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?

A pro-union march in 2014. Photo: Getty
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The legacy of sectarianism is still poisoning the air of Scotland

Ruth Davidson has reinstated two Stirling councillors who posted anti-Catholic and racist messages on social media. That this kind of cretinous guff still goes on in my hometown in 2017 raises my hackles.

Kenny Dalglish was a bluenose: as a boy in the mid-60s, he and his father would make the short journey to Ibrox to cheer on Rangers, then Scotland’s most successful team. With the football allegiance came a cultural one, too. Or, probably, the other way round.

Wee Kenny could play a bit, obviously, and dreamed that his beloved Gers would sign him up. But, as Richard T Kelly writes in Keegan and Dalglish, his enjoyable new double biography of the two footballing greats, "Rangers had a certain preference for big lads, or else lads with an obvious turn of pace; and Dalglish, despite his promise, had neither of those easy attributes."

Rangers’ loss was Celtic’s gain, but it took some effort. The former, writes Kelly, "was the club of the Queen, the Union, Scotland’s Protestant majority… founded by Freemasons and members of the Orange Order, strongly tied to the shipyards of Govan. Glasgow Celtic was the team of Irish Catholic patriots, revolutionary Fenians and Home Rulers, begun as a charitable organisation… a means to bolster the faith and keep the flock out of the clutches of Protestant soup kitchens. It was going to be a serious step across a threshold for Dalglish to accept the overtures of Celtic."

In the end, Jock Stein dispatched his number two, the unhelpfully named Sean Fallon, to meet the young starlet’s family. "Fallon entered a domestic environment he felt to be 'a bit tense' -  a Rangers house, a lion’s den, if you will. Fallon even picked up the sense that Bill [Dalglish’s father] might rather his son pursue [an] apprenticeship in joinery."

The deal was done ("My dream was to become a professional footballer – the location was just a detail," Dalglish would later say) and the most gifted player Scotland has ever produced went on to make his reputation kitted out in green and white stripes rather than royal blue -  a quirk of those difficult times for which those of us classed as Fenian bastards rather than Orange bastards will be forever grateful.

Growing up in west and central Scotland, it was hard to avoid being designated as one type of bastard or the other, even if you supported a team outwith the Old Firm or had no interest in football at all. Thanks to 19th century immigration, the terrible religio-political divide of Ulster was the dominant cultural force even in Stirling, the town around 25 miles from Glasgow where I grew up and where I now live again. If you went to the Catholic school, as I did, you were a Fenian; if you went to the Proddy (officially, non-demominational) school, you were a Hun. You mostly hung around with your own, and youthful animosity and occasional violence was largely directed across the religious barricades. We knew the IRA slogans and the words to the Irish rebel songs; they had the UVF and the Red Hand of Ulster. We went to the Cubs, they went to the Boys’ Brigade. We got used to the Orange Walks delivering an extra-loud thump on the drums as they passed the chapel inside which we were performing our obligatory Sunday observance.

At the time – around the early and mid 80s – such pursuit of identity might not have been much more than a juvenile game, but it was part of something more serious. It was still the case that Catholics were unemployable in significant Scottish industries – "which school did you got to, son?" was the killer interview question if your answer began with "Saint". This included the media: in the late 90s, when I joined the Daily Record – the "Daily Ranger" to Celtic fans (its Sunday sister, the Sunday Mail, was known to Rangers fans as the "Sunday Liam") – vestiges of this prejudice, and the anecdotes that proved it, were still in the air.

The climate is undoubtedly better now. Secularisation has played its part - my own daughters attend non-denominational schools – even if, as the sportswriter Simon Kuper has observed, many are "not about to give up their ancient traditions just because they no longer believe in God". The peace process in Northern Ireland and important gestures such as the late public friendship between Ian Paisley Sr and Martin McGuinness have made a difference. And I suppose the collapse of Rangers as a footballing force, amid financial corruption that saw them dumped into the bottom tier of Scottish football, helped.

But the sensitivity remains. The 2014 Scottish independence referendum broke down in part across tribal lines, with many Celtic supporters, once Labour, now SNP, loudly backing a Yes vote, while Rangers fans were on the No side. The prospect of Brexit creating a significant border between the north and south of Ireland, which could inflame recently and shallowly buried tensions, makes one shudder. And even locally, the old enmities continue to raise their grubby heads. Ruth Davidson, leader of the Scottish Tories, is currently taking flak for allowing the reinstatement of two Stirling councillors who had posted anti-Catholic and racist messages on social media prior to their election. The pair have apologised and agreed to take part in diversity training, but I confess that this kind of cretinous guff still goes on in my hometown in 2017 raises my hackles. The rawness remains.

That this is so was brought to me a few years ago when I filed a column containing the word ‘sectarianism’ to a Scottish newspaper. Though the context had nothing to do with Catholic/Protestant or Celtic/Rangers, the editor asked me to remove it. "It’ll be deliberately misunderstood by one side or the other, and probably both," he said. "It’s not worth the hassle. In Scotland I’m afraid it never is."

Chris Deerin is the New Statesman's contributing editor (Scotland).