My blood is boiling. Steam is blowing out my ears. I might just explode like Mark François was meant to on October 31st.
The reason? Hearing for the millionth time from some geriatric fuckwit who lives in Spain declaring he’s not an immigrant here, but an expat. Because clearly, as a British citizen living abroad, being referred to as an immigrant is an insult that puts us Brits on a par with immigrants in the UK. And everyone knows they only go over to get a free 6-bedroomed house, a mobile phone, a speedboat to smuggle the rest of their family over in and £2,000 a week in benefits.
I stupidly engaged in a conversation with aforementioned fuckwit, who I’ll refer to as F from here on, in an attempt to get him to understand his status in Spain is no different than that of other foreigners living in the UK. You’d have thought I was comparing him to a suicide bomber if you could’ve seen the incandescent look on his bright pink, screwed up, angry face.
The conversation started sliding downhill quicker than Boris Johnson’s reputation as a man of the truth when he casually (and without any awareness of his hypocrisy) mentioned that he voted to leave the EU because he was fed up of immigrants in the UK not speaking English or integrating into the British way of life.
Despite the fact he’s been living in Spain for 10 years, he voted that way for the sake of his grandchildren, apparently. Yeah right, because taking away their freedom to work, study or live in another country in Europe is something they’ll obviously thank Grandpa for when they grow up and find themselves trapped in Little England forever. Let’s hope he’s not relying on them to tend to him during his latter years, or he might find himself passing over to the other side quicker than he envisioned.
So I asked F whereabouts in Spain he lived.
“Benidorm. Lovely bunch, my English neighbours. We get an amazing Sunday roast in the bar next door, with proper roast beef and Aunt Bessie’s Yorkshire puds. Owned by a Geordie.”
Controlling the urge to headbutt him I asked him how many Spanish people he knew and had as friends.
“None. Can’t speak a word of Spanish. No need. We’re all Brits where I live. Besides, they don’t really attempt to speak English, do they?”
I mean, what the actual fuck?
Unable to keep my gob shut I sarcastically asked F how that was integrating into Spanish culture, and why he hadn’t learnt to speak Spanish.
“Why should I? No point. I’m British through and through.”
Turning pink in anger myself I then pointed out that he was also an immigrant himself in Spain. Red rag to a bull time.
“Immigrant? Immigrant? I’m not an immigrant! I’m an expat. I spend my pension here, I’m not claiming benefits, or taking jobs from the Spanish people…”
I could feel my hand take over a life of its own as I picked up my bottle of beer. The urge to tip it all over his thick fucking skull engulfed me.
Instead, I told F he was an idiota hipócrita con el cerebro en el culo – hypocritical idiot with his brains in his ass – and I stood up on legs quivering in anger and walked away, with his shrill voice in the background asking the person next to him what I’d just said.
I’ve decided from now on and for the sake of my sanity and blood pressure it’s probably best I only discuss the weather with fellow Brits who also live here. At least that way we’ll probably agree on one thing we both don’t like about the UK. But that’s a rant I’ll save for another day.