You can’t say anything these days without being called a racist.
You can’t describe imported food – like hummus – as obscene filth from the backwaters of jihadistan, in the middle of a British supermarket, without at least one eyebrow rising in response. You certainly can’t stand in the middle of a crowded shopping aisle, and say that baguettes and bananas are the right shape for the imported foreign perversions they inspire. Not without being called racist.
If you’re in a restaurant, where a waiter asks if you’d like to see the wine list, and you reply ‘none of Johnny Foreigner’s wretched bilge sloshing around in my gullet, thank you very much’ well, you can barely escape a touch of reproach from the self-same fellow. Not these days.
You can’t say that Rioja is a foul, benighted, affront to civilisation; whose very purchase subsidises the forays of sex-offending Spanish bishops. You certainly can’t say that champagne is typical, treacherous French rubbish, in any public place in the land – without at least one person reacting as if your honest sentiments were a shade untoward. Not anymore.
And that’s not the half of it: you can’t call falafel dirty, foreign, desert-dwellers’ muck, anymore. You can’t say potatoes are filthy, Irish hovel-dwellers’ muck. You can’t explain that meatballs are dirty, filthy, Swedish massage parlour-dweller’s muck. Or that vodka is stinking, grimy, greasy, Russian muck, cooked up in left-over gulags – let alone that lasagna is odious, stinking , horrid, insalubrious Italian muck, topped-off with a pervert’s choice of cheese. You can’t say any of this anymore – not without being called racist.
You can’t go into a cornershop, and point out to other customers that the aubergines on display were probably farmed in Belgian brothels, by nuns – without the shop-owner giving you a disapproving look. Not nowadays.
And it’s not just the likes of you and me – even the Right Hons. can no longer say “here is a decent, ordinary fellow Englishman, who in broad daylight – in my own town – suggests to me that his country is being colonised and over-run by foreign root vegetables; which you cannot eat with confidence, for fear of them having been plucked out of the earth by German gigolos, mincing around, for the titillation of geriatric voyeurs”. Not without at least one newspaper picking up on the story, and saying something or another by way of rebuke, at any rate.
It’s not as if its necessary to import any of this rubbish from overseas, either – a fine, slow-boiled, sheep’s eyeball jalfrezi is just as good as any of the primitive poultry-based filth you might find at a restaurant, in my experience; not that you can say such things these days.
Take tahini – or better yet, don’t take it; as it’s nothing but backwards slop made from degenerate sesame seeds, and barbarous oils. Not in my backyard, thank you very much. I won’t have it. If you ask me, that’s the whole problem – the very instant you stop bombing civilisation into these places, up they pop to sell you their rotten hand-pimped fare.
Well, it’s not on, in my view – we should be able to say what we like about all of this, without prompting muttered disquiet from people seated nearby. This is the land of the free; and shall be free once again.
British food for British people, I say. Buy British – and ban the import of foreign victuals. What’s wrong with a bottle of honest turnip cider? Who needs claret, when you can enjoy a glass of freshly fermented ram’s urine? It’s the kind of stuff which puts hair on your chest – unlike effete foreign vintages; with their assortment of debased grapes.
It’s high-time that this country got its act together. No longer would decent people be affronted with tea made from mouldering Indian, African, or Chinese leaves – but instead, they should be able to imbibe an invigorating tonic, brewed from honest, British cabbage leaves instead. What’s more, instead of coffee beans – which for all anyone knows might have come from any manner of backwards, gyrating places in the world – people can simply brew a fine broth out of red kidney beans. Nothing wrong with that.
Instead of loathsome, nauseating, sickening, repugnant, distasteful, disgusting, off-putting, repellent, Dutch asparagus working its untoward way into innocent bowls of British soup -which knocked-up wastrels have probably coughed all over, before rubbing their spat-upon palms together and lobbing it into your consume – people will be free to enjoy a good-old fashioned dish of frozen bull’s blood and grated fox testicles instead; enhanced by a delicate sauce made from rendered goat’s hooves. Truly British fare. That will get this country back up off its knees, in no time.
Not that you can say any of this, these days, of course – not without being called racist.