THE ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF TOWER HAMLETS.

The election has gone, the votes have been fiddled and the dead have been returned to their graves, that is until the next election, when, stiff with boredom they will once more be resurrected, thereby to enrich the democratic process. In the meantime things have returned to normal in Tower Hamlets where the Third World comes to enjoy the unparalled benefits system, and sue the natives for racism when they are short of the price of a World cruise.
Here in the Borough life in all it’s rich diversity can be sampled, provided of course that you are not expecting to find any white Anglo Saxon protestants, there are limits to the tolerance that can be expected from an illegal immigrant, so the authorities make sure there are not too many of the native species on display at any one time.
The Sheiks and Sultans of Whitechapel have not as yet got around to introducing Sharia law, much to the chagrin of the Archbishop of Canterbury who thinks the best way to save his church is to slit its throat rather as if it were a lamb being slaughtered according to Halal rites. But, fret ye not, like Dominique Strauss-Kahn, Sharia will come, and there will be beheadings in Altub Ali Park on Friday mornings, which the metropolitan intelligentsia, anxious as ever to avoid giving offence would undoubtedly describe as a little local culture. You could say stone the crows to all of this, but stone the queers would be nearer the mark as gays will not be tolerated, and they will certainly not be awarded seventy two rent boys when they get to paradise.
This bodes well for Cornish hoteliers. These folk as we all know are banned from banning gays from their premises, they can now emigrate to Brick Lane and pitch their tents slap bang in the middle of Sharia land. In that neck of the woods they can set up shop, stick a notice in the window announcing ‘No poofs in the parlour’, and that’s it. No one would dare to sue them. Of course they would have to change their names to Patel or some such, but to paraphrase the French King Henri IV ‘A buggery free Brick lane is worth a Patel’.
In all honesty I should issue a warning here, the local mutawah is diligently enforcing it’s intolerance in direct proportion to it’s medieval ignorance and threatening to cut the throat of any bint not bubble wrapped to the eyeballs in a burkah. Hardly enlightened behaviour this, telling women how they can dress, but hell, they probably got their ideas from the French, and one must not forget that they are ethnic minorities and should be allowed a certain amount of rope, enough to hang the rest of us, egged on by the commission for racial equality, a body which sees it’s remit as an obligation to bite the hand that feeds it.
The new mayor has taken to his elevated position like a duck to water, swanning around the streets of Whitechapel in a motorcade with outriders. Strewth it is only a matter of time before the old poseur is carried about on a sedan chair like the Popes used to be. There is nothing like a whiff of power to turn a fool into a complete idiot.
Meanwhile life follows its merry course and public money goes down the pan so fast it does not even touch the side, there is an outfit on Whitechapel road called the Jagonari Centre where they teach such essentials to British life as how to ride a bike in a burkah. The local caterers dole out salmonella burgers safe in the knowledge that they will not be shut down (The Patel factor again). This in all its glory is multicultural England, and what in the name of god did we do to deserve it?