tired fools

britain has undergone a quite sizeable change of late. the official numbers declare 1.1 million immigrants in the last couple of years. i’m amazed that this was allowed to happen. happy about it, but surprised. it’s another example of the hanging conundrum. democracy is good, majority rules - ah, but they all want to vote for hanging, so let’s ignore the majority when it’s obviously wrong. a popular vote of the uk in which the population was asked to vote for uber-strict immigration control would be absolutely decisive, yet . . .

i can only suppose it was an accident, that no one actually thought the EU common border proposals through. this kind of immigration was inevitable. what was, of old, the journey from the country to the town has become the country to the other country. reasons don’t matter, if you let people travel, they will. i have a secret alternate universe in which britain never imposed passport controls, and no one else had to follow suit. they let that early greek experiment wither on the vine. i think this alternate universe would have yielded a present that may have been preferable. let common interests group together in whatever fashion they desire. self-organisation has got to be better than self-interested direction.

the town of slough is, let’s face it, not particularly desirable. John Bentjamen, in a truly wonderful poem, called on the german bombers to raise it to the ground:

Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
It isn’t fit for humans now,
There isn’t grass to graze a cow
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs, and blow to smithereens
Those air-conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town —
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week for half-a-crown
For twenty years,

And get that man with double chin
Who’ll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women’s tears,

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It’s not their fault that they are mad,
They’ve tasted Hell.

It’s not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It’s not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sports and makes of cars
In various bogus Tudor bars
And daren’t look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.

in slough, eastern european make up more than 10% of school children. in some classes more than 40% of kids have arrived in the last three years as non-english speakers. the coat-hooks are tagged ‘tomasz’, not thomas. the schools employ polish teaching assistants to help them in class. ponds around the uk have signs specifically designed for eastern europeans, pointing out that you can’t take out the carp and eat them, that, please, catch it, then throw it back.

british thugs have a helluva job working out, on sight, who the immigrants might be, the bastards look like us. much easier with the pakis and the blacks. but, of course, they’re us now. it’s all to the good, i’m just not sure how it happened.