The BNP have elaborated on their policies. I can't even write "BNP" without feeling ashamed. Let's get it right. The Fascists.
They are planning to offer grants for people to voluntarily resettle in the lands of their ethnic origin. Right: hand over the money and I'll be back over the Severn Bridge as quick as a flash. Ah no. On closer reading, it's about foreigners.
I am deeply ashamed that my country (yes, MY COUNTRY) can countenance the claptrap spouted by these people. I am proud of the fact that we can give homes to people who are oppressed in their own country. My son and daughter would never have been born if their father's family hadn't fled to Britain from the pogroms of Eastern Europe.
And the economic migrants. They come to our country and work in our hospital and offices and CLEAN them. I confess that I nicked that line from Jeremy Hardy on last week's News Quiz.
If we believe in our freedoms, then I suppose that the BNP are entitled to hold and promote their opinions. But we really do need to look critically at their data. Looking at information from the Office of National Statistics, rather than the Daily Mail, it is likely that approximately 10% of people living in Britain were not born here. That's about 6 million people, give or take. And how many British people choose to live or work abroad. About 5.5 million. So the net is about half a million. This number is subject to some churn as people return to their country and others travel abroad but, overall, there is a net inflow of about half a million. It's reckoned that this may have reversed in the current economic climate.
The problem is about ghettoisation and disaffection. That applies to young men being redicalised by strange and undesirable religious leaders but much more so to the underclass of uneducated young white males. Yes, it's not easy but I am proud that I belong to a tolerant country that has been enriched not diminished by migration.
Now then, about sorting out these foreigners. Who would they be? Damn, it'll only be a handful of us Beaker Folk left. All you Celts and Angles and Vikings can bugger off back to where you came from. And apparently, it'll be us Beaker Folk stuck up a few hills that will be sending you on your way.
And as for you Romans....
Romanes eunt domus ...er no... Romani ite domum.*
*Monty Python : "Life of Brian" Latin lesson by centurion for Brian daubing graffiti
I’ve just been reading Alright Tit and it made me think about the cussing I’ve known.
A little while ago, Some mothers do ave em made me laugh with tales of her potty mouth experience. Have a read … howl with laughter and squirm with embarrassment for her.
We've all been there.
I used to call them "driving words" in front of the children because my bad language was mainly heard when we were in the car. I carefully explained that sometimes Mummy needed to use bad words but you can only use them when you are driving. When you are grown up and you can drive blah, blah... you get it.
Some friends had the driving word rule too. They were driving to the West Country for a family holiday. Somewhere around Honiton, there was a humungous traffic jam and someone decided to create new traffic rules. My hot and bothered friend expressed the opinion that the perpetrator’s parents were unlikely to have been married. They looked guiltily at the back seat but the children were engrossed in the Thomas the Tank Engine tape. Phew. Eventually they got to their destination in the heat of the day with the windows wound down. Someone cut in front as they drove into the car park. Their four year old son was quick off the mark and hollered “BASTARD” at the holidaymakers.
I thought I had it nailed on the driving word front. Felt really proud of myself. It all unravelled horribly when I took Madette and Junior Mad to visit my mother. We had a truly awful journey culminating in a puncture on the M4. It required the full quota of driving words. They were so impressed when we got there that they spilled out of the car full of excitement, dead keen to tell their grandmother about the vicissitudes of the journey. Junior Mad explained that Mummy had used all sorts of driving words in many and varied combinations. She asked them WHAT were driving words. Madette, alert to the fact that this might need editing said "Oh things like bloody and bugger, Nain" but Junior Mad added "And fuck". We had a great day. My mother tore my ear off.
In 1991, an interesting combination of circumstances brought a boy from Czechoslovakia to stay. He was a monster; more of that another time. At the time, the wonderful Juno was our nanny. It was a hot summer’s afternoon and we were going to Sport’s Day at school. Czech-monster-boy had already had a run in with Juno when he refused to get into appropriate summer clothes and had sulked because we weren’t going to let him sit in front of the television all afternoon. Everyone was loading stuff into the car. CMB stomped out of the front door and slammed it behind him. Locking my house keys and car keys indoors. I quickly discovered that my children would have made good apprentices for Fagin and we broke in after about half an hour. CMB was vile all afternoon, spitting out the picnic on the lawn. By the time we got home, I was frazzled beyond. Madette and Junior Mad went to play and Juno took CMB off for a little pep talk. As I unpacked the remains of the picnic, CMB appeared by my side. “I’m sorry Mrs Mad”. “That’s alright, CMB”. “No, Mrs Mad, I’m a total fucking prat”.
So back to my mother. Dad swore like punctuation. Mainly “bloody hell”. If it was bad, “Duw, bloody hell”. Mam didn’t really do the swearing thing and I got a sharp slap if I indulged. Bad language on television had her shooting across the room to hit the off button. When I was about twelve, someone had graffitied “Fuck” on a bridge near home. I’m not sure if it was a statement or a command, but she insisted that I cross the road and not look at it. Sometime in the mid 1990s, we were visited by the Jehovah’s Witnesses when she was staying with us. The JW had waylaid one of the household at the front door and would not leave, despite pleas of belonging to another faith, lack of interest etc. By this time, my mother was everyone’s idea of a grandmother : eightyish, white curls, apple cheeked and rather round. She trotted to the door, took in the “Watch Tower” clutched in the JW’s paw and bellowed “BUGGER OFF”. The JW fled, leaving an umbrella abandoned in the porch. We left it there for a few days in case they felt brave enough to sneak back up the drive to collect it. Fifteen years on, it’s still in my umbrella stand. Clearly, hell’s grandma was sufficient deterrent.
And if you’re wondering about the title … the fabulous Flanders and Swann wrote a song that starts “Ma’s out, Pa’s out, Lets talk rude: Pee Po, Belly, Bum, Drawers”.