The wisest pie in the interweb.

Chapter 1: No one would have Adam and Eved…

 No one would have believed in the first years of the twenty first century, that British affairs were being watched from across the timeless worlds of Europe. No one could have dreamed that our economy and job market was being scrutinized as someone with a copy of the Financial Times skims for the crossword. Few men even considered the possibility of employees from other countries. And yet, across the gulf of Europe, people with languages immeasurably different to ours regarded our country with envious eyes, and slowly and surely they packed their bags and made their way towards us.

At midnight, on the 12th of August, a huge coach full of people left Poland and sped towards England. Across three hundred miles of void, inevitably heading towards us came the first of the ferries that would bring so much calamity to England. As I watched, there was another trail of smoke. It was another ferry starting on its way. And that’s how it was for the next ten months. A coach, leaving from Poland, getting the transfer to Frankfurt and on to the ferries at Calais; a beautiful but somehow disturbing sight. Bourton, the economist assured me we were in no danger. He was convinced we would have nothing to offer immigrants.

Then came the night the first ferry approached Dover. It was thought to be an ordinary P&O ferry but the next day there was a no queue for the toilets, and Bourton came to examine what lay there. A ship, about a hundred meters across, badly parked with faint sounds of movement, staff and a gift shop coming from within. Suddenly the cabin door started moving, rotating, unscrewing; and Bourton feared there was a British tourist inside trying to escape. He rushed to the vessel but the intense sense of national pride stopped him before he could break a fingernail.

It seems totally incredible to me now that everyone spent that evening as though it were just like any other. From the railway station came the sound of shunting trains, ringing and rumbling, softened almost into melody by the distance. It all seemed so safe and tranquil.

The Next morning a crowd gathered in the port, hypnotized by the unscrewing of the cabin door, when suddenly the door fell off. Two luminous eye-like eyes appeared from the cabin, a normal rounded torso, about the size of a human’s, rose up slowly glistening with sweat. It’s lip full mouth quivered and slathered and arm like arms writhed as the clumsy body heaved and pulsated.

A couple of young sailors crept closer to the ship. A tall man rose and a sudden feeling of unemployment leapt from man to man, and there was a bright glare as each was instantly jobless. Every tree and bush became a mass of inactivity at the touch of this savage, unearthly force. People clawed their way off the docks, and I ran too. I felt I was being toyed with, that when I was on the very verge of safety this mysterious unemployment would leap after me and strike me down. At last I reached Maybury Hill, and the dim coolness of my home I wrote an account for The Sun before I sank into a restless, haunted sleep. I awoke to unusual sounds of hammering from the ship and hurried to the railway station to buy the paper. And some Skittles. Around me, the daily routine of life, working, eating, sleeping, farting was continuing serenely as it had for countless years. On Horsell Common, the Poles continued hammering and stirring, sleepless, indefatigable, at work on kitchen units they were installing. Now and again a light like the beam of a warship’s searchlight would sweep the common and the unemployment was ready to follow.

In the afternoon, a company of immigration officers came through and deployed along the common to form a cordon. At dawn, a boat came into the docks like a giant fish. This was the second ferry.

The hammering from the pit and the pounding of Black & Decker power tools grew louder. My fear rose at the sound of someone creeping into the house. Then I saw it was a young immigration officer, weary, streaked with sweat and dirt.

Immigration officer: Anyone here?
Journalist: Come in. Here, drink this.
Immigration officer: Thank you.
Journalist: What's happened?
Immigration officer: They took our jobs! Hundreds unemployed, maybe thousands.
Journalist: The Portuguese?
Immigration officer: The Polish. They were inside ferries they'd made, massive metal things on water. Giant machines that floated. They had valid passports and visas, we were powerless to stop them!
Journalist: Poles?
Artilleryman: Yes, picking up odd jobs here and there. Just like us but they knew exactly what they were doing.
Journalist: Hmm. There was another ship that came last night.
Immigration officer: Yes. Yes, it looked bound for London.

London! Carrie! I hadn't dreamed there could be a job shortage for Carrie and her father, so many miles away.

Journalist: I must go to London at once.
Immigration officer: And me, got to report to headquarters, if there's anyone that speaks English left.

At Byfleet, we came upon an inn, but it was deserted.

Immigration officer: Is everybody unemployed?
Journalist: Not everybody, look...

Six Conservative MPs with a book of EU policies were standing by.

Immigration officer: Bows and arrows against the lightning.
Journalist: Hmm.
Immigration officer: They haven't seen the dole queue yet...

We hurried along the road to Weybridge. Suddenly, there was a loud banging and gusts of smoke erupted into the air.

Immigration officer: Look! There they are! What did I tell you!

Quickly, one after the other, four of the coaches appeared. Double deckers, higher than the average coach, driving into the pine trees and smashing them, rolling buses of painted metal and Perspex windows. Each carried a large compliment of people and I realized with horror that I'd seen this awful thing before.
A coach appeared on the far bank. It raised itself to the top, driver clearly not used to British roads, and the ghostly terrible vehicle ploughed into a corner shop.
As it struck, all remaining coaches exulted, emitting deafening howls which roared like thunder:

Poles: Jesteś chodzenie ognisko domowe w pewien święty Typowy Anglik Ambulans!

(Translation: You’re going home in a St. John’s Ambulance)

The six Conservative MPs (with books regarding EU legislation) we had seen now intervened simultaneously, accusing one of the coaches of having brought pointed objects, potentially volatile liquids and fruits into the country with them. The Poles inside were deported, sent back to their country under section 9 paragraph 14 of the European fruit smuggling laws, and their holiday lay in ruins. As the other coaches advanced, people ran away blindly, the immigration officer among them, but I jumped into the pub and hid until forced out to breathe. Now the MPs spoke again, but this time the invaders had the foreign secretary’s blessings and the MPs were soon out of a job.