Herod’s man

Bloody gippo’s, stinking up the place!

Used to be a nice town, this, my dad says, even though he knows bugger all about nothing most of the time, but for once he’s got it right.

Then the gippo’s come along, spreading their filth, eating their greasy scoff, even using our pubs. There ought to be a law.

Every now and then the lads would catch one, give him a bit of a kicking, remind him it’s much nicer back where he came from, whatever hellhole that might be, but they wouldn’t take the hint. Not them. Bloody thick as well as smelly they are, like two short planks.

We charged into one of their caffs, didn’t we, one night, threw a waiter through the window and his bloody curry after him. Put him in intensive care, didn’t they, but it was a waste of money ’cause he snuffed it after a couple weeks. Reckon someone pulled the plug on him, did us all a favour. Might have been one of his own kind, ’cause they fight like cats and dogs, worse than white people, don’t they? And life’s cheap out there, so they don’t feel it like we would, when one of our kind gets topped.

Law did a bit of a wobbler on that one though, and the press goes how the killers ought to be brought to justice, but it all died down pretty soon when a Cabinet Minister ran off with a sex-change showgirl or the Queen’s son started reading the minds of the animals in the zoo or some bloody thing, so I think it was just a song and dance to keep the bleeding hearts quiet. ‘Cause no one really cares what happens to a bloody gippo, except another gippo, do they? Stands to reason. If we was out there, wherever it is they come from, they’d be the same about us, only worse, ’cause they’ve got those sword and dagger things, stick ’em in your back as soon as look at you, them, you betcha life.

We got one of their women one time, and some of the lads started to have a bit of a laugh with her, but I didn’t fancy it, me, I could smell the garlic on her bloody breath, and her skin was like greasy when you touched it, and they don’t even shave their armpits. And as for deodorant, forget it, apart from that cologne stuff all the blokes smother themselves with so they don’t have to wash so often, or ever. Fit to choke you.

Going with one of their women’d be like screwing a monkey. Besides, you don’t know what you might pick up off ’em, the way they live, like pigs, crammed in a dozen to a room, cooking their bloody swill and sleeping together, spreading it around. Bloody animals. You’d think they’d learn how to live decent, now they’re in a civilised country, wouldn’t you?

No, all they want to do is live off the social security, make plenty babies so they can get more money off of the nanny-state, and then take our jobs away from us when they ain’t hardly enough work to go round already. Send ’em back, I say, and we might get some decent jobs without some gippo’s always willing to do more work for less money than a real human being.

Of course, some of ’em are OK, give ’em a chance, long as they’re not chattering away among themselves in gibberish, saying things about us you can’t understand, bowing down to their heathen idols or whatever it is they do, human sacrifices and that, whatever. I met a couple outside a pub one time, sharing a half they were, and I was giving the bird a bit of a hard time, you know, just for a laugh. She took it very well, though the man looked like he was gonna get a bit stroppy, but she cooled it out, and we had a bit of a chat. Bought ’em a couple sarnies, didn’t I, show there was no hard feelings, and I tried to stick around, see ’em OK if the lads caught up with ’em, but they went off on their own. Don’t think they had a home to go to.

Not like most of ’em, who snap up all the best drums and pack ’em out with their bloody great families, blokes with umpteen wives and dozens of kids and stuff. They’re the ones we get the hump with, and we’re going to clear ’em all out, one day, don’t you worry, send ’em back to the jungle, make the country fit to live in again.

Lots of people think the same only they’re afraid to come out and say it, but we know, ’cause we’ve got friends on high, me and the gang, tip us the wink when the law’s going to be looking the other way, don’t they? I mean, the law ain’t above giving some of ’em a bit of a kicking themselves, are they, especially when it’s after midnight and no one else around to see what goes on in the cells. Someone’s got to teach ’em a lesson, and it can’t always be us, can it?

Most of the time we’re only too happy to oblige, mind you, like that winter when everyone was up in arms about the gippo kid got born in the pub car park, articles in the papers, chats on TV talk shows about was he really going to be a king, though no one sees the baby or its mum and dad, only stuff about lights in the sky and all that old egghead madam.

The local vicar got quite sentimental about it, didn’t he? Until a couple of the lads went round and asked him to stop preaching up the gippo’s and how we all ought to love ’em, nice and diplomatic like. Shut him up real nice, without a drop of blood spilt in anger, didn’t we? And they call us hooligans. Ought to be on the Security Council, us.

Word came down the kid was for the chop, only problem was no one knew where to find him, so the way we looked at it was one gippo kid looks much the same as any other, so we kind of opened up the hunting season, anyone under two was up for it, and no hard feelings from the fuzz.

Some of the lads was a bit squeamish about it, first, you know, squashing babies and that, until I told ’em straight, babies grow up into big, smelly mums and dads, don’t they? And it’s kinder, really, just to take ’em out before they’re old enough to understand what the hell’s going on. And it’s not as if they’re really human, like us.

We’d storm into one of the streets where they all live, hammer down the doors, up the stairs and into each room, grab any kids lying around, never mind if they’re male or female, their exact age or whatever, better safe than bloody sorry, I always say, toss ’em through the windows to the lads on the street, who’d soon get ’em sorted.

The women set up a terrible caterwauling, near to deafen you, and sometimes we got stuff chucked down at us, boiling water one place, bloody savages, but you know them gippo men got no bottle so there was no real problem. Some places the law tried to get in the way, so we had more of an aggro there, made a change from men just shouting threats and women squealing, though it wasn’t serious bother, the law being under instructions just the same as us, like.

I wondered if we might find the couple I met at the pub and I kept an eye open for ’em, you know, see ’em OK if I could, though it’s hard when some of the lads get going, but I think they must’ve moved on.

Turned out the whole thing had been a bit of a waste of time, anyway, in the end, ’cause the gippo’s skipped it, didn’t they? Bloody typical, before we even came round, split for home or some other place, like they finally got the idea them and their kind wasn’t wanted, though I expect they came back when the heat died down.

Still it was a bit of a laugh, while it lasted, and it kept the numbers down.

And the gippo’s in their place. They soon start lording it over you, give ’em half a chance, and the white man’s got to show ’em who’s boss every now and then.

A gippo king? Never happen.

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