Alright they are friendly enough, but then they always were; British officials waiting at the UK border to usher you in, or preventing the “baddies” getting in, to good old “Blighty”. The ‘UK Border Police’ they call themselves now and there will be no “Shengen Agreements” for the mother of the free, after all, just about every Tom, Dick and Harry, or should I say, Tamas, Dogan and Hamad, wants to get in here. Yes, here really is something special and I should be grateful for having been born here; when all is said and down that incident has given me the possibility to travel to practically every planet on the globe without any real restriction. No, the hassle is mainly confined to when I get back to the UK and on an internal European flight from Munich to Birmingham the first thing you are confronted with on getting off of the plane is the ‘UK Border Police’. “Strange” visas in my passport he looks at me, I look at him and smile, thinking, “is he going to ask some silly question, indeed, is he going to let me in, doesn’t he have to let me in?” Of course, he does, “thank you Sir”, he says, right I am on my way into paradise, the land of milk and honey, midget gems and wine gums, caramel wafers and probably the most trashy press in Europe and really I am left wondering why Tamas, Dogan and Hamad would want to come there but then I shouldn’t wonder too much. After all, having been to where Tamas, Dogan and Hamad are from I should know their hells, hells that invariably came about when the uninvited British left their countries not so long ago.
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