Skinhead by Richard Allen (Book Review)

I mostly don't do book reviews but this is considered a classic book (you may or may not agree with it) so I will include it here.

In Skinhead, Richard Allen (the pseudonym of Canadian pulp writer James Moffat) plunges readers into the gritty underbelly of the 1970s London skinhead scene, centering on the character of Joe Hawkins. A product of its time, Skinhead embodies the “youthsploitation” genre that aimed to capture (and often caricature) subcultures that alarmed the general public. Published by New English Library, the novel rode the wave of pulp paperbacks obsessed with the dangerous allure of rebellious youth, packaged with a punchy cover, sensationalist language, and just enough controversy to make it feel illicit.

What’s immediately notable about Skinhead is its unabashed portrayal of violence, particularly through Hawkins, a thug who takes pleasure in roughing up anyone—be they rival football fans, dock workers, or unsuspecting pub-goers—who dares cross his path. Allen’s London is post-1960s, but far from swinging or idealistic; it’s a decaying cityscape where characters like Joe get by on a combination of fists, bravado, and brute force.

Allen’s prose is quick-paced, crude, and at times surprisingly evocative of the era. While the novel’s language, complete with rogue commas, random semicolons, and exclamation marks, may not win any grammar awards, it does capture a certain frenetic energy that aligns with the chaotic life of its protagonist. Joe Hawkins is not written as a hero or even a misunderstood anti-hero; he’s portrayed as a pure embodiment of nihilistic aggression—a product, as the author suggests, not of social deprivation but simply a psychopath by nature.

Yet, Skinhead is also a contradiction. While Allen is eager to paint Joe as fearsome, the narrative often shows him on the losing end of confrontations. Joe’s supposed “reputation” is undercut by his frequent defeats, from Chelsea fans and dockers to choirboys and policemen, turning the novel into an unintentional comedy where readers find themselves amused by Joe’s frequent embarrassments rather than intimidated.

But beneath the surface, Skinhead is as much a critique as it is a sensationalist romp. Allen injects a noticeable contempt for the subculture he writes about, dismissing skinheads as a symptom of society gone wrong—yet he’s also fascinated, even infatuated, with their rough vitality. This split perspective comes through clearly in the ideological asides, where Allen links every transgression to what he sees as moral decay encouraged by welfare policies and the decline of traditional values. There’s a sense that Allen’s skinheads represent more than just youth gone wild; they’re an indictment of modern society’s “softness,” yet he stops short of glorifying them.

Despite its flaws, Skinhead remains a compelling cultural artifact. For those interested in subcultural history, it offers a window into how skinheads were perceived in the 1970s, long before their image became more racially and politically charged. The novel’s lack of a traditional plot, with Joe moving from one brawl to another without much coherence, reflects the disorientation of a young man caught between self-destruction and a yearning for respect.

While unlikely to appeal broadly due to its problematic content and unsophisticated style, Skinhead is worth a read for those curious about pulp fiction’s take on a controversial subculture. It’s violent, often distasteful, and ideologically questionable, but it captures a raw slice of 1970s London and its disaffected youth—a slice that continues to intrigue, if only because it offers a glimpse into a time when fear, fascination, and scorn coalesced around a generation on society’s fringe.