Never Judge A Book or Read One: London Riots Edition

By Michael Krieger

As the dust and debris settled in Clapham Junction on Tuesday, August 9th, one of the few shops left unscathed from the previous nights riots was Waterstone’s. A book store. Imagine that.

Unfortunately, as you will see 80 percent of the stores in a half mile radius did not fair so well.

At 9:50pm on Monday night, I got a text from my co-worker, Ciaran McGreevy.

“U watching the news? Clapham Junction getting smashed up! Currys, Wimpy! Ladbrokes, thank f*ck we top floor with door caged!”

My reply: “Really? Damn. I’m bout to go out there.”

I had known the riots were spreading, but I never watch TV, so prior to the text I did not know they had reached my area. And then, my high school classmate turned ex-pat, Don G., called to affirm the mob had indeed moved to Clapham.

His advice, “Be safe.” I said, “We’re from Youngstown, bro. I have to see what’s up.” So, I walked outside and down to the intersection which I cross daily to get to work. Immediately, I see chaos.

With about 1,500 people on the streets – bystanders and rioters – my initial 100 feet on to St. John’s Road could not even prepare me for the breadth of devastation I was going to encounter. Seeing an adolescent girl sprinting across the intersection with two full suitcases of merchandise was only the beginning.

For hours, a group of 400 to 500 kids, split into packs of 12-15, disregarded every law and social norm created prior to this date as they destroyed and looted the small businesses of hard working, community-minded people (and a few corporate places of business).

I remained outside for approximately 40 minutes. During that time, I walked the same path which I walk to work every day to find mobs of kids gathering to destroy the gate fronts of shops. Once the seal of the shops were broken, it was Christmas in August. Electronics, jewelry, Air Jordan’s and clothes were the flying off the shelves, walls and out of display cases.



Bystanders taking pictures and videos were threatened by kids with these masks on their faces. Hoodies and bandanas were also popular attire.

I was politely asked by someone who resembled Snoop from The Wire, “Why the f*ck you taking pictures? What the f*ck you taking pictures for b*tch?” Uhh…really? These kids were clearly not Oxford’s class of 2016.

As I turned the corner of St. John’s Road to head up Lavender Hill, janky Molotov cocktails were now being thrown. Unfortunately, the “fancy dress shop,” or the holy grail to the Aussies, Kiwis and Brits of the area, was the victim of a cover up operation. The rioters had broken in and were using masks from the shop to conceal their identities.



As the party shop was up in flames, I decided I had seen enough and headed for what I was hoping would be a peaceful walk home.

From judging the age of kids involved as well as having been in several “situations” growing up, hostile as they were, I was not particularly fearful for my own safety. However, there was an underlying sense of vulnerability that came with the sheer number of rioters that were on the streets. While their motives were unclear, putting oneself in a situation amongst people who are not acting rationally, or willing to listen to reason while engaging in a mob mentality is, generally speaking, a high-risk, low reward proposition.

I decided to take a few back streets on my eight minute journey home in hopes of finding peace and steering clear of unwanted trouble. To my dismay, I bumped an elderly man and looter on accident trying to pass him on the narrow London streets. Not looking for any trouble, I politely said, “Excuse me, Sir,” gave him a pat on the back and kept on my way. Well, the gentleman, if you could call him that, did not approve of my actions. This sent him into a tirade.

“Who the fuck are you? Why the fuck are you touching me? I don’t know you. You’re a fucking pussy!”

While his lady friend tried to calm him down, I decided it was best not to turn around to address him. There were still mobs of kids on the side streets and didn’t not want to draw unwanted attention. Moving forward, I had distanced myself a good 15 yards from him. At that point, I was hit in the back and leg with a projectile. Apparently, he was not real keen on the merchandise he had just taken the time to loot. Or maybe it was me? I’m still a little unclear on that part because we haven’t had the chance to sit down over tea to discuss this event.

As I began to pick up the pace slightly, I still remained calm and began to turn down another side street that brings me 400 feet from my house. However, with a pack of ten teenagers approaching me, the man began to yell, “Get this motherfucker right here! Beat his ass.”

I decided a crisp walk probably wasn’t appropriate for the situation. So I used the agility I had honed during the previous seven weeks of my P90X workouts and booked it home. Looking over my shoulder several times, I was lucky no one had taken the man’s directives seriously, while feeling a better about the life once my front door shut securely behind me.

From there, I ready my survival kit: knife set, 6 weeks Kenpo X and a Midwestern accent. Yes, I even practiced yelling, “Get the fuck out of here, bitch!” in a manner that would have made Jesse Pinkman proud.

While I had reached my safe haven, the MET police were still nowhere to be found. They had been stretched thin from earlier disturbances. Clapham was left completely unprotected. And by the time the news crews hit, it was too little, too late. Residents were in fear from the destruction that took place in their normally calm village.

Around 1:30 a.m., enough MET police gathered in Clapham to finally run the rioters out. However, the damage had been done.

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