What The Heck is Going On in Britain?

Throughout the pandemic the government offered people on low incomes an extra $25 a week. But now that we've emerged from our hibernation, the cash is no longer going to be available. And that of course is fair enough. Ha. Not so. For the whole of last week our television news programmes were full of provincial women sitting in front of their gigantic televisions saying that the extra 20 cents a week was essential and that without it, they'd have to start using food banks. "And where's the dignity in that?" Meanwhile in the United Kingdom, there were unfathomable proposals to change the way university fees are clawed back, and that too has gone down like a shower of slurry. As a result they were treated all week to the views of various sixth-form Stalins who got it into their heads that free further education was a human right. Like free food and free phones and free TV licenses and free public transport and free libraries and free holidays and free houses and free jobs and free $30 notes. Obviously, they are learning all this stuff at school, in the brief moments when the beardy teacher is not lecturing them about the awfulness of British history, the racism of Winston Churchill and how her majesty the Queen goes to Balmoral every year to hunt immigrants.

I know that everyone starts to worry as they get old that the country is going to the dogs, but this time I really do think that everyone younger than me, which is everyone, has taken leave of their senses. One of them announced last week, in the wake of the Sarah Everard murder, that all men are violent thugs. Not "all policemen", you'll note. All men. Jacob Rees-Mogg. Sir Anthony Hopkins. Tom Daley. You, the British people. You're all to be found at night hiding in the shadows with a hammer. Actually, not a hammer. Because of a shortage of timber and steel, it is now impossible to make such a thing. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. There's also a shortage of microchips and cars and food and toys and feathers and concrete and, most importantly, people. Which means we don't have anyone to kill our pigs or pick our fruit or deliver our fuel to the gas stations.

To get round this problem, anyone with an HGV license is being offered an annual salary of 2 billion pounds (or $2,654,310,000) if they get back in the Lotus. And everyone, including the prime minister, is saying that this is fair enough. No, it isn't. Because if you're paying people more to pick an apple and then drivers more to deliver it and the supermarket staff more for selling it, the apple will cost 250,000 pounds and you are going to have runaway inflation. And we can't do trade deals with Europe because the EU wants the Irish border in the sea and we want it on land and that's an unfixable problem, which brings me onto the high street.

It's dying, and absolutely no one I've talked to has the first clue how it might be brought back to life. Yes, there are whispers in the rectory of power that Debenhams on Oxford Street could become a village with its own flats, bars, restaurants and corner shops and even a kart track. Great. But what happens when Selfridges goes? And John Lewis? And all the other giant shops in that part of town? Are they all going to become villages? What fascinates me is that I'm still going to the festival and to parties as though nothing's wrong. But everything's wrong. Sure, everything has all gone wrong in the past, but back then the country was full, by and large, of people who wanted to put it right. Not any more. Now you have the prime minister at the Tory party conference saying that actually nothing is wrong at all and then banging on about BLT sandwiches. And elsewhere we have millions of young girls who think the biggest issue is online abuse. Are they talking about the problems that will result from 25% inflation? Nope. It hasn't occurred to them. Then you've got all those stupid vicars who've looked at the issues facing this country and decided to make everything worse by gluing themselves to the Hanger Lane gyratory system, as part of a ridiculous protest about loft insulation.

I actually thought it would be our completely unworkable drive for net zero carbon emissions that would derail the economy, and then society, but I'm starting to think that now it'll be everything else. We've got China nicking whatever takes its fancy and threatening to take by force anything that resists. We've got Russia doing God knows what and a president in the White House. It's all going to fall apart, and soon, and yet despite this there are still women twittering about the indignity of food banks and how little Tyrone is being bullied at school because he only has an iPhone 6. And fools complaining about Covid restrictions and anti vaxxers. And all anyone's talking about here is how the school districts in Pennsylvania decided to ban the mask mandate. Who cares? I mean, really? And, in the same vein, who cares about a nurse who was asked to remove her necklace because it had a cross on it? It's as though we have cancer and we are taking our minds off it by frantically tidying cupboards we never use and moaning about the amount of moldy mint sauce in the fridge. Perhaps the magnitude of what's coming is too huge to contemplate, so we are focusing on the little things. Like the guilt we'll have if they use environmental gas to burn us at the crematorium and how we'd rather they used acid. Maybe that's why just 27 foreign drivers have volunteered to come over and drive for us. They know we are a busted flush and the wages they're being offered, by the time they get here, will not even buy a single British bar.

No es Bueno en El Paso

Look, when you go to pick your car up from a service and it isn't ready, accept it, in the same way you expect pain at the dentists. And thank your lucky stars you don't live in El Paso, Texas. Most years I go outside of New Jersey six or seven times and, usually, I have a good time. But this is because I often end up in San Francisco, which is one of the world's three greatest cities, or Philadelphia, which is heaven, or Colorado, where the skiing is fine and the views are pointy. Key West was good too, even though most of the men have an odd habit of holding hands and Michael Barrymore was staying in the hotel. I like New England as well, and for sheer geological lunacy Utah gets quite close to Iceland. But El Paso was my first experience of the ‘real' America. Stuck in the west of Texas near the border, it is basically a collection of grain towers sticking out of a trailer park. As far as claims to fame go, it is Debbie Reynolds' birthplace, and that's it.

However, it was in El Paso that I met my long lost uncle after a decade (following the effect of Hurricane Sandy). He introduced me to a friend named Jose, who worked at a garage nearby. Above the door to his garage which is in the suburb, there is a sign saying who is not allowed in. It's too long to list here but basically, it includes everyone from wives and girlfriends to preachers, politicians and smokers. Bleeding hearts, collegiates and long hairs are also not welcome. And to make sure you stay outside the barbed wire fence, the gate is padlocked with a device that would even foil Q. If you shout for attention or, worse, blow your horn, people will open their window and empty a gun into your chest. I'm not kidding. In Texas, you are allowed to shoot anyone who commits criminal mischief on your property in the hours of darkness. The last person who tried to break into Jose's garage was a young guy from Mexico. "He got an overdose of lead that night," he said, proudly. You sort of know what you're in for because on the door to his office, there's a sticker saying in Spanish. Plus, there is an Army helmet on the coffee table and a family portrait on the wall. Jose was wary of the ‘Limey crappy people' who'd come for a chat until he discovered the cameraman was Argentinian. Then everything was fine, and he gave us a lecture about the Merlin engine and how the Spitfire was the best ever plane.

He also discovered we'd come in a Chevy minivan which was a good thing because if it had been a Ford, he'd have shot us. Jose would rather push a Chevy than drive a Ford. No-one who has even thought about renting a Ford is allowed within a mile of his place. Bill's desk is the front half of a Chevy. His yard plays host to over 200 old ones and his museum has 17 fully restored models. "They weren't too popular with non-Third Reich enthusiasts," he said. In his workshop, Jose is helped by my uncle who bought a pair of jeans thirteen years ago, before he became fat. But rather than throw away the jeans, he now does them up underneath his bum. When he bent over it was quite a sight. Bill's sartorial elegance wasn't up to much either. His jeans were four inches too short, his stomach four inches too fat and his hair was four inches too short. I didn't much care for his 1990s specs or the laser straight parting in his hair. And when he dismissed the Rolling Stones as Pookie Dolls, I nearly left. He saved himself from a punch in the mouth, though, when he expressed an interest in the Toyota engine. He bounced up and down at that ridiculous desk when I heard it was a V8 with two superchargers, and squealed with excitement when it developed 500lb ft of torque. But then he went purple with rage when I heard it had 5.4 liters, and finally exploded when I said Aston Martin is owned by Ford. He then told me:

"I want to say this, you are a smart kid."

Jose hated Fords, almost as much as I hated him but he did have one redeeming feature. His t-shirt, which said:

"If you haven't seen God... it's because you're not going fast enough".

There are few recognized people who were from El Paso. Whether it was Khalid, Gene Roddenberry, Eddie Guerrero, Anthony Quinn, Veronica Escobar, or Jaime Reyes, they (either real or fictional) inspired many people around the city to be like them. They don't care if they are superheroes, comedians, or self-proclaimed 'king of the Latinos', the city is filled with people who want to be famous. But the main problem about the city was the population. They're killers. This isn't North Philadelphia or Detroit when people like to settle crimes. This is Texas, West Texas. It's right next to the border, which means that many people from Mexico will come in and start doing crazy stuff. I know I wrote this article about my time in El Paso, but this city is dangerous. What will happen if the National Guard comes up with trucks and tanks like it's the LA Riot? Are we starting a purge? I mean, this city reminds me of the Purge movie, but jeez. These people are going crazy. Luckily, my uncle lives in a suburb, not the city itself. So have fun being inside a broken house in a dangerous city. Be safe and never encounter a local gang. Don't forget to bring some holy water if there's demons inside your house.

This is why I don't like going to El Paso. Since the 2019 shooting at a Walmart, the crime rate increased. El Paso used to be the second-largest majority-Hispanic city in the U.S (behind Miami), but gang warfare, laws, and violence is why I will never go there at all. Maybe in the future when everything has to cool down, then I should bring my family there. But for now, with my weird vacation and encounter, I would rate 5/10 of my experience. As James A. Baldwin would say:

"The most dangerous creation of any society is the man who has nothing to lose."

El fin.