Brexit is already having a dramatic impact on the make-up of the British Isles.
I’m not talking about the hoohah and general faff regarding the Irish border and the fact that it’s almost as if no-one in the government thought that far ahead when they were busy coming up with all the other bollocks that they’ve been talking about for months – whether we need to take back all the people who moved to Spain, for example. The same people who, undoubtedly, are absolutely against any sort of immigration by people from foreign climes, whilst simultaneously annoying the tetas off the Spanish by moving over there and demanding there are shops that sell English things.
No, it’s not that.
It’s something far worse.
I took in a delivery from Amazon today – a tin opener, since you ask, that Carole ordered for her sister’s 40th birthday because it’s what she wants – and it was brought to me by a white, English person.
I mean, what the fudge?!?
I don’t like it. It’s not right.
This is like when you found out that there might have been horsemeat in Ikea meatballs during the whole tainted meat scandal and a part of you was worried that it was the added horse which made them taste so damn good. I don’t want to lose the Eastern European delivery drivers who have become friendly faces at the door over the past however long we’ve been indulging in the next day delivery magic of Amazon Prime.
But Brexit is ruining that. Those bloody Eastern Europeans, coming over here and then having to go back because of the uncertainty about their futures in this country, taking our jobs and then having to give them up. The bastards.
I miss them.
There’s a chance this was only a blip.
That the cheeky geezer I got today was a one off. That I will still have people delivering things who have more consonants in their name than you can get on the board during Countdown.