Crouch End Broadway

From Krill

Bearing in mind my newfound popularity, I half-expected to be welcomed home by a handful of neighbours, but to my acute embarrassment, my limousine was mobbed by cheering strangers as we drove down Crouch End Broadway. Young, old, men, women, children, Yoppies, policemen and a smattering of HurricaneForce militia lined the narrow street by the clocktower waving black and white pennants, chanting, Bravo Tucker, Viva Clark Kent.

Although touching, the show of gung-ho triumphalism deflated rather than buoyed my spirits. Even here – in the heart of London’s most civilised and cultured suburb – evidence of The Night of Righteous Broken Glass was everywhere. Paddy Powers betting shop and The Dublin Castle – once my favourite public house – had been reduced to piles of smouldering rubble, just two of dozens of examples of the fanatical extremism that had torn this hitherto close-knit community asunder. Even in Millionaire’s Row – my quiet residential cul-de-sac – shamrocks had been daubed on occasional doors to mark out Irish occupants as fodder for the mob.

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