Immigration

Spit and Polish

by Enormous on March 22, 2009

I wish people – well, men, I suppose – would not expectorate in public quite so freely around here.

Audrey stepped in a grotesque lump of glowing mucus when we left the house this morning; and a few minutes later I had to dodge flying spittle while I listened to a speech from Reg on the folly of the present government’s immigration policy (he blames all the Polish people of the village who he says could ‘spit for Poland at the Olympics’).

He delivered a colourful and passionate discourse on the subject which was punctuated by him absent-mindedly depositing monstrous gobs of luminous saliva everywhere in a rather enthusiastic and festive manner. Disgusting, and all too common.

Changing the subject, I have just posted a version of The Way That It Should Be on the Enormous website/blog. This is the version of the song that appears on the album Almost Everything. Look out for a totally different version of it on the new album which is due for release in the summer.

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Foolish Parish Polish Polish Controversy

by Enormous on April 4, 2008

It was still a little dark at six this morning when Audrey and I veered toward the shops during our early morning walk.

As we neared the market place, I recognised one of the local Polish newcomers sitting on the pavement outside the post office. He had with him a wooden stool and beside him on the ground was an open box full of brushes and grubby cloths. How enterprising, I thought; It has been quite a while since I last encountered an immigrant shoe-shine boy vying for business on a – frankly, deserted – street in this part of the world.

I was about to wish him good morning but as I drew near he suddenly proclaimed: ‘I not cleaning you shoes, Steve. You dog is always shit in me garden, Steve. Is little shit bugger dog. Is big pile shit, Steve. I told him to council. In you blinking eye.’ (I’m not sure I heard this last bit correctly.)

I could not be bothered trying to argue with him – it was too early and I was feeling rather indifferent, so I simply ignored him and we carried on our way.

I had to button up my coat as we wandered along Water Lane past the church; a cold breeze was blowing down from the Pennines. I glanced back up the empty street before we entered the house and watched the morning sun dissolve into light.

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Fabulous Animals

by Enormous on October 5, 2007

I popped down to the shops last night to buy porridge and apples and was confronted by an unusual sight. There is no night-life to speak of here in the village so I was astonished to see a gaggle of heavily made-up and garishly dressed young women standing around outside the pet shop.

They were being engaged by a drunken man holding a can of cider who seemed to be experiencing some kind of fit or other mental aberration. He was jigging around aggressively in front of them and chanting what sounded like African war songs. I fancy that he was quite ill as well as completely inebriated. He did look rather forlorn and I felt a little sorry for the poor fellow. He stank of failure and was wearing the ruined evidence of lost love.

As I drew closer, I could hear that the women were not speaking English. They were conversing in what sounded like Polish or some other East European language. There has been something of a substantial influx of such people into the area recently, a fact that is evidenced by the sudden appearance of various Baltic food products on the shelves of the Co-op supermarket, the like of which I find quite mysterious.

I was suddenly distracted by the sound of one of the women’s uncaring laughter and I realised to my dismay that I had stopped in my tracks and was staring open-mouthed at the people in front of me. I resolved once more to stop doing this kind of thing: it has the potential to develop into regular beatings if I am not careful.

Audrey loves this pet shop. Indeed, she has made it known to me that it is her favourite shop in the village. She loves to go in and sing to the guinea pigs, but, predictably, the little things totally ignore her attempts at forming a cross-species friendship.
It is a sad and scruffy old shop that has long seen better days. It has a front window that has not been cleaned in years behind which are ancient and dusty red curtains that are now only held together by dead moths and cobwebs. I once ventured inside and asked, ‘How much are your wasps?’

‘I’m sorry, we don’t sell wasps,’ the pipe-smoking proprietor told me.

‘Are you sure?’ I asked. ‘You have one in the window.’

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Stars and Garters

by Enormous on April 16, 2007

The young migrant workers who have been living in the house opposite are to leave next week, and I for one will be sorry to see them go.

They have been excellent neighbours, very quiet and courteous. I believe they are moving eastwards, to Lincolnshire, to toil in the fens and fields in their new capacity as poorly-paid agricultural slaves. They seem more than happy to be doing so, so I suppose I have no business to be concerned about their welfare and potential exploitation by flashy Anglian gang-masters.

As I have mentioned before, there are six of them, all from Belarus, and three of the group are attractive young women with striking features of precision and beauty. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to be particularly well-acquainted with any of them, but I must admit that yesterday evening I enjoyed the rather dubious thrill of gazing with Audrey through my bedroom window at them as they celebrated and partied into the early hours.

Breathing heavily and trying hard to focus through the net curtains, I watched as they danced around, intermittently removing items of clothing. (It must be some kind of local custom that they were gleefully enacting.) Around one o’clock in the morning, the drunken girls were down to their Baltic underwear – and what tiny but unexpectedly glamorous items of lingerie they wore! I’ll tell you something, it appears that young, nubile Russian women have a penchant for stockings and suspenders and frilly French knickers.

At one point, it crossed my mind to wander down and join in the fun but I fear that would have been ill-considered and potentially disastrous for all concerned. It would have been stupid – not only stupid but spectacularly stupid.

I decided instead to have a cold bath after which I retired to my bed and dreamed of sunny fields and naked abandon.

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Gangmaster Flash

by Enormous on March 21, 2007

The new people who have moved into Bernard’s old flat across the road from Audrey and me are from Belarus; six young workers in a one-bedroom apartment with hardly any furniture (there is no room for any!) and no curtains, in a village in Derbyshire.

I was talking to one of them, a bluff and amenable young man called Greg, who told me that they arrived in the UK last Monday via Eurolines Baltic International with a small suitcase and a modest pocketful of spending money each.

There is a large, ugly industrial estate about five miles outside the village and Greg tells me that they are all employed there – both the males and females of the group. In what capacity I don’t yet know: Greg pointedly refused to elaborate, so you can draw your own conclusions. The exact nature of the work is, in actuality, none of my business, but I do feel compelled to inform you, nonetheless, that they all seem very happy to be here. One must presume that they will soon be sending most of their wages home to their families.

On returning to the flat every day at around 7pm, they are always laughing, smoking and cooking, so apart from the obvious lack of space afforded them, I have no reason to feel any immediate concern for their welfare.

Rather, it is the odd fellow who comes to collect them every morning at six that I find predominantly intriguing. He arrives in a battered old Ford minibus that looks like it was ready for the scrapheap during the last war; but by contrast, his sartorial elegance and swishy demeanour is startling. He dresses ostentatiously in what seem to be very expensive suits and stylish Italian footwear. I would say he is about forty years old and looks very smart and well-groomed. He certainly takes his appearance seriously, but it is an incongruous sight to see him leap from the dirty van every morning in order to bang on the door of the flat, shouting and swearing. I think his name is Adam and he looks like a bully.

Susan, who lives a few doors down, whispered to me that he is ‘a very dodgy character’. She also told me that a representative from the local MP’s office is due to visit our newly-installed foreign guests soon – presumably to ensure that their human rights are not being abused in any way. Well hopefully not, but as I say, they all seem very contented – so far at least. And, as previously mentioned here, two or three of them are very pretty indeed.

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Neighbours

by Enormous on March 13, 2007

This morning, Audrey and I are spying, through our net curtains, on the new tenants who are moving into Bernard’s old flat. (Bernard was the idiosyncratic old man who we used to occasionally meet in the street and who died recently – unexpectedly and completely alone.)

Unfortunately, they have a boom-box playing loudly in the uncarpeted hallway while they are busy feathering their new Derbyshire nest. I say unfortunately, because it is gruesome Irishman Ronan Keating who is honking and sheeshing his way through a smorgasbord of formerly enjoyable popular standards. Listening to Ronan Keating makes your brain feel like you are breathing in the stench of shit. Watching his videos makes you feel like you are enjoying it.

But what is rather startling is the proportion of furniture and sturdy boxes – presumably containing a fresh assortment of sundry personal items, paperback books, alarm clocks, kitchen utensils, footwear and the like – to the amount of people involved who are actually carrying the stuff inside.

The new residents of 28a seem to number eight or nine at my last reckoning, but the amount of property and belongings going inside seems to be tiny by comparison. Yes, I know, I’m being nosy; but bear with me a moment. So far, I have counted 1 table, 3 chairs and a sofa, 6 large cardboard boxes, 1 cupboard, and what appear to be about 5 rather flimsy single beds.

It is only, as far as I am aware, a two-bedroom flat, and quite a modestly proportioned one at that. These cheerful people who’s new home it will soon be seem to be quite young – about twenty or so years old  – and, as I say, there are at least eight of them. And they seem to be speaking some flavour of East European language that I cannot yet recognise. Hmm… I think further investigation is required. (This investigation will not be a difficult one to undertake, however: four of our potential new neighbours are of the female variety – and very pretty ones at that.)

Come on, Audrey - let’s make a nice wholesome vegetable hotpot to take around later.

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