‘Na-zi scum!’ Na-zi scum!’ ‘Na-zi scum!’ Who? Me? How come? I’m on my way to a genteel picnic in St James’s Park and appear to have strayed into the path of a virtue-signalling tsunami. A wall of raggedy demonstrators clutching anti-fascist banners inch their way towards me, faces contorted with self-righteous fury. ‘Move to the side NOW’ a truncheon-wielding cop leaps to my rescue, manhandling me to the safety of a tourist-laden Whitehall pavement. ‘What’s going on?’ I ask, as a pot of humus spills from my Sainsbury’s bag. ‘Freedom of speech rally,’ he replies, handing me the broken tub of dip. ‘The anti-fascists aren’t happy about it.’ ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Dunno mate, I just want to go home.’
At the other end of Whitehall behind a more sedate line of weary-looking cops, I find a well-behaved, mainly middle-aged crowd quietly waving union jacks.
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