British Pride : A Nazi’s Tale

Divven’t get me wrang, the lass is lovely an’ all that. Met her for the first time yesterday. But hawaay, man. Where’s the crack? Eh? C’mon man? There’s nowt wrang with gannin’ owt with th’ lads f’th’crack.
+++++“Gannin oot, luv,” I shout through the letterbox.
+++++“Hang on, Dave. What happened aboot today?” she whines. “Yer goan to tek me out, love. The bingo and that mind. Celebrate!”
+++++Fuck off.
+++++I’m off. Fuck that. It’s her mother’s birthday and ahm fucked if I’m gannin’ around her mother’s place. Not at two in the afternoon, man. Newcastle’s playing Chelsea in the Champions League, man. Get the fucking lash on.
+++++First things first. Into the Paki shop to get some tabs. First thing you notice about these places is the smell of curry. Fucking reeks! It’s all the fucking kids, like fucking rabbits, man. After the benefits an’ that.
+++++This place is all jumbled up. It’s like the Co-op, but crammed into a single room. You got to watch these fucking foreigners cos they put their own prices on the food. Dodgy cunts. Gordon Broon’s put the prices down an’ that, but I bet these robbin’ fuckers haven’t.
+++++I gets to the counter. Punjab’s watching the TV: fucking Bollywood. Y’knah all them Paki dancers, and Punjab with the laser dot on his foreheed.
+++++“How much?”
+++++“Five pound forty pence, sir.”
+++++“Fucking what? Get back to your own fucking country if you want rip people off. At least Dick Torpin wore a mask.” Like he’s going to know who that fucker is.
+++++“I am in my own fucking country. I’m fucking British, you ignorant wanker.”
+++++“Alreet, steady on, Punjab.”
+++++“My name is not Punjab. Get the fuck out of my shop before I call the…”
+++++I’m out the door before he can finish the sentence. Pointless arguing with these fuckers – he’ll call the pigs.
+++++Merton, County Durham. Lap o’ the’ fuckin’ Gods! That’s what me granddad called this place. A fuckin’ paradise. It hasn’t changed one bit. Still a fucking shit hole. Wonder if Billy still lives with his mum? Fucking loser.
+++++I knock on the door. Still got that crappy pink Robin Reliant. Some auld bint stands before me, squinting.
+++++“Billy in?”
+++++“He left about two years ago.” There’s recognition in her face now. “You’re not David, are you?”
+++++“Aye. Got oot yesterday.”
+++++The door closes and I can hear the slamming home of tumblers and bolts. What the fuck?
+++++Billy’s left home? Hang on. That can’t be right. That twat couldn’t even tie his own shoelaces. Where the fuck’s he gone to? Can’t be anywhere far, he can’t even drive. Well, he couldn’t before I…
+++++I’ll get some tabs from Oggies. I know I’m home when I smell the soot from a chimney fire. I can see sparks flying into the air, the smoke covering most of the street right down to Oggies. Eh? It’s not Oggies? The sign’s gone from the shop, called somethin’ else now mind. I bet a fucking Paki has took the bastard over! Infiltration, I’m tellin’ ye!
+++++The door opens with a cheerful jingle – Jingle Bells. Can’t be Paki, Pakis don’t celebrate Chrimbo. There’s a tree with all the lights on an’ that. Thank fuck for that. I see the girl behind the till, red hat on and sparkling lights.
+++++She looks at me and begins to look nervous now because I’m just staring at her. The picture isn’t right. It’s like watching a porn movie where the bird’s got tits and a cock.
+++++“Yes? What’s up, marra?” She’s forced the marra bit. She knows what I am. The skinhead, donkey jacket and tattoed swastika probably give it away. Her accent is the same as mine. That can’t be right. I back away through the door.
+++++This was ‘Gloria the Paki’. We ripped the shite out of her at school. She took an overdose of pills a couple of times, I think. She’d been fat then. I couldn’t say the same now though. If it weren’t for her Paki origins I’d do her, definitely. Like a dog’s dinner, yah fucker!
+++++“Aye up, Lisa,” some fellah from the back shouts. “You got any of those Steak ‘n’ Kidney Fray Bentos pies, love?”
+++++“Next to the Ambrosia pudding,” she yells, not taking her attention away from me. “What’s up? It’s Dave, isn’t it? Haven’t seen you in ages. Weren’t you the one who…” She puts a hand to her ‘O’ of a mouth. There it is. She sees the beast.
+++++I tumble out of the shop. Why? This is a decent British shop, run by honest British white people. I used to get ten pence mix ups from here; all the decent sweets. They’d even sell me ciggies with old notes from me mum. I could rent out triple X horrors from here. Fucking hellish it was.
+++++What happened? It’s like something out of ‘V’ or ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers’. You don’t notice it happening, but they are slowly taking over the country. Very soon Britain will become an Islamic state unless we do something about it. I don’t mind the coons at the moment, the blacks; it’s a bit late to kick them fuckers out. Get the Pakis out first, then deal with the rest of the rats. Adolf had the right idea. At first he was going to send the fuckers to Madagascar. Needed the fuel for the war machine and decided to gas ‘em all instead. I wrote to the British Nationalist Party while I was inside, proposing this motion, and I got some shite brochure back from them. ‘We want to stop illegal immigrants’, ‘Stop the benefit culture’, ’Britain should be British’. Bollocks! Britain should be white! They’re too soft. Fucking poufs. Combat 18 were just right. Many people don’t know what the 18 means. Age of entry? Nah. It’s the Fuhrer’s initials of course, where they sit in the alphabet. I tell that to every cunt and the look of surprise on their face is priceless.
+++++The 152 to Sunderland should be here any minute. That’ll get me to the bottom of the terrace. Colliery Inn should be open. Newky Brown, ya fuckkah! Oh I’ll be neckin’ that nectar soon. The change in me jeans is me benefit money. Should sort me out this saffo. The daft bint can borrow money off her mum. Fucking slag. Only a shag anyway. I was writing to her when I was in nick. Shagged her last night for the first time. Up the arse as well mind! Slap the fat and ride the ripples yah fucker! She was like putty in me hands. Fucking felt like putty as well. She needs to lose some fat or I’ll bin the fucker.
+++++The familiar shape of a double-decker rocks its way down the bank. A whoosh of hydraulics and the doors open.
+++++“Bottom of the terrace, mate.” I’m met with a look of confusion. “Bottom of the terrace. Next stop?”
+++++“Da.”
+++++Da? What the fuck was that? He’s muttering something under his breath.
+++++“What was that, mate?” Then he’s off again and I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about. Ski this, ski that. Then it hits me. It’s obvious. This cunt’s a Russian!
+++++“You a fuckin’ Russian?”
+++++“Nyet. Polska!” He snaps back at me. Cheeky fucker.
+++++“Polish!” I leap off the bus and boot it. “Fuck off back, ya commie wanker,” I yell as it pulls away.
+++++I’ll fucking walk it then. I’ll get some tabs in the boozer. People are giving me a wide berth for some reason. It’s like I’m a monster. A couple of blokes are staring at me. I can feel their oppressing weight. Kids are being turned away from me; their eyes covered.
+++++When I notice my picture on the bus stop, I can’t move anymore. My legs won’t work. The hammering in my chest, it feels like a giant loudspeaker.
+++++Paedophile warning. Out today. Watch your children.
+++++It wasn’t me… I didn’t do anything… I was in for armed robbery!
+++++I manage to walk on, staring at the footpath until I hit the bottom of the terrace. Cranky’s here, in his brown overcoat. Probably hasn’t been washed in the time I’ve been away. His crooked nose pokes out from under his trilby. He beckons me closer.
+++++“Fellah. You’re not welcome here,” he rasps.
+++++I ignore him and barge into the bar. It’s packed and I see a few people look up. They’re muttering to each other and glancing in my direction. NCB Donkey Jacket, ripped jeans, skinhead and tattoos. I’m just staring at the row of optics and the drinks below in the fridges.
+++++“Bottle of Dog,” I demand, putting a pound coin on the counter.
+++++“Two pound forty.”
+++++The barman is standing up straight and evaluating me. Two forty? How much? I scrabble for more cash and slap it on the counter.
+++++“You can have this one on me so long as you get the fuck out of my pub.” He pushes the change towards me. “Take the bottle.”
+++++What the fuck? I used to drink here all the time.
+++++“We don’t like dirty paedos here.”
+++++I can feel the breath of someone on my ear. Dirty? Paedo?
+++++I grab the bottle and shuffle out of the bar. Paedo? She was asking for it. Wanted it.
+++++I sit down by a bench. The last time I sat at this bench was… When? I’d have been sixteen.
+++++The Brown Ale goes down too easily. There’s something breaking in my chest. Gave me the fucking bottle for free, so I could leave. Fucking wanker! I was born here. My home. I need more ale.
+++++There’s a scream. Something in her eyes cripples me. I’m paralysed. It’s her. The film reel crackles into life every night. Images of the child I’d pinned down and raped blossom in colour before me.
+++++Nah. It wasn’t like that. I never fucking raped her! She was asking for it. Pissed up she was. She’s still screaming as she’s running up the terrace. A solitary shoe has been left. Her shopping is oozing milk from the broken bottle on the pavement.
+++++I’m cowering from something, hands over my face.
+++++I hadn’t stopped there. I did other things to her. Things I wish I could forget. It was armed robbery! Armed robbery. I made her do things. I used to wake and think how I could stop the nightmares. Suicide was easy to plan, but doing it was a different matter.
+++++I know they won’t ever leave me now – her face covered in my… No! Stop. Armed robbery. I buy a bottle and don’t even notice the shopkeeper. A twenty note is traded for a fiver. This is how I live, on this bench: a reminder to potential paedophiles. The kids taunt me and molest me. I swig the bottle and smile at my girl. She looks ahead like a zombie. She knows.
+++++The newspapers keep me warm now and I yearn for Giro day. I’ve pissed mesel’ again. I’ve got to stay under to keep her ghost away, the ghost of her innocence.