Posted on May 21, 2022

London Calling

Mark Gullick, American Renaissance, May 21, 2022

This is part of our continuing series of accounts by readers of how they shed the illusions of liberalism and became race realists.

I was born in north London, England, in 1961, although my family relocated to the suburbs when I was still a very young boy. Back then, a black face was a rare sight outside the Soho jazz clubs, and the suburbs were exclusively white. In my primary school there were 120 children, all white. My grammar school had 800 schoolboys, again none of whom were black, the most exotic students being a New Zealander, an Australian, and a Yugoslav.

But in due time, non-whites reached the suburbs, almost exclusively working for the National Health Service (NHS), mostly as nurses. As a teenager I played cricket for a team at the local hospital for the mentally handicapped, (I was allowed to join because my mother worked there.) The team was very multiracial, and I was one of just two white faces along with the Kiwi wicket-keeper. There was no malice either way – although plenty of good-humored badinage – and I remember enjoying the more loose-limbed, happy-go-lucky, casual attitude of the non-whites, who were mostly from south Asia, the West Indies, and Africa. They grinned more than whites, and seemed to have a sense of fun and ease I had not seen in white suburbanites. It would only be when I moved back into inner London that my attitude to non-whites, specifically Anglo-Caribbeans, began to change.

But that was in the mid-1980s, after my first stint at university. In 1981, my alma mater was almost completely white, with the exception of a specific school which was exclusively for non-white, mostly Commonwealth students on scholarships. Dressed as we were in our post-punk boots and jeans, we would occasionally see tall Namibians walking across campus in glorious and colorful national garb.

I went back to London for my Ph.D. program and moved into the Brixton enclave, a notoriously black area. I can honestly say that this made no difference to me, because I had yet to have the experiences which would open my eyes to the reality of living among inner-city blacks. All my degrees are in philosophy, and I began fully to appreciate exactly what empiricism means. Brixton was not just black but, as I soon learned, anti-white. By then, I was managing a restaurant bar in Covent Garden. I quickly became aware of the malevolent looks and teeth-sucking from young black men I passed. It got worse.

A particularly eye-opening experience from that time of my life came when I went to a black-run barber. I walked into malevolent and hostile stares and, when it came to my turn, I asked for a shave. I got the most memorable shave of my life. The barber shaved me dry.

I have seen it done in an old Hollywood movie, and I can tell you it hurts. But because I could tell that the clientele as well as the barber expected me to walk straight out with my tail between my legs, I did no such thing. I remember seeing the wide-eyed black faces in the mirror watching the white boy take it. When it was over, I paid the man and even tipped him, but I never went back.

I stayed in Brixton for four years before returning to my hometown in 1992. There were plenty of low-level incidents of racial animosity, and I learned which pubs were white and which were no-go zones if you were. I avoided taking the side roads home from the subway after dark. Despite all this, there was still to be one more major incident.

In the large estate of apartments in which I lived, I was almost the only white man, and I often heard mutterings that I was a policeman. A few doors down was a black who owned a dog. Not many English blacks like dogs unless they are weaponized and can be used as a symbol of threat and aggression, and then they were either pit-bull Terriers or Rottweilers, and this one was the latter. The dog would spend most of the day jumping up maniacally to look over the brick wall and would stop only when exhausted. I saw it many times lying in the sun, panting with its tongue stuck to the concrete, no bowl of water laid out for it despite its owner sitting a couple of yards away in his kitchen smoking endless and pungent cannabis. I once called the British pet-rescue organization the RSPCA (Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals) to report this blatant mistreatment. They have the legal power to intervene and remove animals from cruel or negligent owners, but when I told them where I lived, they told me they couldn’t do anything.

This powerful dog would always bark frantically at me or any other passerby on the way to the staircase. There was an elevator, but it was a mechanical urinal and to get in as a white man was to show a death wish. One day, in a particularly foul mood, I told the dog to “f*** off.” On my return from the shops, the was loose and its owner was waiting for me. He set the dog on me. All I could do as it sprung at me was fend it off with my arm, which it bit into with its powerful jaws before the owner called it off, warning me to not even think about reporting the attack to the police. I remember the dog’s teeth scraping against the bone in my forearm. I still have a scar and, whenever I hear or read the word ‘racism’ – on a daily if not hourly basis now – I look ruefully at the strip of white flesh.

Since then, even my hometown has become part of the urban black sprawl. Two decades earlier, a nearby town was such a byword for suburban blandness that it featured as such in a Monty Python sketch. At the turn of the century, I saw a CPSO (Community Police Support Officer) surrounded by a group of black schoolchildren jeering and spitting at him. It reduced him to tears. The children were girls. My mother told me several drivers on the local bus routes that took the black kids home had taken extended sick leave. I moved back into London, taking a job which enabled me to live in areas in which many blacks either had decent jobs and so behaved themselves, or simply could not afford to be there except on “awayday” crime sprees. The rest of London, in the meantime, has become increasingly ghettoized.

Six years ago I relocated to Costa Rica, partly because I could see what was happening to my country. The last time I was in south London I was alarmed at how blacks controlled the streets. A white man there now has to be very careful not to catch the eye of passing blacks, no matter how much they want this to happen. Now, knife crime – almost exclusively black-on-black – in the capital is at an all-time high and increasing monthly. The Mayor of London, Sadiq Khan, is a Muslim and has absolutely no interest in re-introducing “stop and search,” the eminently sensible anti-crime procedure now deemed racist, and there is a reason for that. Anyone who lives in London and is honest knows that blacks and Muslims don’t exactly get on, despite the fact that young Mohammedans ape the speech patterns and “style” of their Anglo-Caribbean contemporaries. Most fatal stabbing victims are black, and for Mr. Khan the only good black is a convert to Islam. As for prison, an ex-convict once told me that blacks ran the prison he was in.

The police have been neutered in Britain just as they have been in America, but using a different method. Whereas the morale of the US police forces has been sapped by a combination of post-Floyd, Black Lives Matter hysteria and the resultant calls for defunding, the British police have been made to jump through woke hoops. You are more likely to see the police in London at a gay pride march than attending to your burgled apartment. They are told to police tweets rather than streets.

Here in Costa Rica there are, of course, some blacks, the Caribbean being on the opposite coast to my Pacific town. But there is none of the arrogant swagger, the trousers worn at half-mast, the gold teeth and the aggression and lawlessness. The USA has, I believe, a 13 percent black population, the UK a mere three percent. The trouble they cause, however, is entirely disproportionate. Britons are constantly told about the benefits of black culture, but it is hard to see what they are. Now, I have nothing against individual blacks. I just have no wish to live anywhere near them ever again.

If you have a story about how you became racially aware, we’d like to hear it. If it is well written and compelling, we will publish it. Use a pen name, stay under 1,200 words, and send it to us here.