Rioters attack an asylum hotel in Rotherham (Christopher Furlong/Getty Images)


August 7, 2024   6 mins

In order to understand what I want to say here, there are two things you need to know about me.

The first is that, last year, I was in a catastrophic rock-climbing accident in which I broke my neck. The result is that I am now tetraplegic, one of the most severe disabilities it is possible to acquire. Some highlights include having no sensation, or motor control, from around my nipples down. That doesn’t just mean I will have to use a wheelchair for the rest of my life; it also means I am doubly incontinent. Instead of peeing out of my penis into a toilet, my urine drains directly out of my guts into a plastic bag strapped to my leg. Not only am I liable to shit myself without warning; I have no control over when I do or don’t go. This means every morning I am treated to the delights of “manual evacuation”, where a trained care worker sticks suppositories up my arse, before fingering me until I defecate. While still in bed.

I need them to do this because tetraplegia means that I have lost around 95% of the use of my hands. Just like I also need somebody to wash me, dress me, and cook for me — none of which I can do for myself anymore. (I am writing this using voice dictation software.) On top of that, my broken neck means I am at risk of a unique medical condition called autonomic dysreflexia, which basically means that my body is liable to begin a deadly feedback loop, which if untreated culminates in agonising pain, strokes and death. For these reasons, I now require 24-hour care. In fact, this list only scratches the surface — but you get the idea. It is not exactly how I planned to spend my 30s.

The second thing you need to know about me is that I was born and raised in Southport. Both my parents still live there, in the house where I grew up. Many of my friends also still live there, though thankfully none of their families were victims in last week’s horrendous events.

These two things ought to have nothing in common with each other. And until last Monday, they didn’t. What changed this was finding out that the far-Right activists who have been causing havoc across the UK for the past week were planning to bring their “protests” close to my home. And not just my original home of Southport, which they’d already desecrated on the ludicrous pretext of “avenging” the awful stabbings that took place there. But my current home of Walthamstow, in London. And incredibly, not just my borough — but literally my street, urging their followers to “mask up” at 8pm on Wednesday outside the Waltham Forest Immigration Bureau, which I can practically see from my bedroom window.

Now, this generates some quite serious practical safety problems. Not for me personally, because I can just sit safely inside my flat, away from the idiots. The problem is for my care team. By and large, the person who looks after me in the day swaps over with somebody else at 8pm. Then at 9pm, a second person arrives to assist with the rigmarole of putting me to bed. Thus, three people are faced with the prospect of negotiating an EDL “protest” that may well have turned into a race riot. This would be bad enough, but gets considerably worse when you factor in that one of them is Nigerian, and two of them are Pakistani.

In a way, this is just a practical problem. As it will not be safe for them to be on the street outside my flat given the kinds of people who are going to be around, we need to work out some different arrangements in terms of who comes and goes, and at what times. To some extent, this is just a logistical pain. Much worse than that is the shame I feel in having to look them in the eye and discuss the fact that white English people (like me) are threatening to have a riot on the street outside, because of a hatred for people like them.

Let’s unpack that.

On the one hand, my carers turn up every day to do things like wipe my arse, drain my piss, wash my genitals, dress me, feed me, put me back to bed for scrubbing when I’ve shit myself, and so on. On top of that, they also have to deal with me. The truth is I would be lying if I said I had come to terms with how I must live now. I am riddled with depression and anxiety, and while most days I manage to keep a lid on it, some days I just don’t. I live in a permanent state of frustration, which means I’m often just rude (which I then hate myself for). At my worst, I have near-psychotic breakdowns. Like last week, when I started hitting myself in the head as hard as I could and begging the staff to kill me, promising to give them the contents of my ISA in exchange. In other words, caring for me is no picnic.

And yet I’ve never once heard them complain, or get frustrated with me, or show me anything other than patience and kindness. And it is not like they are doing this for great monetary reward. They are employed not by the NHS, but by a private care agency that gets its funding through the NHS. I don’t know exactly what that means in terms of staff wages, mostly because I’m too embarrassed to ask. But we all know it’s not going to be the stuff of envy.

Nor is it some strange coincidence that my care staff are immigrants from much poorer countries. This is just the norm, as I’ve come to learn over the past year. When it comes to basic care work — i.e. the stuff that nurses are too qualified to sensibly be assigned to do, but which absolutely needs to be done to stop people dying, to keep them clean, to ensure they eat, and so on — the fact is that English people just won’t do it in anything like sufficient numbers to meet the demands of the indigenous population. The only people willing to do this shit work, for crap pay, are those who come from countries so poor, with economic prospects so bad, that moving to the UK seems worth it. And now that they are here, the self-appointed “defenders” of England tell them that they are not wanted, and threaten them with violence.

“Nor is it some strange coincidence that my care staff are immigrants from much poorer countries.”

After my accident, I spent the first eight months in different hospitals. As an estimate, I would say that 85% of the people involved in my care — from top surgeons all the way through to cleaners and kitchen staff — were non-white. To some extent, this was skewed by the fact that I spent most of my time in London. And quite a few of those people were second or third-generation immigrants (although that is offset by the fact that a lot of the white staff were Eastern Europeans). For four months after that, I had to live in a residential nursing home while independent living arrangements could be secured for me. One of the care staff there was referred to as “the English girl”. Because she was, literally, the only one.

So, when I hear “patriots” bemoaning immigration, while claiming to love the NHS, I roll my eyes. Perhaps they could try breaking their necks, and seeing what I’ve seen. I think they might change their minds. It is not just the NHS that would collapse if the EDL got its way; the entirety of social care in this country would disintegrate overnight.

In many ways, it is a strange irony that an explosion of racial tensions should emanate from my hometown, of all places. My memories of growing up there, nearly 20 years ago, are of it being basically an Anglo-Saxon ghetto. I think there was one black person in my high school. The only Asian was my mate Pricey. I remember hearing that there was a synagogue somewhere, but I didn’t meet a Jewish person until I went to university. Clearly, things must have changed to some extent: last week, I was genuinely surprised to learn that Southport even has a mosque. But still, of all the places in Britain where a second-generation Rwandan immigrant born in Cardiff might perpetrate an act of unspeakable horror, Southport would have seemed one of the most unlikely candidates, at least before tragedy struck. At any rate, trying to invoke Southport, of all places, as the emblem of anti-immigration sentiment, will be patently ridiculous to anybody who’s ever actually been there.

But those are facts, and as we know in this age of social media lies, encouraged by vile opportunists like Nigel Farage, the facts don’t matter anymore. So, forget about the facts, I want to say something different to the yobs planning to “protest” on my street this week. On behalf of Southport, on behalf of my carers, on behalf of myself, and on behalf of all decent Britons: will you please just fuck off?


Paul Sagar is a Reader in Political Theory at King’s College London. His most recent book is Basic Equality (2024)His Substack is called Diary of a Punter.