I entered this in a short story competition for GQ magazine a couple of months ago. It’s not safe for work, or suitable for people who get offended by certain words, regardless of the context in which they are used. If you are of that sort of disposition, I’ll respect you for declining to read it, but don’t complain to me if you decide to do so, regardless.
The phrases I used in it weren’t intended to be shocking for the sake of being shocking; rather, the goal of the story is to take you on an emotional and moral trip. The point I was trying to make was about liberal and conservative views; how people tend to be liberal about the things they empathise with, and more Right Wing about the things that are alien to them. It’s a story about hypocrisy, and not about the persons or acts contained therein. The views held by the narrator and the characters are not my own views; that’s how fiction works. Enjoy! (sort of).
An Englishman’s Home (copyright me)
His street was full of niggers. He’d come to expect it now, of course; he couldn’t remember Hackney before they were there. Wasn’t even sure if that Hackney had existed. They were here to stay now, though. Always loud, like animals. They were animals; closer to apes than white people- his teachers at school had said as much.
Today, they were harder to abide: no money in his pocket, and such a thirst. Tomorrow he’d be better; he might even smile at the black cunts on his way to the boozer. You never saw them in there; pubs weren’t their thing. They preferred spliff; or if they did drink, it was in the street. Them outside the takeaway near his house were always boozing. They’d nod as he went past; all polite. But he knew what they were thinking. You couldn’t relax around them. He had three locks on his front door; two on the back.
This city was going to shit, and it wasn’t just the darkies. Eastern Europeans, now: coming over illegally; working for nothing. At least they worked, he supposed. But they were still taking English jobs. You were right, Enoch: rivers of blood.
He had been to Mum’s, in Homerton. Wasn’t long for the planet, the old girl. Looking around the pit the council had stuck her in, he’d wondered if there’d be anything for him when she went. He had two sisters: cunts, both of them. They’d be in like vultures, before the dirt dried on her grave. He’d nursed his tea without saying much; the stench of old piss singeing the hair in his nostrils.
The English got the worst deal, especially the old codgers. All the decent flats went to Poles and Lithuanians now. All that was left were these glorified shacks . Decent people like Mum and him were always the last in the queue. That was New Labour for you, though. It was the Tories now; even worse. He’d been laid off seven years ago. They’d said some bollocks like ‘gross misconduct’, but anyone with half a brain could see that he’d been pushed out; probably for some Pole who’d do it for half the money.
He was on the seventh floor; council said that he wasn’t entitled to a ground floor flat. They hadn’t given any real reason, but he knew there were darkies and pakkis living down there, so no need to ask. He passed one in the hallway; hood up, earphones too loud. Urban music, they called it. ‘Urban’ meant ‘nigger’ these days.
If it wasn’t blacks, it was the queers. Gays and lezzers practically ruled London now, and the rest of the country. You couldn’t turn on the TV without seeing some duckie presenting a programme about clothes, or two dykes going at it. People died in two world wars so this country could be free, and now they were just handing it over to niggers, poofs and pakkis. People wouldn’t vote BNP, though; the liberals in the media went out of their way to stop that happening. They’d taken Barking for a bit, but that was over now. People like him were losing the battle.
He went inside; the fridge had a can of Export, and some leftover Spag Bol. It was the only thing he could cook; Sheila had shown him how, in that first year. He took the lager and settled on the broken couch. On the floor, his laptop’s fan screamed from the strain of downloading all night, with no break. He tilted the screen to stop the shine, and his cock twitched a little when he read the filenames. Nearly ready, most of them. He remembered dial-up: you used to wait hours, just to get a few pictures; now, you could download a whole video. He had unlimited broadband; that pakki from Sky had done him a good deal.
The TV was on, soundless. He could see Jeremy Kyle mouthing off to some scum; every show was the same. Never saw blacks on it, though. Them that ran ITV didn’t think it would be politically correct to show a nigger on Jobseeker’s, or walking out on his kids. That’s what TV did; they tried to tell you what to think. Bernard Manning or Chubby Brown were too strong for telly, but it was all right to show poofs rimming each other on Channel 4. You couldn’t show the Union Jack, or George’s cross, but it you had pakkis celebrating Diwali on Eastenders. Decent people like himself just didn’t have a voice anymore.
He right-clicked the finished files, removing them from the sharing pool. The one he wanted was 99% done. He took a last drag on the Richmond Superking, and crushed it into an the empty foil dish from last night’s Chinky. He felt himself get harder; anticipation rose in his chest.
Mum had been talking about Sheila again. He’d forgotten her; why couldn’t she? She’d never shown an interest when they were married. Stupid old cow. He loved her, though. He’d miss her.
The video started. He undid his buttons, and spat into his other hand- rubbing some on the head, then down the shaft. The girl on the screen was his type all right: golden hair, tight arse, puffy nipples. She took the uncircumcised penis of her faceless lover in hand, smiling a little. She’d done this before, he could tell. His voice off camera spoke foreign words, directing her. She kissed the tip, then ran her tongue slowly over the helmet. Soft blonde ringlets fell over her face as she took him into her little mouth; her eyes closing, as his hand gripped her hair a little too hard. She fucking loved it; the slut. She couldn’t have been older than five.
He didn’t last any longer; warm, fatty spurts dribbled into the creases of his hair-covered gut. He sat up to take a drink; the beer went down the wrong way, so he coughed until he was okay again.