It can’t be racist, because it's Suella Braverman

By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who thinks the Channel should be electrified

FOR all those liberal halfwits condemning the government’s fair-minded policy to enslave asylum seekers as racist, I have six words: it can’t be. It’s Suella Braverman. 

You know her? Suella Braverman? The home secretary, and a daughter of immigrants? And not white or white-adjacent ones either, but proper Indians? Who came from Africa so that counts double?

Your insipid progressive Islington whines about this tough-but-cruel policy are silenced in the face of Braverman. If anyone should think immigration’s a good idea it’s her, and she doesn’t, so therefore nobody should.

And who’s she got backing her up? Checkmate, liberals, because it’s only Rishi fucking Sunak. Britain’s first Indian prime minister, elected by the Conservatives. Well not strictly elected, but you know.

Know more about what’s racist than them, do you? Then tell them to their faces that they’re being racist. That you know more about immigration than they do. Whitesplain that.

Braverman would know if these migrants were genuine. She’s only one generation away from being one of them. If there were good hearts in there she’d feel it.

So when she states that they’re all Albanian gangsters wanted for sex trafficking and murder and Rwanda’s too good for them she’s telling the plain, unvarnished truth.

When she says that 100 million refugees could be coming here? She senses it. She feels their rapacious hunger to drain our benefits system dry while enlisting our toddlers in county lines drug gangs.

Just as I sense we’ve finally, after the insipid and over-kindly Priti Patel, got a home secretary with the fire and steel to repel these pirates boarding Britain. Laws be damned.

And what are you going to do about it, liberals? Call it racist? But it can’t be. It’s Suella Braverman.

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16 reasons to love Birdseye Potato Waffles, by Alex Turner

ALEX Turner will headline Glastonbury for the third time this summer with Arctic Monkeys, but how does he feel about processed frozen potato products? Bloody loves ‘em. Why? 

The jingle. I wouldn’t be a songwriter without that line: ‘they’re waffly versatile.’ It blew my head off when I heard it. It’s what made me pick up a guitar.

Consistency. Life changes. Music goes from dance to soul to rock ’n’ roll. Accents become transatlantic. But potato waffles remain constantly, indefatigably the same. That provides me with real comfort.

Versatility. They go with anything. Beans, nuggets, truffle oil.

Toastability. In an aggressively anonymous hotel suite? Your lover halfway around the world? Fear not. Call the receptionist. Demand a toaster. You can make waffles to your heart’s content, and eat them while watching the rain lash the unforgiving Budapest pavement.

Shape. As proud, rigid and upright as a South Yorkshire miner. Trigonometry and taste combine to stunning effect.

Name. Such purity, such clarity. We nearly called the band The Potato Waffles but the lads thought it made fuck all sense, so we went with Arctic Monkeys. In retrospect that was a mistake.

Taste. Crunchy yet fluffy. Firm yet soft. Lather it in ketchup. Fetch me my Fender. I feel a song coming on.

Six to ten minute cooking time. You’re tucking in before track three’s finished on either of our good albums.

Price point. £1.95 a pack. Still. In this economy. An absolute no-brainer, and I say that as someone who is rich as shit.

Packaging. Oh that red box, calling like a siren from the refrigerated section. A fickle crimson mistress winking from the deep-freeze. Never change, my love, never change.

The golden finish. A signature crunch that keeps me coming back. Whether I’m at home or forcing a confused chef at the Chateau Marmot to grill them, they always deliver.

Low in saturated fat. Rock stars wear tight jeans. You shouldn’t ever see a fat rock star. If you do, something has gone very wrong, or in Pete Doherty’s case he’s blessedly off the gear.

Unapologetically working class. I still remember watching my dad put six away after a hard day’s toil. They’re the potato products of the masses.

Staying power. They’ve been around for four decades without turning shit. Not even the Rolling Stones managed that.

Humility. Never got too big for their boots, never went off and did solo albums. Just kept turning up, where they were needed, year on year on year.

Bringing people together. We’ve had difficult times as a band; critical maulings, falling sales, when I made everyone dress like Teddy Boys. But the glue holding this band together is a sit down, a cuppa and a plate of waffles.