Matthew Collins - Hate: My Life in the British Far Right
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I began writing the first draft of this book on the second day of my honeymoon, 26 February 1996. It took considerably longer to finish than the marriage itself. They both got shelved sometime in 1998.
As is always the way, there are numerous people to thank and countless others that I cannot thank publicly, who should know that I am eternally grateful to them for their contributions, honesty and most of all their bravery.
Those who can be thanked publicly include Nick Lowles, who pretended to read the manuscript despite the constant distractions of football, sunshine and curry. Often we were joined by Titus Batty who chopped wood, drank red wine and complained. Without their constant encouragement and duplicity this book may well have never seen the light of day.
To Dan Hodges, to whom there would appear never to be a closed door, and who convinced the great Iain Dale that he really needed to publish a book with a lot of profanity. I should also mention David Greason, from whom I learnt so much and to whom I am still in awe. Many thanks to my very patient and liberal-minded editor Sam Carter.
Thanks must also go to those people in Melbourne who mothered, fathered and occasionally fed me during those years I lived there. In particular, but not only, Robyn and Noel, Ross and his girls, Leanne, Greg & Titty, Conn, Gavan, Warren, Chris A, Heathcliffe and his family, the Day family and those many others who I do not forget.
In television land I cannot go without mentioning Roger Childs and Jane D, who both put up with my smoking, temperamental bowels and quite occasional foul language. This was particularly tough on Jane D in her mission to get me to Oldham. And then there are Quentin McDermott and Andy Bell who put up with the same sort of stuff which eventually got me sent to Australia.
Thanks must go to those who inspire me: my brothers and their beautiful families, especially. For his music, eternal patience, friendship and access to his rider, there is, of course, only one Mr Billy Bragg (and family). To Gregg McDonald and Pete Dunwell who captured the whole journey.
For reading the manuscript and giving advice where needed (and where not), it would be remiss not to mention Vicky O, Nick Ryan, Dr G, Ruth S and Romeo. The wonderful staff and volunteers at Searchlight and Hope Not Hate, in particular the A team. Special thanks to Andy V and Daphne Liddle for hunting down long-lost pics.
For sound financial advice, curry and lager, Cormac H and Simon T were superb encouragement. So too was my father. As were, of course, Gerry and Sonia Gable.
But this book is for my mother. Its both a recollection and an apology.
Matthew Collins, London 2011
Billy Bragg
B ack in 2003, the BBC asked me whether Id come and meet this bloke whod flown in from Australia to talk about his time with the National Front, the BNP and Combat 18. The Beeb was making a documentary about him but I wasnt particularly keen to be honest. These were the sort of people engaged in the ongoing intimidation and harassment of people who bought my records and used my website as a fanbase and I wasnt in the mood to sit down with somebody who wanted patting on the head.
But after talking to the good people at Searchlight, curiosity got the better of me about his story and how hed changed sides from fascist to anti-fascist and passed valuable information on without his comrades knowing anything about it. I ended up in a caf in Shepherds Bush that specialised in Thai and traditional English cuisine, having breakfast with Matt Collins, talking about football , Englishness, page three girls and my music. He told me that hed previously shaken my hand in the toilets of Melbourne Town Hall.
So here finally, is his roller coaster ride. A brilliantly candid memoir of being a confused and isolated teenager witnessing the far rights terrifying acts of violence and depravity during the Thatcher years and later those of John Major, as they plotted their seemingly impossible dream of one day sitting in the council chambers of England and the European Parliament.
Matthews story is as emotive as it is horrifying and of course, always viciously witty, warm and poignant. But this book should sound a warning too; that we should not ignore the fascists or ever think theyll go away.
Since that fateful full English in Shepherds Bush, Ive had Matthew come on tour with me, speak on stage with me and even organise and promote benefit gigs for me. Weve stood shoulder to shoulder on numerous occasions in the face of those fascists, none more memorable I suppose than in Barking and Dagenham in 2010, where we came face to face with the BNPs council leader in the street and I ended up in heated discussion in front of the media with people who really would tell any lie and say and do anything to win over the hearts and minds of ordinary, disaffected working class people. We went on to help remove every single one of the BNPs twelve councillors and defeated Nick Griffins parliamentary ambitions during that same campaign.
Matthew Collins should be the first port of call for anyone serious about understanding how people so isolated, driven by fears they cannot understand or comprehend, can be so taken in by racism and fascism. Taking that other brave step, as he did, to then go and spy on them gives us also an edge of the seat thriller.
Hes pulled no punches. If he ever has a guest list, youll wanna be on it.
I ran up those stairs, breathless, my comrades behind and beside me. The saviours of our race and nation, skipping over the prostrate body lying bloodied before us. Onwards and upwards we charged towards our final destination. Watch out you reds, because here we are, heavy with tattoos and lager courage. The door was kicked open and in we fell, breathless with excitement, smelling blood in anticipation like the hound after the hare. Fists clenched, eyes wide open, weapons drawn and headlines about to be written.
It felt like going over the tops of far-flung trenches for race and nation as we charged into Welling Library. No guts, no glory; no pain, no gain. The little old ladies inside the library attempted to flee in terror but they had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. They were forced to cower together against the walls in united, agonised anticipation of their bloody beating. Their own chairs were raised in slow motion against them. This was going to be a bloodbath, a prophetic one for them too, as they were in the library to discuss their fears about having us in the neighbourhood. Their howls of terror were drowned under the brute noises of us grunting, Neanderthal Nazis, screaming and jeering as into the ladies we ploughed.
And down they went, trying to curl into defensive little balls, covering their tortured faces as we screamed BNP! BNP!, stamping in time, stamping on them, kicking their heads, stamping on their bodies, dragging them off the walls and into the middle of the room so that every one of our number could feed on them. The hammers were out and everything possible was smashed and destroyed. One person dived screaming through the window and into the street but nobody stopped for even a moment. This was our glorious victory, our chance to be heard, our chance to speak up for the poor old white working class, the warrior race of sturdy Anglo-Saxons. We were fighting back, this was our democratic right to be heard and these cowards, these little old ladies, had to learn that we were not going to take their lies about us being brainless, racist thugs any more.
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