The other day I had an illuminating experience of racial and cultural relations in Britain. This is what happened.
I went to fill up the car at a garage on the A34 in Burnage. The people that run it seem quite nice. Outside as I pulled up a gang of swarthy looking lads were washing cars in the rain. It was a foul day, chucking it down, and when I went in to pay I said to the cashier, by way of making conversation (it's what we do up north), "I bet you're glad you're in here and not washing cars with that lot".
"To be honest", he said, "I wouldn't want to be out with that lot even if the sun was shining".
"Oh yes?" I said.
"Yeah. They're Romanians", he said.
Here it comes, I thought.
"We've lost so many customers through that lot. They just don't know how to behave. A woman comes in. Fine, we all have a look don't we? But this lot. They're calling out. Making remarks. Taking pictures. They're a total disaster."
I made a vague middle-class noise which could have meant anything. Assent. Dissent. Embarrassment.
"I mean. This is the UK. They've got to learn how to behave. Show some respect towards women".
I paid and left.
In case you're wondering, the cashier was a young Muslim.
