Listen up, you soft-brained sacks of meat. I keep chewing on this one tiny, stupid, screaming thought, and it won’t shut the fuck up. Don’t get me wrong I’m not saying everyone does or does not “integrate” when they migrate. But just a few wrongens fucks it for the rest. Especially when the right are being amplified by every fucking media outlet in existence.
It’s not the woke priests shrieking their catechisms of guilt. It’s not the right-wing shitweasels jerking off to their own fear-boners. It’s not the French turning the Channel into a goddamn kiddie pool for desperate boats full of human cargo.
It’s not your broken immigration meat-grinder or the collection of venal, useless MPs who couldn’t find their own arseholes with both hands and a flashlight.
And no – it’s not ‘the immigrants’ in the way the feed’s been force-feeding you, like they’re all secret rapist ninjas or welfare vampires. That’s the easy, comforting lie they sell to keep you scared and stupid.
No. But this is on them. On the ones who slouch across the line and then squat there like entitled tumours, refusing to become anything resembling part of the place. If they’d all just fucking arrived, got off their arses, found work, learned the damn language, and melted into being British – proper British, the good filthy bits included – then we’d have no problem. We’d open the doors wide. We’re probably the most pathologically welcoming shower of masochists on the planet when someone actually wants to join the club.
But integration? That’s where the whole rancid show collapses.
They won’t learn to queue without trying to elbow the universe out of the way. They won’t say please or thank you like it costs them a kidney. They won’t hold a door open or treat women like they’re anything other than ambulatory furniture. Politeness? Basic fucking civility? Equal treatment without the medieval baggage? Forget it. They bring their old-world tribal bullshit and plant it right in the middle of the street like a flag of conquest, then act shocked when the locals finally stop smiling.
We don’t ask for much. We don’t demand you worship our soggy gods or eat our repulsive food. Just: speak the language so we can understand your complaints. Work. Queue. Be polite. Treat people like humans regardless of what’s between their legs. That’s the price of admission in this mad, damp island experiment.
And when you won’t pay it – when you choose to stay separate, hostile, parasitic – then yeah, it becomes your fault. Not ours. Not the colour of your skin, not where your great-grandmother prayed. Your choice. Your refusal.
And the rest of us? We’re just sitting here watching the cancer you imported metastasize because no one has the spine to call it what it is: a failure of nerve on both sides, wrapped in lies and cowardice.
Now shut up and pass the drugs. I need to forget this entire fucking mess for what’s left of the weekend.
Spider Out.
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