Hateland (14 page)

    As the first reds reached us, we began kicking and punching them, but realised the space was too confined. As more reds arrived, we'd be pushed back or, worse, over. We ran up the stairs and into the street.

    Adolf, Stan and I ran into the overground station. The other two men ran down the road. The leading reds took off in pursuit of the other two. The other reds followed them. No one came after us.

    We sat on a platform bench to get our breath back. Adolf then began shouting abuse: 'We should have fucking done the bastards. What happened to that prick with the flare gun?'

    Stan looked at me, and we both started laughing. Adolf didn't find it amusing. He stood up and stormed off, vowing to 'do some red bastard'.

    That evening in the pub, we learned that the two men who'd been chased up the street had been captured in a car park off the Caledonian Road. The reds had kicked and punched them to the ground, then whipped them with a car aerial. As a final act of humiliation, they'd pissed on them.

    We heard a new landlord had taken over at The Royal Oak in Stockwell. Buzz the barman was no longer around. We went there one Saturday morning after spending the first part of the day at an illegal drinking den called Freddie Head's in Railton Road. We were already well pissed when we staggered in to meet the new landlord. He turned out to be a scruffy man, who looked more like a care-in-the-community patient than a landlord. I suppose, with us as customers, The Royal Oak could never expect to attract the cream of the brewery trade.

    The landlord didn't want to serve drunks at eleven in the morning. He told us to leave. Del Boy told him to shut up. He said he was calling the police. His threat was met with jeering, wolf-whistles and laughter. The landlord went to the lounge to phone the police and await their arrival.

    Around ten minutes later, two policemen walked into the bar. Del Boy, as always, smartly dressed in a suit and tie, was up on his feet explaining the situation before anybody else could say anything. He claimed he was the manager and that 'the troublemaker' was a scruffy man skulking in the lounge, refusing to leave. Del Boy told the officers confidentially, 'He keeps saying he's the landlord. He's not the full shilling, if you ask me. This isn't the first trouble I've had with him. Could you please just put him out? Be careful.'

    The two policemen marched into the lounge, grabbed the landlord and frog-marched him to their van. The prisoner protested loudly the whole while, but his protests only made Del Boy's story seem more convincing. The police just threw him into the van, like rubbish. As soon as the van pulled off, we fled the pub. We learned later that the landlord had been taken to Brixton police station. He was only released after his wife turned up to identify him.

    Around this time in 1984, the ceiling of my brother Paul's council flat in Clapham collapsed. The man upstairs had forgotten to turn off his bath taps, causing a flood. Paul was given temporary accommodation nearby.

    On the Sunday morning before he was due to move back in, he went round to check everything. He discovered the locks had been changed. He knocked next door. His neighbour told him that, in his brief absence, a group of squatters had moved in. Apparently, there'd been a large influx of them into the borough following the mass eviction at Effra Terrace in neighbouring Brixton.

    Paul banged on his door, shouted through the letterbox and knocked on the windows, but no one answered. He decided he'd wait until the squatters returned, rather than damage his windows and doors trying to get in. He intended removing the squatters promptly and permanently, without recourse to the law.

    Paul came round to the pub where we always met on Sunday mornings and told us about the squatters. I said when the pub closed we'd go round and evict them for him. Everyone was egging each other on, ranting about 'scum' taking over our towns and now our very homes. No fucking reds were going to take the roofs from over our heads. 'Kill, kill, kill' expressed the general mood. At closing time, Paul went back to his temporary accommodation to pack his bags. Meanwhile, five of us went round to his flat to evict the red scum. When we arrived, the back door was open, so we walked straight in. Nobody was home.

    We picked up the squatters' belongings and threw them onto the pavement. We deliberately smashed things like the stereo, the television and the chairs. We ripped up all their clothes. Then, after carrying out the beds, we slashed the mattresses and

    pillows. As soon as we'd completed our squatter-cleansing mission, Colin and I went round to Paul's to tell him he could now move his stuff back in. Paul looked puzzled. He said, 'What do you mean, "move all my stuff back in"? Has it all gone then?' Most of the property we'd trashed was his. He never did see the funny side of it.

CHAPTER 7

STEAMING THE RED RABBLE

The annual 'Troops Out' march in London was a much-loved and eagerly awaited event in the Nazi social calendar. Supporters of a withdrawal of British troops from Northern Ireland would march from south London to somewhere in the centre. And the Nazis would traditionally attack them.

    I had mixed feelings about this. My time as a soldier in the six counties had actually strengthened my sympathies for the Troops Out cause. My Irish blood and my encounters with Catholic-hating Loyalists, as well as the fact that my dearest possessions now existed as a pile of ashes in an Orangewoman's garden, made me support the idea of a united Ireland, although I didn't want IRA violence to achieve that goal. Adolf, too, with his Irish father, wasn't entirely opposed to the key aspects of the republican cause.

    However, both of us looked forward to taking part in the planned attack on the Troops Out march for the simple reason that we wanted to bash some reds. We felt sure the marchers would be the same 'red rabble' we saw marching against Nazis, apartheid, Margaret Thatcher, the destruction of the rain forests and the clubbing of baby seals, not 'real' Irish republicans locked in a war with the Brits. In our eyes, members of this red rabble deserved a bashing whenever and wherever we could find them.

    It was around Easter 1984. The night before the march, Adolf and I helped leaflet squaddies' pubs in the Victoria area. The leaflets described 'IRA scum' marching through our streets while waging a dirty war 'against our people'. That night, we also attended a Nazi meeting at a pub in the West End. Upstairs in a small, wood-panelled room stood a long table on a small stage. A Union flag covered the table. A flag of Ulster decorated the wall behind. The speakers included two men from the Loyalist paramilitary Ulster Volunteer Force. Dressed in jeans and combat jackets, and with strong Belfast accents, they ranted for ten minutes about the 'Marxist' IRA before urging the congregation of around 50 fascists to give generously to the cause.

    I gave nothing. I had no intention of ever giving a penny to the Orange bastards. Not even if they gave me my stuff back.

    The meeting ended with a full-throated version of God Save the Queen. It could have brought a tear trickling down the cheek of Elizabeth's mother, if not the Reverend Ian Paisley himself.

    Adolf got talking to one of the Loyalists. He said to him, 'You're not a Nazi, are you? You only dislike the Provos. What are your views on blacks, Asians and other immigrants?'

    The Loyalist wasn't entirely sure what to say A black in Northern Ireland at that time was about as common as a four-leafed clover. Most blacks encountered by Loyalists would have been wearing a British Army uniform. The Orangeman struggled for words before saying he couldn't understand why blacks had it in for Unionists. His response puzzled us.

    During the meeting, we'd been told that the two most likely opportunities we'd get to steam the reds would be when the march passed either Lambeth North tube station or The Bear pub in Kennington Road. If the police presence was too strong at these locations, then we were to head to a 'redirection' point at Waterloo Station, from where we'd be sent elsewhere. Very few meetings or 'actions' took place without our being herded around first from one non-location to another, the final destination being kept secret until the last moment in an effort to thwart the reds. If the latter knew of a venue before a meeting then they'd sometimes try to launch an attack. The men who stood at the redirection points had a dangerous job. The reds beat them up regularly.

    On the morning of the march, we met up in a local pub when it opened at eleven. By the time we had to head for Lambeth North tube station, we were all drunk. As we made our way to meet the red hordes, other people from pubs along our route joined us. Around 70 of us prepared to do battle - Nazis, squaddies, ex-squaddies and ordinary members of the public who'd seen their city bombed by those the marchers seemed to represent.

    Soon, we could hear the pipe-and-drum band accompanying the marchers. Before long, the republican flags and banners came into view. The enemy column remained a few hundred yards away when somebody began shouting, 'The fucking scum! Kill the fucking scum!' Screaming like primitives, we all began running towards the marchers, who probably numbered about 500.

    I felt like a footsoldier in a medieval battle as we charged across the road towards our foe. I was half-expecting a hail of arrows to meet us. We crashed into the front of the march, a clash of mutual hatred. I hit several people, but I don't know who. I just lashed out in a frenzy. The leading marchers had difficulty fighting because many carried large banners. Some tried retreating, but found themselves pushed forward again by those at the back.

    In a few seconds, it was over. Everybody, including the marchers, began shouting, 'Police! Police!' I turned and started to run. I looked over my shoulder to see a line of police officers running towards us. I kept running until I was several streets away. Then I made my way back to the pub where we'd agreed to meet.

    Adolf and my south London mates had got there first. The assault on the reds left everyone excited and laughing. It had been such good fun that everyone wanted another crack at the bastards. We decided to attack the march at another point. We walked to a pub half a mile away where we knew the march would have to pass. We planned to run out at the marchers as soon as they arrived. But the police put officers on the doors of both exits and told us to stay inside until the march had passed.

    A few people got angry with the police. They asked how they could protect people who supported groups that murdered police officers. 'Why don't you just go round the corner and let us at the bastards?' The police ignored them. A fight with the police began to seem the most likely scenario.

    The march soon reached the pub. We tried to run at the marchers through the police line. The marchers saw us - and tried to run at us too. The police pushed us back into the pub. Adolf lunged forward and two officers wrestled him to the ground. They told him he was under arrest before bundling him and others into a van. Adolf was charged with a public order offence and bailed to appear at Horseferry Road Magistrates' Court in Victoria. We all agreed to go with him on the day of his court appearance, because we guessed the Anti-Nazi League would congregate outside. We were right. Around 20 reds and the same number of police stood there. The reds shouted abuse, took our photos - something they always did - and hissed at us, but no scuffles occurred.

    Members of the BNP and the NF stood inside the lobby, trying to recruit those who'd been arrested. Both groups offered to pay the fines of their members: 'Join us. We look after our members. Unlike the others.'

    In his defence, Adolf claimed not to have been part of any group that day. He always met with his friends in that pub after work on a Saturday. On this occasion, when he'd gone to leave he'd been prevented from doing so by the police. A fight had then broken out among other people with whom he wasn't associated. Fearing he might be about to get caught up in an unpleasant altercation, he'd tried to flee, but the police had pounced on him, mistaking him for a troublemaker.

    My wealth of experience in the dock qualified me to become Adolf's star witness. The prosecutor began cross-examining me. He asked if I'd drunk much alcohol in the pub that day. 'No, I don't drink, actually.'

    'You regularly go to this public house and yet you abstain from alcohol. A bit odd, don't you think, Mr O'Mahoney?'

    'Not really,' I replied. 'You see, I can't drink because I've got a problem.'

    'A problem, Mr O'Mahoney. And what might that be?'

    Before I could answer, Del Boy shouted from the back of the court, 'He's run out of money.'

    Even the magistrate laughed. This witticism didn't help Adolf. He was found guilty. Before fining him, the magistrate said that in a democracy people had a right to demonstrate, however distasteful others might find their cause. He added, 'I fought in the Second World War, young man. But that doesn't give me the right to walk around the West End assaulting German tourists.'

    He warned Adolf not to come before him again - or he could expect a trip to prison. We left the court laughing. Not surprisingly, neither the NF nor the BNP paid Adolf's fine. We began meeting regularly in The Falcon pub in Battersea. Nazi football hooligans from the Chelsea 'Headhunters' also congregated there. A lot of them came from Kent and Croydon and places like that. I had a fight with one idiot who said they had the 'hardest firm' in south London. I gave him a good bashing for his insolence and, as a result, my reputation rose in Nazi circles. It was after that incident that Tony Lecomber, the future BNP national organiser, began turning up to try to recruit us. Far-right groups viewed the simmering racial tension across south London as an opportunity to swell their diminishing ranks. They also needed thugs like us to protect their meetings from attacks by the reds. There's a long and well-documented history of far-right groups trying to recruit football hooligans. As one Nazi magazine put it: '99 per cent of football thugs are white and 99 per cent of those are nationalistic and patriotic and displaying the warrior instincts that made Britain and our race great.'