Confessions of A Former Activist by Martin Bradford: The Sandwich Incident

Martin Bradford shares his amusing stories from when he was a nationalist activist.

It was some day, at some time between 2014 and 2016. An org I was a part of that was part socialist and something else had just completed an action (yes, activists actually refer to their activist activities as an “action”) and a group of people were laughing about one of the lads who had mistaken a non-white for a white and handed her a leaflet in front of her mum. “I thought she was white!”, he said in his defence but it wasn’t enough. The laughter pierced time and space and he no doubt felt the transcendent shame of his grave error.

Anyway, the painstaking return to my neck of the woods had begun. Fully decked out in a black raincoat, black combat boots, black baseball cap, black Ray bans and black hiking trousers, hiding a white neck gaiter with an image of an axe on it and another problematic image, I made my way through the heavily surveilled and patrolled train station. I had a rucksack with me that had… let’s just say a flag and some other troublesome things, including a tuna sandwich I had packed for myself in the morning but hadn’t yet eaten (and the temperature was rising).

My train was about 20 minutes out and the station suddenly increased in copper size. I hastily but calmly made my way toward the nearest toilet to buy some time. The toilets were… not bad (as far as British standards go) but it had a lucky-lucky man inside trying to extort my change for a spray of Primemark’s best aftershave, telling me that “all the girls will be swarming me” if I had it on. I told him to fuck off and asked him what he was doing in my country. He said, “you left gate open.” I scowled at him but accepted his attempt at gallows humour and left the toilets as I remembered THAT scene from American History X.

I checked my Casio watch (I don’t want to hear it, it was reliable and cheap) but still had a good 10 minutes before the train would arrive. The station was swarming with coppers trying to pick off stragglers from the early action. I decided to take the nearest exit to the street that was closest to my platform and wait it out there. There was a homeless man sitting on the floor with a Starbucks cup of change (even poverty is commercialised now). He asked me for change. I looked him up and down and then noticed his shoes. Nike Air Force One, brand new. “Cheeky bastard” I thought to myself. He pestered me once more so I offered him the tuna sandwich that had been maturing in the wheat pasted interior of my rucksack for about 9 hours. I later felt bad about this; but moving on…

I had about 5 minutes before the train was due to leave so I told the homeless man that I would give him £40 if he went and asked the police now stood at the door if they knew about a black rucksack that was sitting in the toilet unattended. He agreed. I gave him £10 as an incentive and told him I would give him the rest when he returned. He agreed and carried out my request after pocketing the sandwich.

The coppers uttered something on their radio and sauntered off toward the toilet. I wasted no time in blitzing to the platform, chuckling to myself for a currently occulted reason. I boarded the train minutes later and kept poking my head out of the door in case I had to run.

I poked my head out once. It was clear. I poked it out again. It was clear. I poked it out a third time and the homeless man was stood in front of me with an angry expression. He had realised that I had given him a Scottish £10 note and to his credit knew that it wasn’t classed as legal tender in England. He called me a cunt, launched the tuna sandwich at my chest and told me he was going to dob me in. Luckily, the whistle blew and the train left the station before he could make it to the barriers.

It was a close shave, but at least I had half of the train carriage to myself on the journey home. No idea why though.