Saturday, February 13, 1982
I went into Easterby and as I waited for a bus at Moxthorpe I got talking to a fashionably dressed bloke in his late '30s. He admitted he was a racist and kept talking about “fucking immigrants,” how there are “three million blacks in Britain” and how “they're stealing our jobs and creating slums.” He infuriated me but I felt trapped, almost scared to disagree, and when I did eventually object he said, “don’t talk out of your fucking arse! I made it, so can you. . . .” I quite disliked him. There are so many racist, bigoted people around with narrow, reactionary views who think like him that it makes me sick and pessimistic, even more so when I fail to condemn them and justify my own positions.
I wandered around Easterby full of rage and paranoia – loads of posers about. I met Peter and bought an el cheapo two-tone shirt.
Got home feeling depressed, angry at myself really. In the next few days I could spend loads - £9 for the Jazz, £2 for Pigbag, £3 for Ravi Shankar . . . . . . . Money.
Nanna P. has been here since yesterday. She goes on forever and is a fixture with her incessant talk.