Louise Crossley – The Albion Club

The Albion Club

I blame the Italians.
The first for open borders.
Sent construction workers over;
fostered unity with walls.
Brought loads of Romanians,
Croats and Bulgarians
over as security.

Then came that European
farming expansion programme.
The Germans got their towels down.
Scandinavians joined in:
grabbed themselves a nice big share.
Got so you could barely hear
a word of your own language
in places up north of here.

And they just kept on coming,
wave upon wave upon wave.
A bloke had no chance of work
even mucking out horse shit:
the Irish and the Gypsies
got that market well cornered.

London was full to bursting
with immigrants: filled with French,
and their fancy silk fashions,
you’d not see an English face
at all in some parts of town.
Of course, a lot got here on
the coat tails of their betters:
cooks, nannies, sailors and such.

So many came here by sea,
bringing curry and shampoo,
a law ensured three-quarters
of every crew was English.
Once they got here though, they stayed;
put down roots; had families;
took this island for their home.

All this before Hanover’s
George sat on the English throne.
Two centuries away from
Enoch’s great rivers of blood.
For two thousand years and more
we’ve been a mongrel nation.
So “Cry a Levantine god for
Harald and a Turkish saint!”
Keep England English, I say.


Louise Crossley is a member of Swindon’s Blue Gate poets.  She is unbeaten at Trivial Pursuit; is a First Class shot; and lives in the Cotswolds with a cat, some chickens and a bit of an attitude.