I AM JOB.

“So Beth, what do you think about immigration?”

Now before I tell you my answer, I’ll tell you of the circumstances. I was working in a pub in London. I had just walked into the pub’s kitchen where three of its chefs were discussing current affairs as they placed over-priced fish in the deep fat fryer. Two of these chefs were Spanish, the other from an Eastern European country whose capital city would guarantee a pointless answer to that tea-time favourite. I placed down the two plates smeared with the remains of a shoddy roast and stood, paused in thought. Of course I didn’t really need to think about it; I should like to think I will always want to help those in need and that comes in many forms.

I garbled on with some liberal bologne before I finally said: “Who am I to deny other people a right to better life?”

Oh it was a brilliant speech; I usually need at least one tequila before I come out with anything so profound. The chefs nodded their heads. I asked the chef from Uzbekistan how he would feel if he was going through the same “trauma” as England. He said he couldn’t even imagine it because it was never a possibility.

Now I won’t deny that it was difficult in the house that I lived in. My friend and I were the only English out of 13 at one point. Often I sat surrounded by Italian men, who for all I know could’ve been talking about guessing the size of my bra.

And it did get frustrating that I didn’t understand them, and that I often felt like an English language teacher when I was constantly asked questions like:

“What’s the difference between ‘many’ and ‘much’?”

“What does ‘shagging’ mean?”

“Your name is Bath? Why are you called after a thing you wash in?”

Ultimately, I didn’t mind because these guys, these ‘immigrants’, wanted to learn, they were DESPERATE to learn because knowing English was like possessing gold. Knowing English got them work. They were here to work and work they did. They would work every day that they could, in the kitchen, in the restaurant; charming the aged Western London ladies whilst serving them “oh, just a little bit more” gelato.

People seem to think that these kind of young men are “taking our jobs” but these jobs aren’t created for people who have a choice; they’re catered for people who are willing to work for minimum wage (or less) on 6-13 hour shifts. Everyday.

(Image via)

People also think these kind of young men are “taking our housing” but this ‘housing’ is unfit, unsanitary accommodation under a draconian system that takes advantage of its tenants who can’t speak much English.

Our flat was an 8 bed ex-council flat, shared between 10-13 people, with no living room and one working bathroom. The rent cost about £440 a month – and for what? A bed. On the kind of wages we were surviving on, we had to work about at least 50 hours to be comfortable – as in not struggling. But they have no choice.

Most of the people I lived with were between 25-30. They had all been professionals: one was an Art teacher, the other a construction manager, one of them even had an Alpaca farming business.  I can’t speak for every immigrant; maybe there are some greedy and malicious foreigners who want to take advantage of Britain’s welfare state, steal its jobs, butcher its language, piss on the Queen – just trying to think of extremes here!

But the ones I knew were not like that. They were kind, they worked hard and they gave back. Do you think that sweet and charming Manuel, with that dashing smile, came to this country because his ideal life would be serving fat cats their early evening canapés?

No.

People seem to forget that the ‘never had it’ generation stretches far into the depths of Europe. In fact, compared to them, we have it all.

Tags: immigrants Italians jobs London

Categories: Beth Teverson Rant Wise up!