A British National Breakfast by Hollie McNish
They start the day with a small glass of orange juice,
Bought at Sainsbury’s. South African produce.
Mugs emblazoned with our German-bred queen
They sip English breakfast tea,
forgetting its Indian leaves
1 and a half teaspoons each of sugar grain
Asda bought. Barbadian cane.
Husband fries eggs. Wife waters wysteria.
Cooking oil from Italy. Heating oil, Nigeria.
They swallow two pills each
to help their bowels and digestion
invented by a research team of US and Indian.
Newspaper flicked through. Headlines are read:
Reads “more crime, more violence, less hospital beds”.
She complains to her husband, he complains to his wife.
They complain it must be those
ruining their lives.
Voting polls open. BNP ticked.
Pen bought from Staples, Iranian ink.
They drive home on roads laid by Irish Jamaicans.
She sprays on her perfume, an Arab invention,
complaining about ‘foreigners’ joining their country,
forgetting the source of their dear British money.
Desperate for someone to blame for her boredom
She waters the pansies, fertilizer from Jordan.
Desperate for someone to blame for his misery
They complain that ‘foreigners’ are ruining the country.
Afternoon nap to TV, both sigh.
Made in Sri Lanka. Sold from Shanghai.
Mumbling that Polish have run to their country
they watch ‘A Place in the Sun’
repeated from Sunday
Shop down at Asda cos the stuff there is cheaper,
'more British Jobs for more British people'.
Buy 2 for 1 offers from low wages abroad,
'the price of local farm shops is robbery fraud'.
Pick up a pizza on the short journey home,
'British cuisine is being pushed to death row'
Home on the couch. Watch tv all night.
Claiming that ‘foreigners’ have ruined their lives.
Finish their day with a cup of hot cocoa.
Beans made in Kenya. Profits to Tesco.
Complaining in bed about closing sea borders,
They don’t learn Spanish. Retire to Majorca