The European elections are in a few days' time, and I am voting with my feet. There are no politicians I really want to vote for and the answer lies in the fact that they are no longer politicians - they are just elected civil servants: bumbling drudges with such negligible inspiration or vision, that they need to pay external organisations known as think-tanks to come up with ideas for them. I could not imagine, when the great William Beveridge sat down to write his paper on the founding of the NHS, that he first called up some freelance ideologues in trendy suits, smoking slim cigarettes and mumbling "here's what we do with this, right?" before fabricating a fanciful presentation full of euphemistic terms like "care pathway" and "care programme approach" (or CPA for short) before sending an invoice for the "work carried out" on its conception. Mr Beveridge was so visionary, so driven and so original, that a copy of his report was discovered by the Soviet army when they arrived at Hitler's bunker.
My point is, politicians fall short of every single mark they are compared to. They are weak-willed, ineloquent, obfuscating, money-grabbing daylight robbers who revel in telling us we need to reduce our budgets yet give themselves fat pay rises and swan about between the darkened windows of upmarket vehicles that most honest Romanians would fail to pay for if they saved up for 20 years.
And this segway brings me nicely to Romanians. And UKIP. And Nigel Farage himself. And his hordes of tub-thumping minions, for they are the beneficiaries of the protest voters' anger at the lack of leadership and vision in Europe at this time.
Type "Farage Romania" into Google and you will see a host of texts and videos about his views on those people, including the fact that he would not want to live next door to any. Well Mr Farage, I can tell you for nothing, you odious little weasel, that I know a great deal of Romanians, indeed several of whom come to my house on a regular basis, and I see them no differently to anyone else. But I see the person, not the nationality.
Then you said something about feeling uncomfortable about hearing a foreign language on a train. Where do you think you are, Nigel, you loathsome scab? I live in Germany and work in Luxembourg. Every day I hear Portuguese, German, French, Lithuanian and lots of other languages being spoken on various modes of public transport I take, and not one eyebrow is raised from any of the other passengers. Only those who bellow inanely into their mobile phones for the rest of the bus to hear and those who play loud music thoughtlessly to us all, thinking we'd like to hear it, but they don't have to be Romanians, Nigel, you opportunistic piece of farmyard genitalia. And I think this is the same in the UK too. So why it should give you the tummy trots, dear Nige, is anyone's guess...
You married a German. And when questioned as to whether it applied to her, you said that she wouldn't speak German on a train.
Oh puh-lease!
But you also feel, do you not, you miserable shadow of a man, that we should know the difference between a German neighbour and a Romanian one, and we would want one much less than the other moving in next to us. Well I live next to a German-French family, and I would gladly swap them for almost anyone, even the Osborne family (Ozzy, not George). They bought the house for €450,000, selling their other properties to pay for it. They have several cars and work in fairly elevated positions. But they are the result of what happens when neighbourhood discipline and respect don't matter any more. Their offspring scream their heads off on their trampoline which is placed strategically next to our land without so much as an admonishing word on the dishonour and embarrassment this brings to their family; the mother glories in showing how upwardly mobile, capable and alpha-male her Tarzanesque husband is; they allow their elder two sons and three boisterous mates to noisily pack their minivan for a week-long trip to the Netherlands at midnight on a swelteringly hot Sunday-to-Monday night in the street outside my open window when the rest of us have to get up for work in the morning, and they love making backhanded compliments about my building and planting work in the garden, and how they are so lucky their garden was ready-made when they moved in. In other words, rich peasants who have no clue how to handle their upward societal trajectory.
I bought my house 6 months before they moved in. If they had been there when I came to view the house, there is no way I would have bought it. I can tell you, Mr Farage, what it is to live next door to nasty neighbours. But they do not need to be poor, or uneducated, or Romanian, or whatever. They just need to be sociopaths. I hate them so much, I don't care if they read this. It will do them good to know the contempt in which I hold them. And only a last-class monolingual, monocultural, uncouth fucking dickpunnet like yourself would associate the quality of a human being with their nationality. Only a blatantly racist scumbag would believe that speaking a foreign language is the path to sedition and deviant behaviour. I speak ten languages, Mr Farage, and I can only tell you how small your world is compared to mine. How much you are missing by not understanding anything else except your own language. How unimaginably broad my mind is compared to yours, because languages are not only about ordering a paella in Palamos or a pizza in Parma, it is also a gateway to understanding how minds work, how the collective memory of a country's inhabitants leads them to react in a certain way to various events in history or gestures you make.
Furthermore, Mr Farage, your own unpardonable views and comments on anyone east of the Oder-Neisse line leads me to this conclusion: I have walked among the poor and destitute of many cities in that part of the world, and this, and I have made some very poignant observations: the poorest people are often those who have the greatest protective instincts, the largest hearts and the most welcoming homes. If indeed they have homes. They can be ruthless when times are hard, but necessity is the mother of invention. If, Mr Farage, they were going to make their way to your home and camp on the grass, rather than calling the police, go and drink a cup of tea with them and see what you can do to help. You may find that showing respect to people will lead to reciprocal action. Rather than deport them for being here, find them a place where they can fit in. Yes, there are lots of rogue elements, but they are from every corner of our continent, and they need to be handled differently. But among those who move to get a better life, would you heartlessly send them back to square one? What has happened to that meritocratic ideal that our country is famous for?
So learn a few languages, go and smoke a pipe of peace and do a little research on why those people act the way they do. Don't pander to the uninformed; that's just being a dickhead. Stand up and be counted, be that visionary we so badly need right now, and lead us out of the darkness of ignorance and small-mindedness.
I apologise for the bad language used in this article, even if I believe and stand by every word I have written.
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