My friend Dick has been nagging me again. He wants to have his say on the burning issues of the day. He says I think too much, lying on my back out in the forest, chewing hemp all day long. He says my readers need to know the opinion of the Man on the Clapham Omnibus, or in Dick's case, the piss artist down the pub.
Here is Dick's take on immigration.
'I was down in London the other day. Foreigners everywhere. I mean foreigners everywhere from everywhere. It's supposed to be the capital of England, but where are the English? Southend, I suppose, if they're lucky - Scunthorpe if they're not.
I mean, I'm not being racist. I like West Indians. They play cricket, speak English, go to Protestant churches, and most of them have a drop or two of English blood in their veins.
And the Irish aren't too bad, either. They're from the British Isles like the English, though I'm not too keen on the Pope myself. I reckon he looks a bit shifty.
But who are these people from God forsaken places like Latvia and Zimbabwe and Kazakhstan?
Blimey, they'll be letting the French in next.
Me, I'm thinking of emigrating, there are so many foreigners here.
The only trouble is, when you go abroad, there are even more foreigners there than here.'
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