In 1989, I was living next door to the Fountain pub in Blakenhall. I’d been there for eight years and never caused anyone any trouble. I had no criminal record, and on the rare occasions I went inside, it was simply to buy myself a drink before heading home.
When the pub reopened after being closed for six months, I decided to stop in. I asked the barmaid—someone who knew me well—for my usual drink, a “1080.” She began to serve me, but another woman whispered something to her. Moments later, the barmaid returned and told me: “Sorry Lester, I can’t serve you. It’s new management, and we can’t serve any Rastas.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Calmly, I asked to see the manager. A man came forward, and to my surprise, he wasn’t white—he was a Black man. That shocked me even more. I expected to face discrimination from others, but never from my own.
He explained that under his management the pub wasn’t serving Rastas, Skinheads, or Bikers. I told him I’d lived beside that pub for eight years and had never seen skinheads there. To me, it was clear: this wasn’t about bikers or skinheads. It was about me.
I stayed calm and asked for his name and address. He wrote it down, and I walked straight to the Community and Racial Relations Council to file a complaint.
What followed was months of back-and-forth. Instead of responding properly to the Council, the manager turned up at my home, showed me their letter, and tore it up in front of my face. Later, he offered me £500 to settle. I refused. Money wasn’t the point. I wanted an apology—because my pride had been hurt and I had been humiliated, not by a white man this time, but by another Black man.
Eventually, over a year later, he raised his offer to £1,000 and sent me a written apology. At last, I had what I wanted: recognition, respect, and justice.
What I took from this experience is something I want to share: too often, people don’t stand up for their rights. Some are quick to argue or fight, but that only brings more trouble. Going through the right channels takes time, but it works. My case proved that.
In the end, I walked away with more than money. I walked away with an apology in writing and the knowledge that I had stood up for myself the right way.
