#skinhead group

[scarmille]

via ig

[trashbaghaircuts]

Punk backyard haircuts

[courseyoulovemeyoudontknowme]

American History X (1998, Tony Kaye)

17/06/2024

[butch-bakugo]

Insane that no one has said it but "I/p", "i/p war" and "I/p conflict" is absolutely a Zionist/anti-palestine/Jewish colonist-sumpremacist dog whistle way of referring to the Palestinian genocide. It's not a total one but more of semi-dog whistle catagory of both look at the context of those using it and everyone who uses it may not be a zio but every zio uses it sort of deal.

Honestly you should be checking everyone who refers to the Palestinian genocide as a war or conflict or anything other than a genocide, colonization and ethnic cleansing. Just because a bigot and genocide supporter may not be putting a positive spin on a horrific event doesn't mean that their neutral or centrist position isn't violence. Calling what's happening to Palestine anything other than a genocide is a disrespect to all victims of genocide. Zios are fash. We punch fash here. Fashes want genocide and zios want genocide.

Im not pussy footing around what they fucking are because some of them are also oppressed, I'm not some thin skinned whiney liberal teenager you can bully into silence, I'm a strong native American survivor of a genocide and I'm not gonna use nice or neutral language when I talk about anyone who commits genocide, fascism, colonization or ethnic cleansing. We punch colonizers here. Grow a spine and stop supporting colonization and genocide or meet my native steel spiked leather boots. Idk what you want from me, im exactly what i tell you i am and i punch nazis and I kick out colonizers. Boo hoo? Ig?? 🤷🏽🤣🤣

[canichangemyblogname]

Coffee stop stranger to my friend watching a TikTok video: “A terrorist organization uses that phrase to call for jihad, just so you know.”

Me playing dumb because I know this person is just being Arabophobic and Islamophobic: “Which phrase? Alhamdulillah?”

*a pause while they “think” because they don’t know Arabic and have no clue what they’re actually arguing against*

Them: “Yeah. You kids need to stop saying it. It makes people uncomfortable.”

Me: “THANK GOD you were here to tell us. Where would we be without you?”

Old people are so bold and they love to comment on things that are none of their damn business 😑

[possumteeths]

Just now I was doing some dumb quiz via a tumblr post and this person consistently used like straight up white supremacist signaling multiple times but in a completely like… innocent way? This person clearly has no idea of like skinheads amongst punk subculture or lace code or anything like that so for the edgier options in their quiz the images were consistently pictures of skinheads and white bar laced boots nfmsndksjdmskdjskfhekfnd

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Homeward Bound (Part 3)

I was jolted awake by alternating slaps across my face, the sting burning against my skin.

“Yeah, f***er, when I say wake up, YOU WAKE UP.” The voice, thick with a Mancunian accent, was a growl that echoed in my skull.

I blinked, struggling to focus, but my limbs were immobile—tied with rope. All I could see from this angle were his heavy duty black boots. Another pair stepped forward, the toe brushing my cheek, and I recoiled instinctively. This pair was different: shiny black leather with thick soles and stark white laces. My gaze froze as I noticed the boot was covered in dirt..

“Fresh, just for you,” the Mancunian sneered, his tone both mocking and possessive. “Go on, clean it.” The room erupted in sniggers, a cacophony of cruel laughter.

I twisted, pulling against my restraints, but it was no use. A rough hand gripped the back of my neck, forcing my face closer to the boot. “No, you don’t,” he hissed. “You’re gonna learn respect, lad.”

“Lick.”

The word sliced through the air like a whip. I clamped my lips shut, defiant, but the price of resistance was swift. Pain exploded through my face as a fist connected with my nose, and I felt warm blood trickling over my lip. My breath hitched as I tasted copper.

The man leaned in, his breath heavy with smoke and menace. “Listen, pretty boy. We’re in charge. You do as we say, or you’ll wish you were dead.”

The boot hovered an inch from my mouth again, and I hesitated, panic warring with stubborn pride. The room’s silence became oppressive, the weight of their gazes daring me to refuse. Tentatively, my tongue flicked out, brushing the cold leather. The texture was rough, the taste bitter, with a faint salty tang that churned my stomach.

“Keep going,” he ordered, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “Don’t stop until I say.”

From where I lay on the floor, I could sense Gav’s gaze drilling into me. “Better get used to the taste, posh boy,” he sneered. “There’s a lot more where that came from.”

The skinhead with the Mancunian accent leaned closer, his grin a sharp-edged weapon. “Congratulations,” he said mockingly. “You’ve been selected for transformation. We’re gonna remake you. You won’t like it while we’re at it, but when we’re done, you’ll be thanking us. Oh, and for now, you call me ‘Boss.’ The rest of the lads? ‘Sir.’ Understood?”

“Right, lads,” Mick cut in, his tone businesslike. “Let’s get him in the chair.”

My heart sank as my eyes locked onto the chair he was talking about. It sat hulking on the far side of the room, a monstrous hybrid of wood and metal, its surfaces stained with something dark and unsettling. Heavy leather straps dangled ominously from the armrests and legs.

“Wh-what do you want?” I croaked, forcing the words out through a throat that felt like sandpaper. My voice was faint, but it was enough to pause them for a fleeting moment.

Mick crouched in front of me, his icy gaze drilling into mine. “What we want,” he said slowly, savouring each word, “is to see if you’ve got what it takes.”

“What it takes for what?” Panic edged my voice sharper.

Mick smirked, a predator toying with its prey. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Laughter erupted from the group as they hauled me up, untied me, and dragged me toward the chair. Despite a desperate surge of resistance, my struggles were no match for the practiced efficiency of their hands. They strapped me in, the leather biting into my wrists and ankles, rendering me utterly helpless.

The youngest-looking skinhead hesitated, his doubt visible in the flicker of his eyes. “You sure he’s the right one?” he ventured timidly.

Boss rounded on him with a glare that could turn milk sour. “Course I’m sure. What’s the matter? Getting squeamish now?”

“No, it’s just…” The young one shuffled nervously. “He’s older than the others. Doesn’t seem like he’ll last long.”

“That’s the bloody point,” Boss snapped. “If he can’t handle it, he’s no use to us. Our Midlands friend has… let’s say very specific tastes.”

Cold dread coiled in my stomach as I tried to decipher their cryptic words. Handle what? Who was their friend? My mind raced, desperate for answers, while my eyes darted around the dimly lit room. It revealed nothing but an old sofa, a coffee table littered with cans of Special Brew, and a single bare lightbulb casting harsh shadows.

“This is where it starts,” Mick said, crouching down into my line of sight with a wicked grin. “You’re gonna become one of us. Whether you like it or not.”

My attempt to protest came out as a dry croak. Another skinhead—lanky, tattooed, and radiating malice—stepped forward with a buzzing set of clippers.

“First,” he sneered, “that office-worker haircut is going. Actually, your whole normal-bloke look is going.”

The clippers roared to life, and I felt the vibration against my scalp as clumps of hair tumbled to the floor. I squirmed against the restraints, but the straps held firm. The group cheered and jeered as my identity fell away in ragged tufts.

CLACK!

Just as I thought the humiliation might subside, Boss leaned in, his face mere inches from mine. His eyes locked onto mine with an unnerving intensity. “Mmm, looking better already,” he murmured, a smirk curling his lips. “But this? This is just the beginning.”

The youngest skinhead emerged from the shadows carrying a bowl of hot soapy water and a rag. My stomach churned at the sight. The rag looked filthy, its edges frayed and stained. He scrubbed at my face and neck with rough efficiency, his movements methodical under the approving stares of Mick, Gav, and Boss. When he was done, Mick handed him a can of shaving foam and a fresh razor.

“Now stay still,” Mick said, his voice mockingly sweet, “while I shave you smooth. Cue-ball smooth.” He dragged out the word ‘smooth’ with exaggerated glee, earning chuckles from the group.

I sat rigid as the razor scraped against my scalp. By the time he finished, the others descended on me, gleefully rubbing my freshly denuded head like it was some grotesque trophy.

Gav returned, carrying a large laundry bag. He tipped its contents onto the floor in front of me. Boss stepped forward, scissors in hand, and began cutting away at my clothes. Stripped down to my underwear in moments, I felt my last vestige of dignity vanish.

Gav unstrapped my wrists and ankles. “You can take those off yourself,” he said, gesturing to my remaining clothing. “Yeah, you’re going commando now, mate. Just like the rest of us. Now, get into yer new clobber.”

I hesitated, but a sharp slap to the back of my head reminded me resistance wasn’t an option. Under their watchful eyes, I reluctantly dressed in the outfit they’d laid out: cut-off jeans mottled with white patches, crusty off-white socks, and a black top that stretched over my newly shaved scalp.

Mick knelt in front of me to lace up the heavy black boots they’d forced onto my feet. The weight of them felt alien, grounding me in this surreal nightmare. When I stood, Mick stepped back to appraise me like an artist evaluating his work.

“Not bad,” he said with a nod. “But a look isn’t enough. You’ve got to think like us. Act like us. And that’s gonna take work.”

The group murmured in agreement, their faces alight with anticipation.

“What do you want from me?” I rasped, my voice barely audible.

Boss’ grin widened into something monstrous. “Oh, we’re gonna teach you everything, mate. From now on, you’re one of us. But first? We’ve got to break the old you down to nothing.”

His words hit me like a gut punch.

As the skinheads closed in, their eyes gleaming with malicious intent, I realised the person I’d been before stepping onto that train was slipping further away, piece by piece.

[knuckleduster]

exhibit A

liking taylor swift is obviously not punk but it is similar in that it is almost as lame and cringe as calling yourself punk in 2023

[kaijuno]

I found an interesting movie.

This movie, Lowlife, from 2017, starring absolutely no one you've ever heard of before, is bad ass. Its like Breaking Bad if it was directed by Robert Rodriquez.

The movie is about a group of lowlives, a drug addict, an ex con, a luchador wrestler and a neo nazi, who team up to stop a human trafficking ring run out of a taco shop.

This movie has done something I've never seen before - One of the characters is a Neo-Nazi Skinhead who turns out to actually be one of the best characters in the whole movie with one of the greatest character arcs I've ever seen. Its funny and also pretty dark at times, oozing style.

The director hasn't made anything since, but here's hoping that he makes more like this soon. Apparently, all the actors and crew are his friends. This is an ultra low budget movie, but it doesn't even show - Production value is on point.

EDIT: It is on Prime and AMC+ In North America, maybe other countries. It was on Tubi at one point, might come back. There are new copies in eBay of the blu ray and DVD. And there's also "other methods" if everything else fails you .

[scarmille]

visited my friend today, i miss her badly

it was so peaceful today and so quiet,

take care of yourself guys, you are loved and supported no matter where you are in life

[mybigboots]

Don't let your Skinhead September be a lonely one. Celebrate with a group.

[kick-a-long]

"In fact, “normies” like Hovater are just as dangerous, if not more so, than the neo-Nazi skinheads and criminals who have up until now been the face of the far-right extremist movement. Thugs carrying guns and beating people up in alleys may evoke more fear, but historically they are outliers. Incidents of mass violence like the Holocaust, Rwandan Tutsi Genocide and the Cambodian Genocide begin when average citizens buy into racist ideology and do the work of turning a society against a group of people. And those average citizens do have regular jobs and careers. They may even have friends of different racial backgrounds, and they may be loving parents.

Testimonies of genocide survivors tell us, time and time again, of the once friendly neighbors who turned in their Jewish acquaintances to the Gestapo. The classmates and teachers who taunted students with racist chants. The manifestos shouted on the radio and printed in newspapers. All the people responsible for these acts were “normies.” Genocide prevention depends on recognizing that future perpetrators are not a special breed of evil: they are normal people who, without proper intervention, can be easily persuaded to become more and more open about their hate until eventually they resort to violence."

the only defense to becoming a monster, even if you don't look or recognize you are becoming one, is to learn about the world and the people in it. seeing in black and white, perfect good and perfect evil, misses the complexity of life.

stop trying to moralize acting shitty to strangers and friends by covering it in coded language and excuses.

[mariacallous]

Picture this, if you will: hundreds of grey-haired grannies ganging up to face down a group of neo-Nazi skinheads. Some of the skinheads have beer bottles in their hands. The grannies are armed with nothing more than umbrellas and hand-knitted woolly hats. It sounds like a corny sketch for a TV comedy show. But no. It’s election time in Germany’s eastern Länder (federal regions), and the grannies are out on the streets.

There’s no Granny Party. The movement, called in German Omas gegen Rechts (Grannies against the right), has grown into a national and international force since it was founded in 2017 by an Austrian psychotherapist and evangelical priest, Monika Salzer.

It is widely assumed here that apathy and low voter turnout will result in a far-right victory. But election posters showing a cartoon granny with a rainbow flag carry a simple message: “Granny says – go out and vote!” Apart from the rainbow, a symbol of tolerance, sexual liberation and diversity, there is no instruction on how to vote.

In between elections, the Grannies are busy knitting and babysitting. But they also raise funds, for example by baking and selling cakes, to finance the poster campaign and a set of beer mats that make up a pub quiz.

In Leipzig, my new home town, the Grannies have raised enough money to install three new Stumblestones (Stolpersteine). These are little brass plaques inscribed with the names of people whom the Nazis deported and murdered in the 1930s and 40s. The new plaques commemorate the Wesly family – Hermann, a Jewish publisher of music and books, his wife, Berta, and their daughter, Margot. Berta and Hermann were taken to Auschwitz and murdered in the gas chambers. Margot escaped to England – but the British authorities put her in a concentration camp too, as an enemy alien.

A violin and an accordion were played during the installation of the little plaques where the Weslys’ house once stood. The stonemason’s hammer punctuated the music with a slow beat. Then Granny Gisela read out a short account of how the family was persecuted and how we must never forget. Many spectators were in tears. The memorial is on the doorstep of the new building that now stands on the site – a kindergarten. Its head teacher joined the ceremony and promised to find a way of explaining the story to the kids “without scaring them too much”. I remarked that it was a very special moment. Granny Sylvia put me right.

“Sadly, it’s not so special. This brings the number of Stolpersteine in Leipzig to almost 800. There is one on almost every street,” she said, before inviting us all to join her for coffee and cake.

Later she shared a link to the Stolpersteine app in the Google Play store (also on Apple). It’s true – there are hundreds of Stumblestones. Many are not for Jewish victims, but for brave souls like William Zipperer who tried to stop the Nazis and save their neighbours. He was executed in January 1945 for plotting against the state. 

As a mark of respect, the Grannies regularly go out to polish the small memorials set into the pavements, to light candles and lay flowers.

There is another side to the movement. They are part of the Antifa, Germany’s radical ultra-left. Not quite as radical as Lina Engel, the antifascist activist who is serving jail time in Dresden for plotting physical attacks on neo-Nazi pubs and meetings. Nor have any Grannies been caught setting fire to building sites where executive homes are replacing the old affordable blocks of flats – a typical Antifa action. 

They upload videos to TikTok. And they are taking their campaign out of the city and into villages and suburbs where right wing parties recruit people who feel neglected or “left behind” by the Berlin government.

“Solidarity without borders instead of right wing propaganda,” says the Radical Grannies’ poster, urging supporters to join them in a mass demonstration. These are Grannies who don’t knit. 

[octuscle]

Experience abroad

Daichi was more than pissed off when he finally arrived at his shabby Airbnb in south London. He had been looking forward to the two semesters abroad. He had been looking forward to making new friends and improving his English. But when he arrived at his small apartment and opened his suitcase, he immediately realized that something was wrong. Instead of his carefully folded clothes and personal belongings, he found the rough, dark clothes of a skinhead. All stuffed into the suitcase rather than packed. And everything smelled of cigarettes, beer and sweat. The journey had been exhausting enough… And now this!

It was late. Daichi had been on his feet for over 36 hours. He had sat next to a screaming toddler during the flight. All he wanted to do was sleep. The last thing he noticed before he fell asleep was that smell. That male smell… He was dreaming wildly. A collage of boots, bomber jackets, but also brass knuckles, broken noses and soccer stadiums. It was still dark when he woke up all sweaty. He had slept naked. Naked except for the Prince Albert through his glans. Shit! He had no piercings. Daichi took his cock in his hand. Confused at first, but also somehow fascinated. The boots, the heavy jeans, the bomber jacket… And now the piercing. It was all so different from what he knew. Out of curiosity and perhaps a little out of a sense of adventure, he put on the clothes. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he felt strangely powerful and self-confident. It was a feeling he had never experienced before, and he liked it.

Even though he could have sworn the apartment was clean yesterday, there was now a full ashtray on the kitchen table. There were beer cans in the sink. He shook the cans. There was obviously something left in one of them. Stale and warm. It tasted like piss. He loved it. And he needed a cigarette to go with it. One of the butts in the ashtray looked as if he could get a few more puffs out of it. He felt a Zippo in his trouser pocket. Engraved on it was a stylized picture of a young man hanging on a cross. But no Jesus. The young man was wearing jeans, suspenders and boots. And was shaved bald.

Smoking and finishing his beer, Daichi inspected the apartment. He had been too tired yesterday. There were also full ashtrays on the floor next to the sofa, which was covered in burn holes, and on the bedside table. There were exhausted butts on the floor in the dirty bathroom. He had to piss. He wouldn't even sit on the dirty toilet to take a shit. But flip up the toilet seat? Shit, for losers! It felt good to have his impressive cock with the scrotal ladder and the PA in his hand and to shoot the yellow, steaming stream into the bowl. Everything felt good. Good and right.

Damn, he had to have more butts somewhere. A couple of hi-viz jackets and his bomber jackets hung on the coat rack. He patted the pockets. Thank God! He found an almost full packet in one jacket. He looked at his cell phone. It was 03:30. Saturday morning shit, and he was home. How pathetic! He put on the jacket in which he had found the cigarettes and left the apartment.

He liked the way the boots sounded on the asphalt. The boots were great anyway. They gave him strength and self-confidence. There weren't many people left on the street. However, he noticed that the people he met treated him differently - with a mixture of respect and fear. Daichi felt like he was being remote-controlled. He knew where he wanted to go. The club's neon sign flickered. A few mates stood outside the door, smoking and drinking beer. One evening, he was approached by a group of men who were also dressed like this. He greeted them with a curt "Oi", his mates nodded and respectfully stepped aside. Daichi was not necessarily known as a thug. But it was well known that it was better not to mess with him.

Daichi loved the club. Nowhere else was the air so impregnated with pure testosterone. Not even in the boxing gym where he trained his muscles every evening after work collecting garbage. And what was missing there was the additional stench of tobacco smoke, beer and piss. It was no longer necessarily full. But well-filled. The usual guys at the bar. They exchanged a few sentences about the latest soccer results, boxing matches and the pissers at the welfare office. But that wasn't why Daichi was here. His cock hadn't gone completely soft since he'd woken up. But here it was getting hard again, very hard. And he knew that a whole bunch of guys had moved in the direction of the piss chutes since his appearance. Another beer, and his bladder was ready to baptize a few of his new victims.

05:30. Slowly, the club emptied. Daichi's bladder and balls were also emptied. One last beer. It was time to go to bed. A few more hours of sleep. And then off to the stadium. The pissers from the opposing fan block were just waiting to make the acquaintance of his fists.

Inspiration by @felinefur0502

Pics by @ki-kink

[safety-pin-punk]

What's your opinion on SHARP and the reclamation skinhead movement as a whole?

Im not really sure how to answer this, as my opinion on the matter isnt really important. SHARPs exist and so does there movement. Though I do think that in their efforts, they’ve made the divide between skinheads and SHARPs more prominent (imo for the better).

For those that dont know the history here (and I really just need to do a whole post on this some time):

Skinhead culture started in the 60s in the UK as a working class group with influences from all kinds of minority groups, but especially Jamaican.

In the 70s, a ‘revival’ of skinhead culture devolved into groups of fascist neo-nazis. (This is where the term Nazi Punks Fuck Off comes from). Eventually this made its way over to the US in the early 80s

By 1987, SHARPs (skinheads against racial prejudice) was founded in NYC. Trads are *kinda* a group along the same line (aka traditional skinheads).

Being as the term ‘skinhead’ is still very much associated with white power beliefs and actions, I think its important for skins to specify whether they are SHARPs or Trads rather than just using the term skinhead. Because if all I hear is skinhead, Im immediately on alert. But if I hear SHARP or Trad skin, Im far less concerned, if at all.

[itwill-comeback]

Yeah isn't it wild this is supposed to be better than the vampires just doing random murder?

UM...