The crowd was getting unruly. Constables walked among them to ensure their ire remained merely vocal.
Paul joined the people streaming to the protest. Several times blokes waving signs nearly opened up his head. One sign read, “Britain for Brits!” Another read, “Aliens Go Home!”
Paul experienced similar feelings. Jobs were getting scarce and lots of aliens took what few remained. In an effort to better integrate the alien Pormani into British society, government created tax rebates for businesses that hired Pormani. The same thing happened when the Invil’tagani arrived and the Norgans years before that. A lot of Brits were getting angry. It also happened in France, Germany, Italy, Greece, and America. Paul couldn’t help feeling blinkered. Life was hard and aliens seemed to be getting a better break.
After joining the main crowd and shouting for an hour, he felt knackered. He walked to a side street to rest and just watch. Another bloke joined him and offered a fag. They smoked in silence for bit before Paul said, “Great protest, eh?”
“Yeah. It’s the dog’s bollocks.”
They shook hands.
“Think it’ll work?”
“Dunno. We Brits gotta do somethin’, right?” Reg took off his cap, and there, Paul could see Reg’s antennae.
“Cor blimey!” exclaimed Paul. “You’re a bleedin’ alien!”
“Am not! I’m as British as you!”
“Codswallop! You’re not even Human!”
“What’s that got to do with it? I pay me taxes. I put me trousers on one leg at a time. I’d bite me arm off for some bangers and mash right now.” He shrugged. “I’m buggered if I know a good pub hereabouts.”
“Ye can’t protest aliens, and be an alien!”
“Can too! I’m fifth generation British. That makes me a bloomin’ Brit! And look at you. Yer not even white!”
“Rubbish! Me Da got here from Somalia four generations ago.”
Paul wasn’t sure what to say. He took a final toke on his fag and flicked it into the street. In the distance, the protest was turning violent. Smoke grenades flew into the crowd.
“We’d better get out of here before this all goes pear shaped,” noted Paul. He said to Reg, “You like Indian food?”
Reg sighed, “That’d be the mutt’s nuts.”
“You really are British, aren’t you?”
“Told you I was.”
Paul whacked Reg on the shoulder. “Let’s clear off before those bloody blinkered pillocks catch up.”
There’s debate raging across Europe and America right now about Syrians immigrating into our countries. I agree with background checks, but let’s get it done quickly, please. A lot of folks want to start a new life, and I think they should have that opportunity. I’ve heard people pointing to various ethnic groups and saying “they shouldn’t be here.” To that I say, “bulls**t!” Here in the states MOST of us are the children of immigrants. If you’re not full-blooded Native American, you’ve got no right to complain. Being American isn’t a matter of bloodline. It’s all about an Idea. I had Mexican food for breakfast. I’ll have Indian for lunch and Chinese food for dinner. I love that. I don’t want to change a thing.
I know a bit of British slang, but I wanted more. I gathered a bunch of terms here: http://www.effingpot.com/slang.shtml
Written for weekly Sunday Photo Fiction writing challenge. Look here for the original prompt: https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2016/02/28/sunday-photo-fiction-february-28th-2016/