Some weeks ago I intervened in a racist assault. Passing a bus stop on Kennington Road on a Sunday morning, my wife Ann and I noticed a burly white man, in his fifties like me, bearing down on a frail, older black man, taunting him and grabbing at the orthopedic crutch he was using.
I got between them while Ann called the police. The white man, possibly drunk, bumped chests with me, waved his finger in my face and repeatedly tried to edge round me to get at his victim. He kept up a stream of garbled invective as we jostled. This “wasn’t about black and white” but Britain was “full”. Didn’t I understand that or was I “backward”?
