Guest post by Colin Revolting
My Mum knew Blair Peach as a ‘nice gently spoken man’ as they were both in the National Union of Teachers Rank and File group. She told me Blair taught ESN (“Educationally Sub-Normal”) kids and that National Front members had pulled him off his bike whilst cycling to and from the school in East London.
Me and mates had spent Sunday in Leicester. Thousands of us took over the city centre and rained rocks down on the master race when the cops stupidly paraded them past a building site. (“I got hit by a rock against racism,” moaned a copper when he caught us fly-posting for RAR).
The next night in a little place called Southall sounded like it’d be a quiet affair in comparison to our riot in Leicester, so I spent the evening printing pages for our punk rock fanzine instead. But my best mate, Neal and my big brother, Stuart made the journey across London by Ford Cortina.
They felt like they’d entered an occupied city, with police vans patrolling as Asians and Anti-Nazi’s filled the streets with tension and anticipation. Neal and Stuart got out just as the police’s Special Patrol Group went wild.
“They killed one of us,” she said.
Going on anti fascist marches and protests were always exhilarating and terrifying, adrenalin-fuelled affairs – but from that day on they felt different again … It wasn’t a game.