So. John Tyndall is dead. Founder of the British National Party. I met this horrible man once. No, twice.
I was at the Battersea Beer Festival one year (about 1988/89) and got talking to a middle-aged Asian guy. We got on quite well, had a bit of a laugh. He was really quite pissed, and I probably wasn’t far behind him. I must have been spouting off about race relations because he suddenly started laughing and said “Come and meet my friends. You’ll be surprised!”
We went and sat down at a table, and who would be there but John Tyndall and Martin Webster, plus various other old NF/BNP luminaries. Martin Webster is a famous name that will mean something to people of my generation, if not the younger guys. He was the NF leader in the 70s, and was absolutely notorious as an uncompromising fascist.
I wasn’t sure whether to be amazed or disgusted or what. I was flabbergasted as these blokes started joshing with “Ali” – they all seemed to be the best of buddies. Ali told me that they were all gay, and asked me if I wanted to join them for a nightcap at Webster’s flat nearby. I declined.
A week or two later, I walked into my local Battersea pub and saw Webster sitting on his own. I couldn’t resist. Despite my Anti-Nazi League 70s credentials, when Webster was the hate figure of all hate figures, I couldn’t resist the chance to talk to him when he was sober. He remembered me from the beer festival. We talked for about an hour. He was some sort of printer, and told me that he spent his days bellowing out Wagner while he worked. He also warned me against my plan to go to Yorkshire to do an MSc, on the basis that “Huddersfield and Halifax and Bradford are all now ruined by the arrival of those disgusting Asian people”.
I never let on that I knew of his NF past, but I did make it clear to him that we had quite different perspectives, something he seemed to enjoy. The conversation was lively enough, but I was impressed that he never allowed it to become truly abusive. He was obviously a veteran of these exchanges.
Our meeting ended when John Tyndall arrived. They asked me if I wanted to come with them to some club in Clapham. I said no. Tyndall tried to hug and kiss me. I made my excuses and left.
Running has been out the window recently. Two good runs in Dusseldorf a couple of weeks ago, but nothing since.
I blame my wife. She’s been away from home for the last week, and I’ve behaved in a rather pitiable way. I’m like a kid who’s been left on his own. Why cook when I can eat ready meals and fast food and greasy snacks? Why go running when I can go for a wander up the road to a couple of pubs instead?
The grisly details must be withheld. Let’s stick with the facts: no runs in 12 days; 5 pounds heavier.
She’s away again next week. This time, things will be different though, won’t they?
