Brum against the NF, 18-02-1978
By Mark Cassidy
Fascists never entirely go away, do they? They may disappear from view for a while, but when capitalism needs a scapegoat unscrupulous demagogues will always find some thugs to marshal.
That said, in recent months it has been heartening to see the epidemic of St. George Cross and Union flags, now bedraggled and threadbare, being taken down from our lamp-posts by small, locally organised groups. There is always a need to oppose such intimidation physically and in person.
Coincidentally, an old photo popped up (as if from nowhere, as they can) on my social media feed – see above. It was from February 1978 and showed a hastily arranged demonstration through Digbeth in Birmingham. For me, an early experience of how mass action has impact by virtue of numbers. The National Front had been active in the locality at that time, using, in particular, not flags but an openly racist poster. It may be urban legend that the NF put razor blades beneath their posters, but that’s what was popularly believed. The poster in question can be seen here.
This, in turn, reminded me of another, individual instance of street conflict and this poem about it. The point here is not to claim any heroism (had I stopped to think logically, I’d have run away sooner) rather to reflect that sometimes we must respond spontaneously, even at risk to ourselves.
POSTERS
Come, where once the pavement burnt your feet
even in the cool of midnight.
You do not recognise it now.
Here, as Pershore Road turns into Dogpool Lane,
the echo of a bus shelter.
And recollection of that face:
its caricature thick lips with dreadlocks dripping
like molten tar, over a Union Jack.
Tear it down – the paste is wet,
no razorblades. Roll up the hate.
‘Get them!’ No one calls it fear
when yells are thrown across the shadowed street.
There is no time. No thoughts
of how you’ll hedgehog curl, protect your head
and softer parts. Rinse blood from broken teeth.
Only run. With widened eyes, leave behind
a glimpse of braces and brown leather.
Trust your speed, feel its flow.
Know which covert alleys will bring you safely home,
your unused fist unclenched.
