Aid the Exodus!
Op-Ed
Today, I will propose a radical scheme, although not in the down-with-the-West-Allah-hu-akbar sort of way. If anything, this is something of an expansion on my piece last week about the Georgian Tourist Administration.
If you’ve seen anything about Britain on the news in recent weeks, you’ll know that the old place isn’t what it used to be. Russian spies dropping like flies are one thing, but even England isn’t so far gone as for this to be a regular thing; once every five years or so, perhaps, but no more frequent than that. Street violence is another matter.
You might remember a few months ago, I wrote that I had never felt safe in England, and despite never running into any trouble during my years of residence there, I was forced to defend myself in September during a visit home (and there’s irony, if you like; eight years in Georgia and never a flutter of danger, but one trip home and I’m putting a man charging at me to sleep). It vindicated all my worst feelings about Britain, and made me feel grateful that the bulk of the family brood is in France, while I am hunkered down in my apartment-cum-bunker in Tbilisi.
Like most people, I take a tingling satisfaction in being proved right, but I can’t say that the numbers of stabbings, acid attacks and general violence of this year has done much to make me feel better about the fact that people in Georgia and elsewhere are finally seeing what I mean when I talk about how unsafe the streets of Britain have become. London has already overtaken New York in the number of murders done this year, and we’re only into the start of the fourth month. Not bad for a country that, unlike the USA, does not allow firearms to be sold to the general populace…and yet one of the killings last week was with a pistol. Congratulations, Britain, you have shown that there is always one depth left unplumbed. On that note, I recall in 2011 two police officers in Manchester were killed by a grenade. Yes, you read that right. A grenade. And the regular police in Britain don’t even carry handguns.
I’m sure that nobody else was reassured by the London Police Commissioner’s claim that ‘we are not in a crisis’. There are two ways to read that, of course. One is that whenever someone says ‘we are not in a crisis’, you can be sure that really it’s time to abandon ship and take to the lifeboats. The other is that the Commissioner is telling the truth, and this is simply business as usual for our capital city, the former heart of the Empire, but the Press hadn’t bothered to take any notice until now. Choose which of those is more frightening.
I’m not the only one to be concerned – read through the trawl of comments on the BBC or Sky News Facebook pages and you’ll see plenty of people expressing horror and outrage, undercut by the fact that they know nothing is really going to be done about any of it. These are the people I feel most sorry for, because if I were not resident in Georgia, I would be one of them.
Various news outlets and commentators have claimed that it’s the fault of the Labour Party, since London’s Mayor is one of them, and others have blamed the Conservatives, since they cut police budgets in recent years (mostly because the economy had been left in a total shambles by Labour, but that’s a discussion for another time). Further debate is centered on how Britain needs more youth programs, so that idle young people don’t turn to crime.
None of that answers me – or many other people either, I’m sure. More youth programs? One example was a music recording initiative, which taught at-risk youths how to become DJs. Well, I for one would not be very reassured by the fact that young men are capable of stabbing me if they are not provided with vinyl. When I was a lad, at home and bored, I never felt the need to commit crime. This sort of nonsense ignores the key issue. The same goes for the numbers of police on the streets: more police officers on the streets will not address the fact that somewhere along the line, something went very, very wrong with Britain.
But exactly what happened and when is not the point of my rant today, nor is it pervasive to my radical scheme. My sympathy is all for people who feel trapped where they are, and with Brexit looming on the horizon, their options to emigrate will soon become even more limited.
This is my radical idea. I’m not sure if you’ve ever had to call a plumber or electrician or consult with a builder in Georgia, but I have, and found the experiences alarming every time. Once, my electricity was cut off, and somehow a Georgian-speaking friend and I ended up with a small, semi-drunk man as the only electrician we could find. In a dispute with the representative from the Telasi electricity company, the latter ended up socking the former in the jaw before our stout, drunk hero wrestled him to the ground. It took a third party to solve the issue as they rolled around the floor shouting about mothers and caving each other’s faces in. I’ll not claim that my experience of electricians and Telasi were typical of Georgia, but I’d not be surprised.
I’m sure there are plenty of electricians, plumbers and builders in England who are as sick and tired of the country as I once was. I’m sure they’d have moved to France, Italy or Spain years ago if they’d had the language skills and opportunity. Georgia could serve as an admirable substitute; the place needs skilled workers, and whatever savings they could muster in England would go far further here. Of course, any government-sponsored or private sector initiative would have to be honest and say that a Western salary couldn’t necessarily be guaranteed, but that quality of life would be higher – rent, property (and more importantly) wine, beer and food are all incredibly cheap here.
Encouraging immigration from the West might sound like madness, but I think it’s a neat idea, and everybody (apart from Britain, anyway) would all reap the benefits. I for one will be glad when I hear an Estuary English voice in Tbilisi, sucking through his teeth and shaking his head at the work ahead, muttering ‘More than my job’s worth, mate, more than my job’s worth…’
By Tim Ogden