob behind, who sent us on our way with a rousing chorus of ‘Rule Britannia’.A collective sigh of relief passed through our battered ranks only to be temporarily interrupted further up the road. Here, a cluster of Union Jack waving youths from a Front breakaway group, the National Party, awaited. We were subjected to the usual patriotic grunts, although nothing heavy took place as we passed them by. Eventually, outside a cinema in Kingsland Road, the march halted. A couple of understandably shaken speakers form the local Trades’ Council attempted, without success, to kindle enthusiasm. Rosie noticed some nazis filtering up the side streets. A few hovered on the fringes. I felt to leave for the sanctuary of Dalston. We wandered off for a drink and chat about the Hoxton love-in. The main thrust of the discussion was one simple theme: NEVER AGAIN! Next time we’d reverse the roles, give the Front a taste of their own medicine. I was well up for that. Payback. With interest.Opportunity for this arose when the NF announced another outing. This so called ‘St George’s Day’ march was, by another of those strange coincidences the date of Hitler’s birthday. But a march to celebrate that auspicious occasion wouldn’t have gone down very well, so these home-grown goose-steppers preferred to give it a more 'patriotic' gloss.At long last, however, our efforts over previous years were bearing fruit, and a handful of us true enthusiasts had finally succeeded in persuading a sizeable minority that it was well worth taking on the Front. Of course the usual do-nothing purists continued spewing out their bile. We were as bad as the nazis. Our insistence on hardcore violence was ‘macho’.Reaching our destination by tube, we tumbled out, most bunking their fares. A seething mass of people greeted us, hemmed in by hundreds of police, Special Patrol Group much in evidence. I avoided them, weaving around to the edge of Ducketts Common. Here the Front were gathering, affording spectators the usual contrast between the impressive forest of flags and the shabby lowlife gathered beneath. Heavy policing meant that we were unable to get anywhere near the bastards.So we gathered in strength at the crossroads, barely contained by the pigs until we began to spill into the road. Now the cops swarmed in, sheer numbers of the stroppy bastards preventing us from reaching our nazi quarry. Unlike many previous confrontations large numbers of local youth, in particular blacks and Greeks had turned out. Some Saturday shoppers even joined in. Certainly we were all determined, ready for the aggro. Some thought that the police would divert the Front march. Were that the case, we’d dive down the side streets, leading part of the crowd to the desired, long-overdue confrontation. But as it turned out the cops were determined to box us in, meaning no diversion. The pigs had by now formed up both sides of the High Road.Many of us gathered ammunition. Wood from abandoned placards, bottles and bricks, fruit and veg distributed by sympathetic shoppers. Police activity hotted up. In the near distance Union Jacks approached in formation, the sound of the drum corps striking up. We all struggled forward, kicking, punching into police lines. Helmets flew, bottles smashed. The fighting raged as the head of the nazi column reached the crossroads. The cops couldn’t make many arrests as they were too busy struggling to contain our crowd which, including spectators numbered about a thousand. As the head of the march drew parallel to the heaving mob, we pelted them with our ammo. The marchers were protected by even more cops, marching at both sides of their demo, obscuring our view of the flag-bearers and drummers. Smashing though the static pavement cop lines, the more violent elements of the crowd – mostly local youngsters plus us aggro merchants – got through to the inner core of police protection. A variety of munitions, including shoes from outdoor shoe-shop display racks flew into the march that buckled but didn’t break thanks to the large reinforcements of SPG. I managed to get in real close, cracking a fascist in the chops with a length of broken banner pole. I should have stabbed him in the face with the sharp end as I couldn’t really fit in a decent swing. Nevertheless, adequate contact was made, though it failed to deck the cunt. I became detached from the main body of attackers then noticed, by way of a lucky glance, an inspector pointing at me, barking orders: “Nick him! Arrest that man!” Half a dozen SPG swarmed through the mêlée and I flew, sucking in and out of the confusion into the jam-packed traffic ahead. Still the fuckers came for me. They had their truncheons out. I didn’t fancy a taste of these. Arrested, and a doing over into the bargain. No thanks. Hundreds of people had spilled out onto the road, providing me with some cover, so I jumped onto a standing bus, rushing up to the top deck. For a quick exit you can’t beat a Routemaster. The SPG had lost sight of me, and it gave me great satisfaction to watch them dashing by. I was safe. Passengers on the bus were spitting out of the top deck windows onto the Front and pigs below, shouting insults as they passed. The nazis may well have been gaining support, chalking up respectable votes, but here at least was evidence that their very success was attracting increasing opposition.I sat down, gasping for breath, then decanted with a couple of the more volatile passengers to bother the rear of the nazi march. Hundreds of us followed them along hurling abuse and the odd missile. The forces of law and order were content now to let us tag alongside, shouting our slogans and curses. The back of the march appeared to contain local supporters and members of the public, and this lot didn’t mind reciprocating our threats and verbal aggro. Many, though, appeared to be shitting bricks, taken aback by the size and the fury of the opposition. Neighbours traded threats. No doubt that evening and beyond would be tense, brawls spilling over garden walls, onto the pavements after last orders. We maintained a constant barrage of verbals, little of it sophisticated: “Come on you nazi cunts! Come over ‘ere! Away from police protection, lets ‘ave it out. Me ‘n’ you!” The Fronters responded with their usual opprobrium, “RED SCUM! RED SCUM!” “GO BACK TO RUSSIA!” As the march progressed both sides consolidated. We still picked up support, people coming straight out of their homes to join us. Police were now attempting to walk alongside us but it was a sporadic effort compared with the tight formation shielding the Front.I was joined by Hoxton Rosie, his scarf pulled up over his face. “How many on the Front march?” I asked. “Just under a thousand, maybe less, maybe more.” But despite these numbers he didn’t seem too glum. The reaction against the nazis in an area perceived to be sympathetic to their nonsense had been fantastic, and the day wasn’t over yet. I noticed that our ranks were thinning, and the police in turn were becoming more confident, more aggressive as their reinforcements gained the upper hand, pushing us back. Some ducked off down side streets, hoping to confront the nazis later. I decided to quit whilst ahead, not wanting to meet up with those SPG who may have been redeployed further ahead. “Rosie, me old son,” I asked him, “What d’you think of the day’s doings?” More animated than usual, he turned towards me. “Next time, we’ve gotta get all our mobs together, give ‘em a right fucking hiding. There’s no point pissing about, it’s now or never.” I knew what he meant, feeling exactly the same myself. This day had been brilliant but we needed more people willing to fight. "Next time, mate...next time."