It has been Immigration Speech Week here in Blighty and I’m beginning to get the trick of it. The leader of one of the main parties, or a senior minister or a shadow spokesthing (we’ve had them all) uses a visit to a college or a think-tank to deliver themselves of a firm-but-fair oration on inward migration.
All such speeches begin with an obligatory graciousness to past foreignness and, if possible, a personal association with it. My dad was a refugee from Belgium. My grandfather was a Turk. My wife is Spanish. My Aunt Vivienne’s dog is a red Tibetan mastiff and the whole family loves him. Isn’t Diwali wonderful? I’ve seen all her films. People who’ve come over here during our history — and