hold his eyes on it. His head turned away and he thought of the old dear just had he’d tea with. Was it really their fault? Did they deserve it? tried to avoid seeing He’d what had been happening, but the estate whispers were too loud for him to ignore. Everyone knew that the suicide bombers had been British born Islamists and the guided retribution had been harsh. Alongside the verbal and physical abuse, there had been more heads on doorsteps, alcohol through letter boxes. symbolic assaults. Pigs’ The people in block got so much stick, but they blown up the twin Ghalia’s hadn’t towers, had they? And the talking heads on telly were no better. In one sentence say all equal, slag off the BFP and demand that we must respect they’d we’re culture and religion. Then in the next breath, go on about how everyone’s they’d headscarves should be banned and we should stop letting anyone with a different opinion in the country. No wonder the Muslim fuckers got it bad. It seemed to Dean that everyone from top to bottom knew these Muslims were incompatible with British values. Forcing their women to hide, not learning English, wanting their own schools, fighting for sharia law, which, according to the BFP, was where they cut hands off for stealing and tongues out for lying and stoned women to death for having sex with their boyfriends. They like us and everyone knew it. weren’t The short blotchy BFP man in a suit returned with his stalwart companion, who led new recruits in dropping marketing leaflets through the doors of the white estate residents. Their told you tagline was reiterated across the twin estates, ‘I so’ becoming an almost daily occurrence after the terrorist attacks. Dean kept a wide berth, mainly because he want to see Phil, who now accompanied party leader, didn’t Len Coombes, everywhere he campaigned. The gang from Addington had moved on from dealing drugs after Dan Jenkins had been jailed for possession of a firearm and Matthew Cobb had overdosed. Nowadays, Phil wore suits and curbed his language.
hold his eyes on it. His head turned away and he thought of the old dear he’d just had tea with. Was it really their fault? Did they deserve it? He’d tried to avoid seeing what had been happening, but the estate whispers were too loud for him to ignore. Everyone knew that the suicide bombers had been British born Islamists and the guided retribution had been harsh. Alongside the verbal and physical abuse, there had been more symbolic assaults. Pigs’ heads on doorsteps, alcohol through letter boxes. The people in Ghalia’s block got so much stick, but they hadn’t blown up the twin towers, had they? And the talking heads on telly were no better. In one sentence they’d say we’re all equal, slag off the BFP and demand that we must respect everyone’s culture and religion. Then in the next breath, they’d go on about how headscarves should be banned and we should stop letting anyone with a different opinion in the country. No wonder the Muslim fuckers got it bad. It seemed to Dean that everyone from top to bottom knew these Muslims were incompatible with British values. Forcing their women to hide, not learning English, wanting their own schools, fighting for sharia law, which, according to the BFP, was where they cut hands off for stealing and tongues out for lying and stoned women to death for having sex with their boyfriends. They weren’t like us and everyone knew it. The short blotchy BFP man in a suit returned with his stalwart companion, who led new recruits in dropping marketing leaflets through the doors of the white estate residents. Their ‘I told you so’ tagline was reiterated across the twin estates, becoming an almost daily occurrence after the terrorist attacks. Dean kept a wide berth, mainly because he didn’t want to see Phil, who now accompanied party leader, Len Coombes, everywhere he campaigned. The gang from Addington had moved on from dealing drugs after Dan Jenkins had been jailed for possession of a firearm and Matthew Cobb had overdosed. Nowadays, Phil wore suits and curbed his language.