Good day to you, my name is David but my frenemies call me Tory Dave. Last night, I went to the pub with some mates of mine for some pints. I say “mates” but to be honest I don’t really like most of these people very much. They are all foreigners and – while I know it’s not okay to say this out loud – I must admit I don’t really like foreigners, except perhaps when they are white and come from one of the former colonies.
The Italian guy is just so lazy, always on siesta, and the Spaniard is from some filthy place like Venice or some such and always complains when I put chorizo in my risotto. That German lass, Angie, has no sense of humour and they always beat us at the football. But the worst is of course the French guy, Michel. I’ve never liked the French. He always smells of garlic and looks so sour. This is why I always pre-drink before I even met those guys in the pub and why I look so cheerful in the photos.
So anyway, the others bought a few rounds. But when it came to my turn I just thought “Nah, you know what, I’ll just go home.” For some reason all the others got really pissed off that I wasn’t going to buy a round for them. At first I wanted to tell them to go whistle but then I took a deep breath lest they kick me out on the kerb without my umbrella and bowler hat. I told them I would carefully check every item on the bill and only pay for what I drank, but that they should keep in mind that I already paid loads many years ago even though nobody can really remember. They claim that the German, French, and Italian all put in more than me but of course that’s just because of that discount I’ve had in the pub for decades because I used to be a lot less well-off than I am now. I felt it was best not to bring that up though because that’s always been a sore spot with them. Instead I just shrugged and stumbled home. They are still asking me to pay them back now because apparently “we had all agreed on that” but I have no recollection of that at all. Perhaps I shouldn’t have had all that gin before joining them.
Anyway, I still haven’t paid and won’t give them a penny. All the same, I’m sure they will all be happy to see me again soon because they want to sell me their cars and prosecco. After all, they’ll know I’ve saved up for that because I didn’t waste my hard earned cash on buying them rounds in the pub. Besides I have such excellent jams made from strawberries in my garden. Jam production costs me next to nothing because I just invite the neighbours around to pick them for a pittance. Shame is those bastards always overstay their welcome so I have now told them they can come for two hours but then they have to go home. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, some of the Poles actually came to fix my radiator once and the Dutch put a plaster on my scraped knee when I fell over drunk after the pub. And they’ve always put in a couple of coins in the piggy bank (I’m saving for a cool model train for my kids). So I totally think these guys are valued members of our community here. I just don’t want them in my house.
Obviously, the ones I already let come in can stay, they just need to carry a card at all times so we know who they are and that they can get a cup of tea when I put on the kettle while the newcomers don’t. This is only fair. By the way, the card is totally not an “ID card” – I hate those obviously. It’s simply a card you use to identify yourself with. Surely, the other people coming in later won’t mind. They’re all happy they can come to pick my strawberries and then piss off again when I’m tired of hearing them speak that foreign gibberish. They steadfastly refuse to spend the fortune they make working for me on proper English lessons. Seriously, sometimes I don’t hear a word of English before I make it upstairs to the bedroom – and even then it’s mostly because I’m mumbling to myself about sovereignty and all the Islamic extremists from devout Muslim countries like Austria and Poland.
Naturally, the ID ca… sorry not-an-ID-card will only be required for people who don’t already live at this address, by which I mean who were born here or who lived over six years at this address, took an exam on the history of my house that I couldn’t pass myself in a million years, and who spent between £1200-2000 for the honour to pledge allegiance to the Queen. Because you can totally tell the difference between these people and the ones that didn’t. They just immediately become part of the family and show it by wearing tweed jackets, going on illegal fox hunts, and losing the ability to speak any other language but English.
Obviously, if anyone living at this address wants to marry someone who doesn’t they can just get the hell out. Why should I let some random slit-eyed or brown person live in my house just because my son or daughter wants to be with their spouse? Wait, did I say that out loud? I meant some person from one of those wonderful countries that I would like to sell lots of stuff to. You know, things like my strawberry jam.
Anyway, I disgress. If those bullies in the pub keep insisting that I pay for a round then I’ll just walk away. No round is better than a bad round, by which I mean a round that isn’t free. If they don’t want to spend time with me, then I am sure I’ll find someone else to have drinks with. Like Theresa, the vicar’s daughter from down the road, or Moggy, who looks and talks more and more like a vicar every day himself. Or perhaps Boris the Blond although he’s really a bit of a clown. And of course I can always go over to the golf course for some well-done steak with ketchup and chlorine chicken with Donny. Provided he doesn’t go to jail first.