https://www.city-journal.org/article/britains-long-hot-summer
The outbreak of anti-immigrant mob violence in England this summer, in which rioters went as far as to set fire to buildings with immigrants in them—for example, an attack on a Holiday Inn near Rotherham that housed 220 such immigrants, in the course of which a masked attacker entered the building and made a gesture indicating that the residents might have their throats cut—did not surprise me. It broke out after the stabbing to death of three small children, and the injury of ten more, at a dance lesson in Southport, a seaside town north of Liverpool, by the son of Rwandan refugees.
Anyone with eyes to see, ears to hear, or the slightest imagination to exercise should have detected the undercurrent of violence long present in much of English life, a kind of magma waiting to break volcanically through the crust of normal day-to-day existence. But none are so blind as those who will not consider the evidence, because it points to a reality too painful to contemplate: the murders in Southport were the perfect pretext for the expression of semi-organized brutishness, some of the rioters with extensive criminal histories. And understandably, if hypocritically, it appalled those who had long denied that any problem could arise from two deep-seated social maladies: the coarseness of English popular culture; and years of mass immigration and the increasing formation of ghettos.
Even in times of social peace, few sounds are as terrifying to me as that of young English people enjoying themselves in a certain kind of pub. More than one such pub is located near where I live. A kind of deep-throated male baying emanates from them, punctuated by female screams, whether of laughter and amusement or of fear and distress, it is not always easy to tell. Once, in Manchester, I was woken in my hotel at about 1:30 am by what I took to be normal drunken English revelers noisily heading home. The next morning, I discovered, upon stepping out of the hotel, a police cordon around the place below my window, where a young man had been kicked into a coma (whether he ultimately died, I don’t know). The sound of these Englishmen enjoying themselves and that of committing joint murder were basically the same.