13.09.2025
‘They could easily have killed you,’ Alfonso admonished me. ‘There were eight of them and one of you.’
‘Death before dishonour.’
Earlier on in the evening, I had gone to a singles meet up in Hyde Park. I had arrived and there was absolutely no one there at the meet up point. I had sat in the beauty of the pink skies in Hyde Park pondering on this as a metaphor for life in London. There is no connection. There is no hope of connection. Whatever you do is destined to fail. Other people do not exist. It looks like they are there. They are not. It is an illusion.
On the phone, as I walked back to the station, my friend speculated that maybe they had been scared of the Far Right riots.
Later on, when I walked out of my dinner at McDonald’s in Leicester Square, I got my own experience of the Far Right.
There was a fucking little cretin with a flag walking along with his dickhead friends. He took a look at me and pulled a face at me. He was trying to intimidate me because of my brown skin.
‘Fuck you’ I said aggressively to him.
Suddenly, from being the aggressor and feeling safe in his little crowd of fucking Nazi scum, this piece of shit was surprised. ‘What?’ he asked me lamely.
‘Fuck you you piece of shit’ I said loudly.
From being full of stupid insolence and cheap impudence, this little shitbag was suddenly full of fear. Because my body had gotten ready to fight. I gave him a look of absolute ferocity. They were not just words. But he had his piece of shit Nazi friends to try and impress, to try and give them the illusion that they weren’t little coward non-men united by hate with no balls.
He took a few steps towards me gingerly.
‘What the fuck you going to do about it you fucking dickhead?’ I bellowed at him.
Ridiculously, I heard someone say ‘You little sausage to me’. It didn’t surprise me that these uncivilised dicks couldn’t even speak properly. And suddenly, all of his friends were standing between me and him, protecting him from me. I think bystanders got up to get between us. Because they knew. They knew that I was The Tiger. They knew what was going to happen to that little bastard.
I walked off. I didn’t look back. I’m not scared of anyone.
Alfonso was still telling me off.
‘What are you, my mum?’ I asked him.
Alfonso took a moment to laugh. ‘You are wrong. You are throwing your life away.’
‘I was born to fight. I come from warrior culture. He was up in my face. I taught him a lesson. These little fucking cowards melt before a real man. They show their true colours. Nobody in this society can handle a real man.’
‘You are wrong,’ Alfonso said to me. ‘You are risking too much.’
‘All I regret is that I wasn’t able to teach him his lesson’ I said sourly. ‘I love to fight.’
To show face in an encounter is the badge of honour. I don’t get scared. I don’t back down. They back down. That piece of shit was trying to put fear into us. Fear into The Tiger? Impossible. There was no one to write this little account of war. There was no one to sing the legends. But do you know what? People in my culture prayed that they could become The Tiger. They prayed for the will, the composure and the ferocity. They prayed for just one chance to become The Tiger. But who actually was The Tiger? It was me. I was built to be a machine of war. They didn’t just call me Tiger. I called myself Tiger. I had my real name and my real identity. It hadn’t been taken from me.
And that’s why these little chickenshits were scared of me. Even if they walked around in a group of eight and I walked alone in the night. Because the sheep walk around in a fucking herd. And The Tiger? The Tiger hunts alone.
Wherever The Tiger puts his feet, that is his territory. The sheep don’t count. They don’t have a territory. This is my country. Not theirs.
diary of a lone man 