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Blogs: The Racist down my road

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      CommentAuthormoali
    • CommentTimeFeb 1st 2008
     (798.1)
    At number 94 there's an ex-boxer in his fifties.

    He wears a denim jacket and flannel shirt.
    His barrel chest has aquiesced to age and his stomach has become a weight-watcher's nightmare.
    His hairstyle is a sort-of cross between Tommy-rocker and late Elvis impersonator.

    He's also a racist.

    Usually it's just dirty looks and something muttered under his breath, but other times I can make out the words 'fucking' and 'paki' and he spits whenever I walk past or he cycles by, breathing heavily, face redder than a baboon's backside.

    I've considered saying something.
    But what do I say? Do I shout, swear, chastise, mock, pity?

    If he hasn't learnt anything in his fifty-odd years on this planet what words can I throw at the fool?

    What difference will it make?

    In the end, I just shrug and walk by.

    I feel nothing.

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