'I'm not going to lie to you mate, some of the people here are drunken fooking hooligans,' said Jamie, a gravedigger from Leeds and regional administrator of the English Defence League. 'They don't even have a fooking clue why we're here.' Bagehot was having the same thought. Forsaking wife and offspring, he was spending his Saturday among several hundred EDL 'infidels', as they call themselves, outside the Queen pub in Bradford. It was rowdy. It was cold. It was hard, as droplets of lager and rainwater fell through a fug of cannabis smoke, to recall what the point of it was. 'Get the fook outta it!' Jamie snarled, shoulder-barging a pair of wrestling thugs who were endangering his pint glass. 'But that doesn't mean,' he continued, as a man wearing a pig mask pushed past, 'that the EDL isn't a serious street movement.'
展开▼
