Summer of Savile – Day 8: Race Relations

A friend of mine was winning a few elusive pounds in his spare time by manufacturing ladies’ brooches out of plaster of paris. It took thirty minutes of industrial espionage to win his secrets and with the help of several sticks of plasticine and a borrowed brooch depicting a negroid head, hey presto, we were off!

“Racist, me? I’ve never been so insulted! Some of me best friends are negroids, as it ‘appens.”

To be fair, it was the seventies. It was a different time back then. We all remember the Confessions of A Zulu series, where a cocoa powder-covered Robin Askwith with a plastic bone through his nose would roll around on a bed with some topless, frumpy housewives before boiling them in a big pot and riding off on the back of a pantomime lion.

“‘ ‘Ere, what am I s’pposed to do with that, clean the chimney with it??”

Up the stairs marched four hoodlums. The leader produced a gun and said, ‘Right, where’s the wog bastard?’ Who the wog gentlemen was I shall never know, but I trust he is enjoying better health than I was at that moment. There was a momentary stalemate for this dramatic confrontation as both I and the petrified bouncer were decidedly Caucasian and certainly not wogs.

*sound of a car screeching away*

~ by Stuart on July 7, 2009.

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