I'm bored of foreigners

Being so lucky to live in our capital city, I am constantly surrounded by foreigners. To find an English person is a rare treat, a bit like finding a five pound note lying on the floor or getting seven nuggets in your six-nugget box.

By golly, everyone's foreign, even my wife. Whereas once you'd have to go abroad to have the pleasure of speaking slowly and loudly in order to be understood, you can now do it everywhere. Nearly each interaction has a trace of inter-cultural friction.

Even basic interactions are made more complex. Going into a shop recently, the person at the checkout asked 'Would you lagaba?', 'Would I what, sorry?', 'Lagaba?', 'What?', 'Lag a baa', 'Like a bag? No, thanks'.

It's not that I am particularly bothered by people having to learn a foreign language. I have butchered many in my time. It is the sheer weight of foreigners that makes it start to grind my gears. I seriously wonder what people, travelling from more homogenous societies, think when they are here.

In fact, I have an inkling: sitting on a train once – and this was in the halcyon days of about ten years ago – I overheard two Chinese people saying, in Mandarin, that there were too many foreigners in the UK, to which I had to agree (excuse the humblebrag). The rest of the world thinks we are insane, because we are.

Clearly this population shift was brought about because we need more cheap labour for our hugely productive economy, with millions of fat, lazy arses sitting around claiming 'mental elf problems' and being paid to do sweet FA.

If we made these people work then we'd never need to find another immigrant ever again.

And, add to that, if we stopped aborting a quarter of a million babies a year (of which about three-quarters are white, FYI) we'd have plenty more people ready for the workforce in due course.

Abortion statistics, England and Wales: 2022 [link]

Whatever – much easier to abort babies, pay people to sit at home and to usher in our demographic replacement.

Then there is the lie that upon arriving here, people suddenly become as 'British' as any Tom, Dick or Harry; that it is merely a question of time for a Waziristani goatherd to transmogrify into an English gentleman.

The industrial-scale rape of white girls by revolting Pakistan paedos has done much to dissuade people of such misty-eyed notions. More generally, I sense that people are fatigued with the formerly universal mantra that our differences are 'skin deep'.

Cycling around London – witnessing another simmering civil conflict, that of the cyclist versus the motorist – I have variously, and entirely by accident, come across demonstrations in support of Ukraine, against the Bulgarian government, against the Iranian government, in favour of Palestine and in favour of Israel.

Whenever I see such a congregation, my immediate thought is strongly influence by Anglo-Saxon vocabulary. Such protests indicate clearly that those involved refuse to cut ties with their homelands. The native Brits joining such protests are generally insufferable busybodies, akin to a harridan screeching from the window of a wildly burning building, criticising passers-by for their alleged failings. Just who are we to criticise anyone? Look at the state we are in.

I have lived in many countries. I could not fathom protesting publicly about things happening in the UK while overseas. This is partly because I would feel it improper to disturb the peace of others' in their homelands by chanting, drumming or waving a flag around. It is also, in part, because I would unlikely be there as part of some ethnic enclave with a sense of untouchable entitlement.

When living in Russia or China, if I had taken to the streets to protest some inevitable idiocy of the UK government, I would have expected it entirely right and proper for someone to come up to me and tell me that, if I was quite so vexed about the situation in my homeland, that I should bloody well go back and do something about it.

London is Babel. The difference is that most of the people who have turned up here still have a home to go to, a place which is culturally theirs. London, the heart of Anglo-Saxon civilisation, has been ceded without the merest whimper.

Yet, I do not think we're at the end of this story. Dreamy notions of Reconquista have started to float around the online right. Suddenly I am reading things that, only a few years ago, would have been politically impossible. A sense that the guests have pushed the generosity of the host too far is emerging rather rapidly.

I maintain that it will not be until something goes pop – our lurching, wheezing economy most likely – that anything will change, but I think that day is quite rapidly coming.

It shouldn't be controversial to want London to be full of English people. Until just a few years ago, it was. With any luck, it will be again one day too.