“They take away our jobs, cause they agree to work for a song, seven days a week. They do loads of overtime, oust our people from jobs. They crush our economy, cause they send money abroad instead of spending it here! They get crowded together in one flat ten at a time, buy only overdue canned foods and dry bread at ASDA! They snatch benefits for their kids, who have never even been to Great Britain! Besides they keep blabbering in their own tongue and don’t even bother to learn English. And you know why?”
The fatso made a striking pause and looked around his listeners’ faces.
“Because they don’t need to! Do you know it has already come to this that indigenous Brits cannot get a job in their own country cause they can’t speak Polish?”
The lorry driver’s voice has now reached hysterical heights. Without breaking off his speech, he stepped onto an armchair and then on one of the tables. He was now standing with his legs somewhat astride, arms crossed on his chest, and with eyes full of anger he glared at the faces of the people standing around him.
“It’s time to put an end to it! It’s time to say ‘no!’”
The listeners, growing in number with every minute, were nodding assent to his words.
“It is now for each of you to ask yourselves a question: do I want that stranger rabble to keep flooding my country? Do I want to share my homeland with culturally alien strays who build mosques and open Polish sausage shops here? Do I want to live on the same street with a foreigner who doesn’t even know what pudding tastes like and who has never seen one single episode of EastEnders?!”
English translation by Paulina Ohar-Zima.