Those words must mean something different in Manchester…
On the third night of the riots, I was in my little office when I thought, hang on a minute, there’s a bit of an ugly crowd gathering outside. I went outside to say “What’s going on?” and realised, oh, it’s my neighbours. They were forming a posse. One was going, “I’ve got a shovel.” Another was going, “I’ve got an axe.”
‘Someone said we’d need a car as a roadblock and I said I didn’t mind sacrificing my Fiat. (…)
[I]f a load of them had advanced down our street with petrol bombs intent on arson, I would go out with my slightly fey neighbours and beat them to death with garden tools. Because you have no choice when it gets to that point, so…
I can’t remember what your question was…’
RELATED: come back, Luftwaffe — all is forgiven…
RELATED: Oh, never mind — God’ll do it… (or: “The moving finger writes, and having written, hands the summons to the guy who owns the restaurant…”)
