I AM AN ALIEN

BACK IN JULY I wrote about my unfortunate experience with a rabid, racist Metropolitan Police officer.

Well, yesterday morning I woke up to a voicemail message from the officer dealing with the case. It turns out they've identified the officer in question, which means that rather than being brushed under the carpet, it's all systems GO

 But here's a funny thing: less than two weeks ago, a similar thing happened. Not with a police officer, but with a random passer-by... It's Friday night, and a friend and I have come to the aid of a damsel in distress. Actually, she's a drunken slapper who's been abandoned by her friends, and apparently the victim of a robbery. It's hard to tell, with all the sobbing and screaming... Regardless of what my friend and I say or do to help, the hysterical bint won't have it, eventually collapsing on the floor in a blubbering heap. My friend goes to get help, leaving me standing over the frantic female. It's at this stage that a young, white, English homosexual (probably on its way to Heaven) butts in. Glaring at me, he takes her arm and says, "Are you okay? What's he done to you?" Me: "Excuse me, but we're trying to help her. Get your facts right." The Rancid Queen (who looks like Lisa from Big Brother) looks up, glares at me, and blinks rapidly. "Get my facts right? Get my facts right? You need to learn to talk properly." Me: "Thank you, I'll take that advice on board. Now why don't you just move along?" Rancid Queen: "Move along? Why don't you go back where you came from, you f**king immigrant."

It's almost exactly the same as the episode with the police officer. People presume my accent is, alternatively, French, Canadian or (God help me) South African, and they occasionally put their finger on one of the real ingredients: Northern Ireland, London or Australia (of which I'm trying really hard to lose any suggestion). But as soon as they figure out it's something else, they beat me over the head with it. It's not the first time I've had this in London, either. I was once subjected to a sustained fifteen minute volley of abuse from a drunk English businessman who was convinced I was French. He kept calling me a frog. On another occasion, the female half of a well-dressed middle-class couple kept saying "He's not even from this country, who does he think he is," during another altercation (that's another story). The most recent incident did sting me, because I've been The Immigrant my whole life; as a teenager in Australia, in New York, and even here in London, which is but a stone's throw from my birthplace of Belfast. I wonder what it's like living in the country where you were born?