Jungle Drums

Egads, the natives are restless! Or should that be the non-natives? It does seem that high-profile, unsavoury goings-on feature rather too prominently among those whose origins may not lie in these green and pleasant lands. What is it, I wonder, about human nature that sees people transplanted from drab, restrictive, repressive regimes quickly becoming bellowing, demanding entitlement junkies? Maybe going from no-speech to free-speech they involuntarily gorge on it until they become delirious and insist we try what they once had; a gag.

Katie Hopkins has, by all accounts, been questioned for ‘inciting racial hatred’ because of an article written from the heart about three months ago. The article, in which she openly expressed the views of – I absolutely bet – a clear majority of ordinary British people was reported to police by Peter Herbert, the Chairman of the Society of Black Lawyers, described in Wikipedia as a ‘barrister and political activist’. (Say no more. No, really...) Three months? I wonder how much pressure has been exerted to bring about the police action after such a long time. After all, it was in print in a national newspaper; it’s not as if there was any hidden evidence to uncover.

Meanwhile Camilla Batmobile’s charity, Kids Company has been closed down amid much muttering about how funds were used, although nobody dare say what they immediately thought on hearing the news. And Anjem ‘Andy’ Choudary has been arrested along with Mohammed Rahman for their tireless promotion of an organisation that unlike Katie Hopkins has actually threatened the death, dismemberment and vanquishing from the face of the earth all who don’t follow their idea of a good life. It took a couple of decades longer than three months though, and wasn’t it another Rahman who was involved in protracted and widespread electoral fraud without challenge for years? And don’t you dare mention the racial roots of the systematic rapists in Rotherham and elsewhere.

Of course the likes of Yasmin Ali-Baba Brownie will say we are simply racist for pointing any of this out. Just because they are brown, she will say, you nasty white people will fan the flames; white people do bad things all the time and it is noticeable that paedophilia is a majority white male crime. Very noticeable actually and in case you hadn’t been paying attention we have been publicly pursuing perpetrators for long-past historical instances of abuse. But still the prisons are ‘over-represented’ by people who are not called Smith or Brown or Jones and instead have monickers such as Adebolajo. Is it any wonder we’re a bit quick to believe the worst? What to do? (Answers on a postcard.)

In the jungle – the one in Calais - they are rioting to get into Britain and in the Med they are drowning in their attempts to overwhelm Europe, where they are wanted even less than the countries they are leaving. Literal swarms of Middle Eastern and African migrants like... well, very much like infestations of cockroaches, which is the word that seems to have upset those who get upset about such things. But as the Czech President made clear nobody invited them, yet here they all are. 

We come in peace, you racists!

Better the devil we know than the foreign devil we don’t, whose motives are muddled and whose morals and beliefs seem so incompatible with our own. This isn’t racism, this is fear; and by the evidence those fears do seem somewhat founded. Of course white people ‘do’ crime, some of it horrible, although generally stopping short of mass beheadings and routine clitoral mutilation. Maybe it’s that we just prefer our own, recognisable brands of criminality? And at least we can pronounce ‘Ted Heath’.

Journey's End

After long treks across desert sands they set out in their rickety boats; barely seaworthy craft that listed heavily and handled like barrels, with just enough fuel to get them out of African coastal waters and into the path of naval vessels, compelled by international maritime law to rescue them from drowning. A boat trip to heaven if they survived, but still there were obstacles to surmount and no welcome in any country, save for the grudging shelter and food provided by the relief operations. But this worked to their advantage because they became invisible.

Encouraged to escape the loose confines of reception centres and fed stories of a life of plenty in Great Britain that country became a fabled land; they told each other stories to keep the dream alive and soon found how easy it was to travel north. Across baking desert, in open-topped trucks or on foot, fleeing armed conflict, persecution or grinding poverty, they were always at risk of being robbed. If not directly held up they were persuaded to put their lives and what money they had in the hands of people traffickers. But here in Europe it was different.

Nobody wanted to help, but nobody did much to hinder their progress. Food and water were abundant and the penalties for stealing were laughable, although they were rarely challenged. The expressions of fear and loathing they attracted were soon realised to be signs of weakness in populations grown soft and pampered. Fearful of the strangers the local officials did all they could to aid them in their passage to the rich pickings of Britain. Some said that this was a myth, others believed all they were told. Across the water one more time and – they told each other – their journey would rewarded with untold riches and anew citizenship.

But they also herd stories of running battles, of storming the fences and stowing away in lorries. Armed police and dogs, tear gas and baton rounds. Of repulsion and retreat and endless waiting for nightly opportunities to try again. They were ready though; compared to Africa, what was a fence and a non-lethal response? Compared to life in their home countries, this was but a game to be played and although the stakes might be high, the winning of it was simply a matter of persistence.

But when they got to Calais they found little of any of this. The once sprawling camps were largely abandoned and the ruined fences left where they lay. Signs in several languages directed them to the migrant reception and processing centre where they were encouraged o stand in line to receive what they first thought to be identity cards, but proved to be ferry tickets. The British and French, it seemed, were tired of the game and the border was wide open. They marched over to the ferry terminal and walked on board what, in comparison with their flaky Mediterranean hulks, was a mighty, modern ship.

All aboard, thousands packed tightly together, the boarding ramps were raised and they felt the judder of mighty engines engaging propeller shafts and they saw dockside workers slipping the lines. England, here they come! Soon an inquisitive few began to explore, but they discovered the upper decks were locked against them. No matter, there was food in the dining halls and besides, the crossing was under an hour they had heard. The ship, rolling slightly in the swell, steamed on.

By daybreak, however, after several hours in which they had told themselves they were probably going to another port, or in a holding pattern, they knew something was wrong. Applying the same brute force they had been ready to use against the fences they managed to break their way onto the upper decks where they found... nobody. No land was in sight, either, yet they knew England to be so close. Then one of them noticed the position of the sun, astern of them; they were clearly sailing west. A cry from aloft, a note of panic in his voice. The bridge also, was empty and the ferry was in auto-pilot, headed into the mid-Atlantic. 

Immigration policy on the rocks...

A few minutes later and the engines suddenly died. From far below them the muffled sound of synchronised charges accompanied a jarring vibration. Water poured in below the plimsoll line and the scuppered ship began its slow descent to journey’s end. Exhausting all other options the British and French authorities had finally done what their public secretly wished. This time there was no rescue.

Lionised

In the jungle, the quiet jungle, the lion sleeps tonight. Not Cecil though, he’s dead and dismembered, victim of another invasive species which hunted him down and rendered him irrelevant. Nature, red in tooth and claw... and bow and arrow. Daktari it wasn’t. You remember Daktari; the nineteen-sixties African bush doctor show in which everybody and all the animals lived happily ever after in peace and harmony... except when the evil hunters appeared, at which point Clarence, the resident lion king, saw them off with a cross-eyed glare. The natural order of things restored we all breathed again and waited for next episode, reassured that all was right with the world.

That’s how it was when we were kids; the world had an order. You would have to search long and hard and be heavily news-blind and truth-deaf to find much order now. The lions no longer want to stay in Africa and for some reason – maybe to avenge our exploitation of Clarence’s ocular shortcomings – they all want to leave a vast land filled with potential to come and huddle in poverty in a small, cold, damp, unhappy, overcrowded island, already full of people who don’t belong here, with nowhere to live and nothing to live on, or for. The remnants of the tribe called 'The English' pretty much all yearn to live elsewhere and the invaders are slowly taking hold just like American crayfish, grey squirrels, Japanese knotweed et al.

What do we do about Calais? Personally I favour letting them through the tunnel on foot and then selling licenses to hunters who will wait patiently in hides in the Kent countryside ready to bag a trophy or ten, but I just know there will be a tiny but vocal minority of bleeding hearts who won’t like that. At the other extreme is the Obama solution to illegal immigration: give them a passport and sign them up for benefits. But that is clear madness; already thousands want to make it to the Promised Land and making their unrealistic dreams come true will multiply those numbers a hundred-fold. Maybe we could organise a pan-African negative propaganda campaign to tell them what a shithole Britain is and how racist we all are.

You say you’re not racist? Fuck off are you! A preference for people you understand is the basis for all human society. Victory in the competition for territorial rights defines successful civilisations and to deny it is simply juvenile. If you define yourself as anti-racist I bet you are also one or more of: anti-fascist, anti-sexist, anti-austerity, anti-bigot, anti-wealth, anti-monarchy, anti-property, anti-*insert here*... a limitless list of things to rail against. Vocal anti-anything flag-wavers are simply brooding misanthropes with a far greater capacity for hatred than all who simply, quietly, avoid contact with those with whom they differ. Confrontation –violent if necessary – is frequently the calling card of those who believe they have no prejudices.

You looking at me?

Where is all this getting us? Not very far really, because the extremes are unpalatable to most so we need a half-way house; something to make the problem go away without anybody being hurt and without too many sensitivities being upset. And I think I have it, turning once again to the genius of Daktari. The show was inspired by the work of Dr. A. M. Harthoorn and his animal orphanage in Nairobi who developed a gun to sedate animals and capture them without injury. So here’s the plan: We let them all through the tunnel, sell game licenses to rich American dentists who shoot them with tranquilliser darts. Then we ship them out to the reserves in Zimbabwe and let the natural world do what it does so well.