Lunar House You know how it is. A wet Monday morning in unlovely and unloved Croydon. You are behind your window as usual, gazing down the usual room-full of staring, blank-faced applicants. They are bored. You are bored. As usual. Seated opposite you is the usual unstarved central African female and small, unstarved child. Male. Twenty billion spermatazoa. Just what this country needs. She is, as usual, very deferential and so soft-voiced you can hardly make out her replies to your questions. Deference isn’t to be scoffed at in your line of work. It has its uses. But not this time. Unthinkable. No way. You check the date of birth in her passport. You check that she knows what she has supposedly written on her application. You check she knows her tragically deceased husband’s name. You check she is still staying in her council hostel. You stamp her application documents in three places, retaining the bottom copy to which you attach her spare passport photograph. You hand the other copies to her with that massive disinterest only a deeply bored Immigration and Nationality Directorate officer of several years experience can properly communicate. You duly send her on her way to Floor 2 - from whence, Kafka-style, she will be sent ever onward by other equally bored, equally indifferent Immigration and Nationality Directorate officers. You file your record of her, return slowly to your seat and, resigned to yet another repeat performance, press your floor-button. The next lucky candidate with the same deferential manner and the same depressingly cock-and-bull story shuffles over. Not a woman, not even an ugly one this time. Your boredom sinks to a new level, a chronic one only just above Utter Desolation. Then young Birch, who sits next to you, leans over and whispers very soto voce but with that familiar enthusiasm of his, “Other end of the room”. Jeez, MR readers must be thinking, what the hell has this to do with majority rights? Well, only this. You, dear reader, are in the wrong job. Or you would be if you like girls and are ruthless, unprincipled and only too happy to miscegenate. You see, according to one former government employee all the best Third World girly action is to be had, so to speak, in the immigration service. You think I jest? Not a bit.
Yeah right ... those exotic Brazilian girls. What’s the guy talking about? Brazilian girls? Sambistas no doubt. He’s gotta be a fantasist, an attention seeker. Obviously needs a steady relationship with a good woman. And not a Brazilian piece, either. Well no, she couldn’t be. Not in grey, ghastly Croydon. Mind you, there was that sub-Rio gig that Multicult Ken organised a while back on his new North Terrace of Trafalgar Square (right where he wants to plant the Mandela statue). I suppose there might have been some vaguely attractive, Ipanema wannabees there. Somewhere. But that doesn’t prove that our decent, public-spirited and iron-willed Immigration and Nationality Directorate officers could ever be tempted to risk their careers, ever be corrupted by steroid-strength power and the turpitudes of female flesh. Good Lord, no. Whatever next, I ask? This is (far too cool) Britannia. Comments:2
Posted by Martin Hutchinson on Wed, 04 Jan 2006 04:24 | # GW, the “first leader” in the WSJ Friday reported a similar incident with a Mexican lady and her immigration officer “boyfriend” and then announced that we had no business delving into the private lives of illegal immigrants! That’s why I called them “Commies” in my Bear’s Lair this week; by that article they deserved it. 4
Posted by friedrich braun on Thu, 05 Jan 2006 20:55 | # In related news: Africans terrorize and sexually assauly passengers on a French train “Diversity is strength…” Post a comment:
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Posted by Al Ross on Wed, 04 Jan 2006 03:01 | #
When that pitiable creature, Peter Mandelson, obtained British residence status for his Brazilian ‘boyfriend’, I’m sure many British citizens wondered whether or not ‘normal’ procedure was followed. Probably about as ‘normal’ as anything else from that quarter.