04 July, 2011


Tales from the Multiculture - Rara ursa

I saw a Polish bear dyke on the train yesterday. Like a bull dyke only beefier. Spiky hair, gruff voice, the sort of physique that suggested she could easily balance a 40-ton artic trailer on the tip of one finger while using her other hand to punch out an attacking phalanx of enraged rhinoceri. Her partner was only marginally more femme and only slightly less intimidating.

Which is fine by me. Whatever floats their respective boats, as they say. So long as they don't turn up in the John Snow starting fights and demanding that society be remodelled in their image in the name of equal rights as a depressingly large number of gay activists seem to these days.

Mind you I did feel strangely nervous and was quite relieved when they got off.

No, what I found so incongruous was not so much the dykedom as the Polishness. Well, they were speaking Polish, and Polish is definitely not the sort of language you speak just for the hell of it. I mean to say, I didn't think they allowed that sort of carry-on in Poland. What does the Cardinal have to say about it?

I mean, Heavens to Murgatroyd chaps, this is not the sort of thing we allowed those over-eager A8 types into the EU for, and opened the borders up early for. Rafal the handyman, who replaced my window after the burglary last year, fine. Małgorzata and Justyna, those amiable, pretty young blond girls who seem to serve behind the bar of more or less every Wetherspoon in the South East, sooper. But the sort of young women who could have Oddjob and Jaws running away in terror, loose on our streets. Was that covered by the accession treaty? No wonder the Krauts kept their borders closed.

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