Diversity!

I like diversity. I don't see why some people have a problem with it. 

There used to be a takeaway in Ashton run by an elderly man from Pakistan. I used to like going in there for a kebab or a bhuna. In the evenings, between customers, he would sit with his friend, who wore more traditional clothing, watching Pakistani TV. As I waited for my food I would lean over the counter to watch the TV too, trying to work out what was going on as I don't understand urdu. Occasionally one of the men would make a derogatory comment about one of the politicians in the news. 

One evening as I waited the friend became animated. He stood up to leave, turned to me  and said "why people tell me go home back where I come from? I serve 20 years in British army. My father served in British army. My grandfather and my great grandfather serve in British army. We risk our lives for this country and yet these people who do nothing say this is not my home". 

I don't know what prompted that outburst. Presumably he had encountered some racist abuse. 

One evening I was waiting for my meal when a white man of perhaps 40 came into the shop. He wore shorts and a T shirt, had a slight belly, short hair and a ruddy face. You could sum up his appearance with the word gammon, though he bore no flags. To my surprise he ducked under the counter and went into the kitchen where he was greeted fondly by the old man. After a while the young man left. The proprietor of the shop smiled as he handed me my meal and said proudly "my son in law".

Just to add to the diversity. for a long time the shop displayed a poster for a local Hindu guru.

Recently a disabled septuagenarian went out for lunch in Ashton with a much younger friend. The old lady's skin is white, her friend's skin is black. They went to an excellent cafe on Penny Meadow which is run by the daughter of Pakistani immigrants. You can get Asian food there or you can get English food, and the cakes are delicious. The full English breakfast is served with turkey rashers rather than bacon to ease dietary sensibilities. 

After they had eaten the two women made their way down to the marketplace, mostly fenced off for construction works. The older lady was limping and pushing the wheelchair that she sometimes needs to sit in. 

As they passed MacDonalds a man with two fighting dogs on leads started shouting at a Muslim family. The woman was wearing a hijab, which seems to rile some people. The shouting man clearly was under the illusion that the family had recently arrived by boat and had been given a house for free, whereas he was homeless. He kept shouting EDL, EDL, EDL. 

Most people were very British about it (don't get involved) and pretended nothing was happening. The old white lady (herself the great grandchild of economic migrants) had a good anti fascist upbringing from her mother and a Jewish headmaster. She knew not to turn a blind eye, so she took out her 'phone and started to video the incident. The Asian family left and the noisy man turned his attention to the two ladies. He wasn't so bothered by the white woman, but turned his venom on her young black friend. His prejudices told him that she too had arrived on a rubber dinghy and was a burden on the taxpayer. He kept shouting that there was going to be a civil war.

Terrified by the dogs the young woman ran into a shop, followed by her hobbling older friend. Two big Asian lads barred entry to the troublemaker and, being unable to carry on bullying, he went away. 

The young black woman works as a carer, looking after disabled people. She used to often take her clients out for a coffee in Ashton town centre. Now she says she is afraid to go there. 


I like Ashton. I wasn't born here. I'm a foreigner from Warwickshire. I choose to live here. In my daily activities I meet people of virtually all races and all religions. I like this. In all races and all religions there are lots of good people, and a few complete tossers. Sadly, it's often the tossers who get noticed.  Of all the white people on the market that day the most noticeable one was the nasty, loud, bullying dog man. Sometimes I ask people about their backgrounds. It's interesting. The other day I was serving an Iranian woman in the shop. If she was in Iran she would have to comply with a strict dress code. Here she can wear what she likes. She says she is lucky that people think she is Spanish (that doesn't have the stigma of refugee).

They say that if you don't learn from history you are doomed to repeat it. 

After the great war the population of defeated Germany felt humiliated. They thought they'd been cheated. In 1917 the Russians made peace and handed over huge areas of land. Early in 1918 German troops made a huge advance into France, only to be overrun later in the year. There were good military reasons for this, but to most people it was a puzzle. How could that happen? 

The victors of that war imposed crippling reparations payments. The currency collapsed. There was mass unemployment. It must be somebody's fault!

A charismatic orator came along. He wasn't too worried about what was true, only about what would stir people up to violence. He said he could make Germany great again. He said the people's troubles were all the fault of the Jews. They were parasites leaching on and betraying the good German people. He encouraged people to attack Jewish property. 

Hatred suddenly became socially acceptable.

Those who stood up for decency were pilloried. Most kept quiet. People quietly dropped their Jewish friends. The great leader's  party won an election. Killing Jews became government policy.

It didn't end well for the gentiles or the Jews!  Millions died and the great leader ended up killing himself in a bunker surrounded by Soviet troops.


You may think I'm exaggerating the dangers.

                                                                           I'm not. 


My Fascist Foot

My Fascist Foot

On St Georges day me and some friends went to a Ceilidh in an Irish Club. The music was supplied by the excellent Cutback Ceilidh Band. We all had an excellent time and I danced with great energy and enthusiasm. Next morning I woke up to find my left heel was hurting. Never mind I thought, it will soon go away.

Weeks later I was still suffering from a very sore heel, and just to add to my joy, the arthritis in my right big toe started up again. During some of the trip to Liverpool I was hobbling painfully as we worked through locks. I'm used to running about, bowhauling butties and generally putting in a lot of effort as we work a flight of locks, but instead I had to try to minimise the amount of walking that I did.

I rarely visit a doctor. I generally find that, however carefully I describe my symptoms, they just don't seem to get it. My resistance was eventually broken down by the fact that I was beginning to feel disabled by this ailment, and was beginning to doubt that there would be an end to it.

I had to wait nearly a week for an appointment. The receptionist explained that if I rang back the following day I could have a 48 hour appointment, but I knew that I would forget. The doctor that I eventually saw was a pleasant young woman in Muslim dress. She looked at my foot and pressed it until she found the sore spot. She offered me painkillers. I explained that I could cope with the pain, but I really needed to know what was wrong with it. I really don't like to take drugs unless I really have to. She said that painkillers would take down the inflammation, but offered no diagnosis. I mentioned that I took glucosamine with chondroitin to control the arthritis in the other foot. Who has prescribed these things she demanded. I explained that they were available in health food shops. She didn't seem happy about this, but said that it may be gout.

I had considered the possibility of gout, but thought it unlikely as I hardly drink and eat little red meat. However, I agreed to a test for gout, and the doctor seemed happy. I left with a prescription for painkillers, that I had no intention of collecting.

The tests showed that I do not have gout, but the pain did not go away and I was no further forward. Luckily my wonderful partner, Emuna, is very good at researching things online. She found some information on a condition called Plantar Fasciitis which exacly matched the symptoms that I was experiencing. It was all to do with a tendon in the bottom of your foot getting overstretched. There was some useful information on how you could manage the condition without recourse to the products of multinational drug companies. I have been following the online advice and it seems to be slowly getting better. I rather wish it had a different name though. I don't like having a fascist foot. In my experience fascists are normally a pain in another part of the anatomy.