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Edited by: szarlotka Mar 5, 07, 08:47 #125
A very Good Day to you all from Angry of Tunbridge Wells
Firstly, let me say that I am indebted to one of the chaps at the golf club for spending the time to introduce me to this Internet development. Ever since those liberal minded, woolly thinking and lefty leaning types at The Telegraph and the Mail have refused to publish my letters any longer, I have lacked a medium for expressing the views of the ordinary English gentleman on the times in which we live.
Between you and me, I suspect the British media types are now all graduates from one of those Polytechnics that masquerade as Universities these days. Half of them cannot spell and the grammar is particularly badly mangled. I have not seen such inappropriate use of the colon since Carruthers ate two particularly spicy curries in Calcutta back in the thirties. If the truth be known they all probably went to state schools. You know the sort, they tend to think that Cicero is a Brazilian footballer and Homer is the star of that garrulous American cartoon series.
Anyway, I digress. Under severe pressure from the Mensab to celebrate many years of wedded bliss, I reluctantly agreed to take her into Town to take in a visit to the picture house followed by a spot of Tiffin. Apparently the last time we made this adventurous journey together I enjoyed Gone with the Wind (must have reminded me of the Carruthers incident, what?) What followed was quite frankly an astonishing journey into Hell itself.
It began with what appeared to be some sort of United Nations convention at TW rail station. Apparently there are now forty seven different type of rail ticket that one can purchase for the simple journey into Town. Having being asked as to which type of ticket I would like to acquire, by a person whose spoken English was not of the Queen’s standard, and having been at a loss to comprehend what the chap was jibbering on about I demanded to speak to the manager. Whereupon some spotty faced youth arrived to tell me in no uncertain terms that I was to stop abusing his staff, buy a ticket Grandad or leave the premises immediately. Of course, I was up for giving the bounder a good thrashing there and then but the Mensab intervened and eventually we boarded the 12:23 into Town – at 13:09.
The carriages were packed and when demanding of a group of youths that they stand to allow my good Wife and I a seat a major melee began. I had thought that the hooded attire in which they were draped was a sure sign of them being in some sort of religious order. How wrong could I be? Apparently they were devotees of a musical genre known as Hap Hop, or Hop Hap. After a brief exchange of blows, during which I managed to get in a few good ones with the trusty rolled umbrella, the Mensab intervened again. Having diffused the immediate situation, she was eventually offered a seat by the offending parties. She spent the remainder of the short journey sitting on the lap of the largest of the protagonists listening to the above mentioned music through headphones connected to what I believe was called a Senopod. Apparently the music genre in question was entirely based upon the need to go and shoot your neighbours and make off with their women. This seems strange to me as in my day a chap would be able to do this by simply joining the Army so I was at a loss to understand the need to sing about it. Still the Mensab appeared happy enough. I confined myself to giving them a damned fine disapproving stare, particularly when they became a trifle too over familiar with the good lady wife.
Having suffered the delight of our deteriorating public transport system, I wisely decided to take a cab from the station to the picture house. At least the good old London cabbie would offer a haven of normality. How wrong could I have been? The cabbie was obviously some sort of Communist. He had a heavy Eastern European accent. Turns out the chap was Polish. A friendly sort as it happens. Mind you I would be happy if I could charge every passenger £15 for a short taxi journey. He told me that there were many of his countrymen in the UK now and that I had better get used to it.
The less said about the film the better. The last time I saw that much naked flesh was at an Ashanti tribal dance. The film had English sub titles. A large group of foreigners sat behind us taking obvious pleasure in my increasing discomfort. I only stayed so that we could stand up at the end for God Save the Queen. Imagine my surprise when after 5 minutes of standing I noticed the whole picture house was empty save for the Mensab and I. I eventually rushed out to complain to the manager, who turned out to be Brazilian, only to be told in faltering English that the National Anthem has not been played at the end of performances for nigh on forty years. What is this country coming to?
Finding a nice tea room was impossible. There were Australian bars, South African bars, Polish bars, Salsa Cafes (whatever they are), Thai restaurants, Chinese restaurants, all flavours of Indian restaurants and even a 17 course Afghan buffet, all you can eat for £6-50 with free Alka Seltzer thrown in. But could I find a Lyons corner house. Could I by God? Eventually, driven by hunger and thirst, we made our way into the only traditional English public house left in the Capital it would seem. Having fought our way through hoards of half naked, braying youths to the bar, I ordered a pint of finest bitter for me and a G & T for the Mensab. Imagine my astonishment to find out that there was no bitter any more and would I like a bottle of premium strength designer label lager instead? I explained, in slow and precise terms, to the young Czech lady serving me that indeed I would not. I turned to the good lady to explain that we were leaving, only to find her in an intense discussion with a six foot five South African chappie who looked to be a second row man. Remembering my earlier altercations I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and elected to wait for said discussion to end. Five G & Ts and a hokey kokey or two later I eventually extricated the Mensab from the establishment. By now I had seen enough to understand that urgent action was required. I despatched the Mensab back on the train back to TW and arranged to meet Hodges from the FCO at his Mayfair Club.
Over a particularly fine bottle of Claret Hodges explained that unbeknown to most people outside of the need to know few, the UK had opened its doors to the whole world. Absolutely anybody can now live here and work here. Now I knew that the EU Walla’s had let a few token Frenchies, Krauts and the like in but the whole world. Good God man, that could include Ruskies! In passing, Hodges also let it slip that the Empire was no more. I commented that this seemed a trifle careless. Over the second bottle Hodges explained that the FCO and HO were now predominantly lead by ex Cambridge chaps. That explains everything I responded. They always were a rum lot. Philby, Blunt et al were all Cambridge chaps. Always were a little pink over there in the Fens. Not at all like us Oxford chaps.
Anyway, as time (and claret) passed I decided to investigate the destruction of my country further. I managed to convince Hodges to get me a room for the night at the club. Armed only with a stiff Glenlivet I made my way unsteadily down to the new business communications centre. The room was deserted save only for a lone American chappie buying Estonia apparently. I approached the delightful filly sitting quietly in the corner reading a large tome penned by Jean Paul Satre. “Bonjour”, I intoned in my best (and only) French. “I would like to use the Interweb to do some research into a complete loss of national identity. Sensing my discomfort in the old Frangalis she responded in perfect but heavily accented English “Of course Sir, I would be delighted to help you in your research” Turned out she was another Pole. After a brief, but highly enjoyable, training session I was able to use the Interweb very well indeed. There were one or two hiccups when searching for information on the Horn of Africa, what with a lady being present and all.
And so we come to this Forum. The kind lady pointed it out as an invaluable introduction to the views of ordinary people around the world and that there were areas of discussion specifically related to immigration into the UK. As the night wore on and the Glenlivet bottle steadily emptied I immersed myself in the intricate web of claim and counterclaim that unfolded before my astonished eyes. If I were to believe some then England (not the UK but England) is responsible for the ills of every country in the world. But if I were to believe others then we have been invaded by millions of people who will work for threepence halfpenny a day, who use all our services, start fights (memo to self - check hood situation) and are depriving good, hard working British youth of job opportunities as plumbers. It became apparent that further research and contemplation was necessary.
The following day, after a particularly strained day at the golf club in which the seniors winter doubles competition was interrupted by a gaggle of screaming banshees demanding lady member access to the bar (over my dead body) and an unfortunate incident involving Peters and the Captain’s lady wife, I sat down to read on further. My conclusions follow.
It really makes my blood boil that you can be so ungrateful to my country. We went to war because you were invaded. We’ve let you in to work in this country. We suffered year upon year from hearing nothing else on the wireless but that b****y awful Warsaw Concerto. We had to endure that Jan Tomaszewski in the World Cup qualifier. We didn’t build the b****y Palace of Science and Culture. We didn’t put tanks on the streets. All this bleating from you just because we didn’t quite make it to the Warsaw Uprising and forgot to tell Uncle Joe to retreat back to Mother Russia. My God, two minor oversights and we are the Devil incarnate. It makes me SOOOOO angry. If we still had the Empire we wouldn’t let you in, that’s how angry I am.
tbc
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Posts: 1971
Joined: Feb 20, 07
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