A dear teacher friend, long since departed, used to sigh as he left the staff room, “I’m off once again, to cast artificial pearls before real swine.” We knew what he meant. Teenagers in the real world have always been genetically programmed to resist – at least initially – both learning and the advice of those older and perhaps wiser than themselves. In the 1950s and 1960s, especially in the selective schools like the one I attended, we still ‘played up’ weak or eccentric teachers. The threat of physical punishment, either officially with the cane, or more immediately via a clip round the ear or a glancing blow from a board duster, was ever present. More crushing, however, was some barbed comment from a sarcastic master who knew how to wound with words.

To move on to modern times, the process of turning teachers into entertainers has been a long and largely dishonorable one.Teachers as entertainers? Really? Sadly, by the time I left the profession in 2012, a successful lesson - at least in the eyes of those ultimate predators, the Great White Sharks of OFSTED – needed all the prerequisites of a successful stand-up comedian or Oscars host. There had to be pace, but not so fast as to baffle the handful of unfortunates wearing a ‘Special Needs’ placard round their neck. I exaggerate, of course. There was no Jewish yellow star, but they knew they were special because they had been told they were, and you knew they were special because you had to identify them in your lesson plans. So, pace was necessary. Tone of voice, eye contact, choreographed movement around the classroom – sorry, delete ‘classroom’, substitute ‘learning environment’ – were all boxes to be ticked. Subject knowledge? Well, perhaps, but not entirely essential, as engagement was everything. After all, pupils – whoops, students, oh shit, I meant learners – finding out things for themselves was the Green-Eyed Yellow Idol at whose feet all ambitious teachers worshipped.

So this has precisely what to do with Wisbech? There has been a recent spate of petty crime carried out by a group of teenagers the press and social media referred to as a ‘biker gang’. Now, I don’t know about you, but a in my language, a biker gang is a ferocious pack of hairy and tattooed individuals, their bodies bristling with piercings and bearing the scars of initiation ceremonies. They hurtle round the place on Harley Davidsons, necking back quarts of Jack Daniels, and sharing their leather-clad women with each other. The pathetic bunch who were pictured throwing plants about in Museum Square – and may be responsible for other acts of  vandalism in the town – are far from fearsome, but let me tell you what would happen to any citizen who dared tackle them face to face.

The most immediate response would be a volley of obscenities screamed in their as-yet-unbroken voices. Next, and this would not take very long, given the knee-jerk immediacy of Facebook and Instagram, the unfortunate person who chastised the lads would be named, shamed, and visited by a posse of furious mothers, usually accompanied by their current boyfriends and assorted wider family members and their unpleasantly aggressive dogs. Fathers? Don’t be silly – Dad, even if he could be identified, is probably far away and well out of it.

Assuming our unwise Wisbechian survives this onslaught with teeth and limbs intact, there will soon be a knock on the door, and hitherto hidden members of the Cambridgeshire Constabulary will be there to inform our citizen friend that his righteous anger at the pimply vandals was a serious criminal offence, and the Crown Prosecution Service are going hell-for-leather to avenge the momentary discomfort of the lads on their bikes who were merely expressing themselves by throwing clods of earth and painstakingly nurtured plants at each other.

I wrote about schools earlier in this piece. Long ago, when I was still at the chalkface, there was an initiative, probably dreamed up by a socialist academic at a minor university. The thrust of it was that we were letting our youngsters down because we were neglecting their self esteem. Naturally, the Self-Esteem myth was gobbled up by educationalists across the land, along with other bizarre schemes such as Christ-free Christmases, teachers basically replacing parents, gender-neutral toilets, the banning of red ink used in marking books, children sitting on interview panels for new teachers and sports days where no-one was actually allowed to win races.




 

I suspect that the Acne Avengers who  wrecked floral displays, vandalised The Castle and made malicious 999 calls have all had their own self-esteem boosted continually since they were out of nappies. They have been told that they are special, and that doing whatever they want to do, irrespective of its effect on others, is their God-given right, and is part of their creative self expression. They – and their disfunctional families – will know their rights down to the last semi-colon; they will, however, be unable either to pronounce or understand the slightly more important word – responsibilities. The worst part of this sorry saga? Recently, voters in this country opted for a change; they wanted independence, the recognition of hard work, a country where energy, determination and integrity was rewarded, and a return to fair but vigorous treatment of people who were antisocial, destructive and self-obsessed. Faced with this, the entire criminal justice, social care and educational establishments are heading off at 90 mph – in the opposite direction. Spare a thought, however, for the devastated and heartbroken Wisbech families who suffered the full might of The Law, when they were given. "strong words of advice." Sometimes, you genuinely couldn't make it up.

We are finally here! We have made it! The great day has arrived – it’s January 1^st 2020 and at last the Great 2020 Vision is here. It’s real, and we can reach out and touch it! Remember how it started?
“The Wisbech 2020 Vision was announced in 2012. Its aim is to regenerate the town and its surrounding area - making it "a great place to work, live and visit."

There were lofty ambitions:

• Agreeing a deal with a local developer to re-start the Nene Waterfront scheme (2013)
• Becoming part of the national Healthy High Streets programme (2014)
• Approval of £300million investment for A47 improvements, including the Guyhirn Roundabout (2014)
• Constantine House being made wind and weather-proof (2015)
• Receipt of a £2million grant from the Heritage Lottery Fund to improve buildings on Wisbech High Street
• A successful devolution deal, resulting in the launch of the Cambridgeshire and Peterborough Combined Authority
• £6.5 million towards a feasibility study of a Wisbech Garden Town which could deliver 8,000-10,000 new homes, better transport links, jobs and improved educational facilities
• £10.5 million towards Wisbech transport improvements.

What happened? The Nene Waterfront Scheme? A busy marina, bustling with energy, boating traffic, cafés, Wisbech open for business and saying a big “hello’ to the world? Not exactly. The Boathouse. Over-priced and under-used. That’s it, and that’s all.

The Healthy High Streets programme? My goodness, that worked wonders, didn’t it? Along with the £2million grant that went straight into the pockets of consultants. The only thing that has changed is the window display in Evisons. No, I’m only joking – I love the shop, but it’s still 1957.

The A47? Wow what a difference that has made! And as for the refurbished roundabout at Guyhirn, how did we ever get by in the old days?

Constantine House? A result of sorts, but not through any effort by the 2020 Vision luminaries. The building was eventually re-roofed and made watertight, largely as a result of pressure from Mike & Viginia Bucknor, with help from an active social media campaign. Other members of the Town Council did nothing other than rubbish the efforts to make the building less of an eyesore.

The Cambridgeshire and Peterborough Combined Authority. Now that really has made a difference. There can’t be a man woman or child in Wisbech who goes to sleep at night without whispering a silent prayer to Mayor James Palmer and his tireless work to make Wisbech a better, safer and more prosperous town.

The Garden Town? Again, another £6.5 million of taxpayers’ money diverted into the offshore bank account of Messrs Bluff, Spynne and De Ceeve – that well-known firm of consultants and creators of fatuous feasibility studies.

Wondering why Bluff, Spynne and De Ceeve have an offshore tax-free account? Simple – the further payment of £10.5 million to ‘improve Wisbech transport infrastructure’ pushed them into the top tax bracket, so what else could they do?

Let’s cut the satire and be plain. The High Street is the same mess it always was. Transport links are on a par with rural Albania. The town centre is fine if all you want is a cup of coffee, a new ‘phone or a scratch ‘n’ sniff fully immersive experience of street drinking, urination and defecation. In short, eight years of committees, pledges, consultations and visions have produced precisely this, expressed perfectly as a mathematical fraction:

What a bitter contrast there is between the national mood and the state of play here in The Fens! I am delighted that we now have a proper government that can actually govern, and a Prime Minister with energy and ideas. But in Wisbech? Not so much. At county, district and town level we have apathy, complacency and a parnem et circenses approach which seeks to bamboozle the public by pushing one or two expensive vanity projects at the expense of genuine dynamism and change. What we are being offered is elaborate icing - on a cake which is made of sawdust.

The dust settles in British politics after Boris Johnson’s triumph, and the opposition parties are left to lick their wounds. In Wisbech, however, it might as well never have happened. There was no dust kicked up, no furious debate, no hustings, and no change. Did the election even happen? Well it did for me as I waded through sludge and puddles to the tradesman’s entrance of the Cricket Pavilion and put my mark against Steve Barclay’s name. As a card carrying member of his party, I could hardly do anything else. I joined up because of my admiration for Johnson’s scoundrel persona, his ‘f**k you’ attitude and his promise to finally get us out of the EU.

My bemusement at Wisbech politics starts and ends with the complete indifference to opposition parties in this area. Much as Mike and Ginny Bucknor worked their hearts and souls out while they were councillors, in the teeth of quite appalling treatment from the local Politburo, it has become obvious since ill health forced them to stand down that they were dyed-in-the-wool socialists all along, and their ‘Independent’ status was  rather sensible – if slightly devious – playing with words.

Viewed from a distance, Wisbech would initially seem to be a natural Labour heartland. Social deprivation, barely adequate schools, non-existent transport links and a growing sense that the decaying town centre is a nothing but a magnet for feral teenagers, out of work migrants and other casualties of our ruinous association with the EU. What do we get as a Labour parliamentary candidate? A random lady barrister, probably with a social conscience, parachuted in to take one for the team. The fact that ‘The Team’ was the worst Labour Party in my memory (and I am 73 next year) only partly explains why the Labour candidate’s attempt to win the seat was so risible.

Yes, Corbyn was an elderly Marxist with a dreadful record of hatred for his country and a determination to stand alongside any rag-tag-and-bobtail terrorist group who would grant him a photo opportunity. Yes, his future Home Secretary was a rather sad woman promoted way, way above her ability on the grounds of race and gender. Yes, his Chancellor was an envy ridden, malicious and devious Communist determined to avenge himself on those he thought to be too, rich, too successful, too clever. But still, the ghosts of a long-gone Labour Party, who put ordinary people before rhetoric, must have been gazing down in bemusement from The Other Place.

If Labour supporters really want to grab Wisbech people by the throat and make them think, then I suggest a couple of tactics that might just work.

Stop worshipping at the altar of unlimited immigration. In Wisbech, it has worked for factory bosses, unscrupulous landlords, employment agencies and criminal gangs. The downside, for the mythical Joe and Joanne Bloggs, has been the curse of street drinking and its insanitary by-products, huge pressure on public servicesand social housing blackspots.

 
Make a decision to stop fawning over the manufactured social outrage of a well paid coterie of London journalists, talking heads like Owen Jones, Jasmin Alibhai Brown, Paul Mason and their entourage of soy latte social justice warriors. They don’t care about Wisbech, so don’t link to them on your social media page and imagine that anyone here is going to be impressed or persuaded.

Every single one of us should take a long hard look at local politicians and how they operate. Ask questions. What do you do for your ward? Aside from bigging up your CV, what small and unglamorous fixes have you provided for  people who have sought your help? What do you intend to do about our poor schools, declining public safety, shabby town centre and broken transport links?

Will anything change? No, of course it won’t. Only some seismic event – maybe a huge public scandal, or a wayward meteor striking the council chamber during a meeting – will have any effect. My Christmas thought, for what it is worth, is that while Britain prospers under the boisterous but benevolent Boris, Wisbech will continue to sink inexorably back into the primeval slime whence it came. 

Happy Christmas!

WHAT A STRANGE THING TECHNOLOGY IS - This blog has been dead for over three years, and when I tried to give it the kiss of life a few months ago, it rejected my reviving breath. Eventually, because I was previously using the wrong combination of log-in details and passwords, I have manged to get back in.

IMAGINE A COMATOSE HOSPITAL PATIENT waking up after three years. Does he find the world hugely different? The last time I wrote, David Cameron had resigned in the wake of the June 2016 referendum, and his party were scrabbling around for a new leader. More of that a little later, but had the Sleeping Blogger awoken in Wisbech, the first blinks of his eyes would reveal that little has changed, at least nothing for the better.

THE NEWLY SENTIENT LAZARUS takes his first hesitant steps into the town. What does he find? A rejuvenated, bustling High Street, with its 'missing teeth' replaced with sparkling new buildings? Sadly not. The teeth are still missing, and many thousands of pounds of taxpayers' money has been trousered by consultants and facilitators with naught to show but a few implausible designs in an online brochure.

A RE-INVIGORATED MARKET PLACE, bustling with stalls, and lined with pleasant shops offering beautiful commercial opportunities? Woe, woe and thrice woe. The flagship retail experience of Wisbech remains firmly in the hands of pound shops. At this time of year, those with psychic powers can see the faint pahantoms of Christmas customers queuing outside Franks, formerly the best butcher's shop in the area. The Ghosts of Christmas Past wait in vain for their pork pies, haslet, ham, succulent sausages and other more esoteric (and acquired) porky tastes.

A WALK ALONG NORFOLK STREET is a depressing affair. Despite boasting three of the best shops in the town, Anglia Locksmiths - with the unrivaled expertise of its staff and great value, the Post Office - run by two of the friendliest folk in town, and Wisbech Music Centre - with the ever friendly and expert Carmine at your service, the street is shabby, litter strewn, home to fly-by-night hair-cutters, body-piercers and skin-inkers and poky European grocers. The progress of our former coma victim, as he inches his way along the pavement, is watched over by groups of smokers, huddled in shop doorways, making the thoroughfare as enticing as a slug crawling across a birthday cake.
 

AS LAZARUS REGAINS HIS STRENGTH he might be tempted to investigate Wisbech politics. That, above all other things, must have changed, surely? In tiny ways, perhaps. Those indefatigable campaigners for their constituents, Mike and Virginia Bucknor, have left the battlefield. Defeated perhaps by a combination of ill health and persistent animosity, they have called it a day. Virginia, though, has now revealed that she is a fearsome Socialist, despite her long held Independent banner.
STILL AT THE HELM OF WISBECH POLITICS, firmly in control, reputations undiminished by allegations, shining armour untarnished by the acid of criticism, relentlessly confident and charismatic are two people who ............ at this point I must stop. No names, no Pack Drill. Anonymity rules are not to be waived. Frustrated by the relentless assault on my decision (and that of millions of others) to leave the EU, and boosted by the arrival of Boris Johnson as Conservative Party leader and Prime Minister I joined that party. I have not regretted that decision for one second, and I hope that in the cold and frosty dawn of 13th December I will wake up to the news that Boris has won a working majority.

MY REQUEST TO BECOME A CONSERVATIVE PARTY MEMBER was challenged, inevitably, by the local hierarchy who, not without reason given my views on their antics, wondered why I wanted to be, as it were, shipmates. I replied that my request was in support of Johnson, and that I would not involve myself in any way with the local party, and that is that.

WISBECH, staunchly and overwhelmingly in the Brexit camp, can only sit back and watch as the Conservative Party play Punch and Judy while it finds a new leader - and Prime Minister. The Labour Party has little presence in the town. So little, in fact, that they could probably hold an AGM in someone's living room. The party national appears to be intent on shooting itself in both feet, but under the hapless Jeremy Corbyn a strange transformation is taking place.

The political Left in this country has, almost without a murmur, lurched dramatically to - the Establishment. Perhaps not the part of the Establishment which includes Old Etonians, elderly judges, members of Polo clubs and afficionados of the Henley Regatta, but the Establishment is a broad church. One of its congregations comprises media professionals, successful entertainers, 'spokespeople' for this and that minority, lobbyists for the ever-growing list of fashionable genders, the clergy of the Church of England, almost to a woman and, of course, the omnipotent men and women who lead Britain's trade unions. Those who sit on this side of the Establishment aisle are indistinguishable from those on the other side, certainly in terms of their affluence.

So these folk can be characterised by the wonderful phrase from the hymn All Things Bright and Beautiful' - 'the rich man in his castle'. So who lines up behind 'the poor man at his gate'? And who represents him?

There was a time when the natural home for the British working class was the Labour Party. This was the party of Aneurin Bevan, and other passionate men and women. Clement Attlee? He was certainly an underrated and under-estimated politician, but he was a compassionate member of the upper classes, who chose to use his education and his learning to benefit those who had neither.

It has been a common cry over the last few days that those who had the temerity to vote to leave the EU were possessed of any combination of the following devils.

• Blind ignorance
• Racism
• Economic illiteracy
• Bigotry
• Being old
• Xenophobia
•  Hate crime
• Selfishness

Anyone lucky enough to tick all eight descriptions must surely have a very special place in hell reserved for them. But what if you did? What are the reasons behind the stigmata?

The simple truth is that the Establishment Left have no time for you. You don't fit their image of a 21st century Social Justice Warrior. Heavens, you may even shop at ALDI or, even worse, at LIDL.

When you are woken up by the noisy activities of the twelve single men from Eastern Europe who occupy the house next door, you probably fail to recognise the cultural enrichment they are bringing to your community.

You may even have been observed talking in a negative fashion about the diversity and cultural variety brought to many communities across the land by groups of Pakistani men and their innovative approach to personal relationships. And yes, I DO realise that these men have nothing to do with the EU. But the fact that the Leftist Establishment tolerates them and their obscene behaviour is just another part of the same problem.

Perhaps the old Working Class no longer exists. My mother and father were from humble backgrounds, but they wanted better. They didn't rejoice in their lowly upbringings, but battled to educate themselves so that they could move on. For them, upward mobility was not the subject of some smug, middle-class, satirical sitcom, but an worthwhile aspiration. They might not have made it, but they sweated blood to make sure that I did.

So what do we make of such charlatans as Polly Toynbee and Owen Jones? Both are the product of comfortable and affluent homes. No crime there, but neither would know a working class home, or upbringing if it were presented to them on a tray at an Islington drinks party. Still, they feel qualified to pour scorn on the millions of ordinary men and women across Britain who voted to leave the EU. Mock on, then - but perhaps your tenure inside the warm fold of Britain's establishment may yet rebound on you.

 THE CONFESSIONS OF A BREXITEER

Does anyone hear confessions, please? It seems that I have committed a cardinal sin by supporting -  very publicly - the campaign to leave the European Union. And, what's worse, I actually voted Leave. The fact that I was in very good company in these parts - around three-quarters of us - hasn't made any difference to the venomous response of people I hoped would remain friends, even though we were on different sides of the argument.

I should have anticipated the problems, I suppose. The first hint of trouble was when the editor of a website I write for, and helped administer, more or less blamed me and my views for the tragic death of MP Jo Cox in the week before the Referendum vote. My extreme views, he wrote, had helped foster the atmosphere of hate which motivated the man who murdered her.

To be fair to him, and I am really trying hard here, he inhabits a world of authors and assorted media folk for whom left wing views are a given. Earlier in the piece, he had insisted I use a different Twitter account to help promote the website, as he feared my views might offend the literary establishment among whom he plies his trade. That was easily done, and I indulged him.

Once the sheer horror of what we had done on 23rd June dawned on him, he went public on the site, not with personal reference to me, but reflecting the abiding air of grief and loss within  artistic and creative folk across the land. How could we be so stupid?  This was a terribilem diem for the country, a step back into the dark ages. How did provincial clods like us even have the vote?

The result was, I suppose, inevitable. After a few days of stony silence, he told me that he could no longer work with someone whose views were so extreme and so abhorrent, and so I was sacked. There is, clearly, no leper in the arts and media world quite like that of a person whose views don't match the template of the card-carrying Guardianistas of literary festivals and book-signings.

Even former colleagues from the teaching profession took to social media to express their desolation. They were ashamed of being British, sickened and saddened by the desecration of something so beautiful and wholesome. Some could only vent their posting links to page after page after dreary page of the leftist bible, The Guardian. Incidentally, today's Times reported that a Freedom of Information request had revealed that that sainted national treasure, the BBC, buys 250 copies of The Guardian each day, just to make sure that its employees do not stray too far from the metropolitan liberal consensus.

Across the land, random acts of racism, which probably happen all the time, regrettably, were spotlighted as being the result of racist behaviour becoming legitimised by the decision to vote Leave. If that were not bad enough, the financial markets were in turmoil, and we were clearly heading for a meltdown not seen since, well the last meltdown. Needless to say, markets closed today, 29th June, up several points from their position before the Referendum vote.

The petition to hold a second referendum received huge support in a matter of hours. So huge - and worldwide - was the response, that signatories were found to come from such places as Korea, Tunisia and Hawaii.

As I write, I suspect that we who voted to leave the EU are in the process of being shafted by the politicians. David Cameron is in a peculiar position, having championed the Remain cause. The Labour Party is in tatters, and cannot play a sensible part in anything which follows. UKIP - and Nigel Farage in particular - are still the pantomime villains, despite their historic role in securing the Referendum in the first place.

So, there it is. Bless me Father, for I have sinned. What my penance is to be, I will reveal later.

 

Wisbech has endured another spell of bad days, where the headlines have featured grim story after grim story. Firstly, we learn that Wisbech is one of the least integrated towns in Britain, in that the indigenous population go their own way, as do the large number of immigrants in the town, and ne’er the twain shall meet. This survey, by some think-tank out in the far blue yonder, has declared it so, and national media have been quick to pounce. It is small recompense to learn that our near neighbours in Spalding are even worse at getting on with each other than we are.

Next, and far worse, we have a poor woman in her forties being raped near, of all places, a children’s play area. It is a mistake to judge the impact of an event by how much it features on social media, but this nasty episode was not bumped up as much as it might have been, possibly because the rumour mill suggests that the woman was from Eastern Europe, and so not ‘one of ours’.

To cap it all, when news spread that a man had been stabbed at a house on Churchill Road, and was in hospital with life-threatening injuries, the doomsayers were quick to speculate that the men involved would not prove to be English. And so it was, when the news that the dead man – for this quickly became a murder case – and his alleged assailant were both immigrants, heads were nodded sagely, and there was a chorus of “I told you so.”

Anyone who thinks that Wisbech was a haven of enlightenment, peace and prosperity before the arrival of the immigrants, either has a defective memory, or took a bang on the head as a teenager, thus putting their earlier years into a kind of Disneyland soft focus. Wisbech has always been a knockabout, rough and ready, frontier-justice kind of town. I have written about murders, assaults and assorted villainy in the town, and you can find these in previous blogs – just use the search facility.

Have we experienced a descent into lawlessness since the immigrants arrived? My personal view is that you are much more likely to come to harm at the hands of a drunken Eastern European car driver than you are to meet with misfortune at the hands of a one of his colleagues wielding a knife. So why the fear and loathing? Why do local people write on Facebook that they don’t feel safe anymore?

There are several reasons, none of them being simple or conclusive. In no particular order, here are my views on the issue.

(1)  There are too many single men, 18-30, in the immigrant population. Young men the world over, when in each other’s company, with no family restraints, will behave badly, given half a chance. Put these men in a situation where they are frequently without work, sharing sub-standard accommodation, and with ready access to alcohol, and what could possibly go wrong?

(2)  There are winners and losers in the immigration game. Clear winners are people who have bought buy-to-let houses. Given half a chance, they can rent these out to people who, at face value, seem fairly respectable. But then, these respectable people turn out to be in the pay of bigger and more sinister interests. Maybe gangmasters, people smugglers? House and rooms can be let and sublet to the n’th degree, bringing much joy to the wallets of people at the top of the chain, and misery to those near the bottom.

(3)  Farmers and bosses of food-processing plants think all their Christmases have come at once. Farmers may well be paying the going rate for cabbage harvesting or asparagus cutting, but by the time the agencies have carved out their share, the workers are often left with the square root of sweet fuck all.

(4)  It is unfortunate, in so many ways, that Fenland is run by the Conservative Party. At the heart of their misrule at Town Council level is a man who actively supports the concept of HMOs – Homes of Multiple Occupancy. He vehemently opposed recent legislation to clamp down on the robber-landlords. He also defends the right of misguided young men to drink themselves senseless in public places. He is also very vocal in support of shopkeepers who want to profit by selling strong drink to these same young men. He takes every opportunity to criticise the police when – on rare occasions, admittedly – they attempt to enforce the law. He sneers at people who look to people like him and his political coterie for leadership, and a proper vision of what life should be like in a small town.

(5)  Immigrant numbers in Wisbech long since reached the critical mass which makes it unecessary for immigrants to learn English. A small percentage of New Wisbechians do want to learn, and I have the privelege of working with these groups, and a more genuine, good-humoured – and generous – group of people you could not hope to find. The fact remains, however, that they want to learn English because they are keen to learn, and keen to integrate – not because speaking English makes their daily lives any easier.

As I write this, we learn that one of the more charismatic people in political life – Boris Johnson – has thrown his weight behind the campaign to leave the European Union. This gives me a sense that we may be at the start of a long journey to reclaim our country. If that eventually happens, I doubt I shall be around long enough for the changes to affect me, but for my children – and their children – I can feel only optimism.

But what of the here and now? If we do leave the EU, nothing will happen to the thousands of people from the Baltic States and elsewhere who have made Wisbech their home. And why should it? Most of them are working here, paying their taxes, and getting on with life. Their children already speak English as well as most of the ‘natives’, and in a generation, people will wonder what all the fuss was about. My hope is that recapturing our borders with Europe will lead to a much greater awareness of our sense of nationhood, and what kinds of behaviour we expect from people who view our culture and traditions with scorn, but are very amenable to our generosity in terms of healthcare, schools and benefits. 

Angela Merkel has sown the wind with her catastrophic weakness on inward migration and, in terms of her political career, it is hoped that she will reap the whirlwind. What we decide on 23^rd June this year may just be the first brick in the wall which saves us from the cultural devastation imminent in mainland Europe.