ONE DAY IN HACKNEY
By PAUL COMBEN
ANYONE wanting a rapid education in the miseries of multi-racialism could do no better than spend a little time in the London Borough of Hackney. I spent the first nineteen years of my life in the borough, and so I knew all about the sheer wretchedness of the place. However, it was only when I returned for just one day, my memories dimmed by three years of life in the country, that the full horror of the place hit me.
I had returned to look around some of the places I had known during my time there. I started in the road where I used to live. For me, the biggest change here was not the construction of a small block of flats ― no doubt containing all the amenities my old house had lacked ― but the fact that immigrants now lived there.
Oddly enough, despite living in an area with a huge coloured population, my old road had been one of the last to be so afflicted. We never saw Blacks in our street ― right up to 1979 when I moved. The population had always been entirely White and intensely patriotic. In 1977, during the Queen's Jubilee, you would have been hard put to find a road with more Union Jacks in it than ours. Looking at the state of things now however, I wondered how long the old White community spirit could last? It could not be long before the whole road was full of immigrants.
From my old road it was only a short walk to Well Street market where I once had a Saturday job on a stall. On my way there I was simply amazed by just how dirty everything looked. Cages put around young trees were full of chip papers and soft drink cans. The pavements were covered in foul matter, and the paving slabs themselves were often cracked and uneven. The sights and smells of decay were everywhere.
The market itself is virtually dead now. When I was a boy there were dozens of stalls in the short and narrow street. Now, even in midweek, there were only about half a dozen stalls dotted around. At the far end of the market stood the main reason why. The super-capitalist, super-Jew Tesco chain had built a huge store here and taken the stallholders' living away overnight. There was another reason. Even though the Tesco chain had cut the ground from under the feet of the traders, few White people would want to trade in the area if Tesco left. A few years ago I remember seeing a gang of Blacks sieze a stallholder's entire takings and make off with it. In this foul and depressing atmosphere the incentive to work hard on your little stall is zero.
Behind the market is one of the nastiest sights in Hackney. An estate that should have been destroyed years ago stands rotting amidst the other derelict buildings around it. This is the Black Man's territory and you can tell. Huge piles of rubbish are heaped against unemptied bins. Children of various muddy hues clamber up and down the heaps of filth shouting unbelievable obscenities at each other. On one occasion, so a friend told me, a Black had thrown a mattress from an upper balcony without looking to see if anyone was below. A number of elderly White people live on the ground floor, and I saw a face or two peer out into the gloom. These poor people contrast so much with the pensioners of Tumbridge Wells, where I have lived these past three years. For the old Whites of these flats there are no rides to the coast and lunch in a clean little Tea Room. They have nothing but damp walls and constant fear. After forty or fifty years of service to this nation, the likes of Thatcher, Foot and all the others give them nothing but misery. They dare not go out at night, and all through the day the Black youths pound footballs against their walls.
I did not want to spend any more time here so I set off for Clapton Pond, passing first by Hackney Town Hall. The composition of Hackney Council often looks more like a list of guests at a Purim party. Labour has controlled Hackney for decades. However, all this rule by the "working man's party" has done nothing for White workers. But then again, the votes are with the immigrants these days.
Clapton Pond itself is an unpleasant place. If you are White and sensible you do not walk around here at night on your own. Gangs of Blacks patrol the area, and if you hear a few screams during the night, it is nothing to get excited about. As I walked along I could see groups of Blacks on almost every corner. They eye every White who passes with looks of undisguised hatred. In the streets leading off from Clapton Pond the coloured population is so big it does not bear thinking about. Perhaps the most graphic example of just how bad things are is on the wall of the large Lea Bridge Road subway. A notice claims that this subway "is frequently patrolled by the police".
From Clapton Pond I took a bus up to Stamford Hill. This is where the Jews live. They stick out like a very sore thumb. With their vulgar dress and arrogant manner you can see that they have never had any intention of trying to fit in with the native Whiles. They always remind me of Asiatic overlords come to visit the chattel on the estates. White people could learn from the Jews a good lesson in racial loyalty. Jews in this area have their own schools and make sure that they live as close as possible to each other. Blacks do live in this area, but as a rule they do not live too near the Jews.
Arrogant and violent Black youths are making life unbearable in Britain's cities.
I could never spend more than a few minutes in Stamford Hill before I felt my flesh begin to creep. I therefore took another bus to Dalston. Dalston itself lies on the borders of Hackney and Islington, but the poverty of the place knows no such boundary. I wanted to visit Ridley Road market, which, even as a boy, I knew as the place where the "Blackies" shopped.
This market has got to be seen to be believed. Every other face is Black and many of the shops and stalls cater for their tastes. I am not too sure that standards of cleanliness mean anything here, but the Blacks do not seem to care. On the day I was there, a foul reek was hanging over most of the market. The houses around the market are little more than slums. Once again we are in muggers' territory, and I would love to see that bastard Whitelaw walk through here alone around midnight. By now I had seen enough of the market's dirt, flies and Blacks, and so headed back towards the southern end of the borough.
Victoria Park lies in this area, and it is one of the best things left in Hackney. The park is well-tended and a delight in the summer, but even here you keep wondering about the chances of being caught on your own in an open field. I ended my visit with a drink in a pub I used when I still lived in the area. To my delight an old friend of mine walked in. I remembered him as a nice enough chap but not an N.F. supporter. Three more years here had, so it seemed, a rather drastic effect on his views. He was obsessed with worry over the chances of a big riot here during the summer. He told me of how he had only just avoided being attacked himself. Above all, he wanted to move away, as so many Whites have done. At one point in our conversation, he stood up to get another drink. Looking out of the pub window into the darkening streets beyond, he grimaced and said: "You know, Paul, this is a bloody stinking dump."