11 o'clock at night in a boarded-up Dalston. People were marauding, loud, setting fire to anything that would combust, kicking in windows, police vehicles screaming, cops trying in vain to calm everything down, foul insults were hurled from both sides. It was, in equal parts, terrifying, hilarious, bewildering, sad and vile.
Then, suddenly and quietly, the Turkish gentlemen gathered and stretched across the street in a taut line armed with nothing more than sticks, bats, ill-fitting suit jackets, football shirts and an ancient warrior spirit. They then dissipated the hoodie/looter/anarchist-wanker faction with such nerve and power, it was breathtaking. They waited on Kingsland High Street and roared like animals as they charged towards the unruly throng putting the fear of Allah into all and sundry. The yobs soon fled to another part of London to raid more O2 shops, off licences, TV stores and Foot Lockers because "laak, dem police don' respec' our gangs, blud, yeah? Alweeys laak hasslin' our gangs, nat meen? So, laak, we deserve a flat screen, Blockberree and some treeners, innit"
As they quickly found out, you can't mess with a nation responsible for the Ottoman Empire and this simple failure to understand a fierce pride shows the lowly ignorance of the idiots. The cops stood back and let the Turks do their thing and afterwards, as our heroes returned, smiled in respect. All was safe again.
©2011 Paul Davis
