Beggars, rough sleepers, Palestine protesters on drugs... London is a showcase for Starmer's Britain

Telegraph

2 days ago

But hang on! The idyll I briefly re-entered is but a bubble. Real as it is, my village is one of a diminishing number of places in the UK that are – as yet – unaffected by the terrifying change sweeping the rest of the country. And herein lies a problem: for well-heeled people like myself who live in places like this, are almost entirely insulated from what is going on elsewhere. In the kind of towns and villages in the shires where sweet old ladies mark Armistice Day by knitting poppies and slip crocheted love hearts through letterboxes on February 14, the wealthy can, and do, exist in almost complete ignorance of the way our country is sliding into angry and dangerous division.
Sure, it was ever thus: rich and poor have always led divergent lives, knowing little to nothing of how the other half lives. What is genuinely new, however, is the devastating impact of mass, uncontrolled immigration; ballooning dependency on the welfare state; and the associated sky-high taxation of workers and wealth creators.
Of the many issues blighting Britain, the loss of control of our borders has the gravest social, economic and cultural implications. The tidal wave of incomers who enter the country illegally, speak no English, and are dumped on already downtrodden areas, is exacerbating the grinding poverty that has always existed in those places.
In the last 12 months alone, the number that have crossed the Channel – around 45,000 – would be too many to fit into Chelsea FC's Stamford Bridge stadium. Unless someone, somehow, stops the boats, by this time next year, the total number would fill Wembley Stadium. The more that come, the more resentment grows among those who have always lived here and are now forced to compete on equal – or even disadvantaged – terms.
In parts of the UK where it is not normal to spend a tenner on a piece of purple sprouting broccoli, there are all manner of other desperate problems. Central London is a showcase. To the casual eye, the capital certainly looks splendid in the sunshine, but the rampant crime and aggressive promotion of foreign cultures and causes is impossible to ignore.
Mid-afternoon on Embankment, I watched as a Rastafarian swaggered down the middle of the road, high as a kite on God knows what. He was waving two gigantic Palestinian flags – far more prolific, it seems, in town centres these days than the Union Jack. Pathetically, Sir Keir Starmer now says he didn't mean it when he talked of an 'island of strangers', but such spectacles suggest he is right. Near Lambeth Palace, a tented shanty has sprung up on the steps of an underpass. As the rubbish piles up, the authorities do nothing.
Then there's the pickpockets, shoplifters, spliff smokers and Tube dodgers who have always been around, but have never before operated with such open contempt for authority or their fellow citizens. In the last fortnight alone, two friends have had phones snatched by masked muggers.
On the Strand, dozens of rough sleepers hang around gurning at tourists and breakfasting on cans of cheap cider. Around Charing Cross, there are so many ruffians that fashion retailer Jigsaw – a most unlikely sounding target for thieves – now locks its doors. This isn't Tiffany's, or even Greggs the baker: it's a mid-market women's clothing retailer. Who on earth is stealing linen skirts?
Opposite the headquarters of Coutts, a soup kitchen draws all manner of toothless desperadoes. On the doorstep of the prestigious bank, an old retainer, suited and booted, is part security guard, part symbolic buffer between the destitute and the company's well-heeled clientele. He watches silently as a shirtless man calling himself 'Little J' reels around the pavement, swearing he is the King of Iran. Half an hour later, Little J's story changes: he is one of Elon Musk's many secret children, and had £900,000 in the bank, until someone took it.
Some 40 per cent of rough sleepers in London are foreign nationals who have discovered the streets of Great Britain are not, in fact, paved with gold. Nonetheless, several told me that they can make £40 an hour just by sitting on the pavement with a dog and a sad sign. Evidently not all are genuinely homeless: many privately admit to claiming benefits.
Spend too much time in places like my village, and it is quite possible to imagine that none of this is happening – or worse, not to care. Amid the heady scent of climbing roses and the chime of ancient church bells, I too almost fell into this trap. After the aphrodisiac, however, comes cold hard reality. For the time being, at least, I was not wrong to step away from this dizzying decline.