Last of the Brits We tend to leave home around about ten in the morning when the world is having

its second mug of tea. The travellers havent hit the road yet and every-where is quiet. Were on our way to town today. We dont go there all that often, maybe once a month, but its always worth the trip. No need to spend a fortune on foreign travel anymore; the circus has come to town. Take this trip, for example. Were cruising along, half-chatting, halflistening to Ken Bruce on Radio-2, when a Chinese woman zooms past on a motorbike with a toddler sprawling on the petrol tank. There is nothing holding the kid in place, and neither of them is wearing a helmet. My God, I tell Liz, That poor womans taken a wrong turn coming out of Manky Pooh and ended up in South Wales. Shes probably trying to find her way back home, but the signposts are in gobbledegook. Poor girl; shes doomed to wander the valleys forever. How do you know shes from Manky Pooh? Liz demands cynically. She challenges all my deepest revelations. It doesnt matter, I snap. The implications are horrendous. There are umpteen zillion motorcyclists in China. If they all make the same mistake and come zooming through the Channel Tunnel like a plague of locusts, theyll end up choking our motorways and roads like so much sludge in a gutter, to say nothing of the towns and villages. Before we know it, everywhere will be knee deep in noodles and fried rice, and we wont be able to move. As a responsible citizen, I take these things seriously. Something has to be done, and quickly, I tell her. Thats when I was inspired to start my online petition to have the Channel Tunnel bricked-up at Folkestone. In the meantime, I tell Liz, we should get everyone to lobby their MP to have all road-signs displayed in English and Chinese, in the hope of helping these lost souls to find their way back to Yingyang County. Get the WI onto it. By now we are moving through the inner city. Bearded men in white nightshirts walk paces ahead of black shrouds that glide over pavements, silent and unswerving in hypnotic obedience. The ghosts of the night being led back to their daytime hidey-holes, I deduce. Hold on, I whisper, and step on the juice. In town, we mosey up High Street on the way to the market. Along the way we pass a gypsy woman. Shes been standing there ever since Romania boarded the EU gravy train, pumping furiously on a tuneless accordion, like a desperate blacksmith aiming bellows at the last spark. Ive mentioned this girl before, not a note in her head, poor soul. Im no virtuoso myself, but this critter has been practising for months and getting nowhere. I hope shes saving up for lessons, I mutter. In a department store, I need to powder my nose and head for the toilet. A gathering of Muslim women is blocking the foyer. Theyve kicked off their shoes and are having a prayer session, facing Mecca via the urinals. I navigate through them and point Percy at the wall. If I felt the need to pray while I was in this place, I muse; I would head for the Lingerie Department and meditate among those shapely dummies in flimsy knickers... Outside, we encounter the last of the Brits; teenage girls with glazed eyes and heads full of din, lugholes bunged-up with earpieces. They could be robots; electronic cigarettes sticking out of their mouths like teats. Further along, a posse of women gather at a bus stop, singing protest songs... They carry placards that announce, Every woman has a

right to abortion. I avert my eyes. I dont know the rights and wrongs, but I am scared of madwomen. A young bum sprawls in a doorway, unshaven, unwashed and unkempt, begging for, Any loose change. The Asian shopkeeper comes out and moves him on. I hate this place, growls the bum, as he stands in the rain wondering where to waste his life next, a derelict on a sea of hopelessness. The guy needs a job. He should link up with that gypsy woman. Theyd make a great team. He could take over the accordion and attract attention with the cacophony. She could squat beside him, carving pegs out of twigs and hissing curses at anyone who wont buy. Find your niche... thats the road to success. On the way home, we see that a main police station has closeddown and the building is up for sale. Nearer home, the police station has gone on part time. The law has capitulated and Im reaching for the whisky bottle.