21 August, 2008


Plain tales from the Monoculture

I have just spent several days in Wigan on personal business. Despite having been born and brung up in South Lancashire, Wigan is a place I have never had the pleasure of visiting before. An unexpectedly pleasant and rather comfortable town which belies its dour music-hall image, though judging from the startling number of pubs and clubs in the town centre, one with a possibly over-excitable night life. King Street might be better named "The Street of 1,000 boozers". Regrettably I didn't get round to visiting the famous pier, despite it being signposted from the station.

Shortly after arriving I had occasion to pop into a "convenience shop", where I experienced a disorientating shock. The staff of the shop were not only White, but English. As one normally based in the Metrollops, it took me a little while to assimilate this seeming anomaly. And throughout my admittedly short stay, I saw no more than a dozen non-White people in the streets and shops. Even the chambermaids in my hotel were White and spoke with an accent which would have made George Formby feel at home. The only non-White person I actually interacted with was a middle-aged West Indian chap issuing tickets at one of the railway stations.

So here is an English town which seems to function perfectly well with a minimal non-White, indeed a minimal non-English population. Yet the Liberal Elite tell us that we "need immigrants to do the jobs the English won't do". Chaps, in Wigan, the English are doing the jobs, thank you very much.

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