I confess to being a little nonplussed by such questions. But then I remembered that this is Britain in the 21st century, and the lunatic fringes of the Third World are now firmly anchored in the mainstream.
Honor killings, forced marriage, people trafficking, slavery, violent exorcism, clitoral mutilation, child grooming, and masked jihadists wishing to slit our throats—you name it, it’s part of our much-lauded, colorful cultural mix. Without a single vote being cast or our opinion being sought, the nation has been hijacked. Yes, on occasion, I pray for the power to transform myself into a bat and fly the hell away from here.
This is not glib observation or casual racist comment. It concerns the survival of this country. Today, there are more British Muslims fighting for the Islamic State overseas or imprisoned here for terror-related offenses than are signing up for Britain’s armed forces. Rather than a country with a core common value system—a prerequisite for national identity and existence—we have simply become a lump of rock inhabited by migrants with no love for, loyalty to, or pride, stake, or belief in our nation.
For decades, the liberal-left has peddled the view—without explanation or apology—that multiculturalism is good for our souls and society at large. No matter that Muslim imams preach hate against us, that men of Pakistani origin were cultivating white girls for sexual exploitation, that Romanians now camp in London’s Park Lane. All part of the general vibrancy.
It is why multiculturalism is a talisman and buzzword for the touchy-feelies. They think it’s wonderful, another “-ism” to be added to their laying-on of hands and lexicon of love. All comers are welcome, regardless of creed or color or level of antipathy toward their host.
Except the end result is that the nation dies. It does so before we even notice. It starts with our speaking pidgin English in order to be understood, follows with a dumbing-down of education and culture to the lowest common denominator, and finishes without a shared vocabulary and with no one mentioning British history or values because they have no relevance for the burgeoning and foreign minority.
A friend of mine was recently helping her African cleaner revise for her British citizenship test and asked her if she knew the identity of an elderly lady pictured in a national broadsheet. “That is your grandmother,” the African replied. Actually, it was the Queen.
No matter, my friend asked another question: the name of the current UK Prime Minister. “I know it, I know it … It is Margaret.” There is no hope.
You might think immigrants will learn, and contribute, and that their loyalty and passion for this country will grow. Perhaps you are naive: I have seen more British Muslims burning our Remembrance Day poppies in protest than actually bothering to wear them. I have been through parts of London that would make any woman think twice—and then flee—before walking the streets without her face and body shrouded. This is not our way, yet somehow it has become accepted. Je suis Charlie, maybe. It is said in increasingly hushed tones.
So back to minicab drivers, the bane of my life and a lead indicator of the state and attitudes of the nation. In a single month last year, I encountered one who believed a well-known department store was the name of a street near Buckingham Palace; another who thought my request to be deposited at a steak restaurant with the word “blue” in its title indicated that I required a blue-colored building; and a third who had never heard of Nelson, Wellington, or Queen Victoria.
To them, Britain is a plot of earth and place of work or welfare and little more. Visit the Accident & Emergency departments of any city hospital and you will find it replete with translators and akin to the Tower of Babel. None are ever asked to show their passports and none see any need to speak the English tongue.
A minor point, you might argue. Yet without a common language there will not be integration or shared culture. There will instead be mistrust, insularity, a ghetto-instinct and inward-looking ethnic groupings with neither love for nor loyalty to the nation. Muslim leaders were apparently outraged at being asked by the UK government to work harder in promoting a sense of Britishness in their community. They seem to believe they do not have a problem and that they are the victims of some racially-motivated witch hunt. Shucks, I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings: it is not white Anglicans spouting hatred from the pulpit, fighting jihad abroad, slitting the throats of soldiers on our streets, or planting bombs on our subways.
A week ago, a friend of mine was savagely mugged by two Somalis who took it upon themselves to smash him in the face with knuckle-dusters, break his nose, and rob him. Whether illegal immigrants or asylum seekers, they would have come to Britain in search of an easier life or richer pickings. They have found both. For we are the ones who pay taxes to house and clothe them, who must do battle to be understood, who must accept their presence without so much as a murmur or a protest. The political elite presented mass immigration as a fait accompli and diversity as a good thing. To question the orthodoxy was to be unenlightened and beyond the pale, to be irredeemably right-wing.
Look about you. That mass immigration has not enriched us, and diversity has not ensured we are an easier and more comfortable nation, is clear. Instead we see our values corroded, our patience tested, our basic tolerance and sense of fair play taken advantage of and mocked.
So, do I believe in witchcraft, or that men can turn themselves into bats and fly? Perhaps I should just go with the flow and accept that Britain is inexorably being dragged back to the dark ages. All in the name of multiculturalism; all for the benefit of our newest citizens, who see no need or reason to adopt our ways. We gain so much from our dynamic fragmented culture, we are constantly informed. The left would say that. Few mention what we have lost. But mark my words. Those who today smash in our faces with knuckle-dusters will tomorrow be firing at us with rocket-propelled grenades.