Brixton Quotes

Dear Mom, I won't be home this weekend because I'm wanted for treason and I have to clear my name. Also, I took the last Sprite from the fridge. Love, Steve

Every Librarian is a highly trained agent. An expert in intelligence, counterintelligence, Boolean searching, and hand-to-hand combat.

He checked out his surrounding. More books. A drinking fountain. A poster showing a guy slam-dunking a basketball with one hand and holding a book in the other, urging kids to READ! Weird, thought Steve. How can he even see the hoop? ... You see, Steven, Librarians are the most elite, best trained secret force in the United States of America. Probably in the world." "No way." "Yes way." "What about the FBI?" "Featherweights." "The CIA?" Mackintosh snorted. "Don't make me laugh. Those guys can't even dunk a basketball andd read a book at the same time.

Really? Brixton? Where nobody speaks fucking English?” Okay, that wasn’t quite fair, and supposedly Brixton was getting “gentrified.” “Remember Guns of Brixton, the Clash?

Is there more to see?" Brixton asks. "No. Just a long walk back to hope.

Danger is the snack food of a true sleuth.

This was so unfunny, Steve had to laugh.

Dana was what Steve called a "silent partner" in the Brixton Brothers Detective Agency. Being a silent partner meant that Dana didn't carry a business card, that his name didn't appear on the company letterhead, and he wanted nothing to do with the Brixton Brothers Detective Agency.

But the best book I ever saw in the nick was the Bible. When I was in Brixton on remand, I ’ad one in the flowery. Smashing thin paper for rolling dog-ends in. I must ’ave smoked my way through the book of Genesis, before I went to court.

It is a capital mistake to theorise before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgement." "You will have your data soon," I remarked, pointing with my finger; "this is the Brixton Road, and that is the house, if I am not very much mistaken.

although sometimes it seems that she alone among her friends wants to celebrate getting older because it's such a privilege to not die prematurely, she tells them as the night draws in around her kitchen table in her cosy terraced house in Brixton

He was blown, his agents were hanged, and he entered the long middle age of the grounded pro. He did hackwork in London, sometimes for Smiley, ran a few home-based operations, including a network of girlfriends who were not, as the jargon has it, inter-conscious, and when Alleline’s crowd took over he was shoved out to grass in Brixton—he supposed because he had the wrong connections, among them Smiley.

to win the war? So they can murder me too?’ ‘The thing is, Harry, that you’ve made a nuisance of yourself, and we haven’t time to deal with nuisances like you. It’s better that you’re shut away where you can’t cause any more trouble.’ ‘But I not cause trouble,’ Harry almost shouted. ‘I living in hostel, I have job, I help firefighters.’ ‘Yes, so I heard. Still, the government want to be sure. So, today you’ll be transferred to Brixton prison for a few days while they decide where to send you.’ ‘I want my money,

He had been studying crime in a library. Now he was at ground level, walking side by side with beat cops. And right from the beginning, something struck him as odd. Common sense had always held that crime was connected to certain neighborhoods. Where there were problems such as poverty, drugs, and family dysfunction, there was crime: The broad conditions of economic and social disadvantage bred communities of lawlessness and disorder. In Los Angeles, that neighborhood was South Central. In Paris, it was the outer suburbs. In London, places like Brixton. Weisburd was in New York’s version of one of those neighborhoods—only the neighborhood wasn’t at all what he had imagined: “What I found was, quite quickly, that after we got to know the area, we spent all our time on one or two streets,” he says. “It was the bad neighborhood of town, [but] most of the streets didn’t have any crime.

There are black people in Brixton!’ Fran’s face grew crimson. Shahid said, ‘What’s the matter with black people?’ ‘They’ll beat us up!’ ‘Oh,’ said Shahid. ‘Really?’ Fran, looking uncomfortable, said, ‘Don’t be silly, Harry! That was race riots, years ago.’ ‘I don’t care! I don’t like it. I’m not going there.

With their big hit, PiL had reached a whole new generation of fans, and the gig had sold out very fast. But right down at the front were a crowd of about three to four hundred hardcore, old-school punks who had come creeping out of the squats of Camden and Shepherd’s Bush to greet their hero. To

in the car park a young father whispers weed smoke about how his life feels, like that burnt-out car that never moves, the one with the shattered windows leaving diamond tears in the asphalt.

Yes, you have survived, but it is bittersweet; some of the best minds of your generation have been wasted, the children that grew up with the safety blankets of money and whiteness have gotten twice as far working half as hard, they are still having the same cocaine parties that they were having twenty years ago and they still have not ever been searched by the police once, let alone had their parties raided or been choke-slammed to death. They have just bought a flat in Brixton; they go to one of the new white bars there. They pop up to the new reggae club in Ladbroke Grove, the one that serves Caribbean food but also gets nervous when more than two black guys turn up. They have no idea that the building used to be a multi-storey crack house. By twenty-five, even if you don’t read Stuart Hall, if you grew up both black and poor in the UK you will have come to know more about the inner workings of British society, about the dynamics of race, class and empire than a slew of PhDs ever will. In fact, PhDs and scriptwriters will come to the hood to drain your wisdom for their ethnographic research, as will journalists next time there is a riot. They will have careers, you will get a job. Wash, rinse, repeat.

While some people called what happened in Tottenham and Brixton a riot, others called it an uprising – a rebellion of otherwise unheard people. I think there’s truth in both perspectives, and that the extremity of a riot only ever reflects the extremity of the living conditions of said rioters. Language is important – and the term ‘race riot’ undoubtedly doubles down on ideas linking blackness and criminality, while overlooking what black people were reacting against. The conditions don’t seem to have changed. When the London riots of August 2011 mirrored, almost step by step, what happened in Brixton in 1985, I wondered how often history would have to repeat itself before we choose to tackle the underlying problems.

I was foolish, but I learnt something valuable from it: that a crowd mentality is a very dangerous thing, like the wind that can change direction in a second from gentle swaying to ripping you off the ground. That moment taught me to not follow the masses or the mob, and I remember thinking for the first time, I gotta get out of Brixton.

There was so much to think about and so much to do with all this activity and responsibility that he hardly had time to really consider how he missed London, the hum of it, the Brixton roar and the beloved river, the West Indian take aways, the glittering of the tower blocks at night, the mobile phone shacks, the Africans in Peckham, the common proximity of plantain, the stern beauty of church women on Sunday mornings, the West End, the art in the air, the music in the air, the sense of possibility. He missed the tube, the telephone boxes. He even missed, deep down, the wicked parking inspectors and the heartless bus drivers who flew past queues of freezing pedestrians out of spite. He missed riding from Loughborough to Surrey Quays on his bike with the plane trees whizzing by, the sight of some long-weaved woman walking along in tight jeans and a studded belt and look-at-me boots and maybe a little boy holding her hand. The skylines, the alleyways, and yes, the sirens and helicopters and the hit of life, all these things he knew so well. And the fact, most of all, that he belonged there in a way that he would never, could never, belong in Dorking. He was outside, displaced. He was off the A-Z. He felt, in a very fundamental way, that he was living outside of his life, outside of himself. And the problem was, if indeed it was a problem – how could you call something like this a problem when there were bills to pay and children to feed and a house to maintain? – the problem was that he did not know what to do about it, how to get rid of this feeling, how to get to a place where he felt that he was in the right place. And this not being such a serious problem, not really a problem at all, he had suppressed it and accepted things as they were.

You fooled us. Render your work, not your lives. This seems like the newest answer to an old question. Cheap muscle and blood to build you an Empire- that we can't stay in. Gran's gone missing from Saturday morning. Brixton Market? No one is frowning at the quality of the yams, or asking how the snapper's eye so cloudy. There'll be no Saturday soup tonight.

The girl’s eyes widened and she stared at Caitlyn in astonishment for a moment, then a small smile tugged her lips. “Thanks,” she said. “Yeah, she was a right cow, Edith Brixton. I mean, I’m sorry she’s dead,” she added hastily. “But everyone’s been goin’ around talkin’ like it’s such a tragedy an’ nobody realised what a nasty piece of work she was!” “Yes, I was shocked when I heard her threatening you,” said Caitlyn, her voice full of sympathy. The girl eyed her sideways. “I wasn’t really stealin’, you know. That’s what I told the police. I was just helpin’ someone out.” Something in Caitlyn’s expression made her add defensively, “For a small fee, of course. But you can’t expect me to do all the work for nothin’, can you? An’ I needed the money. I have a sick mother, you see, an’ she needs full-time nursing. I help to pay her medical bills.” Caitlyn felt a pang of pity, but then something—a glint in the girl’s eyes—made her wonder how much of that sob story was true. She had a feeling that Amelia was the kind of girl who had a quick tongue and a knack for spinning a story so that she always came out looking good in any situation. “What do you mean, ‘helping someone out’?” she asked. “I thought the police said you received an anonymous note asking you to steal the ring. How would you have known whether you were helping somebody?” “They explained in the note, see,” said Amelia. “They said that the

A man may desire to go to Mecca. His conscience tells him that he ought to go to Mecca. He fares forth, either by the aid of Cook's, or unassisted; he may probably never reach Mecca; he may drown before he gets to Port Said; he may perish ingloriously on the coast of the Red Sea; his desire may remain eternally frustrated. Unfulfilled aspiration may always trouble him. But he will not be tormented in the same way as the man who, desiring to reach Mecca, and harried by the desire to reach Mecca, never leaves Brixton. It is something to have left Brixton. Most of us have not left Brixton. We have not even taken a cab to Ludgate Circus.

One grandparent saving another, she’d said, or some version of that. What was it Mark Twain had said about age? Something like “Age is an issue of mind over matter,” Brixton recalled. “If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.

Listen to his performance of “Boys of Kilmichael” in London’s Brixton Academy on St. Patrick’s Day, 1994. Then compare that to any other version of the song – Jimmy Crowley, Donie Carroll, or Oliver Kane. There is no comparison. The others are pretty. MacGowan makes you want to go out and kill an Englishman. Isn’t that what rebel songs are supposed to do?

A man may desire to go to Mecca. His conscience tells him that he ought to go to Mecca. He fares forth, either by the aid of the Cook's, or unassisted; he may probably never reach Mecca; he may drown before he gets to Port Said; he may perish ingloriously on the coast of the Red Sea; his desire may remain eternally frustrate. Unfulfilled aspiration may always trouble him. But he will not be tormented in the same way as the man who, desiring to reach Mecca, and harried by the desire to reach Mecca, never leaves Brixton.

You don’t have to shrink yourself to fit into someone else’s story, Olena. You don’t have to keep apologizing for existing.

He runs his hands through his hair and lets out a breath. “You don’t have to shrink yourself to fit into someone else’s story, Olena. You don’t have to keep apologizing for existing.

Age is an issue of mind over matter,” Brixton recalled. “If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.

Everything looked ship-shape and Brixton fashion inside his office,

I found you a guide, the screen read. But I'm afraid neither of you will approve. "No." Because I was now remembering exactly who worked for Milo Holmes. "No. Absolutely not." Then I spat out a few other things that I'd heard on a dark Brixton street from the mouth of a man being curb-stomped. "Jamie?" my father asked. "What on earth is going on?" I hug up. I couldn't stop staring at Holmes's goddamn screen, which now read: Tell Watson to watch his language, will you? He's blistering my poor wiretapper's ears.

Brussels,’ as Richard Weight puts it, ‘replaced Brixton as the whipping boy of British nationalists.

As Baldwin writes: ‘the bombing raids’ indiscriminate destruction, blighting Bloomsbury as thoroughly as Brixton, prepared the ground psychologically for a wider sharing of risks.

Tickets for the Brixton Academy tonight,’ yells a ticket tout at the station entrance. ‘Buying and selling, tickets for the

As London Bridge burns down, Brixton’s burning up, turns out you’re in luck cos’ I know this dodgy fuck in the duck.

So shut it. Go on. Try it. Silence. Ah.’ She reached into the air as if trying to touch the quiet she had created. ‘Isn’t that something? Did you know this is how other families are? They’re quiet. Ask one of these people sitting here. They’ll tell you. They’ve got families. This is how some families are all the time. And some people like to call these families repressed, or emotionally stunted or whatever, but do you know what I say?’ The Iqbals and the Joneses, astonished into silence along with the rest of the bus (even the loud-mouthed Ragga girls on their way to a Brixton dance hall New Year ting), had no answer. ‘I say, lucky fuckers. Lucky, lucky fuckers.’ ‘Irie Jones!’ cried Clara. ‘Watch your mouth!’ But Irie couldn’t be stopped. ‘What a peaceful existence. What a joy their lives must be. They open a door and all they’ve got behind it is a bathroom or a lounge. Just neutral spaces. And not this endless maze of present rooms and past rooms and the things said in them years ago and everybody’s old historical shit all over the place. They’re not constantly making the same old mistakes. They’re not always hearing the same old shit. They don’t do public performances of angst on public transport. Really, these people exist. I’m telling you. The biggest traumas of their lives are things like recarpeting. Bill-paying. Gate-fixing. They don’t mind what their kids do in life as long as they’re reasonably, you know, healthy. Happy. And every single fucking day is not this huge battle between who they are and who they should be, what they were and what they will be. Go on, ask them. And they’ll tell you. No mosque. Maybe a little church. Hardly any sin. Plenty of forgiveness. No attics. No shit in attics. No skeletons in cupboards. No great-grandfathers. I will put twenty quid down now that Samad is the only person in here who knows the inside bloody leg measurement of his great-grandfather. And you know why they don’t know? Because it doesn’t fucking matter. As far as they’re concerned, it’s the past. This is what it’s like in other families. They’re not self-indulgent. They don’t run around, relishing, relishing the fact that they are utterly dysfunctional. They don’t spend their time trying to find ways to make their lives more complex. They just get on with it. Lucky bastards. Lucky motherfuckers.

finding a needle in a giant stack of needles.” Clumber looked pleased with his joke.