Springtime For Britain

You nervously call your mother in law’s racism,

casual,

because she teaches at the local primary,

volunteers at the scouts,

with your aunt,

who still says half caste,

no matter how many times you slap her hand,

like she is a naughty dog,

who did a piss in the kitchen.

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To you,

they are casual,

80’s comedy characters,

political correctness gone sane,

safe,

“oh what are you like” type of racism,

thinks black hair is beautiful,

but crosses the street when she sees a black man type of racism,

just saying what everybody thinks type of racism,

just wanting Britain to be British type of racism,

casual,

cuddly,

“can’t tell her off because she’s from a different time” racism,

you tell yourself that it’s not really racism.

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Of course,

we know that racism is only real,

when a sentence does not begin with,

“I’m not racist, but…”

We know that racism is only real,

when it is found in rallies,

with a fascist front man,

as charismatic as he is cringeworthy,

but somehow adored,

for just saying what everyone thinks,

saying it how it really is,

says he wants Britain to be British again,

but he’s surrounded by thugs,

that’s the difference,

that’s absolutely what makes all the difference,

red on his banners to tell you where he comes from,

red on the floor to tell us where he intends to send us.

Also,

there is milkshake,

that’s another dead giveaway that you are in the depths,

of very real racism.

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You can see it,

after a while,

condemning him,

in a series of tweets,

as if he is nothing to do with you,

but you can’t see how he has possessed your aunt,

your mother in law,

even yourself,

as you click retweet on a Katie Hopkins video,

after asking your tired, token minority friend,

if it’s okay,

knowing you will ignore whatever she has to say,

assuring yourself that you normally wouldn’t,

but you say,

“today,

Katie Hopkins has a point,

because,

fuck Shamima Begum”,

and you say,

very loudly,

to anyone who will listen,

that they know you,

and they know you’re not racist,

but just this once,

it’s okay for you to give your voice,

to the never ending echoes of her monetised hatred.

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I’m always astounded,

by how quickly we forget,

that the war against progress,

was not only fought by armies,

or thugs at rallies,

but by the people who invited hatred into their homes,

sitting down with it,

as it oozes onto their once clean carpets,

slurping tea with a hurried whisper of

“maybe he’s just saying what everybody thinks…”,

before you know it,

you,

and your family,

sit huddled around hatred,

chanting like a cult,

that “you’re not racist, but…”

cozying up,

nice and casual,

getting comfortable,

with casual racism,

as if it being casual makes you better than Hitler, Franco and Farage.

img_2980

I may be a half caste,

but I am twice the mind you are,

because I never deluded myself,

into thinking there is an acceptable,

cuddly,

cozy,

casual type of racism.


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