PICTURE THREAD TOUR OF LUTON, UK 🇬🇧

I recently visited Luton - a working class town near London infamously home to both the Tate Brothers and Tommy Robinson and one of the towns in Britain most transformed by immigration - to see what it looks like today 🧵 Image
Luton was one of the towns earliest effected by large scale immigration. It’s against this background that Robinson’s EDL first emerged, the working class living on the frontlines of a changing Britain. My TLDR impression of Luton is that this change has now largely happened Image
In some ways Luton might as well be another country. It’s easy to look at pictures of foreign-coded visuals in your own country and say, “oh it’s from a ghetto, China Town, Little India etc it’s always been like that.” Luton is like if these areas expanded over an entire city Image
Luton is so transformed that it helps to compartmentalise it as a parallel version of Britain - ‘The Yookay’. Change on this scale is emotionally charged because it really is just not anything like what Britain has been historically. There’s no ambiguity, it is not the same thing Image
Main high street - grotty but not unusually so for British standards. Demographics felt about 60-70% non-White. Selection of chain shops but also shops you only tend to find in heavily immigrant areas selling migrant foods, migrant-coded products - dessert bars, weaves etc Image
Central War Memorial. A few pieces of litter in the flowerbeds around it. Some nearby buildings hollowed out and replaced with tatty-looking cheapo ‘poundstores’ - at the ‘higher end’ you have at best brands like… McDonald’s or TK Maxx. No particularly inspiring new developments Image
The main shopping mall in the town centre. A detail not pictured, homeless encamped to the side who stared intensely at me as I took this picture. You can see Deliveroo riders, betting shops, smash burger takeaways - classic common features of British high streets in the 2020’s Image
Inside the central shopping mall - the demographics maybe 80% non-White British. A few nice ‘Yookay’ details on this shot. The demographics again, the Halal Turkish food, the poster overhead stressing the importance of recycling your bottles in order to reduce the use of plastics Image
Lots of remittance shops around, many shops or services that emphasise their owner’s country of origin. Not just Nails & Spa but Moroccan Nail & Spa. “I am a Moroccan. We are Moroccans. This is a Moroccan Nail & Spa.” The streets a patchwork of non-sequitur assertions of identity Image
Dessert Bars are increasingly common in British cities in part because many migrant communities use these places as social spaces in lieu of bars. You can’t drink alcohol so you go here to ‘chill’, film crazy TikTok video. I stuck my head in a few, no white people. Many venues are implicitly coded to specific communities in this way - traditional British pubs by contrast for example will be mostly white clienteleImage
Another shot of the main high street. Some banners suspended from lampposts - advertisements for ‘support hubs’ for support for alcoholism, drug addiction, abuse etc. Partly these banners stem from Britain’s overbearing ‘mental health’ therapy culture but I also suspect Luton has a lot of genuine alcoholics, drug addicts, abuse victims etcImage
At the top of the city by the courthouse. Closed up traditional ‘Red Lion’ Hotel, litter strewn across the floor by a residential block. Don’t know if the local council just doesn’t bothering hiring people to clean or if people throw so much litter cleaning it is a losing battle Image
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Fairly typical residential street just outside the city centre. Some litter on the floor. There was a particularly egregious house on this street with piles of garbage stacked outside but an obese Pakistani man standing in front of the building smoking began glaring at me as I walked past so I didn’t take a pictureImage
On the way to the South Asian ‘side’ of Luton. Lots of litter. An ugly carriageway surrounds Luton, makes it a hassle to walk - a hangover from post-war urban planning. Combine unsightly features like this with modern Yookayisms for a pungent cocktail of miserable drab aesthetics Image
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On entering the South Asian area you are greeted by a banner advertising a Festival of Diversity and litter strewn across the grass of a small open green space. I am not making this up - it sounds like I am being deliberately gratuitous here but this is literally what you see Image
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Dunstable Road is the main thoroughfare in this area, the residents a collection of religions and groups though mostly Muslims and mostly from the Subcontinent. The % of white people on the street drops from about 30% to 1-2% here, surfaces are adorned with Arabic calligraphy Image
Dunstable Road is a ghetto of a kind but it’s not a hermetically sealed ‘ghetto’. It spills out into the rest of Luton. It may be 20% more ‘Islamic-Looking’ than central Luton but that jump is pretty incremental, it isn’t a massively jarring huge jump there’s a flowing continuity Image
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Lots of chicken shops, jewellery shops, hijab shops, remittance services. On some the exterior panelling is plastic-y and the shopfronts extend out onto the pavement. Bi-folding cheap glass doors instead of heavier single doors. They aesthetically resemble shops in Cairo or Delhi Image
There is a sense in which this all represents a merging of aesthetic styles. A kind of evolving Neo-Mudéjar. Styles instinctively familiar in the Karachi marketplace merging with post-war British forms. This is how aesthetic forms change and develop over longer stretches of time Image
You can see this in the nearby residential area. 20th century British housing stock begins to take on slightly subcontinental features. Porticos grow larger, new panelling or tiling appears, imagery is affixed, features of the houses more resemble features from the home country Image
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Luton central mosque - a good example of what you could call British Islamic or ‘Rubber Dinghy Rapids’ architecture. Islamic forms built with the red brick of British industrial towns. I don’t find the architectural effect particularly inspiring but in this sense it is ‘British’ Image
More residential streets. Some Yookayisms; disability support standups, litter. Also common - signs, flags, imagery. The imagery is I want to say more common than cultural equivalents would be in white areas. Are Palestine flags a cultural equivalent to British Christmas lights? Image
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Garbage of various kinds left outside the front of houses. This kind of fly-tipping isn’t unusual in parts of Britain and is not necessarily exclusive to particular groups but it was noticeable here how many houses had garbage just dumped outside. Evidences a certain culture Image
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LEFT: Imran on the back of a ‘white van’ like an England flag

RIGHT: A Syrian Opposition flag seen above a (quite commonplace on Luton’s high streets) bubble tea shop. Luton contributed a significant number of foreign fighters to the opposition groups during the Syrian Civil War Image
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Another residential street, more litter. A generational divide - the older South Asians wearing traditional kurtas, jubbahs and taqiyahs, the younger South Asians decked out with North Face puffer jackets, Nike and Adidas hoodies, some with half balaclavas, full roadman regalia Image
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Back to the town centre. Well-maintained flowerbeds in which traditional English trashflowers are growing. The ‘Cakebox’ company is a newer ‘cake business’ founded by Sikh migrants which is quite rapidly expanding across Britain, appears to cater to the sweet-tooth certain migrant groups seem to have in the same way the dessert bars do. If you look inside one of these shops the interiors look quite cheap, tacky, sparse. They resemble the inside of a Mumbai phonecase corner store - possibly a cost saving measure that helps the business expand more, possibly genuine aesthetic preferenceImage
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Two supermarket interiors

LEFT: A sign warns shoppers that they are being watch by CCTV

RIGHT: An entire section of the supermarket Sainsbury’s devoted to Halal food Image
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An Islamic Dawah centre just off the edge of Luton’s highstreet. Natives generally do not convert to Islam but it isn’t unheard of, it is possible that the centre does occasionally succeed in converting passersby. The social pressure will be higher the more Muslim an area is Image
The main square. A group of youths (yoots) mostly of different migrant backgrounds can be seen milling around on the right. They were standing there a fair while, there every time I passed. It is obviously a kind of socialising but the form it takes is notable Image
A full house of remittances seen on the exterior of this electronics-cum-general wares store, not just to the Subcontinent and Africa but to Eastern Europe to. A reasonable ‘chunk’ of the Luton whites are Eastern European, which can make the streets seem more native than they are Image
South of the town centre, the area is visibly a little whiter, the signage more recognisably British. Inside the pubs the clientele is entirely white. As with the dessert bars these venues have become almost implicitly ethnic-coded without anybody consciously assenting to it Image
The area is not particularly clean, large litter middens can be seen by the side of the pavement. A little but not much better than the South Asian area. Again, why the council cannot clean it I do not know - unsure how you can be this apathetic but perhaps people just give up Image
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Collection of houses with litter strewn outside. Some of the houses are larger and more middle class coded but there is still a grimy sheen over the neighbourhood. Those with their curtains open look very normal inside. ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ Posters, ‘Our Home’, ‘Our Family’ signs Image
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Luton Airport in the distance, which provides the town with jobs. Luton is easily one of the most Yookay towns in Britain, I can see many mid-tier towns beginning to transform in this way over the coming decades - many already are. A process of ‘Lutonification’, ‘Yookayification’ Image

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More from @kunley_drukpa

Aug 23
“MY APARTMENT IN NIGERIA IS CONSTANTLY ROBBED” - what it is like to live in a poor part of a Nigerian city 🧵

In Ryszard Kapuściński’s Book ‘The Shadow of the Sun’ the author spends time in Nigeria and decides to try living in an African neighbourhood instead of an expat one. He describes how he is constantly robbed until a witch doctor helps him protect his apartment with enchanted totems

“The apartment that I rent in Lagos is constantly broken into. It happens not only when I am away for a longer stretch of time- even if I am going on a short trip to a nearby town, to Abeokuta or to Oshogbo, I know that upon my return I will find the window popped out of its frame, the furniture turned upside down, the cupboards emptied.

The apartment is located in the center of town, on the island of Lagos. The island was once a staging area for slave traders, and these shameful, dark origins of the city have left traces of something restless and violent in its atmosphere. You are made constantly aware of it. For instance, I may be riding in a taxi and talking with the driver, when suddenly he falls silent and nervously surveys the street. "What's wrong?" I ask, curious. "Very bad place!" he answers, lowering his voice. We drive on, he relaxes and once again converses calmly. Some time later, we pass a group of men walking along the edge of the road (there are no sidewalks in the city), and at the sight of them the driver once again falls silent, looks about, accelerates. "What's going on?" I ask. "Very bad people!" he responds. It's another kilometer before he is calm enough to resume our conversation.

Imprinted in such a driver's head must be a map of the city resembling those that hang on the walls of police stations. Little multicolored warning lights are constantly lighting up on it, flashing, pulsating, signaling places of danger, sites of attacks and other crimes. These warning lights are especially numerous on the map of the downtown, where I live. I could have chosen to live in Ikoyi, a safe and luxurious neighborhood of rich Nigerians, Europeans, diplomats, but it is too artificial a place, exclusive, closed, and vigilantly guarded. I want to live in an African street, in an African building. How else can I get to know this city? This continent?

But it is far from simple for a white man to move into an African neighborhood. To start with, the Europeans are outraged. Someone with my intentions must be deranged, not in complete possession of his mental faculties. So they try to dissuade me, warn me: It is certain that you will perish, and the only thing still in doubt is the precise way this will happen--either you will be killed, or you will simply die of your own accord, because living conditions are so dreadful there.

But the African side also regards my plan with scant enthusiasm. First of all, there are the technical difficulties--live where, exactly? This kind of neighborhood is all poverty and overcrowding, wretched little houses, clay huts, slums; there is no fresh air, and often no electricity; it is dust, stench, and insects. Where can you go? Where can you find a separate corner? How do you get around? What do you do? Take, for instance, something as basic as water. Water must be brought from the other end of the street, because that's where the pump is. Children do this. Sometimes--women. Men? Never. And here's a white gentleman standing with the children in the line for the pump. Ha! Ha! Ha! This is impossible! Or let's say that you have found a small room somewhere, and you want to shut the door to work. Shut the door? This is unthinkable. We all live together in a family, in a group--children, adults, old people; we are never apart, and even after death our spirits remain among the living, with those who are still in this world. Shut yourself alone in a room, in such a way that no one can enter? Ha! This is impossible! "And besides," the natives explain gently to me, "it is dangerous in our neighborhood.”

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There are many bad people around here. The worst are the boma boys--gangs of debauched hoodlums, who attack, mug, and rob--a dreadful swarm of locusts that ravages everything. They will quickly sniff out that a lone European has come to live here. And to them, a European is a rich man. Who will protect you then?

But I held firm. I didn't listen to the warnings. My mind was made up--perhaps in part because so often I had felt irritated with people who arrived here, lived in "little Europe" or "little America" (i.e., in luxury hotels), and departed, bragging later that they had been to Africa, a place that in reality they had never seen.

And suddenly, an opportunity arose. I met an Italian who in a back alley not far from Massey Street owned a little warehouse of farm implements. Like many whites who were gradually liquidating their enterprises here, he had closed his business. The two-room service apartment above it was now vacant, and he was all too happy to rent it to me. He drove me there one evening in his car and helped me carry up my things (the metal stairs were attached to the building's exterior walls). It was pleasantly cool inside, he had turned on the air conditioner that morning. There was also a working refrigerator. He wished me a good night and quickly departed. He was flying to Rome early the next morning--after the latest military coup, he was afraid of further unrest and wanted to take some of his money out of the country.

I began to unpack. An hour later the lights went out.

I didn't have a flashlight. Worse still, the air conditioner had stopped, and in addition to it being completely dark, it now quickly became hot and stuffy. I opened the window. In swept the stench of rotten fruit, burnt oil, soap, and urine. Although the sea was somewhere nearby, you could detect no breeze in this enclosed and congested alley. It was March, a month of crushing heat, when the nights often seemed hotter and more stifling than the days. I looked out the window. Up and down the street below me, on woven mats or directly on the ground, lay half-naked people. The women and children were asleep; several men, their backs leaning against the walls of the clay houses, stared at me. I didn't know what their gazes meant. Did they want to meet me? Help me? Kill me?

I decided that I could not endure until dawn in these sweltering rooms, and went down. Two men rose; the others watched, motionless. We were all sweaty, deadly tired; merely existing in this climate is an extraordinary effort. I asked them if this kind of electrical outage happened often. They didn't know. I asked if something could be done about it. They conversed among themselves in a language I did not understand. One of them disappeared. Minutes passed--fifteen, thirty, forty-five. Finally he returned, bringing two young men with him. They said that they could fix the problem for ten pounds. I agreed. Soon, the lights were back on inside the apartment, and the air conditioner was working. Several days later--another outage, another ten pounds. Then fifteen, twenty.

And the thefts? In the beginning, I was filled with rage each time I returned to my ransacked apartment. To be robbed is, first and foremost, to be humiliated, to be made a fool of. But with time I came to understand that seeing a robbery as a humiliation and an affront is an emotional luxury. Living amid the poverty of my neighborhood, I realized that theft, even a petty theft, can be a death sentence. To steal is to commit manslaughter, murder. A solitary woman had her little corner in my street, and her sole possession was a pot. She made a living buying beans for credit from the vegetable vendors, cooking them, seasoning them with a sauce, and selling them to passersby. For many, this bowl of beans was the only daily meal.

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One night, a piercing cry awoke us. The entire alleyway stirred. The woman was running around in a circle, despairing, frenzied: thieves had snatched her pot, and she had lost the one thing she depended on for her livelihood.

Many of my neighbors here have just the one thing. Someone has a shirt, someone a panga, someone a pickax. The one with a shirt can find a job as a night watchman (no one wants a half-naked guard); the one with a panga can be hired to cut down weeds; the one with the pickax can dig a ditch. Others have only their muscles to sell. They count on someone needing them as porters or messengers. In all these instances, the chances of employment are slim, because competition is enormous. And further, these are frequently only odd jobs--for one day, for several hours.

Thus my alley, the adjacent streets, and the entire neighborhood are full of idle people. They wake in the morning and search for some water with which to wash their faces. Then, those with a bit of money buy themselves breakfast: a glass of tea and stale roll. But many people don't eat anything. Before noon still, the heat is difficult to bear--one must look for a shady spot. The shade moves hourly with the sun, and man moves with the shade--following the shade, crawling after it to hide in its dark, cool interior, is each day his only real occupation. Hunger. One badly wants to eat, but there is nothing to be had. Making matters worse, the smell of roasting meal wafts from a nearby bar. Why don't these people storm the bar? After all, they are young and strong.

One of them, apparently, was unable to control himself, for suddenly, a cry resounds: it's one of the street vendors shouting--a boy snatched a bunch of bananas from her stand. The victim and her neighbors set off in pursuit and eventually catch him. The police appear out of nowhere. Policemen here carry large wooden clubs, with which they brutally beat offenders, striking them with all their might. The boy is lying in the street now, cringing, curled up, trying to shield himself from the blows. A crowd has gathered, which occurs here in the blink of an eye, since these legions of the unemployed have little to do besides waiting for some event, some commotion, some excitement--anything to distract them, to help pass the time. They press closer and closer, as if the dull thud of the clubs and the moans of the victim afforded them genuine pleasure. With shouts and screams they encourage and incite the policemen. Here, if a thief is caught, people immediately want to tear him apart, lynch him, chop him into pieces. The boy is groaning, already he has let go of the bananas. Those standing closest throw themselves on the fruit, tear the bunch apart.

Then everything returns to normal. The vendor still complains and curses, the policemen leave, the battered, tortured boy drags himself to some hiding place--sore and hungry. The onlookers disperse, returning to their places under walls, under roofs--to the shade. They will stay there until evening. After a day of heat and hunger, one is weak and listless. But a certain stupor, an internal numbness, has its benefits: man could not survive here without it, for otherwise the biological, animal part of his nature would bite to death everything that is still human in him.

In the evening, the alleyway comes ever so slightly to life. Its residents gather. Some of them have spent the whole day here, tormented by attacks of malaria. Others are just returning from the city. Some have had a good day: they found work somewhere, or else they met one of their kinsmen, who shared his pennies with them. They will be eating supper tonight, a bowl of cassava with a hot paprika sauce, perhaps even accompanied by a boiled egg or a piece of lamb. Some of this will go to the children, who watch the men greedily as they swallow each bite. Every bit of food disappears immediately and without a trace. Everything is eaten, down to the last crumb.

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Read 5 tweets
Aug 21
🇫🇮 New Finnish Study on the Net Financial Costs of different immigrant groups. It replicates the findings of the famous Danish and Dutch studies - almost all immigrant groups are net costs to Finland. Migrants from the Middle East and North Africa are the biggest financial drains Image
In Finland even western migrants are rarely net fiscal contributors Image
Finland’s data almost perfectly replicates Denmark’s Image
Read 4 tweets
Aug 15
Are Somalis the world’s number one rattlers? Image
They are such talented wind-up merchants it almost loops back round to being a soft power Image
Apart from the many content ‘collabs’ my accounts have with them for which I am grateful I have come to in a certain kind of way respect their temerity. Did you know there are only 35 mil ethnic Somalis worldwide? Even vs eg South Asians they massively over-index as provocateurs
Read 5 tweets
Jul 29
REVIEWING EUROPEAN CITIES - PARIS 🇫🇷

Impressions from recent visit to Paris and the ways in which the city is and is not changing in the 2020’s 🧵 Image
This is not a complaining thread, more just to describe Paris as it is today and the extent to which Paris is or is not changing. ‘TLDR’ - A lot of what is said about the scale of change in France is true but Paris is such a great city it can still fairly easily accommodate it Image
Paris really is ball-achingly beautiful. Hurts to say it if you are British but you sometimes get a sort of seething Antonio Salieri jealousy when you walk around it because it is so often such an effortlessly attractive city. Severe Paris syndrome is invariably a bit contrived Image
Read 19 tweets
Jul 27
REVIEWING EUROPEAN CITIES - BUCHAREST 🇷🇴

Impressions from recent visit to Bucharest and the ways in which the city is and is not changing in the 2020’s 🧵 Image
This is not a complaining thread, more just to describe Bucharest as it is today and the extent to which Bucharest is or is not changing. ‘TLDR’ - Bucharest feels comparatively poorer vs other EU capitals but seems to be improving. Relatedly, recently migrants started arriving Image
In contrast to some other Eastern Europe cities like Warsaw or even Belgrade Bucharest still ‘feels’ a little developing. It is much richer than it used to be but there is maybe a little further to go on that front yet. That said it is not a bad city, it is often quite lively Image
Read 18 tweets
Jul 26
REVIEWING EUROPEAN CITIES - BRUSSELS 🇧🇪

Impressions from recent visit to Brussels and the ways in which the city is and is not changing in the 2020’s 🧵 Image
This is not a complaining thread, more just to describe Brussels as it is today and the extent to which Brussels is or is not changing. ‘TLDR’ - Brussels is possibly the worst capital in Europe in terms of demographic change, migration has run wild and the city has transformed Image
Had not been to Brussels for maybe a decade and had fuzzy memories of it being… ‘bougie’ if dull, visiting recently - rare I am genuinely shocked by the pace of change nowadays but I was pretty shocked. It’s more Yookay than the Yookay if that is even possible. Has changed a lot Image
Read 18 tweets

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