On Racists Abroad
I’m in Bangkok , on the Khao San road, a legendary backpacker and traveller spot. I sit down at an empty table because I can see the Champions League game on the television. A man comes and joins me. We clink glasses, we talk about Bangkok. We talk about our different nationalities. I speak to him about the assassination of the former Swedish Prime Minister Olof Palme. We talk about England. He tells me that he likes my country. He speaks English, he loves English football. Fish and chips! He tells me that we do need to get a grip on our immigration problem. He is black. He tells me this means that he knows what he’s talking about. I move on. I head to Rambuttri Street, parallel to the Khao San road. More quiet, less manic. I take a seat and order a large Leo beer with a metal bucket of ice. They drink ice with their beer here, because the beer goes warm faster than the beer goes watery. It’s a race against time. Two men are sitting at the next table over. A bald Swedish man in a ...
