What's plaguing Britain now? Yes, yes, knives. It is an island awash in blades where even a quick run to the corner shop is an obstacle course of drink-sozzled louts in hooded sweatshirts whose twisted desire for the feeling of power brought about by inflicting misery can only be sated by thrusting their sharpened steel into the pliant human flesh of random passersby etc. We already know this is what Britain is all about. But now:
With her ear glued to her mobile phone, my 11-year-old daughter, Millie, was deep in conversation, her brow furrowed as she discussed some arrangement with a friend. I listened in, as I made jam in the kitchen. ‘Lol, that’s well sick!’ Millie said. ‘DW, yolo!’ This indecipherable code-speak (‘sick’ means awesome, ‘DW’ is don’t worry and ‘yolo’ means you only live once) was delivered in an accent I could only place as somewhere between South London, downtown Los Angeles and Kingston, Jamaica. It certainly isn’t indigenous to our home village of Ashtead, in the rolling Surrey hills.
Millie and other fresh flowers of English rosedom like her are victims of an insidious virus called "Multicultural Youth English," and neither wealth or whiteness offers any protection. As if that isn't terrifying enough, millions of poisonous spiders are about to come in from the cold. With all this terror running a gauntlet of knives almost seems like a month in the country. What a horrible place this Britain be.