Flathunting and xenophobia in London

First, I learned that in my flatshare queries, there were certain things I should leave out of my emails. Like the fact that I'm an American. Like my grossly semetic last name. These are things that my housemates don't need to know until after I move in. Once they cop on to my accent and maztoh balls, they're going to be in for a surprise.

I had a relocation company ostensibly helping me with my home search. They were very eager for me to live in either Clapham or Islington, but not the place that my I had my heart and wallet set on, the East End. They finally agreed to take me on a tour of different neighborhoods to help me better decide where I wanted to live. As part of the deal, I was given an unrepentant racist as a tour guide.

Immediately after we started off on our tour, Stephanie said, "So you've been living in Ireland...how did you find the Irish? Are they as bad as everyone says?"

I wasn't really listening, so just assumed she was asking what everyone always asks "Are the Irish as friendly as everyone says they are?"

I started my usual response, "Yeah, yeah, they're real friendly" and Stephanie interrupted me.

"They're sort like how you feel about Mexicans in the States, aren't they?"

I still couldn't fathom that this woman would be saying something so beyond acceptable to a complete stranger, and assumed she must mean that both the Irish and the Mexicans have had a positive effect on the nearby dominating super power.

But later, when she started complaining about the blacks, muslims and Jews, I started to realize that Martin Amis was right, pussies are bullshit.

I spent four hours with this woman, getting driven around London hearing about how to best avoid anyone with a skintone darker than myself, and how immigrants were ruining the country. Probably not the best person to be doing orientation tours for a relocation company, eh. She complained about how Labour had put housing projects in nice neighborhoods, forcing real English people to live side-by-side with animals. (Her words, not mine.) "You can get a good sense of a neighborhood by seeing who lives there," she said, driving me through Bethnal Green. "Look! Blacks!" she said, pointing.

My favorite bit, which I actually recorded with my new snazzy phone, was when she did an impersonation of someone who might shop at Banglatown (crazy accent and all!). I kindly suggested to her that perhaps if Englishwomen were doing their part to keep up the British birthrate, perhaps her country wouldn't have to rely so much on those dirty immigrants, like me.

She wailed, at one point, "Where have all the English people gone?" as we drove down the main thoroughfare of Whitechapel.

"There are loads of them in New York," I kindly suggested.

Later, when I had nearly reached the limit of what I could tolerate and Stephanie was complaining about how dirty Africans are, she admitted to me that her husband is a UK immigration judge. God help this country.