NO-GO BRITISH AREA 4:
LION ENCLOSURE, WHIPSNADE ZOO
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ET it be henceforthe knowne that it be every trueborne Englishman’s Godde-given birthrighte that he may roame wheresoever he see fit within the rollinge fieldes of these shores.”
These are not my words. These are the words of the Magna Carta, that document that ensured an Englishman’s freedom which was signed hundreds, if not thousands of years ago. And I decide to see to what extent these words are still true.
On my release from Manchester Prison for ‘Aggravated trespass, using threatening behaviour and failing to clean up after a dog’ (you couldn’t make it up!), I head south for Bedfordshire’s Whipsnade Zoo. In order to fit in and not attract attention, I am dressed as a proud Brit in a plastic Union Jack bowler hat, Union Jack shorts and a Union Jack t-shirt with a picture of Oswald Mosley’s face on it. I pay my entrance fee and enter the zoo.
Along with roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and two veg, zoos are the bedrock on which this great nation was founded, so I am a little disheartened to note that most of the animals on display at Whipsnade hail from FOREIGN lands. Indeed, the jewel in the zoo’s crown – The Lions of the Serengeti – is populated by seven big cats... every single one of them from Africa.
But my disheartenment turns to anger when I see a sign on the gate of their enclosure. “No Access. Do Not Enter”.
These immigrant lions are strutting about like they own the place, and they are not even pretending to be welcoming. The sign on their door proudly says their enclosure is a no-go area. Well, I’m sorry, but the Magna Carta says otherwise.
Ignoring the woke warning signs dotted around the pen, I hop over the safety barrier and approach the gate. There is a hefty padlock to keep us British out, but I have secreted a small jemmy down my Union Jack socks, and I soon have it popped off.
I walk inside the enclosure and instantly, the two large male lions begin padding slowly towards me. Clearly, they’re not used to seeing an indigenous British human on ‘their’ turf. Well, hard cheese, me old muckers – my ancestors literally BUILT this lion enclosure with their bare hands, and I am free to explore it as I please.
I’m about to start tucking into one of their raw chickens – since my taxes paid for them – but before I can, I hear a loud scream from outside the pen. I look round to see a zookeeper waving his arms at me frantically. “What are you doing? You idiot!” he screeches. “Oh, God! Get out! Get out, quick!”
I shake my head sadly and emit a hollow chuckle. I know exactly what this man is REALLY saying: Your kind is not welcome here. It’s time for you to leave.
Where have I heard that before?
Clearly, were I a transsexual disabled lesbian immigrant, I’d be allowed to wander through this lion enclosure whenever I fancied – it would be “in you come and bring your mates!” But it’s just another no-go zone for a straight, white British male like myself. Well, enough is enough, and ignoring the zookeeper’s increasingly hysterical cries, I walk towards the circling pride of lions with my head held high.
When I regain consciousness a few days later, I find that my right arm has been bitten clean off and I have a sizeable chunk missing from my torso. The doctor by my hospital bed informs me that it will be several months before I am well enough to leave the premises. It seems like everywhere outside the hospital is off limits for me.
It looks like Paul Scully was right all along, that this country is awash with no-go areas where any rightthinking, right-voting person cannot walk in safety. And after seeing the evidence for myself, now I know that what he described was just the tip of the iceberg in No-Go Britain.
NEXT WEEK – NO-GO NHS! Mahatma investigates whether the operating theatres, recovery wards and physiotherapy rooms of Britain’s hospitals are effectively off limits to him.