Character: Working class, British white woman, mid 20s, angry and frustrated...
"Today, seventy-three rats drowned in a sinking ship. Arabs. Muslims. A great day for Great Britain. Oh yeah. Because they’d have been heading our way, sure as eggs. Can’t blame them for that. It’s the benefits, the social housing - easy money. Like bait. Some of them have got family over here, friends. Word gets back, dunnit: Come on in, Mohammed, Mustafa, Matey-Boy… The water’s lovely.
"If I was Muslim, a so-called refugee, the Council would give me money to get a place of my own, wouldn’t they? Then I could get out of this kid’s bedroom, away from the nag-nag parents, looking all sniffy at my clothes and my tats and my piercings.
"Rolled over like a barrel, the telly said. Sixteen of them were kids. I don’t like that. I try to think of them as rats, but even then I see little pink, hairless babies, their eyes gummed shut.
"Still, serves them right, the parents. Imagine sticking your kid on some rotting hulk or patched up bloody lilo, putting their lives in the hands of people traffickers. One thing worse than Muslims, it’s those evil sods. Probably Muslims too, mind.
I know it’s shite over there, the rat-holes that they’re trying to crawl out of: bastard dictators, wars, nutters cutting people’s heads off, floggings and that. But they have to learn there’s no room for them over here. No welcome. Even Noel Edmunds knows Britain is full. And he’s a dick. The government’s got it right, we’ve got way too many immigrants already. More mosques than churches being built, I can vouch for that.
"And they’ll work for next to nothing, don’t know no better. Even the legal ones. Especially them. Poles and Bulgarians and other gobble-de-gob buggers from the poxy EU.
The telly said they all rushed to one side of this rust-bucket they were crammed into because they’d seen a rescue boat coming…. Ironic or what?"