This is Leicestershire -- Stern-faced and straight-backed, Britain's would-be Fuhrer turns an intense gaze upon the camera in a room at the Grand Hotel. It's a scene of studied composure and calm, one which was utterly at odds with Oswald Mosley's turbulent public appearances in Leicester. Unlike other British cities, Leicester was a latecomer to homegrown fascism. The first branch wasn't formed until spring 1934, and the first open meeting – at the Turkey Cafe, in Granby Street, was a sedate affair, "quite unlike the fascist gathering of popular imagination," reported the Mercury. There was a talk about economics and people listened in sober silence. But the city branch of the British Union of Fascists (BUF) soon grew to some 100 members, mainly small traders, shopkeepers and manual workers, with a small number of students from Loughborough. But before they had a foothold in the political life of the city, a now infamous meeting in London saw membership plummet. In June 1934, the BUF staged a large rally at Olympia. About 500 anti-fascists smuggled themselves in. When they began heckling Mosley they were attacked by 1,000 Blackshirts. Fascism became synonymous with ugly scenes of violence. Olympia wasn't the end for Mosley and his mob. And dwindling numbers didn't deter the Leicester fascists. Open air meetings were held later that year in the Market Place or at the gates of Victoria Park gates. But each rally ended in humiliation, as huge, hostile crowds of demonstrators silenced the speakers out with boos and catcalls. The spoiling tactics restricted the city Blackshirts to small-scale meetings in their headquarters on the London Road and occasional forays into the county. But in 1935, the beleaguered branch got a rare filip: a visit by their leader. security On April 14, Mosley and his men rolled up at Granby Halls. The following day's Mercury estimated a crowd of 3,000 at the 6,000-capacity venue. That may have been generous. Advance ticket sales had been calamitous in the city, and only the bused hordes of supporters from elsewhere and a sizeable contingent of anti-fascist demonstrators saved the organisers from the sight of a largely empty auditorium. Inside, security was tight. It was also ruthless: the 200 police officers were supplemented by 300 Blackshirt stewards. Cue chaos, as the address was overshadowed by a sideshow of fights and ejections. Meanwhile, members of the Communist Party, the Unemployed Workers Movement and the Independent Labour Party had united in the Market Place to march upon Granby Halls, behind a large banner reading Unite Against Mosley. "The marchers were considerably outnumbered by the people who followed in their rear," reported the Mercury. "Cyclists and motorists rang their bells and hooted continuously. "The procession turned into Welford Road and had almost reached the prison gates when a remarkable development occurred. "Scores of uniformed police suddenly appeared as if by magic. They had been hiding from view in the entrance to the prison. They joined hands and ran across Welford Road to form a complete cordon. "At the same time, police who had been escorting the procession received instructions to turn the demonstrators back. A scuffle ensued as the police stopped the marchers. Several of the marchers fell in the struggle and the banner was torn from their leaders' hands and ripped to shreds. "Outside the gaol gates, a policeman staggered back as somebody threw a quantity of pepper into his face." Thomas Fall, described in the Mercury as one of the "standard-bearers" of the anti-fascist demonstration told the Mercury he'd been "bruised from head to foot" in the clash with the police. It was a similar story when Mosley returned to Granby Halls in May 1936. The evening began with a drum roll as Mosley took to the stage but soon segued into a familiar sound of bawling and brawling. This time around 50 people were chucked out by burly Blackshirt stewards to what the Mercury called a "perfect storm of booing and cheering" which drowned out great chunks of the speech. "At times, the uproar was so great it seemed as if the meeting might be broken up," wrote the Mercury. Mosley, who styled himself on Italian fascist Mussolini, was unable to make himself heard for minutes at a time as protestors yelled, punch-ups broke out and his hordes of henchmen frogmarched dissenters to the pavement outside. "Some of the ejected men sought to regain admission," said the Mercury, "in consequence of which the Blackshirts closed the main doors, only opening them at intervals for frightened women to leave. "In a melee, one of the long benches accommodating about 20 people was broken. "In one scene, there were about 15 Blackshirts struggling in a heap on the floor with half a dozen or so of their opponents and women were screaming. One man was marched out of the hall with Blackshirt stewards with his face covered with blood. "In a disturbance in the doorway, when a batch of people were thrust unceremoniously into the street, a brawny Scotsman whipped off his coat and struck a fighting attitude, challenging the Blackshirts to lay hands on him. He was left alone." Mosley's speech, when it could actually be heard, was a pugnacious proclamation of isolationism and international indifference, which offered Nazi Germany a free hand to do as it pleased. "What business has anyone to stop Hitler or Mussolini with British lives, in what is not a British quarrel?" he said. "If any man in the world lays a hand on British territory or British lives, we are a united nation to oppose him. "It is Socialists, the Jews and corrupt finance which want to pursue a political vendetta against these great nations." Later, with the demonstrators cleared from the hall, along with the rest of the public, Mosley told his Blackshirt bodyguards it had been "a wonderful meeting". They lined up to give the fascist salute as he left the building, stepped into his "waiting high-powered motor car, which entered Welford Road and disappeared in the direction of Wigston", while the busloads of imported Blackshirts who'd formed the backbone of the crowd left the city to choruses of the Red Flag from a gathered crowd of protestors. Mosley was back for a final time in 1938, in the reduced circumstances of Leicester's Corn Exchange. This time, he spoke without interruption, though a section of the audience rose as one during the rally and trooped out in protest. But a crowd of demonstrators outside the Corn Exchange was more than a thousand strong. They sang, they chanted, they pressed against the police line. "One had his helmet knocked off in the jostling," reported the following day's Mercury. And within an hour and a half of the end of the meeting, a gang of 40 or so youths attacked the BUF headquarters at 137 Wellington Street, chanting "down with Mosley" and smashing windows with bricks. "Police were quickly on the scene and were told what had happened by excited residents, many of whom were in their night attire," said the report. The broken glass gave the HQ a dilapidated air. It was a neat metaphor for fascism in Leicester itself. By this point, the city branch, never a political force, numbered just three members. By mid-1938, fascism was finished in Leicester. In truth, it had never really started. There are several reasons why Mosley's message fell on deaf ears, according to Craig Morgan's doctorate study of fascism in the Midlands, published in 2008. The anti-fascist left were strong, and organised. And there was no tradition of anti-Semitism in the city for rabble-rousers to exploit. And to these obstacles, add the extra hurdle of tardiness. "The Leicester branch perhaps suffered for being founded so much later than many others in the county," Morgan concludes. "The violence-marred meeting in London created an unfavourable image of fascism in the minds of Leicester people which severely undermined the local branch's ability to present the Mosley movement as representing a legitimate and necessary alternative to the established political parties in the city."
Reported by This is 17 hours ago.
This is Leicestershire -- Stern-faced and straight-backed, Britain's would-be Fuhrer turns an intense gaze upon the camera in a room at the Grand Hotel. It's a scene of studied composure and calm, one which was utterly at odds with Oswald Mosley's turbulent public appearances in Leicester. Unlike other British cities, Leicester was a latecomer to homegrown fascism. The first branch wasn't formed until spring 1934, and the first open meeting – at the Turkey Cafe, in Granby Street, was a sedate affair, "quite unlike the fascist gathering of popular imagination," reported the Mercury. There was a talk about economics and people listened in sober silence. But the city branch of the British Union of Fascists (BUF) soon grew to some 100 members, mainly small traders, shopkeepers and manual workers, with a small number of students from Loughborough. But before they had a foothold in the political life of the city, a now infamous meeting in London saw membership plummet. In June 1934, the BUF staged a large rally at Olympia. About 500 anti-fascists smuggled themselves in. When they began heckling Mosley they were attacked by 1,000 Blackshirts. Fascism became synonymous with ugly scenes of violence. Olympia wasn't the end for Mosley and his mob. And dwindling numbers didn't deter the Leicester fascists. Open air meetings were held later that year in the Market Place or at the gates of Victoria Park gates. But each rally ended in humiliation, as huge, hostile crowds of demonstrators silenced the speakers out with boos and catcalls. The spoiling tactics restricted the city Blackshirts to small-scale meetings in their headquarters on the London Road and occasional forays into the county. But in 1935, the beleaguered branch got a rare filip: a visit by their leader. security On April 14, Mosley and his men rolled up at Granby Halls. The following day's Mercury estimated a crowd of 3,000 at the 6,000-capacity venue. That may have been generous. Advance ticket sales had been calamitous in the city, and only the bused hordes of supporters from elsewhere and a sizeable contingent of anti-fascist demonstrators saved the organisers from the sight of a largely empty auditorium. Inside, security was tight. It was also ruthless: the 200 police officers were supplemented by 300 Blackshirt stewards. Cue chaos, as the address was overshadowed by a sideshow of fights and ejections. Meanwhile, members of the Communist Party, the Unemployed Workers Movement and the Independent Labour Party had united in the Market Place to march upon Granby Halls, behind a large banner reading Unite Against Mosley. "The marchers were considerably outnumbered by the people who followed in their rear," reported the Mercury. "Cyclists and motorists rang their bells and hooted continuously. "The procession turned into Welford Road and had almost reached the prison gates when a remarkable development occurred. "Scores of uniformed police suddenly appeared as if by magic. They had been hiding from view in the entrance to the prison. They joined hands and ran across Welford Road to form a complete cordon. "At the same time, police who had been escorting the procession received instructions to turn the demonstrators back. A scuffle ensued as the police stopped the marchers. Several of the marchers fell in the struggle and the banner was torn from their leaders' hands and ripped to shreds. "Outside the gaol gates, a policeman staggered back as somebody threw a quantity of pepper into his face." Thomas Fall, described in the Mercury as one of the "standard-bearers" of the anti-fascist demonstration told the Mercury he'd been "bruised from head to foot" in the clash with the police. It was a similar story when Mosley returned to Granby Halls in May 1936. The evening began with a drum roll as Mosley took to the stage but soon segued into a familiar sound of bawling and brawling. This time around 50 people were chucked out by burly Blackshirt stewards to what the Mercury called a "perfect storm of booing and cheering" which drowned out great chunks of the speech. "At times, the uproar was so great it seemed as if the meeting might be broken up," wrote the Mercury. Mosley, who styled himself on Italian fascist Mussolini, was unable to make himself heard for minutes at a time as protestors yelled, punch-ups broke out and his hordes of henchmen frogmarched dissenters to the pavement outside. "Some of the ejected men sought to regain admission," said the Mercury, "in consequence of which the Blackshirts closed the main doors, only opening them at intervals for frightened women to leave. "In a melee, one of the long benches accommodating about 20 people was broken. "In one scene, there were about 15 Blackshirts struggling in a heap on the floor with half a dozen or so of their opponents and women were screaming. One man was marched out of the hall with Blackshirt stewards with his face covered with blood. "In a disturbance in the doorway, when a batch of people were thrust unceremoniously into the street, a brawny Scotsman whipped off his coat and struck a fighting attitude, challenging the Blackshirts to lay hands on him. He was left alone." Mosley's speech, when it could actually be heard, was a pugnacious proclamation of isolationism and international indifference, which offered Nazi Germany a free hand to do as it pleased. "What business has anyone to stop Hitler or Mussolini with British lives, in what is not a British quarrel?" he said. "If any man in the world lays a hand on British territory or British lives, we are a united nation to oppose him. "It is Socialists, the Jews and corrupt finance which want to pursue a political vendetta against these great nations." Later, with the demonstrators cleared from the hall, along with the rest of the public, Mosley told his Blackshirt bodyguards it had been "a wonderful meeting". They lined up to give the fascist salute as he left the building, stepped into his "waiting high-powered motor car, which entered Welford Road and disappeared in the direction of Wigston", while the busloads of imported Blackshirts who'd formed the backbone of the crowd left the city to choruses of the Red Flag from a gathered crowd of protestors. Mosley was back for a final time in 1938, in the reduced circumstances of Leicester's Corn Exchange. This time, he spoke without interruption, though a section of the audience rose as one during the rally and trooped out in protest. But a crowd of demonstrators outside the Corn Exchange was more than a thousand strong. They sang, they chanted, they pressed against the police line. "One had his helmet knocked off in the jostling," reported the following day's Mercury. And within an hour and a half of the end of the meeting, a gang of 40 or so youths attacked the BUF headquarters at 137 Wellington Street, chanting "down with Mosley" and smashing windows with bricks. "Police were quickly on the scene and were told what had happened by excited residents, many of whom were in their night attire," said the report. The broken glass gave the HQ a dilapidated air. It was a neat metaphor for fascism in Leicester itself. By this point, the city branch, never a political force, numbered just three members. By mid-1938, fascism was finished in Leicester. In truth, it had never really started. There are several reasons why Mosley's message fell on deaf ears, according to Craig Morgan's doctorate study of fascism in the Midlands, published in 2008. The anti-fascist left were strong, and organised. And there was no tradition of anti-Semitism in the city for rabble-rousers to exploit. And to these obstacles, add the extra hurdle of tardiness. "The Leicester branch perhaps suffered for being founded so much later than many others in the county," Morgan concludes. "The violence-marred meeting in London created an unfavourable image of fascism in the minds of Leicester people which severely undermined the local branch's ability to present the Mosley movement as representing a legitimate and necessary alternative to the established political parties in the city."
Reported by This is 17 hours ago.