Monday, 5 June 2017


Welcome to London! Twinned with Kabul!

London Bridge is falling down.

Falling down.

Falling down.

London Bridge is falling down.

My fair lady.

English nursery rhyme

London calling

To the faraway towns.

Now war is declared

And battle come down.

The Clash

I strolled into town on Saturday to watch Real Madrid rather predictably put Juventus to the sword. Ronaldo really is some kind of godling, although the Juventus goal was as good as you will see. On my way to the local Tico bar – I don’t bother with Yankee bars anymore - I was struck, as I often am, at what a pleasant atmosphere exists in this rather sleepy Costa Rican town. I haven’t been in my birthplace of London for over a year, but I find myself constantly comparing what one might call the mood music of the two places.

The most obvious difference is the people. Everyone, except for the occasional arrogant north American arsehole, says hello to you here, either buenos días or the national greeting, pura vida. Even just a smile. There is constant human commerce. Try that shit in London. They would either alert the community mental health team, or you would end up in a fight for taking the piss. You would certainly get some strange looks. Try walking the black or Muslim areas, as a white man, which is what I self-identify as every time look in the mirror, and saying hello to all the young men you see. Best of British with that. London isn’t like that anymore, although it was when my mother and late father lived there. It’s fucking Mau-Mau land now.

On Sundays, when I take my morning constitutional into town, the churches are full. All four of them. The Jehovah’s Witness Meeting Hall may be choc-a-bloc too, for all I know. I can’t see in. But the other denominations are alive with music and prayer and drumming, brimming with kindness and spirituality, the real type, not the new-age, Islington, Glastonbury wanker type. There are no fights between rival congregations. No swastikas are sprayed on rival church walls. It’s all rather civil.

Dogs roam the streets. I try to work out which ones might be homeless, because I do voluntary work for the local animal shelter. They’ll take them and castrate them – a practice I might like to see similarly applied in London, although not with dogs – to keep down the feral population. I sit by the soccer pitch and watch the groundsmen mark the lines and string the goal nets. I love it here. Then I think back to London.

Where would I have been watching the big game? Why, The Dean Swift, of course. My favourite haunt in the last year of my tenure in the city of my birth, The Dean boasts a peerless list of pale ales, and a menu which would delight any Epicurean, which I am not. I lived in the area, and would sometimes wander up to London Bridge Station to sit and read in The Bunch of Grapes or The Market Porter, or The Barrowboy and Banker.

And so, when I returned from the bar, having seen a feisty game of soccer and had good if limited conversation with a couple of Ticos, I fired up the PC and was reminded of possibly the greatest difference between London and Costa Rica.

There are no Muslims here.

Now, I know all the arguments. I know all of them. I have met two Muslims here. One owns a good deal of local property, the other owns the biggest hotel in town and has employed me to play guitar in his restaurant more than once. You know full well what I’m talking about. I mean no one walks around here with a fucking stupid beard, with his wife walking ten paces behind him. No one has four wives. No one yells through a megaphone that their god is greater. No one mounts the pavement to kill people who are not Muslim. No one demands a mosque be built. They asked for one, they being the 5,000 Muslims in Costa Rica. The municipalidad of San José gave a prompt and polite answer; no.

But this is the Third World. In the First World, my old homestead, they know better. Muslims are welcome. They are necessary. We can learn from them, and their food is wonderful, even though you don’t need Muslims to cook curry, just the recipe. They are so good that you are not really allowed to criticize them, or insult them, or offend them. And they are very easily offended, having learnt that this is how things work in Europe, having learn how to take and make advantage.

Some of them also kill people. Another seven or so on Saturday night, a number which will rise as the critically injured succumb to their stab wounds. And still the lies, and still the obfuscation and evasion and elision. A Muslim mayor makes a speech in which his religion is never mentioned. The Prime Minister, strangely unveiled, lies about who is responsible. Leftists argue over which Tweets are the most racist, like grackles squabbling in a cornfield. #PrayForLondon, even though if we catch you wearing a crucifix in the presence of your Islamic co-workers there will be fucking hell to pay.

I have struggled to find anything interesting about the events of Saturday night, and I am a news obsessive. And then I found it, hiding, as ever, between the lines.

Three very different men – Tommy Robinson, Douglas Murray and Paul Joseph Watson – all said almost exactly the same thing. If the government and their laws enforcement agents do not do something about the rapidly escalating state of affairs in the UK, and particularly in London, then ordinary people will. ‘Big Phil’, an ex-SAS man, has said that jihadis need to be identified and taken off the streets.

I have said many times that what frightens government and their media and provisional arms, that being the police, is not the radicalised mosque, it is the radicalised pub. They are coming. The UK government has been planning, for some time, for civil war.

It is time they got their wish.

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