Look, it would be completely and utterly lovely if, just once in your life, you could exercise a shred or two of compassion. It is Valentine’s Day after all, a moment in time stuffed to the rafters with plush hearts and the weight of unfathomable expectations. We’re definitely due for a little love and understanding. Place yourself in the stylish but uncomfortable shoes of someone who has, for one reason or another, been compelled to leave the bosomy embrace of the glorious empire.
Maybe they’re a political exile, forced to dwell on foreign shores because of their outrageous insights into the beating heart of government. Or they’ve accrued an eye watering level of fortune and have fled to a region more forgiving when it comes to that weighty matter of tax. Not that anyone’s judging of course. What I’m trying to say is that it must be so very difficult to make a country other than that of your birth your new home.
As such, it’s hardly overwhelmingly surprising that expats feel the need for some variety of escape when living abroad. Some turn to drugs or other brands of intoxicant like exotic drink or fabulously strange cigars. Others can’t quite get sufficient release from activities so pedestrian. Can you really blame them for taking out one or two of the natives? We used to do it all the time back in the day.
And yet, one or two of the more sensitive bleeding hearts have got hold of this information and are kicking up something of an almighty stink. They’ve branded acts as ‘senseless’ and ‘profane’ and are demanding so-called justice. How are we supposed to deal with people when they’ve got such a bee in their bonnet about nothing whatsoever? At any rate, it’s probably better they stay away from Britain if that’s how they’re going to behave.