I sometimes wonder if I’m living in the right country.

I wake up, and it seems that as soon as I connect to the ‘world’ via any media – be that radio, TV, or even Twitter and Facebook – I am confronted by some pretty uncomfortable and undesirable commentary about migration and Europe. The world that is broadcast to me is usually the UK and also a bit about which unpalatable turd is going to be the next President of the United States. Would it be the flaxen haired loudmouth whose ego is in inverse proportion to his intelligence, whose ambition and posture would shame Narcissus and whose loose connection with morality would put the Prince of Darkness to shame? Or would it be a woman who is so connected to the ruling establishment that her shit smells of opportunism and entitlement. Well, we all know how that turned out. 

In Britain, by some shameful coincidence, we have our own version of a flaxen haired loudmouth whose sense of entitlement is so big it can be seen from the moon, whose ego is in inverse proportion to his intelligence, whose ambition and posture would shame Narcissus and whose loose connection with morality would put the Prince of Darkness to shame. 

Two countries united by a common curse. 

The world broadcast to me is about swarms invading our shores like blood sucking leeches sucking out the vitality of Empire while simultaneously taking our jobs and claiming benefits. 

This is it. This is main news feed we are getting: Shoot the migrants, it’s all their fault. Build a wall, make the migrant pay for it. Let them drown its their fault anyway. 

The Good Samaritan revisited 

A man lies prostrate at the side of the road, he is bloody and beaten after being robbed. Several passers-by ignore his plight, many cross to the other side to avoid his pitiful cries for help. Then someone approaches him to take a closer look. He looks down on the man and a well of emotion erupts within. He sees the man’s bloodied head, his ripped and torn clothes and his empty wallet devoid of cash or credit cards. A picture of the man’s wife and child is torn and bloodstained. He notes that the man is a stranger on a strange shore. He thinks to himself and asks why the man’s fellow countrymen have not helped, why no one from his own culture has stopped. 

London can be a lonely place. 

He stoops down as if to say something. The man looks up to meet his gaze, in pain more than in hope. 

“Fuck it” he thinks, “why not?'” 

So, looking around to see if anyone is watching, he aims a boot at the man’s bollocks and drives home a good kick.

“…coming over here, taking my job, on benefits, getting my house, my access to a doctor, making me pay for the kid’s education, making my pension worthless, holding down my wages, removing my right as an employee through the imposition of a zero hours contract, making the trains expensive, cutting the local bus routes, closing my library, asking my mum pay for her care, being a terrorist forcing the ban on Christmas, stopping me flying my flag, looking dodgy, raping my daughter, for being a paedophile, wearing a beard, eating stupid food, and worst of all for my piles.” 

Thus justice meted out, the thought occurs that that this requires a celebratory pint in his local pub back home in a pretty Cotswold village.

So, later in the ‘Fascist and Fuckwit’, he turns to his mate at the bar and he retells the encounter.

“…and thats’s how you get Brexit done”. 

The UK right now is no country for this old man. 

I’ll sit and watch the sunset as the flag gets lowered on our decency and honour.