I've changed my mind. Let the EDL march

I would like to extend an olive branch to those defenders of English nationalism.

Pragmatism. Magnanimity. A willingness to show compassion and understanding to friend and foe alike.

I possess none of these qualities. The world is black and white. I am right, you are wrong. If you are my opponent I must crush, not merely beat you.

That is how I have always conducted my politics. It has not been wholly successful. But it has got me as far as this web site, so I must have done something right.

None of us, though, have a monopoly on wisdom. Nor are our life choices set in stone. Occasionally one should listen to the views of others. Turn over a new leaf. Reach out.

You may have read in other places my criticism of the English Defence League [EDL]. I have used harsh, even coarse language against them. Most recently I have insisted their boots should not set foot on the streets of Tower Hamlets, and been critical of those who have adopted a different stance.

Here, today, I would like to make amends. I would like to extend an olive branch to those defenders of English nationalism, and those others who, on a point of principle, have spoken out for their right to free assembly and protest.

Let us compromise. Why don't we put aside our differences, and find a middle path.

Here is my offering. The EDL should be allowed to march. But with pre-conditions. One or two safeguards that will enable those of us who have been sceptical of their methods and motives to be reassured of their good faith.

My first offer is this. The EDL can demonstrate. But with a commitment that for the 24 hours proceeding and following their protest, none of those participating consumes alcohol. Not a drop. None of those strange alcopop type drinks favoured by EDL leader Tommy Robinson. Not even a small dry sherry. Abstinence is the price they should pay to demonstrate their passion for freedom of expression and the rule of law. Oh, and they should agree to be breath tested in advance of the march. Not that I don't trust the boys you understand. But as I said, it's a sign of good faith.

If this seems too draconian, I have a second offer. Again, they can march. But it must be in fancy dress. A certain percentage of the EDL's followers must embark on their demo wearing nun's habits. A further percentage in those weird Emu like costumes Bernie Clifton wears to run the London marathon. And so on. Oh, and there's one final control order. Tommy Robinson himself must wear a tutu. Not just a tutu, obviously. That would make him look ridiculous. And slightly obscene. He can still wear his jeans and black puffer, or his EDL hoodie. Actually, wer'e banning hoodies these days aren't we, so that's probably out.

And there you have it. The EDL nuns and emus can march proudly through streets of East London, and the rest of us can take our sandwiches and watch. The kids would love it.

Or if that doesn't work, perhaps because they can't get enough habits and tutus in such a short space of time, I have a third suggestion.

Much has been made of the fact that other marches have been proscribed by the Home Secretary. That is indeed troubling. So I propose this.

Instead of banning the marches, we merge them. The EDL, Unite Against Fascism [UAF], and East End gay pride should march together. As one. Divided by ideology, yes. But united in their commitment to free political expression.

Of course, and you knew this was coming didn't you, there's one further catch. They must hold hands. Not in one long line of solidarity. That would be impractical; Brick Lane is very narrow. But two by two.

I'd love it if we could manage boy-girl, boy-girl, but I'm not sure the EDL have enough female members. So it would have to be by group. EDL member/gay pride member, UAF supporter/EDL member, etc.

To add another nice twist, they should intersperse their chants. Though I find the regular protest chats of all three groups a bit dull. So we should spice it up a bit. The UAF should sing some rousing patriotic anthems. Land of Hope and Glory. Jerusalem of course. The odd rendition of "Five one, even Heskey scored". Meanwhile, the EDL could try a few show tunes. "I am what I am", "I'm gonn'a wash that man right out of my hair", "Gee, Officer Krupke". And Pride could have a go at some of the hits from the most recent Love Music Hate Racism gig; a bit of Captain Dale, Petrichor and Shredded Lives.

Pragmatism. Magnanimity. Understanding.

You know what, it's actually quite fun. Anyone got Tommy Robinson's phone number?

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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism