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