Britain’s capital city these days feels like a foreign land. English culture is disappearing – right up the yin yang; and I find myself a stranger, in my own home town.
Admittedly, I moved out of the area, twenty years ago – but this is beside the point.
I have witnessed first hand the impact that a rapid bout of things changing has wrought upon the once proud nation of London.
In the aisles of a local supermarket, no less, I encountered as stouthearted and sensible a chap as ever I met.
A fellow who was no stranger to roughing it, having spent 30 years working in the cut-throat world of antiques. Yet there he stood, completely overcome – and weeping tears of bitter lament.
Several other distinguished men – retired officers from the merchant navy, all, I would imagine – were standing close by; rapt in a similar state of anguish.
The cause of their distress? A French baguette, being sold in full view of the unsuspecting general public – on a British shelf, in an aisle entitled the ‘world food’ section!
My constitution is as hardy as it gets – yet even I was forced to draw a handkerchief of my own.
This whole incident is symptomatic of the sweeping devastation faced by the embattled British population; who now comprise a mere 60% of the local community. Leaving them an outnumbered majority.
It should be understood that I have nothing against foreign bread on any personal level; but many people are concerned about the demographic threat it poses to British loaves – on already crowded supermarket shelves. And this must be taken seriously.
The suggestion that we might simply use a larger shelf – or build an additional one – is, frankly, preposterous.
I have spoken to close acquaintances of mine, who occasionally bake – and they say much the same thing. So there must be some truth in it. And I’m sorry, but I refuse to apologise for simply telling the truth.
The fact that nobody is even allowed to talk about any of this, these days – well, I will say no more.