Bloody immigrants.

The building you’re sitting in right now is held up with Spanish or Iranian gypsum. Most of your car is probably made in Germany, Mexico or Japan. The oil that powers it most likely from Saudi Arabia.

You drink beer from Belgium, vodka from Russian and wine from France. You gobble Italian pizza and scoff Chinese rice, flavoured with spices from Indonesia.

You wear American jeans and eat chips made from Venezuelan potatoes. Your coffee is Brazilian,​ your tea is Tamil, the sugar is Jamaican and the milk is only safe to drink because a Frenchman made it so. If you fancy a little flavouring, you’ll use syrup from Canada, chocolate from Colombia, or lemons from Portugal.

Your democracy is Greek. Your humour is Jewish. Your numbers are Arabic and your letters are Latin. Your pyjamas are Indian and your slippers are Turkish.

And you’re reading this in a language that’s a bastard hybrid of French, Latin, Scandiwegian and Irish.

How dare anybody complain about immigrants.