Lost In Translation

Britain’s ace. You could even say it’s Great. Great Britain. It’s kind of catchy.

And then we vote Brexit and it’s all sorts of bollocks. Ah, they’ll say, Britain was ruined before that. Migrants. Those bloody foreigners coming over here taking our jobs that we don’t want to do because it might affect our benefits.

But to them I say, build yourselves a time machine and come to work with me this afternoon. It’s been a multicultural fun fest and it’s been bloody brilliant. I would not have it any other way.

I’ve had Italian and Czech teams before. Today it was the turn of Spain and Poland. They came in, they played the games. And I couldn’t understand any of it. And I didn’t mind. And they didn’t mind.

But if they’re coming over here, they should speak our language. Someone would undoubtedly throw that hat, unwelcome, into the ring. To which I say, they could, They absolutely could speak our language. But it’s far easier for them, in a group, to chunter merrily in their native tongue than worry about getting tongue-tied translating their thoughts into English for my benefit. It is, after all, their game.

One of the Spanish ladies didn’t entirely understand me, either. I could tell something was up when I’d delivered the health and safety about plug sockets – which is to not stick your fingers in them. She looked at me with a baffled expression – as if to ask why I would even say that.

It turns out she thought I said somethink else entirely.

Don’t steal things in your socks.