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Posted Wednesday, January 12, 2005

'I am Eeeengleeesh,' she shrieks in her thick Eastern European accent. 'Do nart eeensult me.' But the hair colour gives her away.

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January 12, 2005 (Wednesday)
London (England)

BUS to school with Jessica at 8:10 a.m. She vanishes upstairs. A crotchety start to the day. The woman next to me refuses to take her dirty feet off the seat in front, so I berate her all the way to South Kensington. "We don't do that in England," is my opening line.

I am not sure whether that little piece of nationalism is breaking the law in this country now. It evidently sticks in her fat throat, but only briefly. Lithuanian or Polish I would guess; grim featured and pudgy, short stocky legs, improbable brown-magenta hair colouring, etc. The kind one used to see on every jolting bus in East Berlin.

George on the buildings, summer 1955As her retorts become increasingly tart, her feet still firmly planted on the seat, I test on her some of the less elegant Ukrainian and Russian invective that I learned working next to George (left) on the buildings in 1955. "I am Eeeengleeesh," she shrieks in her thick Eastern European accent. "Do nart eeensult me."

But the hair colour gives her away. I point out that her feet have walked where dogs have crapped, and we English don't want to have to sit on seats where ignorant immigrants like her have planted their dirty shoes.

She hopes I will surrender, and shut up; but for me it's 1940 all over. I scramble squadron after squadron of fighting words into the lofty battle, and keep it up for the whole bus journey. All the other passengers sit stoney faced; what cowards.

In fact nine-tenths of them are immigrants too, to judge from skin-colour, head dress, and language. Every passenger who now boards the London buses with a stroller (English: "push chair") is an immigrant, and that is not hyperbole; they are multiplying like amoeba. London's (free) maternity wards are overrun with them, and most of the nation's hospitals are now invaded by fierce and mysterious bacteria, a Fifth Column that is killing off many of the other patients luckless enough to be dragged off to them; even in Saint Mary's Hospital in Paddington, where Jessica and most of my other children were born, this modern plague is raging. It mocks the blue memorial tablet marking the room where Sir Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin. The staffs can no longer cope with the level of filth that is swamping in.

The rest of the passengers probably silently side with my fat and sluttish neighbour. Jessica has her nose in the air when she comes downstairs; I am just in time to catch a 414 back to Mayfair. God, these immigrants that Tony Blair and his crooked gang have allowed in, to exploit as cheap slave labour! A hundred thousand from Eastern Europe in the last six months!

They are hardly the crême de la crême. They're going to swamp the island, submerge our culture, and drag us down to their farm-yard level. Small wonder that the prime minister chooses to vacation as the guest of his millionaire friends in Italy (seemingly unconcerned by the little wetness that meanwhile struck Ceylon and Indonesia). Our England is a land becoming increasingly un-fair and unpleasant to reside in.


 [Previous Radical's Diary]


© Focal Point 2005 F DISmall David Irving